How to show your gratitude

.

  

 I read somewhere some time ago {start of a song} that we should use what we have to the best of our ability because if not our prosperity would be wasted.  People who have nothing - no clean water, no housing, no food etc wouldn't be better if we wasted what we have. I didn't really understand what it meant at the time but yesterday I considered my position. 

I complain that I hate housework and I hate cooking. This is really disgraceful when I consider that I do have a house and should be grateful and should keep it clean. I do have food and should be grateful so shy am I too lazy to cook when I know that millions of people go hungry everyday. Their are children dying because they have no food and I can't be bothered to cook. 

              

My friends tell me that there is no 'should' ,nothing is compulsory but I disagree on this one. I had a friend who was disabled and in a wheel chair. She said that no one should ever dance in front of her. Using the theory of above the able bodied should use their bodies to the best of their ability otherwise we would all be disabled and that wouldn't help anyone. I can't do this does that mean he should never dance like this?

                         

Things will get better or-----

In the past when I have been ill I've thought that I'll be better tomorrow or next week or even in two weeks. Now at 80 when getting out of bed or putting on shoes and socks and struggling I realise it won't get better.  It will only gradually get worse.

Daily I am surprised that I am 80. How did I get to be 80. What have I done in 80 years. I read this morning about a woman who wrote half a dozen books and died at 29.

I have just watched a programme about Jazz musicians who achieved so much and died young. So what have I achieved in 80 years.

 Everyday I feel older and slower and my aches and pains increase. although I am warm and well fed and really want for nothing when so many people are cold and hungry. What is the point of it all?

 

 

Facebook Quote about time

  "The definition of time: Time is slow when you wait. Time is fast when you are late. Time is deadly when you are sad. Time is short when you are happy. time is endless when you are in pain. Time is long when you are bored. The weather is good when you are in love. Time is always determined by your feelings and psychological conditions, not by your watch. © SYMPA "

A word or two about style

  I subscribed to the writing magazine Mslexia after a long break. I hadn't been writing very much since I took up gardening. I had a blog called Living and Gardening in Brittany. Previously writing and painting were my priorities. Now that I am back in the UK with no garden to speak of I have returned to writing, hence Mslexia.

After two issues I feel I have to think about style. When I read the stories in Mslexia I see how language has changed. I use laptops and I have a tablet and a fancy phone. I know that the OED adds new words yearly and there is a whole new vocabulary connected to IT. 

It's not that that concerns me. 

Patch's Story Chapter 4

 Patch's Story Chapter 4

     The Boss tries to clean up the mess. And it is a mess. Plaster and water is not easy to clean up. Anyway what's the point the water is still dripping. She puts buckets down because it is coming from more than one place. The problem is I heard her say, that she still can't find the source of the leak. 

She has spent a lot of time on the phone and someone suggested that she should contact the insurance company. I heard her say that she was reluctant do do that. She had changed companies about 18 months ago. The first thing that happened then was we had a fire. 

I remember it well. It was New Year's Eve. She had been to a friend's to celebrate and came back to a smoke filled house. Me and my 2 sisters had stayed upstairs so we were OK. There was only smoke damage. Well I say only smoke damage but anyone who knows will tell you that it's no joke. It took days to clean the walls. Helen tried but it was impossible. The insurance company engaged decorators to paint all the downstairs walls. Then they insisted on taking all her clothes to be dry cleaned because they smelled of smoke and they brought them back in polythene bags. 

I know all this because as I have said before, I hear everything. She discussed it with her friends and she decided to call the insurance company who sent someone round to look at the damage. Then it got complicated. I am not sure why, something about, they could pay for this but not that. But it involved many visits from various plumbers, insurance people and assessors. I heard the word expert so many times that I thought if they are experts why can't they find the leak and get it all sorted. 

What a situation! Drip, drip,  drip, and still surrounded by boxes. I'm OK. I am still able to sleep in my favourite spot but I am worried about her. She seems very upset. Well I don't blame her. The water is turned off and she can't use the lavatory.  Not that that has stopped the drip. There is a kind of toilet in the shed. I know because there is a chair with a container under it. I have seen her empty the container.  She empties the contents on the compost heap.

