Third Row Back, With Chocolate

 Today is World Poetry Day, so it’s only fitting I should write a poem.

This come from a conversation with the rector on Tuesday evening after I was once again nominated/coerced into leading a small group at our lent course. I really don’t mind and I like to think I have the skills required, even when some of the theological debates are a bit beyond me. I certainly don’t have all the answers.

When I left, he said “thank you” and I answered “I will get my reward in heaven.”

“Third row back, with chocolate!” was his flippant retort.

It was too good a line to be thrown away, so it is the title of this poem.

One day two of Jesus’ disciples, James and John, ask to sit beside Jesus in Heaven, they believed, they were worthy of such a great honour. (or maybe their pushy mother did, it depends which gospel you read - look up Mark chapter 10 and Matthew chapter 20).

Jesus replied they didn’t know what they were really asking for.

Is three rows back with chocolate also an audacious ask?

Jesus also tells a parable of the guests where he says it is better to take the lowest seat available. If the host asks you to move closer to the top table you will be honoured but just imagine how embarrassing it would be to be asked to move further away, giving up your seat for someone more important. Shameful!

But then remember that Jesus tells us to love our neighbour as we love ourselves – nothing is ever straightforward in the kingdom of heaven, everything is so topsy turvey.

 

So with these confusing thoughts bubbling in my head here is my poem… which could easily be about any relationship with someone we admire and wondering where we fit into the pecking order. You could even read as something quite dark, like a bar of bitter chocolate, maybe it's about obsession?  But it was written from a light and happy, Dairy Milk kind of place, with apologies to anyone who has given up chocolate for lent - hehehe!

 

Third Row Back, With Chocolate

 

I don’t need a red carpet

Or to be at your right hand

A crown, would be too heavy,

I hope you understand.

 

I’d be happy sitting three rows back

A box of chocolates on my knee

Just to catch a glimpse of you,

Hope no one tall’s in front of me!

 

Yes, the glamour might be welcome

Could I live with the fame?

The rich adoration

Everyone knowing my name.

 

With a hint of anonymity

Let me be humble to the end.

I just long to be included

And for you to call me friend.

 

The words other people say

I can now say I am a published writer with no fear of boasting or exaggeration.

I’ve seen my words in print before, been featured in anthologies of short stories and poems but now I have published my first solo effort and am earning some money from it – time will tell if I ever break even with all my expenses so far, I’ve not done the maths but that is immaterial just now.

About fifty people came to my “bookless” book launch over a week ago. The following Monday I stood in front of another dozen or so people at my first speaking engagement, waffling on and waving my arms about. I’m not good at keeping still, I open my mouth to talk and my hands automatically join in.

My book has been sold as far away as Australia and Italy.

The first empty book box - the first of many I hope.
Can you spy the glitter sparkling at the bottom?

It’s all rather exciting but when I clicked onto Amazon and discovered my first five-star review, I actually bounced on the sofa with joy.

When people say nice things it can be all too easy to shrug them off, brush the compliments away while insults and hurtful words tend to stick like glue.

At my book launch I asked a few people to write 100 words about me and I admit everyone excelled themselves with their own lovely words about me.

A friend who I was at school with from the age of five all the way until sixth form together wrote something based on an acrostic of my name, Such fun, Abundance of energy, Reunion, Aging – or rather NOT aging and Hilarious laughs together.

My bridesmaid wrote a piece peppered with references too BAZAAR to explain to anyone else. Fellow writer Ruth Leigh recalled how we first met in a pub, introduced by a mutual friend and how we still regularly meet in a bar.

The rector recalled our first meeting a little over five years ago.

Pauline (Sarah’s Mum) told me about Sarah leaving the north to come back to Hadleigh but discovered that she had cancer. I found out about Andrew, two ‘boys’ and all the complexity that this person had been through. Not a great fan of hospital visiting, I summoned my energy to see this hapless victim.

“Hapless victim” .... not!

I met the full on, dynamic entity called “Sarah”. I sat on the end of a hospital bed listening to her story.

The nature of Sarah is bustling busy-ness, passionate and compassionate, speaking up for those who might not have a voice!

Deo gratias

I admit I had to look up Deo gratias – it means thanks be to God.

The Brett Valley Collective, who I have performed with put their heads together to come up with words to describe me which was crafted into this poem which even rhymes.

