I’ve just added a link on here to Etsy, where I’ve started to list some things that have been
handmade by me. There are two decoupaged canvasses and one other done on watercolour paper. The canvasses can be hung directly, but the one on the watercolour paper has been left so the buyer can chose their own frame.
More things will be added onto Etsy as I get the hang of it, so if you’re interested, ‘Fav’ it and come back.
Remember those competitions in girls’ magazines where you had to match the clothes to the event:
What would Cynthia wear to a Sunday picnic with her boyfriend? A family wedding? A day out with her best friend? A walk along the beach? Put them in the correct order – A, B, C, D
Well it seemed like I was that competition, except it wasn’t the winning entry.
Take my recent holiday in Cornwall. The first mistake I made was when it was decided we would to go to Trevaskis Farm. http://www.trevaskisfarm.co.uk/
I had heard mention of Pick Your Own (known to those in-the-know, as PYO) but it was somewhere in the back of my mind when we left the house. I thought we were just going to the Farm Shop for a look around; where we’d spend too much money on preserves and then go to the restaurant for coffee and/or lunch.
NOT go picking.
So, I left the house dressed for a day out, which included a Monsoon skirt and black suede boots.
It had been raining.
It didn’t take long to realise that we werein fact doing a PYO. Punnets were produced from the shop and we set off in the direction of the pigs and their piglets (photo here is from a day later in the week when we returned)
It was wet underfoot … very wet.
My boots, and therefore, my feet, were soaked.
At the end of the pigs all I could see was a muddy track. I headed to the poly tunnels to pick some raspberries. It wasn’t much better. It was muggy inside and the fruit didn’t seem that great. But that might just have been my mood. Picture proves this – (again, taken when we went back) 
The whole day had taken a downturn, simply because I didn’t have the right clothes. I was Cynthia, dressed in the wrong get up.
A few days later, we went back and despite it having been dry and sunny, therefore drier underfoot, I decided on leggings, big socks and walking boots. I was ready this time, and enjoyed it much better. The clothes maketh the man (or woman). The only problem is – and no one tells you this – once you start picking, you get carried away. So, be ready to faint at the checkout.
The next issue was the beach. I was still Cynthia in the wrong clothes. And once again, I turned up in a good skirt.
I was taking pictures of family members surfing, so first, took off my sandals (Birkenstock lookie-likies) and paddled in at the edge. Then I got over ambitious and began to get a bit closer to the action - I wanted to get some descent pictures. Well, as we know, waves are unpredictable, and before I know it the skirt, despite being bunched up, is soaked. Yet again – not the right clothes.
I’ve resigned myself to the fact that whether it’s climbing up sand dunes, walking over rocks or picking fruit and veg., it’s best to be casual and not dress up. It’s just as important as having the right footwear (or no footwear). I don’t even want to start on all the occasions when that particular problem’s been my downfall.
So, what would Cynthia wear on holiday? …
Answers on a postcard.
Right – I’ll come clean right at the start of this – I don’t class myself as a woman’s woman. I’m not a girly girl, all sugar and spice and all things nice. I don’t dress in frills or pastel pink and I have no hankering for a cute little car or tiny handbag dog. No. I’m more of what I suppose you’d call, a man’s woman. I’d much rather have the company of men than a gathering of my own sex. My worst nightmare (and this has happened) is to be directed towards the area (in this case it was the conservatory), where all the women are sitting chatting together. No, I don’t especially want to talk about jewellery, holiday clothes, children’s development or the Marks and Spencer’s book (whatever that is – I never did find out and have no interest in doing so either).
I’m not decrying the conversation of women one bit or saying women have nothing interesting to say. It’s just that when you get a group together they do tend to veer off into the banal. Maybe it’s that old inferiority complex of not wanting to show up as being any brighter or more intelligent than the other. I don’t know. Maybe collectively, it’s the wife and mother nurturer coming out. Again, I don’t know. But no matter what, I’m not really interested in going there.
The one thing that made me literally stop in my tracks though, was something on TV last November. The television had been turned over and The Royal Variety Performance was on. I was making my way out of the living room at the time Michael MacIntyre came on. And it was something about his ‘act’ that made me halt. It was – The Man Drawer. Now if you haven’t heard this performance, I’ve posted a link from the picture below.