Yesterday things got worse. That French man came with another so-called expert to inspect the beams which were now exposed because of the fallen ceiling. He was looking for 'infestation' apparently. The Boss was furious. She told him in no uncertain terms to clear off. At least I assume that's what she said because she spoke loudly in French and pointed to the door.

The next day the French woman came. I didn't understand everything because they kept speaking in French. I know they were discussing dates but why I don't know and still the boxes remain.

People People People

 I am sitting watching the TV. It's Wednesday so that means PM's question time. I usually start to watch it mainly because I would like the opposition to challenge this selfish, lying and greedy government. They rarely do. Anyway today there is also a budget announcement from the Chancellor so I begin to watch that to. At the same time I am reading the latest edition of Private Eye.

You will deduce from what I have written so far that I am  Socialist. That is not an easy admission these days as it often evokes anger and violent accusations. Any way I protect my health by turning of the sound on the TV. 

I want to continue reading The eye, I really do, but how depressing it is . It seems that 90% of MPs  and  Christ knows how many CEO's and whatever men (mostly men) in business and large corporation in fact anywhere there are huge amounts of money involved are crooks. Well there is no other word for it. The things is, what we are talking about really is Tax Payer's money being stolen. It seems that the whole nation that is assuming we all pay tax are being ripped off. 

So I hear a noise outside and open the door to investigate. The window cleaners are busy cleaning my windows. My first thought is, is it really a month. How time flies. I go out to warn them to be careful as the builders haven't finished putting in my new French windows and there is a lot of rubble. By the way it is also raining.

"No problem luv," "Don't worry about it," "You take care now,". They are all young men. They always work quickly no matter the weather and are always pleasant.

These Mr Johnson and cronies and all the Men who think it is OK to steal, yes steal from are the salt of the earth and they are the ones who create the wealth which you steal.

 

Thoughts about writing

 Reading  this morning in a book of articles about gardens I had some thoughts about writing. Melanie keeps sending me links to courses on writing and advice about writing. It occurred to me that as my writing, especially poetry comes from my soul how can anyone else help me with that.  Also there are so many rules/forms  in poetry.

Blank Verse, Rhymed poetry, Free verse, Epics, Narrative Poetry, Haiku, Pastoral poetry, Sonnet, Elegies, Odes, Limerick, Ballad, Lyric, Soliloquy and Villanelle !!!!! 

THAT'S 15,  YES 15.

You know what? I don't give a fuck because I don't care.  The words I feel come and I am satisfied if they portrait my feelings and thoughts accurately. I rearrange them to increase their efficacy then I feel satisfied with that. So if I enter a competion does my poem have to fit one of these forms? Why?

It's the same with people. We are not all the same shape and size and colour. Difference is abhorred.  That's the problem with the world.  Who is doing this to us? If we are not careful and we obey  "the rules" then we are doing it to ourselves.

What happens if we don't know the rules? I think I am writing poetry but I don't know the rules. So-----------? Where  does that leave me?

There are lots of people I have found who are willing to teach me the rules, for a price. Yes and normally a high price. Do I need to pay someone to help me to express my feelings, my inner thoughts, in fact my very soul.

You know what? I long ago realised that the reason many people who suffered from "mental illness" it was because they couldn't conform to the rules. They couldn't play the game. Some people seem not to care about conforming and many learn/pretend to play the  game knowing that it is necessary but deep inside they keep their own council. 

So damn it. I write what and how I like and fuck your rules. They are not my rules. I can't and won't play the game. 

Woodland scene with animals

 I would like to paint a woodland scene on the green wall in my "Garden".

Today's Problem

In Memoriam

Hungering to hold him,

Yearning to enfold him,

To my hollow breast,

My outstretched arms ,

Find only,

Emptiness.

I crave the cessation

Of the endless pain.

Standing barefoot on cold marble,

Feeling hard ebony, 

But falling through clouds.

Kneeling, my cheek caresses,

Not baby soft skin,

But hard as iron, 

His oaken coffin.

The History Game

The History Game

Next the famous flowing river, Old Father Thames,

Stand edifices, evidence of everlasting, heritage.

Naval college, now museum, environmentally protected,

But no campaign can prevent its eventual downfall.