Enthusiastic, dedicated

A mover and a shaker

Upbeat, warm and generous

Resilient, not a faker

 

Strong and courageous

A can doer, a creative

Despite some time up north

In Hadleigh she’s a native

 

A smiler Sarah loves to laugh

If she seems nice - well she is

Chatty with a zest for life she

Bubbles like a glass of fizz

 

A trusted member of our team

At BVC she’s in

Chances now of getting out

Are looking very slim

 

Without sweet moments life can feel

 Like lemons sharp and bitter 

So let’s take a leaf from Sarah’s book and go

In search of some lost glitter

 

They went over by 3 words – but I think you will agree they are important so I let them off, especially after I was sprinkled with actual glitter.

My oldest son wrote about the times we had watched sport together, including the first time I took him to a Premiership football match. While he could remember all the action and who scored the goals, my lasting memory was walking through a rainbow painted tunnel to get to the ground which I thought was so pretty. Then there was the time we watched tennis together and I couldn’t tell the players apart as they were dressed identically. My son said “Nadal is left-handed,” which only confused me even more.

Then youngest son shared this, in rhyme and exactly 100 words. Just like his mother he enjoys a challenge, but I must say I never quite expected these words, which made my eyes leak…

You were my comfort when thing went wrong in 2010,

And how much have you done since,

all those conversations about Avengers, and the X-men.

 

Finding a short cut through the waterfall on LEGO Racers,

how was that not a dead end?

Hosting Friday Tea so I can see all my friends

 

Helping me make bolognaise answering my phone call

“How do I cut a pepper”?

Let's not forget all my university work

where you have played the role of spell checker.

 

Or our long evenings watching superheroes on the TV.

You have always been the best mum for me.

 

Every person summed me up, or at least the version of Sarah that they knew and loved. And how loved I felt that evening.

As I writer you want your words to resonate and mean something. Getting a kind comment, a review by official channels or just a message saying how much your writing has meant to them is PRICELESS.

Maybe we should all scatter compliments and kind words like confetti and if we catch some hold on to them tightly and believe they are true!

For any wife who's lost her husband...

 A wife lost her husband

Others lost their dad

Children lost a grandfather

They are all very sad

 

Each struggle with their mourning

What’s the right thing they should do?

There’s protocol to follow

Covid restrictions too

 

With fortitude and grace

And a firm “stiff upper lip”

Masks affixed in place

Only a silent tear let slip

 

But underneath the surface?

What emotions are unbidden?

Does private grief bubble up?

Past secrets stay hidden?

 

Who can tell how you would feel,

in this painful situation?

Grief is deeply personal

Not “news” broadcast to the nation

 

Everyone mourns differently

Some with tears, but then there’s laughter

Memories tumble quickly

No new ones from here after

 

A wife lost her husband

Others lost their dad

Children lost a grandfather

They are all very sad

 

Having lost a husband, a dad, a grandfather, an uncle, a friend I may have some inkling to how the royal family feels at this time. But no one really knows and few of us would ever have to face the public scrutiny they are subjected to.

But this poem isn’t just about their loss but it's written for any wife, child or grandchild at this time whose grief seems overshadowed by world events. 

We all try to do the “right” thing when actually there are no definitive answers in grief, laugh or cry, shout and scream, whatever helps you though each day.

You are not alone – God Bless!

A Rondel of Unrequited Fluff

 

The first Wednesday of each month is always the most creative as I click the zoom link for my writing group meeting.

It is such a joy to be able to join my writerly friends in these strange times.

Last night was no exception as we learnt all about Rondel poems, starting with one by Chaucer, Rondel of Merciless Beauty, read here by the mesmerising Jude Law…

 

We were encouraged to stick to Chaucer’s rhymes to make things easier, so of course I broke those rules immediately and didn’t! 

And we were told our love poem could be about anything, a beloved pet, a landscape or even smelly feet, “it’s just a bit of fluff” said PoetWoman who was leading the evening.

Well the word fluff stuck and I couldn’t get enough of the stuff, resulting in this little ditty….

I do hope it brightens your day 😊

 

A Rondel of Unrequited Fluff

 

You stretch and yawn and catch me unawares

There’s your belly button full of fluff

I reach my finger, but not far enough

 

I am bereft, can only stop and stare

My heart’s like jelly, made from wobbly stuff

You stretch and yawn and catch me unawares

There’s your belly button full of fluff

 

Upon my word you tempt me to despair

My life from this moment on will be tough

I dry my tears upon my silken cuff

You yawn and stretch and catch me unawares

There’s your belly button full of fluff

I reach my finger, but not far enough

Happy Birthday Andrew

Happy birthday darling!