As he went through it, right from the – women aren’t allowed in the loft – it is the domain of the man. I laughed thinking, that’s me. I’m the one who knows where everything is in the loft. But when he came on to talk of, The Man Drawer, I came into my own. Practically all the things he spoke about – I had, and I alone knew where to find them … obviously in, The Man Drawer. I stood laughing and thinking
– Oh My God … I’m a man!!!!
I will own up – I like Top Gear and will watch Dave (I’m not explaining if you don’t know what it is – ok), Megastructures, Worlds Deadliest Catch & The Teutals at Orange County Choppers.
My husband once told me I drove like a man – which I took as a compliment. Lately he’s told me I drive like a taxi driver!
I’m the one who has to remind my husband to put the bin out on a Monday night (sometimes I just do it though). We live in the country so (don’t be squeamish) I’m the one who has to empty the mouse traps. In the aforementioned loft (which we can just walk into, as we built a sitting room in the existing loft – so we still have half a loft with a door, if you follow) 
I have a substantial and well equipped toolbox. At the moment, someone’s whipped my 7.5mtr tape measure. I’ll get to the bottom of it yet. Before Sky+ I was the one who did the pre-set recording first on the video and then DVD – actually, what am I talking about, I still do it on Sky! I DO NOT however have ownership of the TV control – that still belongs to my husband.
Until very, very recently, I was the one who knew how to use the computer and the internet, my husband wasn’t interested – Ebay might as well have meant a drug-runners paradise for all he cared. But now he’s slowly coming round. On a hot day I have been known to drink a glass of white wine (only at home), but usually it’s red. Recently I’ve discovered I like real ale. But to be honest, I’d much rather – by far – have a large glass of black rum. Before we had SatNav, I was the one to read the map, without getting us lost. And before you men ask the sacrosanct question I’ll answer it … yes, I do know the offside rule.
I realise at the end of this, I might have come off sounding a bit ‘butch’ to say the least, and rather boastful. But I like to think of it more as being independent – even though I do have a husband and grown up son. My daughter’s moved away from home and is ready any second to have her first baby – a boy. But thinking about it – she’s pretty much the same as me!
So, c’mon women, get in that loft and get your toolbox sorted out. Really … stop hiding your light under a bushel and know where to go when you’re on your own and really do need to find that radiator bleeding key. Guess where mine is ….
I’ve definitely decided – I don’t want to go to any more dos. They’re all the same – they’re run of the mill, they’re formulaic and they’re downright boring.
Take for example, the 30th birthday party ‘do’ of a cousin’s daughter. On arrival, the pub’s function room is already pretty full. Stand up and your seat’s gone. Disco lights flash in an effort to recreate sixties psychedelia, but in a poor cousin sort of way. Children slide across the floor with dayglow plastic bangles and neckwear, blowing up long balloons that burst with a bang and make old people jump. Stilted conversations, relations you rarely see (except at the previous and then the next event), drinking far too quick, and eating far too many nibbles from little white polystyrene bowls on the tables. Smiling inanely at unfunny jokes and the antics of old neighbours invited through politeness, who grin and gurn as events unfold.
The music is mid to late eighties and too loud to be able to hear anyone speak. No one dances. Well, the children do, in between running and sliding. Surreptitious glances at the watch face. How long is the right length of time? When does rudeness become acceptability? Children pop up behind the seat and throw streamers around. You have to smile. Don’t you
?
Oh … then comes the buffet. And it’s the same thing, no matter where you go. Obligatory sausage rolls, pyramid sandwiches: grated cheddar, mashed egg and … is that tuna? Not sure. Best leave that one alone. Sometimes a vol-au-vent but there again, never sure what that funny coloured pasty stuff is inside. Skip those. And the old favourite, cocktail sausage. At the far end of the table there’s a variation on a theme – samosas, spring rolls, onion bahjis and breaded shrimp on sticks. Lights up, let the feast begin. Soggy, greasy, cold. Talking, eating, crumbs and flakes of pastry flick and ping around the table, the floor … clothes and faces! Nice.