Floating to and fro, next Greenwich pier,

In the lapping tide, lies putrid, polluting, plastic.

Bobbing, lost and probably missed, 

Float, not one, nor two, nor three, but four footballs.

One of real leather, three of plastic.

Evidence of this century.

No need to protect their existence.

They will remain evidence

Of the beautiful game, 

For ever. 

Patch's Story Chapter 3

PATCH'S STORY CHAPTER TWO

 MY STORY

Yes, we live in France and very happy we are here. Although recently things seem to be changing. Whereas the most important thing for her was the garden it seems that she goes there less and less. She was out there all the time, Summer, Autumn, Winter and Spring. When I was younger I used to be out there too. Sometimes I'd play in the grass and catch mice and things. Did I tell you, that's why we are here me and my sisters. It seems that the Boss brought two cats here with her from England but they both died. She was very upset and grieved for a long time and I heard her tell someone that she didn't really want any more cats. She even painted a portrait of one of them. Anyway, what happened apparently she was overrun with mice. One even ran across her bed when she was on the phone. They had taken over the kitchen and chewed every thing in sight. Then her friend rang and said that a cat had given birth to five kittens in her wood pile. She said that she would have them all. Well Sylvaine, the friend, already had half a dozen cats so she brought the three of us over. Apparently she couldn't catch the rest. So that's why we are here. We moved in and the mice moved out. The three of us occasionally catch one and bring it for the Boss to see how we do our job but that does not please her. She creates a right fuss and makes us take them out again. You would think she would be pleased since we are only doing the job that she adopted us for.

Now where was I? I was about to say how things seem to be changing. She doesn't go into the garden much lately, not even to cut the grass. Grass cutting has always been a big feature of our lives here. Well there's so much of it. I have heard her say that it takes six hours to cut it all. I keep out of the way when she is doing it. I don't like the machine she uses, horrible noisy thing it is.

Strange things are happening. A couple of months ago the Boss had just got back from visiting a garden sale with a friend. She was just about to ring her tennis mate to see if she could go to her's to watch the match when a French couple just turned up and knocked on the door. They looked in every room in the house, they inspected the garden and then they all sat around the table in the conservatory and talked for a very long time.

I didn't think anything about it at the time because it seemed a bit like the Monday Group. Have I mentioned the Monday Group? No?  She has this group every Monday for her French and English friends to get together to speak French. They also play games and drink tea and eat cake, a lot of cake. Someone always brings a cake. Lorrain's are the best because she bakes her own. The Boss rarely provides one and if she does it's shop bought. Occasionally when she has baked a cake they make so much fuss about it you'd think it was ambrosia.

I know everything because I listen and remember. They don't see me because, as I said before, I hide under the settee. 

 As I started to tell you things seem to be changing. She spends everyday filling boxes. I didn't think much about it at first because I thought she was just decluttering. It's not that though because she is piling the boxes up around the house. Then last week she put loads of things outside on tables and people came and I think they bought stuff. At first I thought ok she is decluttering but no. The piles of boxes just are just getting higher.

PATCH'S STORY CHAPTER ONE

 THIS IS MY STORY 

That's me stretching out and basking in the sun. I am lying in the corner of the white settee in the conservatory. This spot gets the sun nearly all day. It is also very convenient for me. You see I don't like visitors or my two sisters, come to that. When people arrive they usually head for the conservatory. So to avoid all that annoying ," Oh isn't she lovely" stroke, stroke, I slip off and under. Nobody ever looks under the settee.. I can get inside the base. It's warm and comfortable and I am never disturbed there. Even when she, that's the Boss has her Monday meetings, I stay there.

The Boss. That's what I call her. She lives here with me and my sisters. We used to be friends, my sisters and me but we've grown apart. When we were kittens we could cuddle up together but now we need more space. Bella, she's the 'so called' beautiful one. She weaves between people's ankles and let's them stroke her. Cheeky, she is cheeky. She looks at people with that 'you don't know what I am going to do next but look how cute I am'. They annoy me intensely. Bella spends the whole day sleeping in the Boss's chair and cheeky sleeps all day in the Boss's bed. And I mean in bed, under the quilt. I don't know how she breathes.  At night she sleeps near the Boss's head and I sleep on the Boss's feet. I know she likes that because I've heard her tell people.

