Muses of a Nutty Woman

There is something very comforting about a cream tea. Tiny, triangular cucumber sandwiches – with the crusts cut off, warm scones, homemade damson jam and lashings of thick, yellow clotted cream served with tea in porcelain cups and saucers – quintessentially British; ignoring, as the British so often do, that the history of tea has its routes in far flung places many miles from Britain. Why don’t we do this more often? Apart from the obvious health issues of course…….., such a tea imbibed amongst old and new friends is a wonderful way to wile away a few hours. However, I don’t think I should eat anything else for the next week or so for fear of adding even more lumpy bumpy bits that really shouldn’t be there.

As the thoughts wander the realms of the quintessential, the Arthurian Legends spring to mind, especially when living in Somerset. I was mortified today when I requested Thomas Malory’s ‘Morte D’ Arthur’ at the local library and was informed that it was no longer held in Somerset libraries. Why not! Much as I enjoy using a computer and teaching others to use it, it really should not replace books – work alongside yes, but definitely not replace them. Where are the Encyclopaedia Britannica – no longer held in libraries. I spent many, many happy hours flicking through those tomes as a child and as a teenager, although don’t ever let my parents know that I enjoyed them ………………..

On one of the many occasions I ran away, I packed my flute, my favourite books (a complete holdall full), my favourite floaty clothes and a large number of leather boots and proceeded to hitch anywhere I could go. Fortunately I was picked up by a bloke going to Calstock where I knew a lovely family. I stayed with the family for two weeks before returning back to my real home. But my point is – would any 15 year old now run away with a holdall of books? Actually, where there many 15 year olds, thirty years ago, that would have run away with a holdall of books? Probably not! There’s nothing wrong with being a little strange…………

O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay! (Carroll, 1872) I have now had confirmation that it is perfectly normal to escape into a fantasy world at times and in fact is recommended for mental and emotional health. So the existential communications that have been taking place via e-mail with a certain friend have validity in normality, apart from of course being a great deal of fun which, in reality, was the purpose in the first place!

The fantasy, lest your mind continue to wander down more earthy routes, is one of prince and princesses, fairies and wondrous places with a smattering of reality thrown in ie the tea plate sized spider that just wouldn’t agree to a shower with Mily (actually the other way round, but this is fantasy after all).

As a child I wandered around Dartmoor both on my own and with friends; exploring, building dams and dens or just being. I’d often take a book to a stream and read amongst the moss, lost in a world of my own, in one of the most beautiful places in this material world. I, for one, am aspiring to regain the peace and pure enchantment that I achieved in those moments.

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

(Jabberwocky, Carroll L 1872)

When was dating ever something to aspire to? At school the boy you fancied was never the one who asked you out, rather the one you were always nice to because no one else was. The one you fancied was the one who didn’t follow the rules, was cheeky and made you laugh and who liked blondes with big boobs – as a quiet, petite red head you didn’t quite fit the grade somehow - the wild child hadn’t yet arrived.

Dating when older seems to have entirely different rules – or does it? I’ve panicked, laughed, refused my hand and a kiss, been incredibly nervous and had agonising decisions to make, for example – what do I wear, how much perfume should be sprayed, should I defoliate………. amongst others.

One such date threw all the others out with the proverbial bath water. Never set a challenge that you are not prepared to follow through! Sending an e-mail inviting a new ‘friend’ to walk the dogs with you and then going to bed is a recipe for disaster. Particularly as having had yet another sleepless night you can’t be arsed to get up, so switch your computer on at 8.55am to an e-mail, sent the night before, taking you up your challenge and suggesting a meeting at the head of Glastonbury Tor at 9.00am “Please let me know by 7.30 am”. Shit! Quick phone call (first one – pleasant voice) apologise profusely and agree a 9.30 meeting at the said tor. Race off to the shower, throw on the first items on top of the ironing pile – shit again, only one outfit ironed……… white jeans (to go up Glastonbury Tor………….ummm) – o’ what the……………. Jump in the car and go in the wrong direction, turn back and eventually arrive on the right road. Phew – can I remember how to get to the head of the tor………….?

If you’ve read any of the other chapters you will know of my total failure at finding the right place. I rang Mike repeatedly as I failed to find an entrance to the tor, I knew I was at the foot but I couldn’t even see the tower. I eventually found the entrance, I say ‘the’ – apparently there are three entrances……. No Mike – another telephone call, I stayed put, he drove to another entrance…………. Bloke walking down from the tor waved to me – ahh this must be Mike so waved back and proceed to walk towards him. Oh shit, can’t be him, he’s at least 80 years old, I smile sweetly and pretend I waved at some other random bloke………….. Yet another phone call – I will say we were both laughing so much that agreeing to meet at the top of the tor could well have ended in complete and utter disaster.

