tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14463338309943248492024-01-26T16:44:02.746+13:00ConeysthorpeJanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07548279979459216319noreply@blogger.comBlogger416125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1446333830994324849.post-77042551944127575112023-09-10T16:27:00.004+12:002023-09-10T16:29:27.505+12:00Ruppin - aka Shy Boy or The Terrified Tabby<p><span style="caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); color: white; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Who will now beg for my last corner of toast?</span></p><div class="xdj266r x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs x126k92a" style="caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0px; white-space: pre-wrap; word-wrap: break-word;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: white;">Who will snore gently between us both at night?</span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: white;">Who will tap my leg to ask if he may jump on my knee?</span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: white;">Who will sense when my heart starts to race and purr slowly to slow it down?</span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: white;">Who will shadow me at the washing line and guard me from dive bombing swallows?</span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: white;">Who <span style="font-family: inherit;"><a style="cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit;" tabindex="-1"></a></span>will come for walks with me round the garden, always a few paces behind and stop like we are playing statues?</span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: white;">Who will turn up at tea time, ravenous for food, just as we have started to eat?</span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: white;">Who will fall asleep in front of my iMac screen when I'm trying to watch Youtube? </span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: white;">Who will sit on my keyboard and refuse to budge?</span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: white;">Who will play tag with me from the agapanthus?</span></div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; white-space: pre-wrap; word-wrap: break-word;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: white;">You were a sweet, gentle soul, needy, sometimes weird. </span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: white;">Wherever loved pets go when they die, I hope you are appreciated there, because you deserve everything and more.</span></div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; white-space: pre-wrap; word-wrap: break-word;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: white;">Know that my heart is broken now you are gone.</span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: white;">Ruppin was killed by a vehicle on our country road, sometime on Friday 8th September. We had been visiting friends and spotted him lying in the road just as we were about to turn into our driveway on our return. I suspect he'd been in pursuit of a rabbit and a car had hit him. He was a slight cat, so the driver probably thought he'd hit a rabbit and continued driving.</span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: white;">I jumped out of the car just in case he was still alive, but he was very still with his head thrown back. In the light of the headlights I could see he wasn't breathing. But when I picked him up he was still limp, but not warm. There wasn't a mark on him, just a small amount of blood coming out of one eye. I sobbed all the way down the driveway. </span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: white;">We put him on a cushion inside a basket on the verandah and I covered him with his favourite cardigan of mine. Mango, our large ginger boy was very distressed. In fact he was running close to him on the roadside when we found him. Both cats sniffed his lifeless body. Cumin was upset I could tell.</span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: white;">We buried him on Saturday morning inside a copse on our property, opposite the windows of our study. He is lying wrapped in a warm blanket shroud next to our old boy Otto. As I started to dig his grave, I disturbed a plump rabbit. So the boys will always have "company".</span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: white;">We are both devastated and in shock. In the last 12 months, he had become a bit of a house cat. We were used to him eating his breakfast after sleeping on our bed all night. Habitually he wouldn't re appear until tea time - whatever the weather, he was out in it. He was a loner. But then he started to stay at home after breakfast. He would sleep in my old chair or curl up inside the office curtains. He'd be there all day. So he was showing all of his 11 years. After I had radiation therapy, I was frequently sat in our lazy boy chair dozing. He sat with me all the time, and slept close to me on the bed at night.</span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: white;">The night after he died, I caught my husband standing by the side of our bed crying. He looked at me and pointed to his side of bed "he should be here, this is his place" It was a routine. I always go to bed first and read. Within seconds, Ruppin would jump on the bed and sit just below Simon's pillow and start washing himself. Then he would go to sleep. Every evening, Simon would mumble to him "you have to move now", and would assist him by lifting up the duvet and gently rolling him towards the centre of the bed. Ruppin loved it and never resisted. We would then both go to sleep with an elongated tabby between us like a slug of tobacco.</span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: white;">So now we are four. Two gingers and two old codgers, missing our wide eyed tabby.