Every day has been the same more or less for years. We, that's me and the Boss begin the day with a cup of tea in the garden. Well of course she has the tea not me. When I say in the garden I have to explain that it's a big garden. Five thousand square metres. She must be proud of that fact because I've often heard her tell people how she has turned a field into a garden. Anyway, back to our routine. Most days, we walk up the steps, past the big shed, through the autumn garden then under the rose arch into the meditation garden where there is a pond in the far corner. There is a very nice bench with room for two. Her and me of course. Sometimes one or both of my sisters come and snoop around but they never stay. They just walk past through the wisteria arch into the wood. 

 There is a lot of wisteria in the garden and around the house. I've heard her say that the wisteria by the house was the first thing she planted because she wanted it to go all around the whole house. Now it does. That was before I came of course sixteen years ago. The latest project in fact is to create  'Wisteria Lane'. Some friends have erected huge metal arches. She wanted it high enough so that the wood man would be able to drive his enormous lorry through. The wisteria that has been planted and is doing very well and the whole lane will soon be dripping with blue candles.

After the tea I stroll back to the house but she stays and does about an hours work, cutting back and planting or weeding. I am not sure exactly because I spend most of the day asleep. I know she goes back to the house to make a breakfast which I'm pretty sure she takes in the garden. So the days pass. Me asleep and her in the garden, she says she loves it, it's her life. The garden I mean. Most afternoons she has a rest on my settee. I don't mind because she let's me cuddle up and it is usually still sunny. In the winter if it is cold she puts the radiators on and it gets quite cosy.

If it is raining the morning cuppa is taken in the greenhouse. It's quite a walk to the greenhouse. We go up the steps and turn right past the  big shed, past Shangri-La,  then onto the path with the ornamental grasses on the left and the rose garden on the right. The green house is great. It is usually warm and there is a variety of comfy chairs to sleep on. Sometimes we come here just to chill. Well, I chill and she reads. There are piles of gardening magazines in here and  a couple of novels. They are in French. She spends a lot of time studying French. Oh I forgot to mention that we live in France. 

Gardens

 Quote from "Notes from the Garden"

What an onlooker may see as an undistinguished agglomeration of plants is often to its creator--

HER ENTRANCE TO THE HINTERLAND OF DREAMS.

I want to paint this on the entrance gate to my garden.

In Memoriam

Ideas. They come and go. They enter my brain then fade away. Trying to reach them is like grasping at smoke. 

Immemorial

Standing barefoot on cold marble,

Stroking slabs of stone,

Feeling hard ebony,

But falling through clouds.

Hungering to hold him,

Yearning to enfold him,

To fill this hollow,

 In my breast.

 

Reaching arms encircling,

Clutching at swirling mist,

Craving the cessation,

Of this endlessness -

I kneel and my hand caresses,

Not baby soft skin,

But hard as iron,

His oaken coffin.

Returning to self

 Today I felt that I was me. I feel as though I left my heart and soul in France. The removal van brought my boxes of stuff and furniture and my cats and my body. But not me, not my soul. 

Today I think it travelled here and entered my body. I really want to write and have ideas. 

Recently I have read years of entries to this blog and I think that helped me to return to myself. My head, my body and soul have been lingering in France. Moving into this room with windows overlooking my garden and the mature tree out front have grounded me here.

Nothing is easy.

 So I am trying to use my newly organised bedroom which will be my studio/writing room.

One of the main reason I have done this is so that I can write without the temptation to watch the TV. Later when I am ready to paint there will be more room to paint the big painting I have in mind. I have always maintained that one must have a project. Something to get up for in the morning, something to aim for and to occupy one's mind.

Letter to Mslexia

Just received the latest Mslexia sept/oct / Nov / and yes they have printed my letter. It is quite rewarding to see even a letter in print. I am thinking about entering the Poetry Competition. I don't read much poetry but i do occasionally write it. One poem in particular came to mind . I shall try to find it tomorrow.

Poppies

Poppies in June

They are the whores,

The scarlet women of the Summer,

Strutting their stuff,

Flaunting their frocks at the fuchsias,

Beckoning the bees with their painted smiles.
By Melanie Amri

Title COLOUR

Trying to get rid of the orange which is almost invisible.

