High Maintenance Society

Wednesday already, and I have begun sorting needs for the coming weekend. A bit of a petrol head event with a group of Alfa Holics touring much of Scotland, from Perth, via the far west, far north and back to Inverness. But I shall attempt to uphold standards and have been playing with possible outfit options for about a week. It is necessary to minimise colour changes, thus minimise footwear choices but there will be a smart evening meal or two, and possible early morning walk/run and or hill walk on final day.

I am watching the weather forecasts and leaning towards white linen trousers (with old oily cars in abundance I may live to regret that.......) alternating with silver grey jeans and a selection of sapphire blue/emerald green and white tops. Collecting a slendilicious new shantung silk jacket (a bit funky) from a dressmaker/designer friend on Friday so that may feature large. Evening could be silver crinkle trouser suit or white linen dress and as I do love the maxi dress and have one in white and blue that may be packed also for day or evening. I am Sooooooo very shallow and terribly vain.

Lady readers may understand the need to arrange and decide jewellery, shoes, belts and in terms of the propensity to white linen, flesh tones smooth undies.

Or..................... I might go all vintage. The cars we are taking are from the mid 1980’s and I do not think I have much of that vintage – all dynasty, pouting, peplums and shoulder pads. I do however have a growing wardrobe or both original and copied/made to measure lovelies from the 1940’s and 50’s. Now would that be fun. All Italian Riviera, Rolls Royce Corniche Tourissimo, Cary Grant and Audrey excess. Hmmmmmm. Watch this space.

Two items on news have been challenging me today. In some ways they are interlinked.

One is the BIG Society being driven at buy our new coalition government. I wonder vaguely that we used to have one of those. We cared for our own. Blood and birth place/location welded people into communities who helped and supported without the need for money to change hands.

And summer holiday child care costs. I muse about the fairly drastic change in lifestyle, progress they call it, whereby children are no longer able to make their own entertainment (Yes, I know that is a broad and tarry brush) and everything we do has to have a price attached. I may expand on this because I am not sure we have a particularly healthy balance yet . It is late and my logical cell has gone to sleep.

A thing of Beauty..........

Another delayed post.

One of those odd ‘local’ holidays today (Monday 12^th July). The village shop is open and the post is being delivered but the surgery is closed. Aberdeen Trades so the city and many of its satellites, such as Portlethen and Westhill are off. But in recent years the edges are rather blurred. The big supermarkets are open as are most of the banks; the garages, even big chain ones appear not to be. Some took Friday off as well, though not officially.

When I moved here 20 years ago I found it odd and oddly disconcerting. Along with the schools’ occasional days and regional variations in holiday and in service days. Absolutely bonkers if you have family in different schools or work across a county boundary; not unusual or difficult in southern Aberdeenshire. I have not yet found a particularly good reason for them to still be in practice; when most communities consist largely of those working outwith the boundaries of the local community, and many of those communities are almost seamlessly merging, one into the other as consecutive developments sprawl ever further across the landscape. Perhaps it still makes the smallest sense for a large city, but then what about visitors? I cannot imagine

Perhaps there are readers who can offer enlightenment. Otherwise I shall remain yours, ‘ perplexed of Pitlochry’ (OK, I admit I am not from Pitlochry, but none of the real place names fit).

I suppose the good thing about unexpected, unplanned down days, when no-one is answering my phone calls or emails, especially if they are sunny ones, is the opportunity to do something unexpected. So, after the madness of the midday sun had passed I booted up, grabbed as many armfuls of tools and equipment as I might need and started up the north face of the Eiger. I had no plan, but there is always more to do than can be achieved and in the back of my mind was some pruning; some opening up.

I am several minds (that is a number most definitely greater than two) over my garden. It is largish (80 metres from tip to toe) and mature; though some might go a step further and call it elderly. It is on a slope in two directions and surrounded by slightly too well developed trees, ensuring few totally sunny areas.

The large expanse of grass is if truth be told, mostly moss, interspersed with variety of broad leaved invasive weeds, tree roots and suckers. Not sure if Alan Titchmarsh quite meant this when he suggested that ‘if it’s mostly green, leave it alone’.

At this time of year, much of the rest of the woodland pockets and wide sweeping borders of the main open garden are lush and verdant. That is not to say that most or even much of it is planned or beautiful; most it is managed to a reasonable degree, though this year again Ground Elder has taken hold with grasping, twisting knotted white knuckled fingers lassoing all in its path .

Taking on so large a task was not within the remit of time available so instead I got all brutal with an Escallonia, the one with a profusion of little glossy dark leaves and pink flowers that loves the sea air. Doesn’t seem to mind the stuff that curls round the edge of the Grampian foothills either. It’s not pretty; the trampled spent brown and bruised daffodils and bedraggled peonies beneath, nor the severely curtailed limbs, some 2 inches on diameter. But there are green shoots (oh that sounds so like an economic prediction and there is almost hiding space for there to be an elephant in the room) and it Will Survive ............ Go Gloria G, and possibly even prosper.

