I am drawn to Hares, there is an elegance about a hare that a rabbit simply doesn’t have. The elongated body and oversized ears give them an unmistakable profile on the very rare occasions when they are seen out and about. Hares were a popular subject on Christmas cards that we received this year.
Hares are never a common sight in the UK but I grew up in the flat, rural part of Essex with large arable fields all around my home. Traditionally the best time to see hares is in the Spring, when they are looking for love. The best time near us was late August or early September when the harvest had just been done and hares ran across the fields almost unaware that their hidden paths through crops were now fully exposed.
Does anyone dream up a crazy business idea? Surely the idea is dreamed up, fetishised and developed; delivered to the public and then slowly reveals itself to be the crazy idea that it always was and fails. Business has never truly tempted me. There is something missing in my brain that wouldn’t put profit ahead of people. Creatively I could dream up all sorts of wonderful ‘ businesses’ but putting my thoughts into productive, profitable action would be my failure point.
From the age of 14 to 20 I worked for an entrepreneur/ shopkeeping family while I was at school and studying. The family ran several shops and a cafe in two local towns. In 6 years I sold everything from maggots to illegal porn. I ran a fast food cafe for 6 weeks when I could barely fry an egg and worked in a boutique and sports shop where the customers were the beautiful people and my acne embellished face made me want to wear the paper bags we wrapped the purchases in.
I learnt more than I ever imagined was possible about the vivid life of small-town retail. The family were a caricature of family business. There was a matriarch. A diminutive Glaswegian woman with a failing bladder. She ran the business in a fog of cigarette smoke and floral perfumes that failed to completely cover the fragrance of a failing bladder. Her only son was pale and busy, constantly moving and doing everything. He had a large and beautiful wife whose place in the business I never quite fathomed. I rather suspect she was the backbone of the whole thing. Between them they had produced two large and less beautiful daughters who considered themselves to be small town princesses. The companies staff were loyal and libidinous. As an observer and competent member of staff my six years were fascinating and varied. I had worked in every corner of their empire. When it was time to leave and move to London they dangled the carrot of a management training scheme. All graduates got that moment in the office. A few succumbed to the fear of leaving small town life coupled with the anxiety that comes with a useless degree. My head knew it was time to leave the giddy excesses of small town retail. I had learned enough to never dream up a crazy business idea ever!
Researching this blog I discovered that the company existed for 70 years and closed in 2008. Well done to them.
The extra blog. Unusually for me I woke up this morning with my cup less than half empty. 3 days early for Blue Monday my mood was definitely on the blue side of the mental health spectrum. No particular reason, some very small clouds on my horizons but nothing of consequence. The grumpies had arrived overnight. I am never too saddened by feeling glum as the artist in me knows that life and art is a combination of darks and lights. Feast and famine. Good days and less good days.
Blogging absolutely helps me pick out the high spots of daily life. But I am a free spirit and conforming, as I am, to the prompts of Bloganuary is not really my thing. I slightly dread the revelation of the prompt of the day.
But how to perk myself up?
1 Agree to go for a bob with the life affirming bobbers.
2 Write a random blog.
3 Put on my new, warm, fluffy socks.
4 Eat chocolate biscuits after the bob. Notice my cup is already more than half full.
5. Take steps in the sunshine to banish the grumpies.
Swimming in water at 10 degrees with an outside temperature of 6 degrees, blogging, fluffy socks or eating a chocolate digestive might not work for everyone but it is working for me.
An early or timely blog appears hard on the heels of a late one. Today’s prompt from my blog hosts is a strange one for a whole host of reasons, all of them impractical. But for the sake of a fantasy natter I would choose the ages of 15 and 16 to repeat. In much the same mindset as repeating an exam that I failed or required a higher mark from. Do it again and do it better.
Is there an age or year of your life you would re-live?
There was much, in my opinion, that I got right. But goodness, some confidence would have made things better. One thing that I wish I had realised I got right was my choice of Lipstick. If only I had known that No. 7 Plum Beautiful, was the Pinnacle Lipstick of choice for me. Life could have been simpler if I had known that my first tentative purchase at a make- up counter was ‘the one.’
It would not be the ages of 15 and 16 if I don’t mention sex. How I wish I had known less about it, my mother ran sexual health clinics. The nuts and bolts. The nitty gritty. The facts plain and simple, felt indelibly etched onto every part of me. I wanted no part of it because I knew too much. I hid myself in books. Lord of the Rings and War and Peace. Books so big and so lacking in any form of romance or lust that I could immerse myself away from the hurly burly of a normal adolescence.
I discovered a love for live music and dancing. Happily attending gigs all over the place, often alone and relying on public transport. That world was not a scary space for me.
If only I could have lived those vivid, vibrant years with wisdom and more friends.
All my own faults of course, nobody forced me to be that way. Thank goodness I got the lipstick right.