I sent this off but have just found spelling mistakes and grammatical errors. Rookie mistakes. I should know better.

Waterways Short Story Competition

A RELAXING WEEKEND ON THE CANAL 

In less than a mile I reached the Harecastle tunnel in a seventy foot barge with lamp like a candle. The barge ricocheted from side to side. BOOM, BOOM. I was terrified as I passed the entrance of the disused coal mine reputed to be haunted by the Kidsgrove Bogart. I sailed out into the sunlight shaking but  relieved to see my crew, son Robert and partner Philp coming along the towpath. 
All aboard! It went well until -- a long lorry, parked with its rear-end overhanging the canal by six feet. I hit it. The number plate on barge was sliced off.
At the end of  a peaceful day we moored and cycled towards the nearest pub in single file, Philip last.  He braked to prevent himself from touching my rear wheel, splosh - into the canal he went. Philip not an athletic man, leapt out as though he had landed on a springboard. We laughed hysterically. Seeing his hat floating on the water he said, ‘Must take photo, that hat cost me ten quid.’ The hat said, ‘Blub, ’ and sank.
On the last day Philip was steering. ‘There’s the lorry your mother hit on the way out.' He reached for his camera. We hit the lorry for a second time taking off the other number plate .
 Returning through the tunnel Philip steering, I shouted, ‘Look the Bogart’.  A white shape floated towards us then turned into the old mine. A trick of the light?  It was enough to make Philip pass the helm to me.  I steered the barge out into the sunlight.

We have a blurry photo of the lorry but sadly not the hat. Philip is no David Bailey and it seems that neither of us is Ellen MacArthur.

Brick wall women

Women in the cracks

1. Hypatia https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hypatia

2. Pope Joan https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pope_Joan

3. Hildergard of Bingham

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hildegard_of_Bingham

4. Christine de pizan https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christine_de_Pizan

5. Aphra Ben https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aphra_Behn

6. Jocelyn Bell Burnell https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jocelyn_Bell_Burnell

7. Mary Wollstonecroft https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mary_Wollstonecraft

I could write a book

Letter to Mslexia

I sent an email to Mslexia. I sent it to the forum because I couldn't find the letters page. And guess what? They emailed me back to ask if they could print a shorter version in their next issue on the letters page. 

Just the publication of a letter gives me such a boost. I had begun to wonder if I could write or even if I wanted to. So what now? I must find someone to critique my short stories. That might have to be in the winter as I am still organising this house. 

Growing Old

Being Old 

When I tell people my age they always says, "Ooh, you don't look it". It doesn't help. No it doesn't help because I feel it. I have macular degeneration in my right eye, I am quite deaf in my left ear, my right should is very painful and my left hand also. When I walk I have sudden spasms of sciatica  and my lower back hurts. I am unable to bend down. If I do get on the floor for any reason then I am afraid I will have to stay there until help arrives. I have stopped having showers because I am afraid of falling. That used to worry me but you know what my father never had a bath or a shower ever, that's right not ever in his life and he lived to be 89.

So I am 80 but I don't look it so that's OK then.

My Brother

I shall write about my brother in spite of yesterday's post.

 When I was three he left home to join the army but I remember one evening when my parents were out and the four of us were together. I must have done something wrong. I was crying and he said to my sister, "You shouldn't cuddle her when I have chastised her."

The next memory was when he came home on leave. He was enamoured with me. I didn't know what to do it felt strange especially as there was no physical contact in the family. My mother had told me when I was five that I was too old for cuddles.

He took me to the toy counter in Woolworth's and asked me what I wanted. In my head I wanted nothing and everything. I was afraid 

that he was going to spend money on me. I can't remember what I asked for. They were all cheap plastic toys. I was confused and felt uncomfortable because no one ever took any notice of me except to say "Be quiet or don't do that." 

I think he wrote to my mother from Egypt and one time there was a photo of him with his army mates. "That's him in the middle," said my mother pointing to the fattest. "No it's not he's on the end. It says on the back," I said.  My mother burst into tears, "He's so thin." 

He was too you could count his ribs.

He never came home to us. But shortly after that he came back to England from Kenya to a military hospital in Grayshott in Hampshire.