Racing up the tor on the sheer side is quick but killing on the knees, Mike climbed for the second time, up the longer route so I had time at the top to wonder at the sheer beauty of all that I could see. For some Glastonbury Tor is a place for spiritual enlightenment, for me it was certainly a wild and auspicious place to conduct a first date. The laughter that continued throughout the wind swept conversation broke the ice that invariably occurs on the first meeting – will we meet again, no plans as yet but ‘speed dating’ works for me!

On the Barn Dance front – the Wurzels are appearing at a local farm in Bruton on Saturday for an evening of music and food – not quite a Barn Dance but could come a close second? Hey, I’m trying………….

Stereotyping seems to be an inherent part of everybody’s thinking and can cause so many problems………….

By the time you have lived your life there have been innumerable occasions where embarrassment has resulted in the desire to sink into a deep, deep hole somewhere far away. But what was embarrassing at 17 yrs of age would be flicked away with a quip at 45 years. However when asked my most embarrassing moment I will always recount the occasion that had all the hallmarks to necessitate a metaphorical trip to the moon for at least a year.

Back in the days of contraception, when coils where fitted to women prior to them having had a pregnancy, the said coil was fitted at a family planning clinic at a Plymouth hospital. I was somewhat of a wild child and had left home repeatedly, was hauled back each time, until the age of 16 yrs where the threat of putting me into ‘Care’ was no longer valid. I had my own bedsit, a job and a great social life – what more could a young woman want?!

I walked back from the hospital and was about a mile away when a ‘ping’ resulted in the coil falling out of my womb and lodging in the most uncomfortable place. What to do – as I stood with tears rolling down my face in the middle of Mutley Plain, I did the only thing I could……………. I walked, very gingerly, at a snails pace back to the hospital, in the style of John Wayne sitting on a horse. It hurt, it hurt a lot.

Arriving back at the hospital the receptionist immediately handed me a wonderful gown – fortunately, as I was a very tiny 17 yr old it covered me completely with much room to spare – and put me in a curtained off area on a bed – what a relief. I waited a long time, but I didn’t care, lying down was so much more comfortable than being upright.

The most gorgeous, blonde, young, New Zealand doctor pulled my cubical curtains back, accompanied by a nurse who didn’t impact on me at all……….. Embarrassment level rising…………… The gorgeous, blonde doctor then proceeded to sort out the problem, stopped suddenly as the voluminous gown was raised and proclaimed ‘My god, you have red hair all over’. Embarrassment level hit overload and continued to flow into the ether ………. At this point the nurse intervened and dragged the gorgeous, blonde doctor out of the cubicle and proceeded to give him a lecture on what you should and shouldn’t say to a patient – I could hear every word and it didn’t help a jot.

The gorgeous doctor and nurse returned, the doctor somewhat chastened and proceeded to remove the offending coil as quickly as he could – not quickly enough as far as I was concerned. I should have stayed on the bed for a 20 minute ‘rest’ before leaving the hospital. I didn’t, I fled as far away as I could, as quickly as could.

I never did return to that particular Accident and Emergency Unit in abject fear that I would meet the gorgeous, blonde, young New Zealand doctor.

I highly recommend a long walk with the dogs for de-stressing and general soothing the soul. I would also recommend however, that you remember when a blister formed the day before, in the walking boots that you put on the day after. A minor incidence in the scheme of the things, but a sharp reminder that one’s actions always have consequences.

I wandered out of the back gate of the barn, climbed a mighty huge style – one of those ones that you just know a farmer has put up because he doesn’t want you to go across his land….. and proceeded across a field towards a wonderfully ancient, working apple orchard. Before I could climb yet another huge style I had a different type of barrier in my way – an electric fence, high enough to clamber carefully under if you are the size of a pixie. I managed, just, but failed to clock the rather large cow pats that were placed just so……….. must remember them on the way back.

Having finally managed to enter the orchard, I meandered through the apple trees, imbibing the soft sounds of bees busily at work, the rustling of the stinging nettles as the dogs dived into them, to see what was on the other side of the clumps and the gentle sound of a stream as it skipped merrily to the side of me. Then of course there was the huge splashes as the dogs – spaniels – threw themselves with total abandon into the water and galloped around with much joyous pleasure.