Sometimes I wonder if I should read The Lord of the Rings and War and Peace again…
My inspiration to blog is not particularly noble. Someone, who had already irritated me had said that I had nothing interesting to say and that any blog I wrote would reflect that. I struggled a little to find my place in blogland. Then a variety of things occurred including a World Pandemic when, if we were lucky, none of us had much of interest to say. My blog evolved into what it currently is, a ponder on some small part of my day or a thought that I have had. Like many of us,my life has a repetitive pattern so I need to find a nugget of interest or something different about things I do every day. The photo above is a case in point. Last night’s dog walk took me just across the water from my home, my home is completely invisible, and would be even if the ferry had sailed away. Behind the ferry is a narrow strip of land occupied by the ferry port, the Ministry of Defence and a Primary School sports field. The tiny strip of land occupied by the Ministry of Defence is on a narrow rocky ridge, partially covered by trees. It is this ridge that obscures my view of the ferry from our side . Although as the trees lose their leaves we can see the bridge of the ferry if there is a high tide. If I were any good at throwing a hard ball I could give the crew on the Bridge a nasty shock as I write this blog. Similarly I could get you some fabulous drone footage of happy holidaymakers on the ferry from the comfort of my bed. However the Ministry of Defence would take a very very dim view of me flying a drone over their strip of land, so that is never going to happen. It never ceases to amaze me that so much is happening maybe 200 yards from my home and yet this is one of the most peaceful places I have ever lived. Just occasionally if the tide is right, there is a sensation of a thrum from the engines, or when the wind is in a favourable direction, we can hear the public announcements as the ferry gets ready to leave. As someone who loves to travel and loves the idea of travel I find there is something quite energising about living so close to a ferry port. My mind can travel vicariously every time the ferry leaves port and be equally gladdened by its safe arrival. And that my friends is why I blog, nattering about insignificant things to an invisible audience. Simple pleasures.
Writing my blog is possibly the most joyful thing about writing. There is something calming and meditative about writing daily and finding a positive in the often mundane pattern of normal life.
A tiny percentage of my life makes it into the blog. The blog is repetitive and often has fairly dull subject matter. But writing daily for several years now has taught me to look for nuggets of interest and pleasure in everything I do.
I have no idea when I last updated my Facebook Avatar. More than six years ago for certain. I have paid her very little attention. Today I was surprised when she popped up next to a comment I was about to send to a friend.
I have morphed into my Avatar without even trying. I own those glasses, white t shirts and a Chartreuse Cardigan.
Twenty years ago this was her.
Nothing more to be pondered. I am a woman who ditched a Basque for a cardi !
What traditions have you not kept that your parents had?
My parents were young people with a small child in the sixties. Traditions were thrown out of their lives with the same enthusiasm as many of their generation. Christmas was perhaps their most ‘traditional’ time
One tradition was my dads desire to gift both business and personal diaries to family members on Boxing Day. In the United Kingdom that is the day after Christmas day. Whatever would people think in 2023 if I kept that tradition going. Diary and calendar use has truly fallen off a cliff with most people keeping an electronic diary. The Filofax was the first death blow to traditional diaries and that was quickly passed over for electronic memory jogging.
For some years I managed with an electronic diary but once I returned to doing complex shifts and on-calls I really needed a paper record, the chance of running out of a phone battery at the point someone wanted to swap a complex set of shifts was more common than you might think. At that point I returned to the flexibility of a filofax and have stuck with it. No risk of battery failure but a big risk of being not to hand at the exact moment I need it.
There is a poignancy to diaries and my dad. He died unexpectedly and suddenly from bowel cancer in the middle of treatment. His treatment plan carefully plotted two months beyond his life. I still have that diary. I now know that it was his decision to stop treatment when the odds of it giving him a good quality of life were slipping away.
On a lighter note, as you see from the only photo my filofax is not a thing of tidyness or order.
Pretty much anything can make me lose track of time. My most popular time to lose track of time is between 10 am and 3pm.
There is a standard list of things that are usually completed by 10 am, including writing this daily blog. Then I can lose myself in a task for a solid 5 hours until the need for a cup of tea and a snack pulls me out of concentrating, sometime between 2pm and 3:30pm. After the snack I clear up whatever the task was and begin my regular late afternoon plans. A dog walk tends to book-end my productive phase. What puzzles me about the productive period of the day is how variable my output is. There are days when I am shocked at the level of my achievement and others where I wonder what an earth I achieved in those 5 hours. One of life’s mysteries I suppose.
Another place to lose track is cold water swimming, or bobbing as our group of friends call it. There was nothing glam about last night’s bob but three of us bobbed about in this grey and misty environment for more than half an hour last night. The clocks of mind and body were stopped, recalibrated and refreshed by effortless chatter and some swimming. Dressing was particularly challenging as it was raining. Skin that is coated with seawater just gets really sticky when touched by rainwater. Before I realised I had been out of the house more than a hour and a half. The beach is only a five minute walk away.
In conclusion losing track of time seems to be something I am very good at.
Before deciding to use this prompt I read a few other blogs that had also chosen to go with this particular flow. Wisdom, Sex, God(s) and Acceptance all get a good going over by bloggers with mixed results, in my opinion.
I have no such certainty, in the few hours I have pondered this thought I have been going round in so many ponderous mental circles that I feel even more uncertain as to my definitive answer.
Dandelion at noon
Right now at 08:13 I have settled on being both less conscious and more conscious of being my genuine self. Society moulds us in many ways. Always an introvert I have moved through life being self-effacing* hiding behind so many self-created masks.
* Someone who’s self-effacing is shy and likes to stay out of the spotlight, shunning attention and praise. To efface something is to erase it, so to be self-effacing is to try to remove yourself from various situations, especially ones that draw attention.
David Bowie with his multiple stage personnas or Drag Queens seem to me to have the perfect way of being.
Dandelion at night.
A lovely, big, public personality that can take praise and adoration easily and humbly. A personality that can be slipped off at the end of the show, leaving the real person to slip out of the stage door anonymously without the need for dark glasses and an upturned collar.
Much as I would have liked to go through life in the style of Ziggy Stardust or Lily Savage that was never appropriate. So my characters looked exactly like me but with more Chutzpah*
*The positive aspect of chutzpah, which is more likely to lead to positive outcomes, revolves primarily around being confident, daring, and brazen.
I realise now, with age that self-effacing is a fairly daft way to go about life. But even as I write this I realise that being a brash ‘ out-there’ person was an impossible lifestyle choice for me. I so dislike the aura around Alpha Humans.
What has got better with age is knowing my own worth and finding somewhere in the middle ground. Not so self-effacing, more sequins and twinkle.
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