DJ comes back. Helloooo. Before we get started again, let’s remember why we’re here. Cake ceremoniously placed on table – Happy Birthday to You … Happy Birthday 
to You drawl it out and singy song the name. Happy Birthday to You. Clapping, some whooping, blow the candles out and make a wish. I know what mine is. Where’s the door? Then a speech. Thanking everyone for coming, all the effort made. Bouquet for mum and one for best friend who did the catering. Ahh … could’ve asked her if that was tuna in those sandwiches. Then the music begins – with bloody Stevie Wonder singing with a smile. Happy Birthday to ya, Happy Birthdaaay to yaaah. Happy Biiirthday. And one from the archives – Clare Grogan. Remember her jumping around from foot to foot swinging her head from side to side as she sang, Happy Birthday. Happy Birthday, in a slight stilted, Geisha girl way. And still we endure. Please, oh God, please let it end.
Of course it does. That time finally comes. And what do we do? Return to being polite. We look sorry to leave, but well … it’s late, we have to go. Thanks for asking us. Hope you had a great time. Nearly there. If only it wasn’t for the relation near the door halting progression with a final chat. But there it is, the getaway car, engine running, turning over. Sigh, breathe that fresh air.
Home. Cuppa. Feet up. Let the analysis begin. But no – I’m not going to another. Of course there’s that friend’s son’s wedding that’s coming up soon. And the other cousin’s daughter’s wedding later in the year…
Just sometimes, we take the hunter gatherer thing a bit too far. And believe me; it still exists, even today. For example: how is it we go for one thing, be it bread, be it milk, and we come out with a trolley load of shopping? Why do we feel the need to stock up on all and sundry when we don’t really need it? Well it appears the same thing happens when visiting the garden centre.
We were down at my daughter’s, who stays just outside Bath, and took a trip to the nearby garden centre http://www.whitehallgardencentre.co.uk/ to get a bag of compost and a small rosemary plant.
This is what we came home with: A bag of Organic Compost, an 8” organic plant pot, some recycled free pots, a long self watering planter, a bag of hickory wood chips for putting on the barbecue, a wig-wam trellis stand, a telescopic clothes pole, a half price curry plant, a packet of carrot seeds, some tiny potatoes (to cook) 3 onions, a yellow pepper, a bottle of ginger wine and … a small rosemary plant.
But it didn’t stop there. On the way back, we needed to stop at Sainsbury’s. We had hickory chips for the barbecue, so that was the dinner sorted, but we needed to buy the food: chicken drumsticks & thighs, sausages (two varieties), bacon, mince (to make our own burgers), burger buns, plus charcoal, oh, plus the buy one get one free offer on 20ltrs of compost (yes more) for only £2.50 each, so four bags.
However, the upside of this was; in the rare summer sunshine, we were able sit out and like all hunter gatherers, enjoy the fruits of our labours. And without having to even throw a spear.
Sunday 3rd May 2009 was the afternoon I’d been looking forward to, since missing this occasion last year. It’s the day Portrack opens its gates, through the Scottish Garden Scheme, and allows the public to have a glimpse of the extraordinary garden designed by Charles Jencks and his late wife Maggie Keswick.
I had already been told a bit about the ethos behind creating parts of it; parallel worlds, the structure of the universe and the changing nature of … well, nature etc., all of which came under the banner of: The Garden of Cosmic Speculation. A blow of scoff and derision resulted and needless to say, it all went straight over my head. I’ve never been a science person and went simply to enjoy the strange and outlandish designs.
Apparently people make a pilgrimage from all parts to see it, with some regulars attending from Denmark. It also attracts a lot of scientists who enjoy deconstructing and untangling the meaning of the universe and life, hidden in the many and varied symbols and angles of creation contained therein. One example you need to look up to appreciate is cut out of steel and runs along the top of the greenhouse. It is the mathematical equation that is: “the basic laws that govern and breathe life into the universe.” – Charles Jencks. I imagine this decoding is a bit like attempting a large 3D crossword with very cryptic clues. And even when solved, wouldn’t mean a whole lot to the layperson. But reading more about the garden afterwards gave a better insight into what it was all about, and really should have been done before I went wandering with just my awe-inspired eye on the landscape.