I pondered on the beauty of my surroundings; the new trees intermingled with the old knarled ones, all bearing vast amounts of apples – an analogy maybe for a community, the old wise trees resting amongst the young, wild ones, with weeds that need to be discarded, threatening to choke the unwary. The sheer perfection of wild flowers peering through every now and again in a place you would least expect it. Then there are the major events – stumbling across a pond, festooned with bulrushes and lilies with divinely coloured dragon flies darting through the softly wind blown reeds - perhaps a wedding where love is being proclaimed to all. The bee man tending to the small collection of hives that hummed busily as I passed – maybe the tenacity of working hard and achieving a gaol. Then, for me, the most momentous event of all – an Oak tree.

The Oak tree took my breath away, I stood in wonderment at the sheer beauty that I had stumbled upon. It stood in a clearing at the edge of the orchard, the stream burbled behind it, a Silver Birch wisped it’s tendrils in a gently lethargic manner just past it, while the Oak itself was festooned with acorns on every branch, by every leaf. Each acorn was perfectly formed even those that were smaller, more vulnerable than the others. The leaves protected all that it hoved and gave hope for the future – new growth, new life.

I reluctantly left the tree to return back to the Barn, I retraced my steps, lest I do my getting lost trick. Although strangely I never do seem to become lost on my walks, I gain more than I start with – always. I did however go under the electric fence at the same place and played chicken with the cow pats as before – when will I learn that there are easier ways to do things ie I could have walked out of the orchard onto the country track, instead I chose the most difficult way……………….. I will return to that Oak by whatever means.

Best laid plans…….. often seem to come unstuck. The planned for trip, (which had grown out of all proportion) to the Dorset Steam Fair, had come spectacularly unstuck due to personal circumstances which for once where someone else’s rather than mine. I do apologise however, for sounding so unsympathetic, I am truly…….

Whilst walking the dogs and trying unsuccessfully to ignore the blister that was gathering momentum on my heel, I contemplated and ruminated on recent happenings and the implications thereof. I came no closer to discovering the answer to the ‘why’ question. (Do you remember when your young children spent an impossibly long time asking ‘why’ to anything and everything…………. That feeling of frustration has come rushing back!) I did decide however that in my next life, if there is such a thing, that I would come back as an animal of some sort. After all animals have an individuality and personality of their own which you can always liken to someone that you’ve met, but their lives seem so much simpler – no relationships, no politics, housing issues are put in the hands of someone else, you just eat, drink, have sex and be merry. I’m not entirely sure which one I would like to be though………

There was Popeye, now he really was a very ‘challenged’ duck. My parents, sister and I lived on a small holding where everything was grown from the wheat for the bread to the meat on the table (and that is exactly why I don’t eat meat very often – having Fred, the kid goat you had hand fed that morning, served on your plate as the evening meal is just not cricket.) Popeye was huge and had harem of beautiful Muscovey Ducks. He was very tender with them (most of the time) and rustled them from place to place with a great deal of skill. However, he hated rain with an absolute vengeance. Rain was the enemy, rain was the absolute pits. The duck house was moved a couple of metres down the field to a better position as is good husbandry practice. Popeye hadn’t quite clocked this momentous event; it was only the third day after all.

It rained, it rained with that intensity that is so purposeful and so, so dramatic. I had run inside, but in the few short minutes it took, I was wet through to the skin. I stood in the day room, steaming, looking out of the huge picture window which overlooked the largest field and the very beautiful Cornish valley that we lived in. I watched Popeye march as fast as his short yellow legs could carry him to the duck house. Not the new position, but where he thought it should be – as I said, not the most intelligent duck………. He stood there for the duration of the downpour, while I howled with laughter. He looked up at the sky, then down to his feet, up to the sky and down to his feet repeatedly. You could see from the expression on his face that he really didn’t understand why he was getting so wet and I’m so, so sure that his continually angry quacking sounded just like a string of expletives as he became more like a drowned rat than a handsome, majestic Muscovey duck.

So no – not a duck then. I do quite fancy the idea of being like Sam the Collie who isn’t quite all there……….. He’s loved, cuddled, stroked, fed and housed in a beautiful house with a lovely soft and cosy bed that smells just right. Drink is always available and treats are given on a regular basis. Exercise consists of chasing the chickens and sniffing out the deer. He doesn’t have to find a toilet as long as he isn’t caught short in the house and the best thing of all is that he can wind up the biggest cat you have ever seen by barking insanely at it, as it swings its tail, sitting on a shelf far too high for a daft collie to reach…………. Yes that’s it – a daft collie it is. Somebody throw me a bone…………………..