</span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: white;">Bless you, wherever you are. You will always be missed.</span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKFQSYFveTJWBctxYGO7sgR6PxiRjZP4gS9-kF2uLzrM9iMGUqvOZWP7QxpiYjWpRVblxv8fMxr469HXiSbOdceWKQxjVNo5seJ5oJ4euvW80ww7Axl8t_5PT4XvI0GYWjenjVNnNmkEDf1akabVCpEnmgaObTNGC5uSk7ybIkYmjC2TbozVBCd9Gv/s1600/IMG_6317.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKFQSYFveTJWBctxYGO7sgR6PxiRjZP4gS9-kF2uLzrM9iMGUqvOZWP7QxpiYjWpRVblxv8fMxr469HXiSbOdceWKQxjVNo5seJ5oJ4euvW80ww7Axl8t_5PT4XvI0GYWjenjVNnNmkEDf1akabVCpEnmgaObTNGC5uSk7ybIkYmjC2TbozVBCd9Gv/w400-h300/IMG_6317.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="color: #050505;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; color: #050505; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidfcqkko8ZnG6QGvJKCGv-HD6k1ZhnJkLyCxKmtPOg3f9zi6UaxxRabM8_Vdv1zbb82ZDDtegJJdHK_WgXY1ZnjBx5vIMwbfYQECGxb_Mt0bJSLU7AHTBw9PMhe8h2kjGxdaczqU3YP-HbVEaCb_wGTKvhJaOWB4PBq1iOcqMRJR6tcr6_nW1lC0hc/s2816/IMG_3802.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2112" data-original-width="2816" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidfcqkko8ZnG6QGvJKCGv-HD6k1ZhnJkLyCxKmtPOg3f9zi6UaxxRabM8_Vdv1zbb82ZDDtegJJdHK_WgXY1ZnjBx5vIMwbfYQECGxb_Mt0bJSLU7AHTBw9PMhe8h2kjGxdaczqU3YP-HbVEaCb_wGTKvhJaOWB4PBq1iOcqMRJR6tcr6_nW1lC0hc/w400-h300/IMG_3802.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="color: #050505;"><br /></span></div></div>Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07548279979459216319noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1446333830994324849.post-29528247456692261772023-08-17T14:49:00.005+12:002023-08-17T14:51:58.155+12:00Post Radiation Therapy<p>I am two months "the other side" of the radiation therapy for my brain tumour, and thankfully am feeling a lot more normal than I did immediately after the treatment. I was put on a course of very strong steroids which made me hyper awake and permanently tired simultaneously. The only positive, aside from them reducing the swelling on my brain, was that for the first time in many years I didn't have pains in my knees. Sadly that has worn off and I'm back to my creaky self again.This was us a few days before we headed north to the hospital in Auckland.</p><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjzGnZQ6Ce4kzRFKd1rqzw203mIdq4EtkjTtfcBF1Q80AhPHkPKItlH5wrF1mbmLOzo8dRNkzN742zlzXD6uyKAgS7KvkJMMIU_NPhWZDuecFfyjCL2B0pqqWzND2M7bUT8nyhz9VLy8tsposgRax9JSPTTc3kxdAew3Dd70EdD4g4CG_pdJ9cp64LO" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="590" data-original-width="526" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjzGnZQ6Ce4kzRFKd1rqzw203mIdq4EtkjTtfcBF1Q80AhPHkPKItlH5wrF1mbmLOzo8dRNkzN742zlzXD6uyKAgS7KvkJMMIU_NPhWZDuecFfyjCL2B0pqqWzND2M7bUT8nyhz9VLy8tsposgRax9JSPTTc3kxdAew3Dd70EdD4g4CG_pdJ9cp64LO=w329-h400" width="329" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEghEDIpuGs_uiPzxUbpviiun5A5hnifeAGJoe5bSpf4H2n8FsNTQz_w2q9c1Yt_4oPZ5KeaYeoiFDWFuu1Tv0-Jovg8UlJx_K_TW_av064eIcdopn7a1NrKdoylPocZjQZRmo9LAqNUORQCRTPQRHYBOBcTT_ymsqeY0TGWD8ie39E5rb2snNnf6ZDI" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEghEDIpuGs_uiPzxUbpviiun5A5hnifeAGJoe5bSpf4H2n8FsNTQz_w2q9c1Yt_4oPZ5KeaYeoiFDWFuu1Tv0-Jovg8UlJx_K_TW_av064eIcdopn7a1NrKdoylPocZjQZRmo9LAqNUORQCRTPQRHYBOBcTT_ymsqeY0TGWD8ie39E5rb2snNnf6ZDI=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Next week I have a follow up appointment in Wellington, as my care has been transferred to a radiologist who is a former colleague of the radiologist I was treated by in Auckland.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I have had little energy to do anything since early June, and unfortunately caught a terrible cough and chest infection 3 weeks ago which I have just recovered from, so not much to report in terms of activities. So here are a few photos from my very small life down a country road in rural NZ.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiVBC1dK3cnhOYxRO2jYv8u7lfA_5Aw6m9qGZPm4qj_ywUra4NJ7281F1pS2_t-V1rkkI7Ys-1bxkPrJx11O9ex8p4LdK8daLLCosuvtCfy0WXg8scOG5V70TsvPEoT1QOiDq84sDdIqQUPdCyPN68vIwFxTqD-frZ_rXzJTW1Rn_ZZvfg1x1vBefoM" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiVBC1dK3cnhOYxRO2jYv8u7lfA_5Aw6m9qGZPm4qj_ywUra4NJ7281F1pS2_t-V1rkkI7Ys-1bxkPrJx11O9ex8p4LdK8daLLCosuvtCfy0WXg8scOG5V70TsvPEoT1QOiDq84sDdIqQUPdCyPN68vIwFxTqD-frZ_rXzJTW1Rn_ZZvfg1x1vBefoM=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">One of our paddock tenants defrosting early morning</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg9alIjeGC1E_FwxaZwlz-MTBKaQaYqB0hALjQa4lxlYEtw4R2mT-SpvCZAGC_mtTsED1k3jf6qH3PuBPFUVJ-VKRfknMvxQclvpjS0uupoRQs3zboZYwk2X7rC0IRz8t8w3OTeAMIWEziThtJXvIQK1D4FNjYN6mHvxFndi6C2_IYc2vgCtvKT-MsC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg9alIjeGC1E_FwxaZwlz-MTBKaQaYqB0hALjQa4lxlYEtw4R2mT-SpvCZAGC_mtTsED1k3jf6qH3PuBPFUVJ-VKRfknMvxQclvpjS0uupoRQs3zboZYwk2X7rC0IRz8t8w3OTeAMIWEziThtJXvIQK1D4FNjYN6mHvxFndi6C2_IYc2vgCtvKT-MsC=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></div><br />The Daily Leaf being supplied at 3.30pm each afternoon by senior ginger.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgwCDyby3TeJoXCDyiXeoUO5ovrmbBHWTr3_6Adrmtpsksc5Q2mZSm3Riw9u6Y3FkE_gUR5dccshXXaZ8G1mbM1Ecuv9PidrgO6Ybq75klqkSNswO4IB8wkw9SiCsa0_dpEEuDbx5RiZuwcoLkE7Z45ACkvIpbtDgXLa6GgpRRsuojRWLNIxyTGECIq" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgwCDyby3TeJoXCDyiXeoUO5ovrmbBHWTr3_6Adrmtpsksc5Q2mZSm3Riw9u6Y3FkE_gUR5dccshXXaZ8G1mbM1Ecuv9PidrgO6Ybq75klqkSNswO4IB8wkw9SiCsa0_dpEEuDbx5RiZuwcoLkE7Z45ACkvIpbtDgXLa6GgpRRsuojRWLNIxyTGECIq=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></div><br />The morning serenade by the thrush.