The one thing Charles Jencks has done, along with his wife the late Maggie Keswick, is turn almost 20 years of gardening into not only an art form, but a visible speculation. He has attempted to lay out – in landscape form – what most of us tend to keep in our head. It is one of the basic questions of human nature; namely what are the world / universe / you and me all about? Why are we here? What is the meaning of it all?
“A garden should present a puzzle to be fathomed, some things very clear and others veiled.” – Charles Jencks
This turns traditional gardening on its head. There is a long, very beautiful section called the Paradise Garden full of typical planting. But, taking the fact that most gardens are usually given to romantic notions of poets and tortured writers looking for solace, Jencks has then injected science into the equation. He has added the hard edge to the soft beauty and taken form and expanded it beyond our imagination. We may not be able to think about the complexities of this subject, but at least he is forcing us to look at it and interact with it. Climb the Snail Mound and find yourself amazed at the fact that, what looks like a spiral is actually a double helix. Those who do not cheat will find themselves returning on a different path to that they ascended on. The total garden amounts to 30 acres, and is really a huge … ‘what if’, and concurs exactly with its name. It truly is, a Garden of Cosmic Speculation.
“What is a garden if not a celebration of our place in the universe?” – Charles Jencks
We have a natural connection to the land and therefore the landscape. We may not be able to readily identify with huge pieces of metal amongst the borders, but the idea of noting and appealing to, the senses also includes our sense of humour. Who said science had no right to be entertaining. It may not always be aesthetically pleasing to come upon these sculptures, but it stretches the possibilities beyond a neat herbaceous border.
So, next time you opt for a few pansies and marigolds, consider what it says. There is of course nothing wrong with traditional gardening. I do it myself. But, the thing Jencks does is makes you think. Perhaps we could all interject a little bit of our own speculations into the garden. But remember, success is in the planning; the thinking it thorough first. And when you hear your first sniff of derision, imagine as I did, Charles Jencks standing up at one of the windows, watching us all wander around his little universe like the atoms that we are, and lamenting that … None of them really understand.
Last of the big romantics my husband is. He knows how to show me a good time alright. Sunday – garden centre – terracotta pots and compost. Then on to Morrison’s to get some packets of seeds: 4 for £2 bargain. After we picked the four he wanted to mix and scatter for the wild country garden look, despite us living in the country, he then took on an expression that said he was heading for som
e sort of goody. His treat of choice – a steak and gravy pie; this is a variation on the plain, Scotch Pie (picture in case you don’t know what I’m on about – staple of Scotland hence Scotch Pie)
‘Do you want one?’ he asked. Well, it was cheaper to buy two so I agreed and then walked away to avoid feeling the guilt. I bought a fresh tiger loaf and cradled that all the way to the checkout.
Anyway, pies, seeds and loaf bought we went back to the car. Now, remember I said my husband knew how to sweep me off my feet? Well he attempted to do so by announcing we’d have the pie in the car and rubbed his hands.
‘In the car park?’ I asked. ‘I didn’t want to just eat it in the car park!’
So off we went. ‘Where’re we going then?’ as we started on the road heading home.
‘Well, we’ll need to go to Homebase and look at the plants. We’ll need something for the pots.’
‘So, we’re going from one car park to … another car park?’
Plants were bought and we left, pies nestling in a brown bag in my handbag. ‘We can’t go home,’ I reminded him. This was in case son was still there – we’d only bought two pies. Cruel, but … hey. So then I suggested we take a back route home. As I said further back here, we live in the country around five miles from the town so there are a few minor roads we could take.
N
ow, for all the places to stop, where does he stop? In a lay-by beside a wooden hut and a line of industrial looking railings. Okay, there were hills and fields and there was a river (see picture) but really!
‘God, it’s quiet isn’t it?’ crooned husband. To which I replied …
‘Yip. The loudest noise is the sound of us munching pies.’
Quite often, I do say to him, it’s a good job we’re married ‘cos God only knows what you’d do if you had to look for someone else – he wouldn’t have a clue! But he just gives a blow and shake of his head saying he couldn’t be bothered with all of that. So, there we are, I seem to be stuck with being his workmate, but in an odd way, I do kinda like that too. There is, after all, something quite comforting in the ability to be ‘yourself’ even if it is, munching a steak and gravy Scotch Pie in a lay-by on a back country road beside some railings.