Perhaps it is a good time to make such drastic reduction, since the garden is showing signs of that late summer gap, and I am a tad disappointed to have little but roses to cut and take into the house. I have been lambasted in the past for such butchery but as I can’t see my garden from the house; well not unless I stand on the toilet seat in the boys bathroom, crane my neck, lean on one foot at a perilous angle and peer through the velux. And even then, in summer I can scarcely see beyond the lilac banking unless someone is moving about in very bright clothing beyond.

So, there are times in the year when the house is full to bursting, every nook and cranny crammed full of jugs, ots, buckets, urns, bowls and vases of whatever is blooming, broken or in danger of storm battering. First bluebells of all shades of creamy white, blues, bluey purples and pinks and possibly some hellebores . Then lilac, mostly white, that flower profusely high on the untamed bushes that serve as a boundary from the approach and the garden proper. Then a heady mix of aquilegia, the dusky Michelle Guinness and girly giggly pink and frilly Nora Barlow are favoured, mixed with Cerastium and multi hued Astrantia. Finally, and just before the roses please with their perfumed profusion comes the blowsy acidic froth of the Alchimilla Mollis, sometime punctuated by a droopy dangling blood red Peony, a spike of purple Lupin, some late flowering Michelle Guinness or a spike of Agapanthus.

Today (Wednesday) - yes it takes me a long time to edit, or rather STOP editing and amending. I need to return to last week's notes - it is raining; and cool; and breezy; and a hazy shade of summer. Variety in all things is ok.

Saturday 10^th July 2010

I am desperate to keep real life at bay just a little longer; to permit myself to wallow (yes I know that’s not the right word – but I don’t care – you’ll know what I mean) in the starry ethereal light of the past week.

My to do list has been pruned, which is more than can be said for the spent lilacs now thankfully, gloriously hidden from view by the profusion of other untamed shrubs and not quite as small as I thought they’d be trees. Especially the glorious glowing golden green Beech that seems to have had a year like my youngest did in 2008; outgrowing every shape and space it inhabited within a blink of an eye.

Some decisions have been made and a new order is emerging. What matters? What is now? I shan’t bore with a list of activities, expectations and tedious to do’s that have missed the cut. They no longer carry sway. They are on the plane home.

This morning dawned early, as it has a tendency to do this time of year, but I resisted all calls to service until almost 7 am. Well, it is Saturday. And a fine one it is too. Yes, I know it is raining and grey. But it is a light high grey and a soft warmish gentle rain. My garden is happy. I would almost swear I can hear something delightfully pastoral, Canteloube, something of the Auvergne on the still, moist air. My discipline to write is abandoned to the overwhelming desire to walk and run in the rain. However, along with a key, an inhaler, an anti histamine and a tissue (the full support vehicle will follow at a discreet pace) I manage to sneak my trusty old Sony V.O.R into my running belt. It can double as extra resistance in light of another kilo accidentally dropped in the past week. Note to self. Eat. Not too much.

Sure as eggs is eggs, whilst absorbing the droplets from sky, tree and grassy verge a permanent low grade smile on my face, thoughts unbidden tumble in. Nothing seems to overwhelm or prompt a need to expound into the little microphone. A few broad ideas for a story I decided to write late yesterday; some recurring shape of trees imagery; a little note of the sounds and smells of the morning but they can wait. They are not earth shattering.

Hot coffee, cool toast and a warm shower then a brief trip to the village shop, where on route no fewer than three people bemoan the ‘dreadful’ weather. I cannot help myself. I argue. Where were they this lovely week past? Breezy perhaps it has been from time to time, less than 28 degrees in the shade I will grant you. Some white or even grey scudding clouds and the odd, very odd spot of rain until yesterday afternoon. Perhaps none of them have ‘enjoyed’ or endured weeks on end of 28 degrees plus in the steaming, stinking, sticky south east. Perhaps they require a good dose of 2 daily 90 minute commutes in a tin metal box on one of London’s Orbital Car Parks, pumping out enough carbon and heat to feed a cave family for a month; or the all too frequent inhumane sufferings of strap hanging the tube daily, when just as every fibre of your being is lurching forward yearning for natural light and pure fresh air to breath the wretched little thing lurches to a halt in the almost sightless mire of the Under Ground. Or perhaps we are just hard wired to complain about weather, all weather, all of the time.

Another coffee and I scan the local papers, not least because I have to for my work. I alight on a nice little photo story about the retirement from a local primary school, of a teacher of my acquaintance. One sentence, seemingly grey, mundane and innocuous, was to raise my temperature; alarm bells, like a level crossing klaxon flashed at me. Part of the imaginative leaving presentation included a Disclosure Form (blank I assumed), so that the teacher of close to 50 years standing today, may as is decreed by dome faceless scaredy cat nonentity, tomorrow apply for a certificate of propriety should she wish to ‘pop in to lend a hand’.