Another year?

How time has flown.

You - not even a day older,

and me?

Still here alone.

I stare at your old photos.

You stare back with twinkling eyes,

I miss the warmth behind them,

deep understanding you supplied.

You were the keeper of my secrets,

holder of my heart

‘til life crumbled

on my darkest day

we were

untimely ripped.

Apart.

I can’t say that I think of you

each morning, noon and night.

You’re a presence

like a shadow

almost there

just

out

of

sight.

But as your birthday comes around,

and dark November days,

you linger longer in my thoughts

I can’t escape your gaze.

Grief is stealthily defiant

dispensing killer blows

in the least expected fashion

it shakes you head to toe.

At last

with expert timing,

we reach November’s end

but just before it’s over

Happy Birthday

Dearest friend. xxx

Singles’ Day

Are you aware that 11/11 is not only Remembrance Day but also Singles’ Day? 

A little bit of an unfortunate clash for us here in the UK but the concept was originally started by students at China’s Nanjing University as far back as 1993.

WOW – I actually was single then but married a year later. 

The general idea is that you treat yourself and take yourself out on a solo date.

For me every day is Singles Day as I can mostly do as I please and if something yummy should accidentally fall into my shopping trolley  – who cares!

I’ve recently written about going out on my own. I’ve just never called it self-dating before, which might be a term I’ve just sort of made up, inspired by Emma Watson calling her single status “self partnered”.

While I find the whole idea, vaguely interesting, as ever I struggle with the terminology – I’ve never been a fan of traditional labels.

I think it’s the word “self” that really bothers me – after all selfish starts with the same 4 letters.

It is sometimes depressing seeing friends on Facebook or even actually in real life, living the dream of being in a committed relationship, treating and surprising one another – oh to have someone in my life to spoil me like that!

But it’s a two-way process and I think Singles Day would be better spent spoiling other single friends, a bunch of flowers can go a long way, a phone call, a hand written card. Simple stuff really.

Of course sometimes the happily marrieds will tell us how lucky we are to be able to do exactly as we please, without considering a partner. We nod our heads sagely aware that we can binge on Netflix any time we like but every now and then it would be nice to have someone snuggling on the sofa next to us.

Why are we often so unsatisfied with our status? Making up new ways to celebrate because we are obviously unhappy. Justifying being kind to ourselves.

It’s not always easy being single and not always easy being part of a couple.

And what about the dreaded W word?

It will be nine years this week since I was widowed. Tell me when is the day to celebrate widowhood, or at least acknowledge it?

The rawness of it all has considerably mellowed over time but as I watch others lose their partners’ I am witness to that great chasm of grief that can so easily be all consuming and my heart weeps for them more than for me.

I’ve negotiated the labyrinth and although I can sometimes be sucked back in, I know there is a life beyond the label. I retrace my steps and bask in the sunlight enjoying the good times with as few regrets as possible. Life is too short to do otherwise.

A special day for widows is unnecessary – as is Singles’ Day in my opinion!

spending graphics in the article from the i Weekend yesterday

Ultimately it is a marketing dream, another commercial “made up” event to make us spend, spend, spend!

This year predictions are that Singles’ Day spending (£1.29bn) will be almost as high as spending on Black Friday (£1.49bn) – another spurious event!

Meanwhile Valentine’s Day, the day to celebrate coupledom in all its glory is completely overshadowed, spending only reaching a paltry £830m. Perhaps it just goes to show that when you are in a couple you actually have less of a disposable income!

However you decide to spend your day tomorrow - I'm going to shun the whole Singles's Day concept and instead spend some time quietly reflecting on far more important issues.

Pampering myself on my own terms also means picking a day and time that suits me - that really is the best way to live the single dream!

Lost and Loneliness

Lost and Loneliness is quite possibly a rejected Jane Austen title that never quite made the grade. It follows the same pattern as Pride and Prejudice and my favourite Sense and Sensibility, but doesn’t really grab you and the more I think about it doesn’t make grammatical sense either – it should be Loss and Loneliness or Lost in Loneliness. But neither of them quite fitted my mood.