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhI0T7XyMZEh-z7500V4shA153blu5Sl5QBaxQ1x_yQnxp-cGDQjOF43d2_RBb_4AClspsAQlwTH90hgh0XpJis8u46DhSxDxzMsTncyh-SBASxKLD9lspiqH1GnFOSLn6ouRW8pGFcUA-AL8JD_ukTazzOeeLRXuCzIlONytNK77gW1NXn8TJPo-_y" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhI0T7XyMZEh-z7500V4shA153blu5Sl5QBaxQ1x_yQnxp-cGDQjOF43d2_RBb_4AClspsAQlwTH90hgh0XpJis8u46DhSxDxzMsTncyh-SBASxKLD9lspiqH1GnFOSLn6ouRW8pGFcUA-AL8JD_ukTazzOeeLRXuCzIlONytNK77gW1NXn8TJPo-_y=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></div><br />Junior Ginger watching various garden activities on the deck outside the kitchen.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiDLvRRhejBvHJasoODZuc2YcGEInLaYmT1-XUudhku79MDNXORVUJBzr6gm5QbpGrXiPuXuCxD4Mfp-4adxW6egamreKBGJLJ_ff-ZLmKtajIkHTv_GxmTc6vwXxK7CT_s7zXyBjpIxn0T7VleZcSjZ7lnzx54VP86fnqPr0rPUv_3EL2aZvH3e8Sg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1786" data-original-width="3502" height="204" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiDLvRRhejBvHJasoODZuc2YcGEInLaYmT1-XUudhku79MDNXORVUJBzr6gm5QbpGrXiPuXuCxD4Mfp-4adxW6egamreKBGJLJ_ff-ZLmKtajIkHTv_GxmTc6vwXxK7CT_s7zXyBjpIxn0T7VleZcSjZ7lnzx54VP86fnqPr0rPUv_3EL2aZvH3e8Sg=w400-h204" width="400" /></a></div><br />Fernando one of our pheasants eating breakfast on the driveway.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhsnA3bmpBjKM-R5SqUY69jXooe7Ao3cWOe3X1CUb8ipymxnCMG25f9yEKJZei-kvMQ3l2W93hIfKouE-EIWt_6X9jT279ASVbHIRNhx5HhaIrlaoIiSnB5jvYdR2378_jWVvlowyVFn-ti5M-qi1ExWO2BbgtEczoEj2I9Ozm5I9TX3RYtMlxM6w9u" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="2736" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhsnA3bmpBjKM-R5SqUY69jXooe7Ao3cWOe3X1CUb8ipymxnCMG25f9yEKJZei-kvMQ3l2W93hIfKouE-EIWt_6X9jT279ASVbHIRNhx5HhaIrlaoIiSnB5jvYdR2378_jWVvlowyVFn-ti5M-qi1ExWO2BbgtEczoEj2I9Ozm5I9TX3RYtMlxM6w9u=w480-h640" width="480" /></a></div><br />Accidentally leaving the light on in the cherry tree!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhPFMvFmsJuSXH8NAgVSFPOTwGZmyB2KcQk-OD8rZSJuWDRAucqByjJPIh4Y31wXpAiso_VusskTMOIbf88l5oZ3uNsgp8H-thKrEq4PWBJaPp9P6V51numImjlKXwISQ3odNddumYdw3dsUgP5slsuMyaWZeca8AwU183wK_iBpdmQ9afQxk8YlFVx" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhPFMvFmsJuSXH8NAgVSFPOTwGZmyB2KcQk-OD8rZSJuWDRAucqByjJPIh4Y31wXpAiso_VusskTMOIbf88l5oZ3uNsgp8H-thKrEq4PWBJaPp9P6V51numImjlKXwISQ3odNddumYdw3dsUgP5slsuMyaWZeca8AwU183wK_iBpdmQ9afQxk8YlFVx=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></div><br />Kereru season.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj_YGedklR2_ERksOVysVjkUlq9Zg-nQCj5vDMczDwP4LVmbLMmMFj6IHUqMdkXiKRexMXP6kO4pgp9EzB8e8sK51-JBDIkqKNMtrk8yuUfIs2KRQhpglFAEZnb3Ju9L5S4xdXloReZeQAD4pFh3mvI_maM9TWPucOD_DH0PUoH30c9h4qZ1H-4kUKc" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj_YGedklR2_ERksOVysVjkUlq9Zg-nQCj5vDMczDwP4LVmbLMmMFj6IHUqMdkXiKRexMXP6kO4pgp9EzB8e8sK51-JBDIkqKNMtrk8yuUfIs2KRQhpglFAEZnb3Ju9L5S4xdXloReZeQAD4pFh3mvI_maM9TWPucOD_DH0PUoH30c9h4qZ1H-4kUKc=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></div><br />Rosella Squadron</div><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><p></p>Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07548279979459216319noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1446333830994324849.post-5290726649941571272023-05-31T12:59:00.001+12:002023-11-13T21:12:10.369+13:00Health Update 2<p>The year has vanished. Tomorrow it will be June. In mid June I am going to Auckland for 5 days of radiotherapy to try and stop a brain tumour from growing any bigger. I was diagnosed 2 years ago, but have been on a "watch and wait" regime. The MRI I had in March suggested I needed intervention. Nothing more to report at this stage, but here are a few more photos from the last 3 months to show that life has gone on quietly.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiXda6wACYdBAzO25gDKCPjAQ5bCq_Tha8Xy1OJU22-Eo9qIbpcyokdVwxCjUfD0YpOKKhYj93M59Q0HHuId5alnx424UoIq4Aacv4tONNgp8zdMJYIiAaH0rAyh2W6pnEynfl0dz0wPJ8DqA001A5R7lzJU_u0uzUuwSqItmiK4e6hlA7aGt4uEg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2070" data-original-width="3549" height="234" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiXda6wACYdBAzO25gDKCPjAQ5bCq_Tha8Xy1OJU22-Eo9qIbpcyokdVwxCjUfD0YpOKKhYj93M59Q0HHuId5alnx424UoIq4Aacv4tONNgp8zdMJYIiAaH0rAyh2W6pnEynfl0dz0wPJ8DqA001A5R7lzJU_u0uzUuwSqItmiK4e6hlA7aGt4uEg=w400-h234" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">A visit to friends on the S. Island</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEis5F56jRuUOu7C_SGQhvJWIQZwWkRqhka3oBBZhg54ViRiWqEuYIoC3x0H90lzFS-ZsYOd6fiF4QpMJDAYpGQ6AJ03BIS4yHbClMnORfuqpx7Dtl0VGnpdgp416VvnzmLcDku4JBFYSrKNp3IhQ7eBBosgasGSd1O8VsgkxXBfSfIJEwFSG16mUw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="2736" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEis5F56jRuUOu7C_SGQhvJWIQZwWkRqhka3oBBZhg54ViRiWqEuYIoC3x0H90lzFS-ZsYOd6fiF4QpMJDAYpGQ6AJ03BIS4yHbClMnORfuqpx7Dtl0VGnpdgp416VvnzmLcDku4JBFYSrKNp3IhQ7eBBosgasGSd1O8VsgkxXBfSfIJEwFSG16mUw=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>The table ready for Passover</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiuvwgXrtExQzcTYDcMTtZJaYxG5U_v0aBu90SVlXUJpoZsXO3i242bv9MBDOCAvnyPBwF_cl7IhyWAUWZDeTz-pok-NA5LoCSHphoL5LhAS45oO92rgCr0bwVtXfR9nyamn5L5c0obxgyOjfvuKWqoCpG5-ns2u6DlV0QY_UYdzJScjW7VSvaX_w" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiuvwgXrtExQzcTYDcMTtZJaYxG5U_v0aBu90SVlXUJpoZsXO3i242bv9MBDOCAvnyPBwF_cl7IhyWAUWZDeTz-pok-NA5LoCSHphoL5LhAS45oO92rgCr0bwVtXfR9nyamn5L5c0obxgyOjfvuKWqoCpG5-ns2u6DlV0QY_UYdzJScjW7VSvaX_w=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><br />Enjoying watching our wild rabbit family</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhpQjYc8Gv3z2_Du3-7fb14GAbR3TUrC0uGMNGYn8yrQyRIsI_oKUi0KbdQcx9vFfHHRGpfRG4qCKWWI_rdhtHqoBQaF_GVPQJPhPsiAzn9JxoTI8xsm-ag4etDIsi8aT2c1dmW__t88-TRUyYUuypChxGDzS85lTJgogI2cD7cQX21Sg929So92A" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhpQjYc8Gv3z2_Du3-7fb14GAbR3TUrC0uGMNGYn8yrQyRIsI_oKUi0KbdQcx9vFfHHRGpfRG4qCKWWI_rdhtHqoBQaF_GVPQJPhPsiAzn9JxoTI8xsm-ag4etDIsi8aT2c1dmW__t88-TRUyYUuypChxGDzS85lTJgogI2cD7cQX21Sg929So92A=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjOGUZgVvTc6xrp7lNgRB20MEuGrQ2I2mY7cYxwX_8ioxFZqhPaU6mCWIxQirydEc5nFLQ-EGX4h9AyHSHquKPNsbIt62KZICXM-AVhZIvd_AO69Z4aFZNOs3iA9VqLrAHEJ0yK5qKVtGnKmF6Ex_aIaMURf_xta0Q0BjS5ACVH-tP99EQQZwgI4Q" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjOGUZgVvTc6xrp7lNgRB20MEuGrQ2I2mY7cYxwX_8ioxFZqhPaU6mCWIxQirydEc5nFLQ-EGX4h9AyHSHquKPNsbIt62KZICXM-AVhZIvd_AO69Z4aFZNOs3iA9VqLrAHEJ0yK5qKVtGnKmF6Ex_aIaMURf_xta0Q0BjS5ACVH-tP99EQQZwgI4Q=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><br />Visiting the National Army Museum<br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh3P6i0nVCV27r41YiLqBTDpinmWr4tI3IVTHSyYmsDZE5dWWiyxFjMGhBSBk5PKdhlQfZpG35Y0aseB5c4vtvtlcrRU1ixdwqJyQgf5_zhy5bJfikHFcksNnhWaT-0w2xxLx_IRuQT0jNXYTKeksui3TmPKbS5Ze47IbMhIkYoqIoDbbgWn-55Vg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="2736" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh3P6i0nVCV27r41YiLqBTDpinmWr4tI3IVTHSyYmsDZE5dWWiyxFjMGhBSBk5PKdhlQfZpG35Y0aseB5c4vtvtlcrRU1ixdwqJyQgf5_zhy5bJfikHFcksNnhWaT-0w2xxLx_IRuQT0jNXYTKeksui3TmPKbS5Ze47IbMhIkYoqIoDbbgWn-55Vg=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></div><br />Enjoying my new dungarees.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /><p></p>Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07548279979459216319noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1446333830994324849.post-40999044151442487332023-04-08T14:53:00.002+12:002023-11-13T21:13:56.817+13:00Collecting<p>When I was a small girl, we had a very glamorous neighbour. Her name was Phyllis, and I used to love to visit her bungalow. The reason was mostly because she would allow me to look at all her jewellery and sort out her earrings into pairs. I would have been about 5 years old.</p><p>She seemed very old to me at the time, although looking back through adult eyes, I'd say she was about 40. Her living situation was odd, as she lived with her husband and her ex husband. Of course that didn't mean anything to me then, but it makes me raise my eyebrows now. But it was the swinging 60s and Phyllis was attractive. She wore short skirts, chain smoked and rolled her heavily made up eyes, batting the mascara laden lashes on a regular basis.</p><p>Her legacy was giving me a passion for sparkly things. I loved rooting through mum's jewellery box too, but it wasn't as large or as exciting as Phyllis'. Mum was modest in all things sartorial, and she certainly didn't have the funds to splash out on the latest Trifari brooch or earrings.</p><p>Today, I was putting away recently acquired brooches (one from a local market, the other from a charity shop), and I remembered Phyllis. She would have approved of many of the items in the box, especially the blingtastic ones. But the ones which are the most meaningful to me are those which belonged to mum, or that I bought on holidays or were given to me by friends. Condita memorias</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhmDA5zz9QQKcnd7ZOQDh23jJ6AJ9mGZuMghVijxCH_ccJ0CPkbWtdqReKNLdeMNOvAs8M5B9pKt3fN-ME1Io8teNtE73Rxj1epuVD8o8LuoiZnvOOBWuIjRIwCzZSj3eMJn5Sgz0e9-vQHgE_lG5_SA-ADoBpSp-cgIOeyQ0Qr9p5m3exsyUgb7Q" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhmDA5zz9QQKcnd7ZOQDh23jJ6AJ9mGZuMghVijxCH_ccJ0CPkbWtdqReKNLdeMNOvAs8M5B9pKt3fN-ME1Io8teNtE73Rxj1epuVD8o8LuoiZnvOOBWuIjRIwCzZSj3eMJn5Sgz0e9-vQHgE_lG5_SA-ADoBpSp-cgIOeyQ0Qr9p5m3exsyUgb7Q=w640-h480" width="640" /></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh2KOsslssAM8XQrZIWcfyrZ408ufBwh-mhFJSM-_aE2RVok-B3cg7V--qUf4AfpQtooTm3GYHAbZvxDee-zE-qd8l1Xd7ca-N1MyfGHOY8E34GbtmEc2GTW_v90Zpl9GUaRbIa49mKFG7nVb1aaotmp-eiLXc3mJvX1GKsT1Zw2dIBHCKGZ7C2Ww" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh2KOsslssAM8XQrZIWcfyrZ408ufBwh-mhFJSM-_aE2RVok-B3cg7V--qUf4AfpQtooTm3GYHAbZvxDee-zE-qd8l1Xd7ca-N1MyfGHOY8E34GbtmEc2GTW_v90Zpl9GUaRbIa49mKFG7nVb1aaotmp-eiLXc3mJvX1GKsT1Zw2dIBHCKGZ7C2Ww=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh2R3a88-ChX6LI5OhLqSuQc7if9IxIjWv9pLGkLhPBU_Oueh635ro99KXeEBrGA54tuMXzQAW8PdZ7tRgwCUk8jf7SMjeU7RwCVR7WG3tTMvFKhlL2lxO4i3t-z1sYzK1HdyppNdgSxyGEqQ-BAjpb6OfQgfIY3yFQQt5bLREAdsBBJIbBeEPw2g" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh2R3a88-ChX6LI5OhLqSuQc7if9IxIjWv9pLGkLhPBU_Oueh635ro99KXeEBrGA54tuMXzQAW8PdZ7tRgwCUk8jf7SMjeU7RwCVR7WG3tTMvFKhlL2lxO4i3t-z1sYzK1HdyppNdgSxyGEqQ-BAjpb6OfQgfIY3yFQQt5bLREAdsBBJIbBeEPw2g=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></div></div><p></p>Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07548279979459216319noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1446333830994324849.post-65490955224536175552023-02-13T16:34:00.000+13:002023-02-13T16:34:39.750+13:00Health update<p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGiXOVboWqntZHUuIrGckfNildWsDgkT3hiSwwC_g2KL5RI6V4qFYLJJJUWIlN2iSNq4Ekohwp91Cdr2u8WDvm-u6sqW5V_C_iS_e09LW_WgYOJtNKArR4D_68VuT6FU05jgF-QyfyXaV9x3rou6Yfh4tArrpg0u19_AFhJeu_7tsoAAj8qUwNFA/s640/IMG_1591.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGiXOVboWqntZHUuIrGckfNildWsDgkT3hiSwwC_g2KL5RI6V4qFYLJJJUWIlN2iSNq4Ekohwp91Cdr2u8WDvm-u6sqW5V_C_iS_e09LW_WgYOJtNKArR4D_68VuT6FU05jgF-QyfyXaV9x3rou6Yfh4tArrpg0u19_AFhJeu_7tsoAAj8qUwNFA/s320/IMG_1591.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIi-ktDnryNgfo2uk-8GNmuKVUeQCYQJsnHuRM7mTasm-kas0uJ4wjQDJcKks-LUsaR1SQtw5-II5sEIf6fLlSX77GrfoAqeyefHZ1S2pOEeSOTyAeirKvuq_BnODMB50LUhcDOBjFxtNzJ8ZgCgF_IfHZMuakSn7plHPjWhcSOgbKnm6XnP-ozQ/s3648/Kereru%20capers%202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIi-ktDnryNgfo2uk-8GNmuKVUeQCYQJsnHuRM7mTasm-kas0uJ4wjQDJcKks-LUsaR1SQtw5-II5sEIf6fLlSX77GrfoAqeyefHZ1S2pOEeSOTyAeirKvuq_BnODMB50LUhcDOBjFxtNzJ8ZgCgF_IfHZMuakSn7plHPjWhcSOgbKnm6XnP-ozQ/s320/Kereru%20capers%202.jpg" width="320" /></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsS19GFoHZAlyyWksV77-73fkOO31OC9uRWsYBs4WalOsOAGMk5cCm6Pxpn5u8aJefqG1nqwI6JRek9KPLLEWrOhkk9EPz3Nlj7eogAgqX1pXbzBIIWm896U-w9lzfzanD77T2mzR86S4kHTMdyy6AdRTXJ8coDoW7kp-Fo-PTAsbmWECIGGyQAA/s3648/IMG_0962.