When one looses a loved one through death or design or even both at the same time……., the magnitude and depth of emotion left behind can become overwhelming and insurmountable on occasion. Picking oneself up can be a task too many amongst the daily chores when tears begin on waking. Decisions or actions made in such times, lets face it, are generally ones taken without due thought and can be detrimental to ones confidence – which is generally way down there with the sweepings in the gutter. For some, a veneer of laughter and frivolity is but a shallow veil for the deep sadness that invades every fibre of their soul.

Those really daft decisions made in such circumstances, include in my case, internet dating. So why……… you might well ask?! In a society that values personal partnerships way above the benefits of being single, the desire for a lover, friend and partner in crime is ‘massive’ (please say this with a deep, strong ‘street’ dialect) hence the modern phenomena, rising from the ashes of communities that no longer exist, of using technology to find a mate. I say ‘mate’ rather than partner as I fail to see how the games that are played on line are a prelude to finding, what I would consider to be, a lover and soul mate. Maybe at the grand old age of forty five my thoughts and morals are of a bygone age where manners, time and thoughtfulness have disappeared along with Black Jacks and Fruit Salad sweets (I really loved Black Jacks……………! Do you remember Flying Saucers and Milk Bottles……………… yum!?).

Referring to Chapter 1 here, perhaps the internet dating site idea should be consigned to the bin and changed completely to a community one, where men and women can meet, without any pressure, in a purely conversational atmosphere. Where body language can be observed and where a spark of chemistry can be ignited if that said spark is ‘read’ correctly by both parties – hey - this is ringing bells…………. School – bloody school – horrible place. When was the last time you mixed in a fairly gender balanced gathering – work, friends…………? Ummmm perhaps the Matchmaker idea isn’t so far fetched after all.

I for one, am jumping off the dating bandwagon in disillusionment. Thank you to all those I’ve chatted to and apologies if I didn’t get back to you – it wasn’t personal! Those of you who were blocked immediately due to entirely inappropriate messages – shame on you. To those I met, heartfelt thanks - I enjoyed your company but wish to curl up on the sofa on my own………………

One more thank you - to all those who have wished me happy birthday today – your effort is very much appreciated!

Friends visited me this weekend to catch up on the plethora of news that abounded from both sides. A good time was had by all, no wine was imbibed but the tea, coffee and chocolate stores were much depleted.

Inevitably, as always happens when we meet, the story of the Gloucester Docks Warehouse incident was mulled over with much laughter, particularly as this was the first time that my 12 year old daughter had been made aware of our exploits, hence her reactions and incredulity added to the hilarity.

Sue had decided that she wished to view the apartments in the nearly renovated Docks Warehouses and dragged me willingly along for the ride. The Estate Agent, with whom we were to have a accompanied viewing with, predictably, was extremely late. Whilst wiling away the time, for some reason that neither of us can remember, we decided to pretend we were lesbian lovers buying our first home together. Unfortunately the eventual advent of a fresh faced youth with the bare beginnings of fluff on his cheeks to show us around, only added to the resolve to wind him up totally and completely.

We managed – god knows how – to keep straight faces as we wandered around the admittedly very attractive buildings and conversions. We discussed the merits of our new rather large bed and whether the leather accoutrements would fit into the small spaces, we touched each other arms, held hands and gazed lovingly into each others eyes to the total discomfort of the poor, increasingly red faced, young Estate Agent. The final indignity for him was in the basement where all owners had an allocated caged space in which could be stored a variety of large articles.

It just had to be done……. Sue was, and is, a fulsome lady, with a bosom with which many ships could be launched, put that together with a love of motorbikes and the leather safety gear that is an integral part of serious biking and the caged areas in the basement………………… ummmmm. The Estate Agent couldn’t get out of there quick enough. We managed to keep straight faces only until he disappeared out of sight, although I suspect he could still hear the total hysteria and breakdown that erupted from both Sue and I, as we collapsed in a heap on the edge of the docks unable to move as the effort of maintaining the pretence pushed us both over the edge.

My lovely visitors left me with a challenge – they have never been to a Barn Dance and were disparaging about the benefits of attending one. After my protestations of how much fun they can be, a request was made that I should find a traditional full blown Barn Dance, one with callers, live music, plenty of cider and pasties for us all to enjoy.