I played around with the online thesaurus and came up with Adrift and Abandoned. A bit dramatic, even for me.

Last night I went to the theatre to see Austentatious – an improvised Austenesque play made up on the spot after title suggestions are shouted out from the audience. Getting the title right is of utmost importance.

Youngest son and I saw something similar at the Edinburgh Fringe based on Sherlock Holmes, so I had an idea what to expect and as a lover of all thing Austen – except the ending of Sanditon on TV recently – I decided I wanted to go.

The problem was I only found out about it the other week and it was almost too late to ask anyone to go with me.

But an independent woman of means is always in want of light entertainment and won’t let a lack of a companion stop her!

The day before the performance I received an email from the theatre with directions to car parking nearby. It looked a doddle, I fixed the map in my brain, as I tend to do, and set off into the night.

Everything looks so different when it’s dark and as I neared the town centre where the theatre was located, I realised this wasn’t going to be as straightforward as I imagined – it was ever thus!

I stopped a couple of times to consult Google Maps but still ended up in a car park the other end of town. Deciding at least the car was safe and secure I set off, once more consulting google maps – why does the arrow not point in the direction you are walking???

At least the predicted 800 metres ahead of me was not daunting, now I am much fitter, I had sensible flat shoes on even if I was only wearing a thin wrap – well one does like to dress up for a theatre visit.

The streets were silent and strange – had I thrown sense out of the window? Was it purely my pride that spurred me on? I confess I wavered and wobbled a bit but with some persuasion to my inner self I kept putting one foot in front of the other and finally the glow of the theatre was before me.

I had time to claim my ticket, use the facilities and get a drink before settling down in my seat ready for the show to begin.

After rejecting such suggestions as “Trouble and Strife at the Whitehouse” and “Lust and Lycanthropy” the title of the performance was decided, we are about to see the one off performance of “Formally Known As Brian”.

I am quite convinced this tale, about the status of having the right name, was the inspiration behind Oscar Wilde’s classic “The Importance of Being Ernest”.  It followed a similar plot. Our heroine Clarissa Ward declared she could not marry a man called Brian Peanut. Some name changing, misunderstanding and chaos ensued until a satisfying resolution was reached. Although the solitary duck in the pond was killed, the Peanuts lived happily ever after – a true Austen classic ending. (Take note producers of Sanditon – as if they’d be reading this! Hahaha)

The play was delightful and the walk back to the car, once I consulted google, was actually more straightforward.

As I wandered, not quite so lost I remained just a little bit lonely. I had no one to share my experiences with. The play was a one off the only other people who knew the minor plot of the dead duck were now scattered, no one else would find it quite as funny.

I honestly don’t mind doing anything on my own, walking, going to the cinema, even eating out alone. I don’t always like the lost feeling of walking somewhere new in the dark, but I’ve come to terms with those demons.

Driving home last night along the windy country lanes I remembered a previous journey made years ago. It was the first long journey I undertook a few weeks after losing Andrew, I had my two young sons with me and I was the sole responsible adult. It was dark and so very foggy it was actually scary. I recognise I’ve come a long way since then. I am almost a different person.

I have proved my resilience over and over again but there is still a small ache, a chip in my heart that leaves me not quite complete. Perhaps I never will be totally whole again.

Online dating doesn’t seem to be the answer… I might write more on that another day; I might give it another go next year – November is NOT the right time and I didn’t think things through properly when I started this quest for romance.

Maybe somewhere out there is a Mr Darcy or Edward Ferrers waiting patiently, or even impatiently. I’m not quite sure how I find him, if he will find me or if my life will ever be as Austenesque as I wish it to be.

Undeterred I will plod on, improvising mostly in a style all of my own. Trying not to get too lost and combating those brief moments of loneliness with a smile and a new adventure because an independent woman of means is always in want of some excitement in her life and won’t let a lack of a companion stop her!

The non-dating dilemma

Earlier this week I updated you on my #Stoma66 challenge progress so it’s only fair I update you on the other “project” I have on the go - the online dating.

You might think because I’ve gone all quiet perhaps I’m playing my cards close to my chest and enjoying a whirlwind romance away from prying eyes…. Hahaha

No such luck, sad to say the online “dating” hasn’t even produced one date. And this week’s potential matches are guys I’ve already looked at and rejected.