Was it Kenya or Egypt? 
 He came out of hospital and was discharged from the army with a pension. He married a much younger women who was petite. I remember she had to buy children's shoes. I was a bridesmaid.

NB I was also a bridesmaid to my sister and cousin. Three times a bridesmaid never a bride.

Mundanity ( yes it is a word I looked it up)

My life seems mundane in comparison to the women who write in Ms.. 

"Where do memories hide? The pine trees sing.

In language of course, the four pathways reply.

What if the words be lost? the pine trees sigh."

       Afterwardness by Mimi Khalvati

This is the first time I have ever been moved deeply by poetry. 

 Yesterday I spent an hour writing in my head about my brother. This morning I read these words and wonder why is my writing so mundane.

I COULD WRITE A BOOK

I read the article in Mslexia 86 "GROUP DYNAMICS" and it got me thinking that I could respond with all my experiences of writing groups - and reading groups and music groups and women's groups and , and , and.

That was a light bulb moment. How many times have I said in a conversation, "Oh don't tell me about XYZ, I could write a book".

I can list just a few - divorce, moving house, gardening, driving, demonstrating, holidays, camping, estate agents and now the list is boring.

My thoughts ran on. "Of course I couldn't write a book, could I? No but I could write an essay on each. And then what? "

The light bulb went out at that point. So I went back to reading Myslexia. On the next page was The Pitch Calendar 2020/21.

Now there's and idea.

I LIKE THIS BULB IT  REFLECTS MY THOUGHT PROCESSES

Vocabulary

I love the term that Arnold Bennett used, "The interestingness of ordinariness". 

I have subscribed again to Mslexia. When reading the stories I find myself puzzled by the vocabulary used. It feels contorted, strangled and bizarre. I used to think that it was just me and I couldn't think or didn't know enough words to write this kind of literature. I thought that my straight forward simple use of language was poor and pathetic. I was puzzled by the prize winning stories which I could barely understand which used words I had to look up in the dictionary.

The classics novels and poems, I can understand. Is it a modern fashion, some kind of, "We need to be different trend, or look how clever we are?"? 

So I have stopped torturing my brain trying to think of  unusual words and I have returned to my old way of just letting the writing flow.

TRUTH

When I write I feel as though there are judges peering over my shoulder. I am afraid to write the truth. That is the truth about my feelings. I can write the facts as I see them but TRUTH?
I feel as though I live my life according to other people. Is that why I want to be alone? Although even when I am alone there are are the voices telling me what and what not to do. Or even what and what not to think.
There is my mother of course. Most people have a mother in their head. In the mirror too but more of that later as they says on TV. Even now as I write this trying to reach my inner self  I am feeling judged.
My first concern that I have uncovered in living my life in reverse ( see my other blog) is that I have never felt unconditional love. I have given it to my children and grandchildren and great grand children but I have never felt that I was on the receiving end. Does being unconditionally loved give one confidence?  Confidence to act to make decisions, to speak ones thoughts and ideas?
Often when I have spoken out in meetings or to friends I have been put down.  It feels as though my very thoughts are wrong. A few times in my life I felt so strongly about an issue that I spoke out publicly and was prepared to defend my corner.  It was always about the nuclear issues or the environment.
Remembering my childhood to work out why I feel unloved and ignored I am beginning to understand. I was the youngest in a family of four. I had two brothers and a sister. I was treated as a baby . In fact I was always referred to as "the baby". Even at the age of forty when I was a grandmother my father introduced me to people as "the baby".
Nothing was ever explained to me. In those days children were seen and not heard. I heard though. I listened. I knew what everybody thought about everything, especially me. It was clear that they thought that I was stupid. They referred to me as "our Freda" with a kind of inference, "You know what she's like".
My nearest sibling, a brother three years older tortured me with Chinese burns and the match burning twice "joke". He ridiculed me mercifully in front of his friends. 
When my sister was planning her wedding they thought they were keeping it a secret from me. But I heard everything. They ignored me so much that I became invisible to them. Then one day my sister said, "Oh what a shame. Shall we tell her?"

                      This is IRIS my great granddaughter who reminds me of my childhood self .
I did have a secret life playing outside.