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsS19GFoHZAlyyWksV77-73fkOO31OC9uRWsYBs4WalOsOAGMk5cCm6Pxpn5u8aJefqG1nqwI6JRek9KPLLEWrOhkk9EPz3Nlj7eogAgqX1pXbzBIIWm896U-w9lzfzanD77T2mzR86S4kHTMdyy6AdRTXJ8coDoW7kp-Fo-PTAsbmWECIGGyQAA/s320/IMG_0962.jpg" width="320" /></a></div></div><br /><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />Since my post in December, there have been other health issues emerging, so I think I did the right thing by stepping back from being employed. It has taken the stress out of endless appointments and rushing up and down to the capital for procedures.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">I am still waiting to see how the year develops. I am currently awaiting the results of a biopsy, which will determine the way forward. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Thank you for dropping in to the blog occasionally. I hope to add a few recent photos to keep things fresh this year.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2DR5-ZN2RQ5VzM3gaZ52Wutes5doM5xjysCyF4U4p5Ya6Elw2HsOomI1w1Duw1uMULWmVLMO4ELUv43pNP2KG077fZc6wxas-2tlijCW2WS6Tn98yR-4ejoO-4KQ-XuquT7FYrqk8aqli16I797_K92vY0aN15rfBl_CKupRlE38KIFmtRF92vQ/s3648/IMG_0992.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2DR5-ZN2RQ5VzM3gaZ52Wutes5doM5xjysCyF4U4p5Ya6Elw2HsOomI1w1Duw1uMULWmVLMO4ELUv43pNP2KG077fZc6wxas-2tlijCW2WS6Tn98yR-4ejoO-4KQ-XuquT7FYrqk8aqli16I797_K92vY0aN15rfBl_CKupRlE38KIFmtRF92vQ/s320/IMG_0992.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><p></p>Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07548279979459216319noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1446333830994324849.post-92007269727787216312023-02-13T16:25:00.003+13:002023-03-23T17:11:59.246+13:00Holy Water<p><span style="color: white; font-family: arial;"> <span style="caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I'm having a "holy moment". </span></span></p><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; white-space: pre-wrap; word-wrap: break-word;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: white;">We didn't manage to have our water filters changed last year, (our water comes from our roof and goes through a series of filters). The new filters are 12 months overdue and are just being changed now. It was entirely our oversight - the company did send us a reminder, but last year was a bit of a pickle for me, so I overlooked it. </span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: white;">Mr Filter said "You must be proud. Most people have to change these after 6 months, they don't even make it to one <span style="font-family: inherit;"><a style="cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit;" tabindex="-1"></a></span>year. Yours have lasted two." It reminded me of the children of Israel's shoes in the desert, and how they didn't wear out. </span></div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; white-space: pre-wrap; word-wrap: break-word;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: white;">I believe the Almighty has looked after our water supply in our days of stress, and I am very, very grateful.</span></div></div>Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07548279979459216319noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1446333830994324849.post-63003686760842267602022-12-17T12:44:00.004+13:002023-02-13T16:26:11.994+13:00Premature retirement<p><span style="font-family: arial;">This is mostly a "holding pattern" type post. Yesterday I retired. I am 61 years old next week, so it was premature, and risky in this current financial climate.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">However, last week I underwent a heart procedure (thank God it went well) and I am living with the unknowns of brain tumour. So, I made the decision to step back and let my body and brain have a break. I don't know what the future holds and honestly, that makes me grip bits of furniture a bit too tightly when I think about it. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">I am a great believer in making space for opportunities. My "space" comes with fish hooks, as I have some physical limitations, but that isn't going to stop me waiting to see what opportunities present themselves.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">A case of watch this space. Meanwhile, I think I might take to baking a bit more.</span></p><p><br /></p>Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07548279979459216319noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1446333830994324849.post-30071366247563461902022-08-24T18:52:00.000+12:002022-08-24T18:52:45.102+12:00My first kitchen<p>We are half way through having our kitchen painted, by a professional. I learned early in our marriage that DIY was not my husband's strong point, and that because we both had quite strong views on how things should be done, it would be better to leave it to professionals than to be shouting at each other for days.</p><p>Thankfully, we are in agreement about colours and styles, which is interesting given there is a 12 year age difference.</p><p>Our kitchen has a very sunny aspect - it's a bit like being in a greenhouse in the summer. This has governed our colour choice for the walls, which needed to absorb light as much as possible. A dark dove grey has been chosen which will be a lovely contrast to the white of all the woodwork.</p><p>So different to my first kitchen. In 1988 I bought a Victorian terrace house and the priority when I moved in was to paint the kitchen. Actually it was to strip the wood first, as it had been marinaded in curry smells and a thin layer of ghee for many years. My dad and I took to it with a blow lamp - no sandpaper would shift the coating. It took ages and the kitchen was only 4' x 8'.