For the first time in years I’ve decided to grow some vegetables. And yes it’s probably been brought on by the current famine in fiscal resources.
My friend is a sceptic and tells me that by the time they’re ready to harvest, veg will be at their cheapest in the shops. The same goes for making jam and chutney (which I also try to do). And she’s right, it is most likely cheaper just to buy a jar, but surely the whole point of it is in the satisfaction of saying you’ve made it or grown it yourself.
I do think I went slightly overboard though with the packets of seed I bought, and my husband has already made me list them off, keeping in mind the size of ‘plot’ I’m digging. So far in the greenhouse, I have seedlings of: Cabbage, Cauliflower, Carrot, Lettuce, Leek, Broccoli, Beetroot, Garlic, Onions. And then there’s a tray each of French Marigolds and Lupin (for companion planting) plus a few shop bought herb plants for same reason. Of course, there’s also the onion bulbs and extra packets of carrot and cabbage of a different variety that aren’t even planted yet. I don’t know where they’re going to go. I did suggest maybe utilising some of the rest of the garden, for this purpose, because after all it is a mess. We’ve really not bothered with it much for … probably years to be honest, but husband said, no. Well, we’ll see. He’ll never notice until it’s too late.
I reckon within the next week or two, the seedlings, some of which have already been pricked out and potted up, will be ready for the big wide world. I’ll try a
nd blog their progress in the coming weeks and months; that is if the rabbits and pheasants don’t make a meal of them first. However, my intention is to net them – the veg that is, not the wildlife.
So, picture number one: the greenhouse with seedlings emerging. Check back to see if I can cut it as a vegetable gardener all the way to harvest.
Oh, and as a post script, there won’t be any pesticides of any kind used on them thus the companion planting.
Sorry this blog is a bit sombre, and very long. I’ll try and be cheerier next time. But I’ve been inspired to write an account of this by someone on Twitter who, herself, is going through a painful time – they’ll know who they are if they read this.
Two and a half years ago, my dad died with Oesophageal cancer. From the point of finding out until the end, was a short ten weeks. From around two months before this diagnosis he had been having problems keeping food down, occasionally being sick, which was something he never did. At first it was thought it could simply be a hiatus hernia problem. That was until he had an endoscopy.
I took both my parents to the hospital in the car that morning, dropped dad off and drove mum back to my house for coffee and to wait. We never for one moment even considered anything other than a simple problem that could easily be put right.
Four years previous to this, my dad had suffered a stroke. He wasn’t paralysed in anyway by it, but it did affect his thinking. He resorted to being slightly more child-like, and to begin with it was quite nice. He was like a little boy, almost excited by the world again, much more open and less guarded than he normally was. The only real problem it left him with was an inability to read. He attended speech therapy, and it did help a bit, but he could never again just sit down and relax with a newspaper. Numbers, surprisingly, he was fine with, just not words.
This joie de vivre soon wore off however, only to be replaced by depression; threatening to commit suicide by almost any means. Then on my visits he began to talk about mum behind her back. He would say the most awful things about her. And it was difficult, because I knew this wasn’t really ‘him’. I didn’t want to upset her, by telling her what he was saying. But I also didn’t want him to feel alone by not having anyone else to talk to. I’m an only child, so the burden fell squarely on my shoulders to be in the middle. It was a very difficult time and mum was doing whatever she could for him. Of course it was only natural it would get her down, but she’s very stoic and resilient. And she also knew there was no one else to take care of him. So she got on with it and never complained.
Anyway, back to that fateful day in July. We arrived at the hospital to pick him up and a nurse asked them into a little side room. Mum asked if I wanted to come too, but I said, no it’s okay I’ll just wait. Like her, I thought it was just a formality, signing forms and getting info. On the way out my mum said she wished I had come in. Then she told me what they had said. To say it was like a thunderbolt would be a huge under exaggeration.