                        Myslexia arrived

It always happens . I read a few pages and my mind is buzzing with ideas. I don't know where to start.
The first article suggests that as writers we could/should help the fight of global warming by writing about it and changing the vocabulary about it e.g. change global warming to global heating. this makes sense and I think some people are doing  this.
I want to write to day but all my ideas are jumbled. So I am making a list and some kind of order may appear.
1. Sylvaine's  house and the book "Sylvotherapie : Le pouvoir energetique des arbre "

2. Kidsgrove writing group

3. Short story  Ethel Fleda's Blog

4. Language - Arnold Bennett's quote - the interestingness  of ordinariness

5.Chris Packam's TV programme on trees  

Draft Letter to Mslexia

Dear Mslexia, Six months ago I came back from 16 years in France where my life revolved around gardening. My plan on my return was to self publish my short stories which I had written before gardening became an obsession.
Moving from what I called my private paradise to a house with no garden in a street in a town was traumatic but I joined the local U3A writer's group for help and inspiration. Then lock down happened.
Light bulb moment, I'll subscribe to Mslexia again.
My first copy arrived and I felt that I was back in the writing community.
 I searched for my stories. I found lots of copies in lever arch files. I searched my current laptop, my old laptop and my tablet  and a few USB s .Where to start? 
I am now searching for an Editing and Critiquing Service and a Self-publishing service which I know I will find in your pages.
 I suffer from arthritis and due to the binding of your magazine I am unable to hold the pages open. My solution to this problem is to dismantle the  magazine completely so that all the pages are separate. I know I could read the publication on line but the arthritis limits my time on the computer. 
Thank you for still being in print,
Yours sincerely,
Freda Bateman

Old Age

I am not growing old . I am old. I hate it when people say but you are not old. YES I AM IF 79 GOING ON 80  is old.

People don't see--- 

Crawling on hands and knees into bed, 

Lying in bed longer every morning trying to decide how to get out.

Then the bathroom. It used to take 10 mins,

Now it takes an hour.

Dare I take a shower? Getting in is easier than getting out. 

But taking a bath is definitely a no go. 

Trying to remember whether I cleaned my teeth,

Then  struggling into clothes. 

Finally descending the stairs backwards on hands and knees.

Exhausted already the day begins.

Decisions, decisions, shall I rest before breakfast?

I need a cup of tea.

Oh dear it's gone again my knee.

Just put on the TV.

Look how I used to dance when I lived in France.

Food

The weather is almost Summer-like. Bright sunshine and clear blue sky for a week now which make it frustrating because I really want go out for a walk. Yesterday I sat in the garden  and the sun was really hot. The pest next door was playing music. Horrible music. I tried to set up my cassette play to play some of my tapes but it has a French plug and the batteries are spent.

I am tempted to go to the shop in the hour which is open for self isolating people but since the text from the government ordering me to stay in I obey. Obviously food is or will be the biggest problem. I don't want to depend on other people because they need to limit outings outdoors. 
Trying to be independent I spent much of yesterday on line trying to order from Tesco's and Sainsbury's and Morrison's. Hopeless waste of time. So I resorted to asking Richard. Ruth, Richard's wife who works for the NHS offered to use the special slot allotted  to NHS workers, to get my shopping. 

 The stuffed cabbage leaves are great. I have eaten them for 2 days and put the rest in the freezer.

Government orders

I realise that the posts on this this blog seem disconnected but that is how life is at the moment. yesterday I received 2 messages on my mobile ordering me to stay at home.
I was planning to walk to the post box to post a birthday card  but now I cannot. 
I am feeling disappointed that I cannot get the new windows that I was planning and I wanted to throw out all the carpets which are really quite grubby. Never mind. Patience is a virtue as my mother frequently reminded me.
I am feeling at a loss today as I can't decide what to do. I don't want to watch TV until this evening. I don't want to spend too much time on this laptop. I already spend too much time on Facebook. I think I will go and cook something. 

My cherry tree in France- I wonder if it has flowered yet.

How I miss my French garden. even if there was absolutely no work to be done there I could always walk round it. walking slowly and observing every plant and assessing what work needed to be down too about 2 hours. I could sit in the greenhouse too to read my many gardening mags. and books and plan future projects.