</p><p>I had set my heart on the colours of the Italian flag for the kitchen: white paintwork with green accents for the doors and red accessories. It was the tomato coloured iron trivet that dictated the palate - and hey, it was the '80s. When it came to choosing the green, I had a temporary, wine induced "wobble" and went for a green more akin to Granny Smiths apples. It turned out to be an inspired choice, as anyone who ventured into the kitchen (sideways, comme un crabe) laughed at the shade. Laughter from a the kitchen is always a good sign.</p><p>Today it wasn't the colours that slammed me in reverse back to the 1980's, it was the smell. As soon as the paint was dry in my little Victorian house, I invited a friend for dinner. I had fallen deeply in love and I couldn't believe he would want to spend time with me eating my food. I served an exotic 3 cheese flan, and he gave me a bouquet of flowers which thankfully covered up the smell of the paint.</p><p>It was a relationship that didn't last sadly. It was years before I fell out of love, but he cheated on me and that smell of the paint yesterday made me cry; 34 years vanished and I was stood in the kitchen and felt abandonment all over again. </p><p>What a difference 24 hours makes. Sat in the study with my faithful and wonderful husband of 18 years we eat pasta (the kitchen is still smelly) and that lost love in the apple green kitchen is but a memory, put to rest for good.</p><p><br /></p>Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07548279979459216319noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1446333830994324849.post-47179644729826972892022-03-21T20:30:00.001+13:002022-03-21T20:30:26.302+13:00Parlez vous Francais?<p>I follow a trader on a local online auction site who sells vintage books (now there's a surprise). This morning I was sent a link to a book which immediately threw my senses back almost half a century. It was a small book to teach French to young people. </p><p>I remember clearly my first week at secondary school seeing on my timetable the word "French" followed by "Language labs." I was beside myself with excitement that first week, putting on headphones and learning how to say "Breakfast is ready." Useful stuff! I still recall the smells and sounds of thirty eleven year olds rewinding the practice tapes and repeating over and over "Je m'appelle....." We were all given a French name; mine was Claudette. I was disappointed, I so wanted to be called Marie-Noelle or Romilly or something a bit more romantic. Claudette sounded to me like she would be a scullery maid with bad knees.</p><p>For three years I continued to learn French three periods a week and still recall that excitement of donning huge plastic headphones and imitating the accent of our French assistant Madamoiselle Rumney.</p><p>I discovered quickly that language learning wasn't my strong point, and unlike many of my school friends I didn't go to France on holiday each summer so had no opportunity to practice. I found grammar perplexing and difficult. I swopped to learning Spanish (supposedly easier). I learned that for 5 years - or at least I tried to. Then there was the language assistant challenge in my final 2 years of Spanish - we didn't have one. There were only two of us left studying it by that point and the other girl was very talented. She danced flamenco in Spanish. I dragged my language skills behind me like a satchel with a broken strap. The lack of a language assistant meant that every Wednesday after school we caught a bus to the next city to meet up with a Spanish assistant from another school. We sat in the bus station cafe and spoke to her in Spanish, or at least my friend did. I just coughed - Maria chain smoked Gitanes cigarettes.</p><p>Not willing to admit my inadequacy at linguistics I went on to have embarrassing and inaccurate conversations in Afrikaans (lived in S. Africa), German (lived in Austria), and Arabic (lived in the Middle East). </p><p>But here's the thing - I understood conversations in every country I have ever lived in. I pick up vocabulary quickly and can usually get the general drift of a conversation. I even did it this in Hebrew after a few weeks. But the moment I open my mouth, my memory cells paralyse, my teeth glue together and grammar tumbles like a badly constructed scaffold outside a dodgy building. I'm wondering if there isn't a name for this kind of handicap? But this morning when I opened my email, I felt like that 11 year old again and wanted to repeat to myself "Le petit dejeuner et pret."</p><p><br /></p>Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07548279979459216319noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1446333830994324849.post-39231595088328743122021-09-25T07:49:00.004+12:002021-09-25T07:49:51.325+12:00Blackbird and thyme.<p><br /> Our songster decided to have a rest next to the thyme.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsJ3-DEsttK_VSblnboS2LHM8KoBtk4jUaEFHcOr0pVYFmvpiEqi7TKaQptRQKAeTxyQSDYK7ATwrPLJ4C-LyfZ23JYaGVTd1eQhlNUbe2zRE1aQZ5C4OVvKJpbU9cywWASChXH0IuCg/s3648/IMG_8951.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="2736" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsJ3-DEsttK_VSblnboS2LHM8KoBtk4jUaEFHcOr0pVYFmvpiEqi7TKaQptRQKAeTxyQSDYK7ATwrPLJ4C-LyfZ23JYaGVTd1eQhlNUbe2zRE1aQZ5C4OVvKJpbU9cywWASChXH0IuCg/w480-h640/IMG_8951.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><p></p>Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07548279979459216319noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1446333830994324849.post-50788024464055887182021-07-20T13:06:00.003+12:002021-07-20T13:06:41.313+12:00Driving over lemons<p>Coming from wet and cold Yorkshire, I would never have imagined that I would have a surfeit of lemons in the middle of winter. I read Carol Drinkwater's book entitled "Driving over lemons" many years ago, and envied her the challenge of using so much citrus fruit from her trees.