Just WHAT, I want to know, not for the first time, is that about? Why is it still necessary for someone with at least one current, if not likely several, Full Disclosure (Criminal Records Check for the uninitiated) certificate to have to complete the identical self same time consuming and costly paperwork every time they volunteer to give any of their time and skills to the service of the young. Why is it not yet possible to do this once, perhaps reviewed every few years (I am being very very very generous here since I am as yet not convinced that anything in this process is actually designed to safe guard children) and for each individual to have a single certificate that cann be cross checked if required?

Who is making money out of these processes – and why do we continue to let them. I will not be alone in being able to paper my house walls with the dratted things. Some un common sense is called for, even such red tape and beaurocracy IS keeping some people in employment.

Here endeth today’s rant. Time for some therapeutic cooking and maybe, just maybe, a small very dry martini.

Who's stupid idea was this then.......... By way of Introduction.

Friday 9^th July 2010

Well, here we are. The opening of my first Blog.

OK, so my Blog title is twee, pretentious, even a trifle pompous perhaps. But it sort of does what it says on the tin. It is MY tone. My views, my perspective on the world according to..... And I am a bit of a closet (the big open walk in kind) philosopher with absolutely no credentials at all. I don’t subscribe to any specific philosophy, religion or politics, nor will I be defined or labelled by anything that ends in ‘...ist’. Except perhaps differentist! Vive La Difference! I am considering starting a movement. Watch this space.

The URL? All of the above, and then some. But all may not be quite what it seems at first glance. It may read like a sad empty boast, but I have no delusions, labour under no illusion as to any level of intellect or learning that I may possess, so permit me to explain. Once upon a time Bright Eyes was an ‘our tune’. And I do so love bright colours. Yang is not a mis type or a misnomer since I am far from in the first flush of youth, or anything else for that matter, flushing thankfully having altogether passed. Hurrah! And whilst I am, by those who are kind enough to massage my tender ego, considered to be a womanly woman, I would never, by anyone who had ever met me, be thought a girly girl. Believe me, there is a difference. The pink I like, and oh yes, I DO love pink, is a sharp, cool, clear and inyerface fuschia, not wishy washy, rosy or baby. It may be contrasted or blended but never frilled or fluffed. The final part of the testing trilogy just seemed to trip of the tongue rather readily.

The title of this missive? A result of indecision, lack of clarity, waffle and doubt.

So, why Blog? Well, the obvious but rather hackneyed and worn response is...... Why Not? Yes, I know there are dozens, scores, even hundreds of reasons why not: to maintain some mystery or an air of quiet dignity, for which it has long been far too late; to recognise that of the tens of thousands of others out there doing likewise, there will be lesser and (mostly) greater than me in interest of topic and of presentation. Then there is the fact that committing something to paper or in this case the ether through the wonders of the World Wide Web, gives it wings and a homing device. The possibility of something carelessly constructed or misconstrued could haunt for eternity or be transformed into a bag of bricks eagerly seeking a watercourse.

I have yet to locate the off button in regards to my thought processes and seem to function, or not as the case may be, in a constant heightened state of alert. You may know the childhood stage when every answer is followed, momentarily but yet another why. Well, that appears to go in my head all the time. I am a 50 something going on 2 and a half. This situation is often much to my doctor’s consternation when a ‘relaxed’ BP reading is required. If I am awake (and even perhaps if not) I am thinking. I think, therefore I am. Am what? Answers on a postcard please....... I am certain that if I did not let some of these thoughts out, allow them some space to germinate and develop, or wither to a half whispered embarrassed secret to be carried away on the next breeze , my head would explode or I would need to be medicated to the hilt.

So these posts may well be a poorly moderated serious of rants on news items of the day; musings on the minutiae of everyday rural life, questions of etiquette and manners, concerns about family and friends if appropriate, observations or descriptions of an event or image that has in some way shaped my day .

I shall attempt to bring more order to these thoughts, and make judicious use of the red pen that is seldom evident in collected boxes of paper scraps or word files by date that frequently make no sense at all upon revisit. However, I may resist overzealous culling since immediacy and perhaps some potency may be lost.

This then, if it hits the ether will be a first step of applying more discipline and where appropriate, restraint and self control, not a word frequently applied to me, in order to discover if anything that occupies the space between my ears has any worth to self or others in the longer term.

So, if anyone is reading this, it is because I did ‘screw my courage to the sticking place,' risk ridicule, failure, humiliation or simply, and much more likely because my hand rested on some undetermined unintended key on the laptop and zap....... it was gone.

I have commenced my 10 step programme. I have stood (ok, actually mostly sat) in a room of strangers and said, ‘My name is Mrs Thing, and I AM a writer’. Blogs were discussed and blogs have been scanned and skimmed , absorbed and noted and somehow I have decided that I must either leap in with breath held, nose pinched and knees quaking, else shut myself up in a darkened room until the phase passes .

Enough you cry. Me too. So, I bid you “Good- night sweet prince. And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.” (from Hamlet, by William Shakespeare ) I am reminded of my husband’s quiet dignity in these, his final words to his father, a lifelong Shakespeare lover and erstwhile patron of the RSC, at his funeral at the end of last year.