I’ve given up with “liking” anyone as it never seems to be reciprocated. Maybe I don’t really know the rules of this game.

I toyed with the idea of writing a message to a would-be poet, possibly even in verse to try and get a favourable response.

But in his profile, he said he imagined eyes meeting across the aisles of a supermarket and ending up frolicking midst the salad leaves.

Hmmmm – that’s not quite how I envisaged our beginning.

For me, we’d meet in a bookshop, somewhere between thrillers and romance. What first caught our attention was that we’d picked up books each other had already read. The meeting of eyes and minds an unexpected bonus.

Conversation would flow naturally as we discussed plot twists and much-loved characters, we’d recommend a book for each other and swap numbers arranging to meet in the near future, over coffee, maybe even dinner to discuss the stories further.

I’d dash home, devouring every word of the book he had chosen especially for me. Imagining him as the complex but sexy male lead character. I’d fall in love with every line.

Our once upon a time meeting would progress – hopefully concluding with an inevitable Jane Austen style happy ever after, a few minor ups and downs along the way but somehow even from the start we would know the trajectory our lives would take.

I thought online dating was the answer but maybe I just have to hang around in bookshops instead!

The thing is I thought actual dating might be fun, meeting new people, going out to new places, expanding my horizons with fresh experiences.

Turns out in the last few days I have filled up my diary with lunches and outings and I’m not sure if I can fit anything else into my social calendar.

At this precise moment in time of writing I’m content and happy with life, solo or not, of course this could change as quick as a click of my fingers.

Strangely this was my exactly mindset when Andrew left a note for me asking me on a date. Happy single with no time of inclination to invite a man into my life.

Perhaps the perfect man is right around the corner… I’ll bump into him, spill my orange juice, discover he actually OWNS a bookshop and have a surreal experience in his kitchen – hang on that’s the plot for Notting Hill.

But that all worked out in the end … and to quote some other favourite romantic films….

“… everything will be all right in the end. So if it is not all right, it is not yet the end.”

And how will it end?

“It’s a mystery!”

(Bonus points if you know where both quotes come from!)

Love is in the air...

I’m off to a wedding this weekend, a friend on facebook has just announced she is engaged and only last week my parents celebrated their fifty third wedding anniversary.

So, with hands on hips and stamping my feet, I want to know when’s it my turn for a little romance in my life?

Last week I was at a new church course looking at our journey’s – mines been an interesting one, up a few ladders, down far too many snakes and generally going in circles and ending up exactly where I started, at least geographically.

Everyone on the course was being really honest and most admitted their own “spiritual” journey with God perhaps wasn’t so spiritual, we all fall far short and generally struggle.

But more importantly for me was when we got into smaller groups and got more personal. I had a chance to talk about Andrew and remembered why I’d fallen in love with him in the first place.

It's all too easy, when being the positive "glass half full" girl that I usually am, to dismiss the past or at the very least remember all the bad bits. My new life needs to be more hopeful than the old, so let’s colour the past in muted shades of blue and grey.

Andrew suffered with depression and was often hard work to live with, sometimes I concentrate on those aspects of his character because it is then so much easier to live without him.

I no longer have to walk on egg shells, I can leave things in a mess without comment, I can dye my hair all colours of the rainbow and squirt perfume to my heart’s content!

But I miss that person to snuggle next to on the sofa (especially now youngest is back at uni. He’s the best TV companion, in a lot of ways even better company that his dad in that respect).

I miss someone special to hold hands with and share adventures, even the little ones walking around the garden. I miss having quirky “in” jokes and being made to feel like the most important person in the room.

It was always my plan, once I’d moved, to try online dating. Hmmmm – I did try it a few years back but had very little success, actually I was probably only on it for about a week then asked for my money back! Hahaha.

The cancer diagnosis and chemo put the breaks on things but now I am all clear I have a new lease of life. And a new attitude too.

Life really is short, I am only 51, reasonably attractive and honestly I think I’m a good catch, even with the scars and baggage! I am a survivor.

I’m cautiously excited at the prospect of meeting new people, I might actually go on a date this time and not run away and cancel my subscription.

I’ve paid up for 3 months – well there was this nice-looking man who seemed perfect and if I wanted to find out more, I needed to join properly and part with my cash.

I sent a “like” to show I was interested – he’s been online since but never responded. I “liked” someone else’s profile and so far no response from him either…. Oh well I’ve waited this long, I might as well hang around for the “right” one to come along! Its their loss!!!!