</p><p>Our tree went berserk this year, despite being planted in the wrong place. It's the excess rain - they love being rained on. So here I am, wondering what to do with them all. They are ugly, in a way that only their mother could love, but delicious and juicy.</p><p>There are only so many lemon drizzle cakes you can make.........or perhaps not. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLqz6VZbiMtU7qQCaOICKdKrE9n6KbCkB5SJxSsc8IKuCAE-6CY_0U6D7dnfyH8ix0ru_Au4XmQEzh97rLavNi8BL7PHdMjE9Y3lZTbcrzGS9j5ZwIE-b9vm-UZOra1qexX8heT9WzyQ//" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="2736" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLqz6VZbiMtU7qQCaOICKdKrE9n6KbCkB5SJxSsc8IKuCAE-6CY_0U6D7dnfyH8ix0ru_Au4XmQEzh97rLavNi8BL7PHdMjE9Y3lZTbcrzGS9j5ZwIE-b9vm-UZOra1qexX8heT9WzyQ/w480-h640/IMG_8580.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><p></p>Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07548279979459216319noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1446333830994324849.post-24192943919370162232021-06-29T21:17:00.000+12:002021-06-29T21:17:14.118+12:00Arthur<p>I inherited a lot of family postcards from the Edwardian era, which were largely correspondence between my grandmother and her sisters and brothers. As is often the case, there were a number of mystery cards, either because I had no context for them, or because I simply didn't know enough about my grandma's life at that time. Also, the mystery cards could have come from my grandmother, her siblings, my great grandmother or my great Uncle, as all their effects ended up with my father and later with me. </p><p>Tonight, courtesy of a WW1 website called "A Street Near You" I was able to finally put a history to a photo. </p><p>This postcard said simply "Arthur" and on the reverse "Remembrance" and the date he died, a month before the end of the War.</p><p>Arthur was a similar age to my grandmother's eldest brother Bill. They would have grown up together in the village. Both worked as gardeners on large estates, Bill in Canada, and Arthur for Stapleton Park, whose grounds and gardens were designed by Capability Brown. Bill signed up to go to France with the Canadian Regiment, but was never deployed, Arthur joined the Durham Light Infantry as a Lance Corporal and died in France.</p><p>I cannot imagine the devastation caused by his death in such a small village. Three young men were lost from the tightly knit community. A hundred years later on I find it so sad as I look at this young man with so much promise.</p><p>RIP Arthur Etty, son of Alice and Thomas Etty. </p><p>Forever with the Lord</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNERycp8PEZwzu3v2kjl5RTYF0B_ofPlCgD3fFWAy5ehCJ-9AqBmxr3wBLC58uj0MNjwhhpHBOpt5YZJsmvkdg7g-IbnKvmDN5v5BXi47YPu0WnYMaghvqv7Dh1iZJrSRkoMORedb3wg/s1890/Arthur+Etty.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1890" data-original-width="1193" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNERycp8PEZwzu3v2kjl5RTYF0B_ofPlCgD3fFWAy5ehCJ-9AqBmxr3wBLC58uj0MNjwhhpHBOpt5YZJsmvkdg7g-IbnKvmDN5v5BXi47YPu0WnYMaghvqv7Dh1iZJrSRkoMORedb3wg/w253-h400/Arthur+Etty.jpg" width="253" /></a></div><br /><p></p>Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07548279979459216319noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1446333830994324849.post-1786304504334176222021-04-18T19:02:00.004+12:002021-04-21T07:01:42.278+12:00Royal Funeral<p><span style="color: white;"> <span face="system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif" style="caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Grief caught me today, as I watched a coffin draped with a Standard.</span></span></p><div dir="auto" style="caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: white;">My own father's coffin was draped with his Squadron's standard and his service medals. He wasn't a Duke, or a Lord, but he was a father.</span></div><div dir="auto" style="caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: white;">And today a father was mourned, by his children who walked. No matter the titles and wealth and position and the history of millennia. They were fighting back tears as children do when they know they will not hear that voice again, hear that laugh.</span></div><div dir="auto" style="caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: white;">So grief grips us by the hand and we walk, so reluctant, wanting to run back in time.</span></div><div dir="auto" style="caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: white;">Grief is an eternal companion, sometimes with the iron grip of memory, other times just a sad reflection in an old mirror looking behind. </span></div><div dir="auto" style="caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: white;">But we walk and we walk on.</span></div>Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07548279979459216319noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1446333830994324849.post-86283730956614864882021-03-02T19:27:00.006+13:002021-04-21T07:07:38.489+12:00Waiting for the rain.<p><span style="caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); color: white; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">The air this evening smells like Africa before a storm; that high tension state when the grass almost speaks to the cloud heavy sky and begs for rain. The grass is very, very dry, baked hard with no possibility for birds to feed. We have fire warnings in place, and we wait for the sky to crack. The smell will change first then the colour, then the light will sharpen and refocus through the haze. I wait for the moment. But I will miss the smell. The Smell that invites animals to scratch in the shadows, pause and listen, then scatter. I wait for the scattering at the first boom, the first hammer and flash. Then the metal roof will timpani and throw the drops to dance and white water will gutter in gutters and overflow and crash. Yes, tonight feels like the veld.