On the way out of the hospital, I’ll never forget my dad putting his hand on my shoulder and shaking his head saying: ‘She said cancer. That’s it then.’ And my mum, being discouraging and dismissive, as you would, saying: ‘You can’t say that. You don’t know.’
However, it was the case and things never improved, they only deteriorated. And the fact that he’d had a stroke seemed to make him even more fractious and unreasonable. He wanted into hospital, he wanted out of hospital, he wanted back in. And each time meant hours in A&E before he was admitted, going through the same old form filling, questions and tests. At one point he came out and was re-admitted during the course of a shift. He even ended up in the same bed. The nurses must have thought they had entered a time warp when they came back on duty. Of course this was making things worse and worse for my mum, who had even more to endure now. One day she called saying: ‘guess where I’ve been since six this morning.’ And I knew he was back in. Then, when things got even worse for him at home, she would eat in the kitchen and not in front of him because he’d say things like: ‘You’re lucky you can eat a sandwich.’
However, one day sitting in A&E again, a doctor came to speak to us. If ever there was someone meant for a job it is this woman. She is truly the most caring doctor you could find. She is in charge of the cancer unit, a lovely (if you can use that word to describe it) ward that has a very calming and relaxed atmosphere about it. The rooms are individual and large with everything you could need, should you be patient, family or friend.
The saddest, most poignant day was the one when the doctor came in and sat in front of my dad. I was in one chair and mum in the other. She asked what he would feel if he knew he didn’t have much longer left. I don’t think he really understood as he shrugged with half a smile and gave a lift of his hands saying; well he was seventy now … My mum reminded him he’d just had a birthday, so seventy one. But he carried on, telling the doctor that he just wanted out, and made the actions of a runner off the blocks. She reassured him that he would get home for the weekend after getting some blood. Which he did. This would be his last days at home.
Luckily my daughter, who lives down south, was coming up home that weekend for a friend’s wedding, so got to spend some time with her papa before leaving again. We took photos and he got to see her all dressed up. To him, there was never anyone like her. As he left home to go back to hospital that Monday morning, mum told me he looked around him at the living room, shook his head and said: ‘I won’t be back here.’
That last week saw mum and I spend a lot of time up at the hospital with him in his room. Family members visited; they knew it would be the last time. He drifted in and out of consciousness. My son came up and dad seemed to know he was there, which was nice. Before he left, my mum said to give his papa a kiss. It was the last time.
What I forgot to mention was that during this last week, my husband was working down in London, so I slept alone and with the telephone by my bed. Around 4am on Saturday 23rd September it rang. I knew. We had made arrangements. I live out of the town, so mum would try and get a taxi for speed. If not I’d pick her up, which is what happened. I had clothes ready to jump into. I asked my son if he wanted to come with me, but he said, no. I reassured him that it was fine, his decision, but I had to ask. The road was quiet and I will admit I did go through red lights, and break speed limits. There were more important things to see to.
We made it in time and sat with him for over an hour until the end, holding his hand. It was the first time I had gone through anything like that, but it was in no way scary or frightening. It just seemed the most natural thing in the world and was very peaceful.
Naturally there were tears and I had phone calls to make as we waited for the nurses to wash and change him, before we got to say our final farewells, but I think a strength you don’t know you have takes over and sees you through.
My mum and I often said afterwards, if anyone had ever told us we would be able to arrange a funeral on our own we would have scoffed and laughed it off. Not us, we couldn’t do that. But yet we did. We had the hymns: The Day Thou Gavest Lord Hath Ended, and Abide With Me, which my dad liked. He also loved the music of Matt Monro and as we left the Chapel of Rest, Softly As I Leave You played. His request had always been that he be cremated. So that’s what was arranged. 
His ashes are buried at a place he loved and a Magnolia planted with bulbs all around. Today, in spring, the flowers are up and the bush is in bud. It’s coming alive after the long winter sleep. And yes, I do still cry at Coldplays, ‘Fix You’ especially the line – when you lose something you can’t replace, as I heard it while dad was in hospital. It all seemed so appropriate and true. But, what I’ve come to understand is this; while you do lose something you can’t replace, the one thing you can never lose are the memories of that person. It is those which will be with you, alive, and inside for ever. And they are the strength that will keep you going.