One of the things I hated about online dating last time was how judgemental you become of profile pictures; you can so easily dismiss someone because their nose is too big without really finding out what their personality is like.

This time I have a new plan.

I’ve remembered what made me fall in love with Andrew, he wasn’t the handsomest of men, his hair was slightly scruffy and his dress sense was actually quite shambolic but he had really kind eyes, a killer smile and wicked sense of humour.

So let’s start with those qualities and see where it takes me….

Love is in the air at the moment – let’s just hope its infectious and I catch a jolly good dose of it!

Dressed to Impress?

Now my chemo is over I can start making plans for my future.

A date that has been in the diary for a long time is my nephew's wedding in just over a months time. His fiance is gorgeous and they make a fabulous couple. I can't wait to celebrate their special day with them.

But what shall I wear? I haven't had time for dress shopping yet. I'm now trying to figure out when I can fit it in.  I have dresses in the wardrobe that would suit the occasion if October starts warm and sunny, but do I need an outfit for a cold snap or a soggy wet day?

I've not yet got to the having nightmares about it stage, after all I only the "giddy aunt" of the groom, I need something elegant yet understated to coordinate with whatever hair colour I decide upon!!!

As these thoughts swirled roiund my head I remembered what Andrew's aunt had worn to our own wedding, some crazy creation that appeared to have been dragged our from the back of the wardrobe.

A first line for a poem popped into my head as I climbed in the shower, always a good place for inspiration to strike.

But the words took an unexpected twist, inspired by a perculiar conversation yesterday and then the new caereer path a dear friend is now following.

So I hope you like my own crazy creation of words today and I hope they paint a colourful image.

At the church she rocked up,

                                in a musty old frock

That had obviously seen better days.

Baby blue, garish green,

                                should never be seen.

It attracted everyone's gaze,

With flowers and birds,

                             a pattern absurd,

A beady eye over one nipple.

Well she caused a commotion,

                                    a drop in the ocean,

While titters spread ripple by ripple

The celebrant started,

                                  prayers for the departed,

Trying not to join in with the laughter.

But a dress of such brightness,

                                          seams pulled in full tightness,

Is enough to shock now and hereafter!

The Whistler and the Bin Lady

A story partly inspired by conversations on Facebook about putting yout bin out in the early morning and some other thoughts going around my head....

   Charlie Pipe had always been a whistler. He whistled when he was happy. He whistled when he was sad.
   He whistled when he walked his dog, a grey Bedlington terrier called Terry, named after Terry Wogan.
   For many years every day had started with Terry on Radio 2, sometimes he wondered if he missed Terry more than his late wife Mona.
   Although she never lived up to her name, she was a jolly soul but the only music in his life now was his whistling.
   Once both Mona and Terry were gone from his life, he had taken to walking the dog early, whistling all the way.
   They used to stride over the hills beyond the town but these days they walked the streets at a slower pace as Charlie pondered what was going on behind the closed doors they passed.
   He didn't have to wonder much about number 43.
   Irene Bradshaw was a divorcee twice over. She had a poor taste in men, at least that was the local gossip.
   He waited at the corner while Terry did his business.
   “Good lad!” said Charlie with a wink.
   There was a rumour Mrs Bradshaw put her bin out in a most revealing lacy negligee and she had a fine set of pins on her, or so the story went!
   When he heard the rattle of the wheelie bin he started whistling Moon River as he turned the corner. She was only three doors down.
   “Can I help you with that?” he asked as she seemed to struggle with her task.    Caught unawares she pulled her pink spotty dressing gown closer to her ample breast.
   “Oh that’s Ok, there’s nowt in it really, being on my own and all.”
   She blushed a little. Then there was an awkward silence before she asked, “Do you want to drop your poo bag in, save you carrying it while you walk?”
   Charlie was taken aback, couldn’t help but stare, he’d never seen her so close up before. Her face was soft and delicately lined, her eyes a mysterious bluey grey, her nose Roman but neither too large of too small for the rest of her features. But her crowning glory was her hair, on the brassy side of blonde but caught in the morning sun it shone.
   Mona used to have auburn hair, beautiful wavy and natural. But when it went grey, she never coloured it, “just as nature intended,” she would say, “like Terry.” She would pat the dog whose coat had almost changed colour from dark to light over night the way most Bedlington terriers do.
   He hadn’t minded that so much but when he found grey hairs on the pillow, clumps in the shower and a strand in his shepherd’s pie, he found that hard, but never told her.
   The treatment was harsh and she spent her last days covering her head in a green knitted hat, not quite how nature had intended.
   He was roused from his thoughts as Irene lifted the bin lid with one hand and gently took the bag from him with the other.
   “Oh you are too kind, Terry always does his business just around the corner by the post box. But I always pick it up.” He added hastily.
   The action of taking the bag from his hand left the dressing gown gaping a little, she must have felt the cool breeze on her skin but never pulled it close.
   Charlie lifted his eyes back to her face and thye smiled at each other.
   He doffed an imaginary cap as he turned, “Come on Terry.”
   He had only reached the house next door and whistled a few notes when she called after him.
   “Hey what’s that song? The one you always whistle when you walk by.”
   So she'd heard him before then?
   “Moon River.”
   “Thought so, one of my favourites.” She waved and walked back to her front door.   She really did have a good set of pins on her.
   Charlie Pipe continued whistling with a smile and somehow the slightly melancholy tune took on a sweeter melody from that day on.  