Anybody else want to join us?!

Jeff – Jeff is from Friends Re-united Dating dot com. He describes himself as: ‘Jeff5470. I am a 43 year old divorced man with dark brown hair and blue eyes. I am 5 ft 11 tall slim, living in Ringwood’. For those of you for whom geography is a subject that was consigned to the bin as a fourteen year old (to which group I include myself), Ringwood is in the New Forest. Guessed yet?

Amongst the hilarity of the evening in the pub was the question of ‘shall we go and see what Jeff is really like?’. I had been chatting occasionally to Jeff over the past weeks and had indicated that a group of unruly women could descend on the pub in which he works. However, the option of a bottle or two of wine in Foxfield House won out and Jeff was kicked into touch.

Having driven home the option of sussing out Jeff was put out of my mind completely. However this was not the case for Cilla and Sharon (have I told you that they are sisters….?), who decided that they would suss him out for themselves a couple of days later and the following text conversation ensued:

Cilla: ‘We are in The Star, no Jeff.’

Jane: ‘Lol you tart!’

Cilla: ‘We couldn’t resist it!’

Jane: ‘Ask when he’s next in!’

Cilla: ‘That is taking friendship too far!’

Jane: ‘Lol you know you’re only doing it to get into the next chapter!’

Cilla: ‘You guessed. We have booked the Abbey for George and Mily!’

Jane: ‘Did he like her photo?’

Cilla: ‘Sharon will send a picture of George. Now the dowries. George comes with a collie, no goats!’ (Sam is the collie with the screw loose.)

Jane: ‘Collie’s fine, want the Dandy too.’ (Dandy is the tent thing that can be towed behind a car and opened up into sleeping quarters.)

Cilla: ‘Only if Mark comes too.’ (Mark is the boring old fart husband who isn’t in the least bit attractive but is very good at giving directions to very stupid redheads.)

Jane: ‘Bugger off’

Cilla: ‘No picture of bridegroom on way.’ x

Jane: ‘Sweet dreams!’

Cilla: ‘You too.’ x

Jeff is clearly not on the agenda, but having been sent a picture of Rupert, I can quite see why Cilla and Sharon drool – a fine figure of a man, holding a falcon, whilst sitting on a horse in a very, very short outfit – clearly multi-tasking – perhaps he’s really a woman in drag…..

The forthcoming nuptials of George and Mily however are gathering steam as they roll along at speed. A meeting of the dream team and the first meeting of the intended pair will take place at the Dorset Steam Fair at the end of August. Watch this space!

Rupert who’s Rupert?

The reason that a visit to the Birds of Prey centre was planned was Rupert. Who’s Rupert you might ask – well I certainly would and did – repeatedly. Apparently Rupert is gorgeous, Rupert is handsome, Rupert was built up to be the best thing since an epilator (if you have never had the experience of using one – I strongly suggest you do. Please do not send your comments to me afterwards for fear of offence.)

Sharon and Cilla knew Rupert well, they don’t know how old he was or whether he had a current partner or where he lived but they do know all of the above ie gorgeous etc. They also know that Katherine (the gorgeous blonde) and I are single. They couldn’t decide who would be the best match so decided to throw us both at him in the time honoured tradition of setting up ones friends. However, and this is where it gets complicated – he didn’t know anything about it. It took me a while to work that one out………….

Are you still with me? Rupert is the co-owner of the Birds of Prey Centre, co-owner with an ex-girlfriend who would be in her early 40’s I suspect. Umm that would probably put Rupert in the 40’s bracket then – too old for 28 yr old Katherine. Oh great – that leaves me in the frame.

The first question that Cilla asked at the reception desk was “Is Rupert doing the flying demonstration?” at the reply of ‘no’, I slunk round the corner expecting her to continue her questioning – she didn’t, phew! The flying demonstration was superb, delivered by the ex-girlfriends son with much aplomb – one of the best I’ve seen and definitely worth a trip.

The next hour or so was spent, ostensibly in looking at the range of raptors and snakes, but was really an excuse to look for Rupert. Rupert failed to materialise, thank god. However this demi-god of manhood should be honoured for his ability to attract a bedraggled bunch (it was raining very hard) of four adults and two children, to a morning out followed by tea and cake; a prelude to Katherine and I wending our way to respective homes or in my case a long, but very pretty trip round the countryside before finding a signpost pointing to Bruton.

Rupert - if you’re out there somewhere – my name is Jane, forget Katherine, far too young for you!