You're Welcome!

Well it’s taken a long time but finally I have completed contracts and bought a new house. I picked up the keys today – yippppeee!

It’s going to take a little while longer to make my house my home, there is lots of cleaning to be done and then we have to move in all our stuff that has been in storage for the past four months. I can’t remember everything I’ve put away, it’s going to be a bit of a surprise unpacking boxes.

I should be over the moon, shouting the news from the rooftops and all those other clichés but I‘m still tired from chemo last week and once more the emotions of such a big upheaval has completely overwhelmed me. Earlier today I was even on the verge of tears. It’s a big step moving forward, leaving the past behind and starting something new.

My first new purchase that I have put down is a door mat, it’s stripy and soft and very long, to be honest it probably doesn’t fit how I wanted it to but It is a sign to say you are welcome, come in, wipe your feet and make yourself at home. There is a little heart in the corner, a sign of love.

I do hope it is a happy home, I’ve already had lots of messages on Facebook wishing me well.

And I’ve met my new neighbours, the youngest of the 3 children said unprompted and completely innocently.

“I’m glad you’ve moved in. The last people were grumpy!”

I get the feeling my new house will soon feel like home with such a resounding welcome to the neighbourhood!

New clothes

I follow various Christian organisations on Facebook and many are posting daily lent reflections. The Church of England has a produced a series of thoughts entitled Lent Pilgrim.

Today’s title is New Clothes and the reading comes from Colossians 3:9-15 focusing on the verse

“clothe yourself with compassion, kindness, humility, meekness and patience…”

I must admit I haven’t signed up to the accompanying daily emails so I can’t tell you what they have to say but just the small verse above was very pertinent today as I took a collection of 30 coats from my church to a local collection point for a charity who will take them across to Calais and distribute them amongst the refugees gathered there living in the streets and under tarpaulins.

The coats have been kept in the main body of the church and most people have responded with amazing generosity.

However there are always some negative comments, I’ve not heard any personally but one older member of the congregation told me today that someone had complained to her about the messy pile and her reply was…

            “Are you warm?”

            The complainer nodded.

            “Well these coats are for people who are not as fortunate.”

Or words to that effect – I am so pleased people have taken to the cause and given.

So often we don’t know how to respond to the great disasters of this world. And there are plenty of things that have happened just over the past week in the world that make us weep, from the cyclone in Africa to the tragedy in New Zealand and Red Nose Day highlighting a whole range of issues including the rise of food bank use and starving children in our own country!

How do we respond? How can we help? Especially when the need is so far away beyond our reach. And if we give to something so remote we often wonder if it really reaches those who need it most.

I know many people who are stretched, or at least their finances are and there is only so much you can give and keep giving out.

But lent can be a time to look around and see what you don’t need and give it away.

After all just how many coats can you wear on your back?

And by giving an item of clothing away you are clothing yourself with all those good virtues listed above

compassion, kindness, humility, meekness and patience!

(not quite sure if patience actually fits in this instance but the others certainly apply.)

The passage in Colossians finishes with these wise words…

            “And regardless of what else you put on, wear love. It’s your basic, all purpose garment. Never be without it.”