</span></p>Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07548279979459216319noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1446333830994324849.post-35161338976349984682020-11-28T05:24:00.002+13:002020-11-28T05:24:50.964+13:00On the trail of the lonesome agapanthus<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGPDURVUmGAZOpDv2OUCV-nQbkW4SwlthGfZQf9iyt9SVCuUzm3GEHBOR1kQgWYAQBKIouEjmhBkoXql84sBQIpMm0OtXX7625mTmjD-gHDQdsSCuVsvS-Zs6-X0hlav-n9naiqmKQ_w//" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGPDURVUmGAZOpDv2OUCV-nQbkW4SwlthGfZQf9iyt9SVCuUzm3GEHBOR1kQgWYAQBKIouEjmhBkoXql84sBQIpMm0OtXX7625mTmjD-gHDQdsSCuVsvS-Zs6-X0hlav-n9naiqmKQ_w//" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">This is our first agapanthus of the season. The weeping elm has grown into a massive bush and the rest of the garden is exploding. I wish we were brave enough to keep a goat, but with a vineyard next door, and the endless ways they find to escape, I'm not sure my nerves would be able to cope.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><br /><p></p>Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07548279979459216319noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1446333830994324849.post-77177070022282825682020-11-19T19:28:00.008+13:002020-11-19T21:06:09.544+13:00GrassTonight I smelled the scent of Africa. It was so brief, and died so quickly, it sat like a heavy weight around my feet. It was the grass cuttings I think, capturing the last moment of heat before sunset. It was that petal thin wisp of time when animals scuttle away with their young after grazing, or start to wake to hunt at dusk. That small moment of capturing an even smaller movement just beyond the eye arch, and wondering "friend or foe? Snake or mouse, leaf or frond?" When the minutes and seconds freeze and you are not sure whether to rouse yourself and shake them free, or be static with them, hoping for a glimpse of something as yet unknown. <div> I remember a midnight bush ride. Bouncing in the back of a vehicle, shining an arc lamp into the dense trees, stealing myself for a view of something other worldly. I got my wish when bush baby eyes stared back at me, and as the light beam passed, so did she. Legs scurried in the undergrowth. We heard them, so we stopped, turned down the light, and listened as the leaves crinkled with the dying heat, and somewhere a bird screeched. </div><div>I miss Africa. I miss the hair on my arms rising to a primordial sound. I miss eating fruit from the trees and wondering if it will mean a night with tummy cramps or a night feeling exotic and far away from home and overwhelmingly free. Strangely, I miss the drums of settlements, of women walking along high ridges at dawn, making their way to fields and crops and hard labour for the day, yet singing an awake lullaby. </div><div> I remember the roadside markets at night, lit with kerosene lamps, making a road brighter than bright. Twinkly, like Christmas, but smelling of mangoes and bananas, and children running around free in the cool and dust, laughing, not noticing they were poor. </div><div>So I am glad of the drying grass and the wink of the veld and the memory of a distant home.
</div>Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07548279979459216319noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1446333830994324849.post-22182288853773832862020-09-25T20:54:00.002+12:002020-09-25T20:57:33.014+12:00DusktideWe are on the cusp of spring and the days are longer. This evening, a rare trip to the supermarket alone prompted very strong memories. I seldom shop at night, but this evening I just wanted the quiet pace, the meandering without pressure.<br>
I wasn't prepared for the effect of being in a car alone at dusk would have on me. When I lived for 7 years in a desert, this was the time I would go shopping. It was generally after a very busy and stressful day in the office. The grinding heat would have lost its edge and you could always smell the scent of some flower or plant as the temperature dropped and the ground sighed with relief. <br>
One of the many delights of my desert life were the encounters with shop assistants. They were all unfailingly polite and friendly and it gave me the chance to make small talk - a luxury not really possible during working hours. My local supermarket had beautiful girls from mainland China at the tills. They wanted to practise their English on anyone who had the time to stop. The giving of change and packing of bags was slow and gently drawn out in order to make conversation. The Indian salesmen in the material souks were charming and funny and would tease and laugh. My local florist was Syrian and kept birds in cages all around his shop. He always had time to talk. The people were often intoxicating, as if from another world.<br>
And there is something in that pause between day and night which triggers the deep emotions I so often felt, returning to an empty apartment, making a meal, checking on my neighbours then falling exhausted into my bed. It was a strange zone between sweet contentment and crushing loneliness. Delight in the ever changing variety of each day, followed by the brief interlude of a sensual dusk, the call from the mosque, and the swish of sand as it hurried across the road.<br>
Tonight I am thankful for a brief return to the intensity of that time. But I am also grateful that tonight I don't fall into bed alone and the only sound of the night I hear is of our resident owl calling its mate.
Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07548279979459216319noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1446333830994324849.post-43997771301512766512020-08-10T13:42:00.003+12:002020-08-10T13:42:54.250+12:00Battle for the mailbox, Chapter 7The starling rascals have a new technique. I thought I'd got them by leaving the mailbox lid open to the elements, but the twigs started to appear about a week ago. I have been pulling them out every other day and wagging my finger at the birds on my telegraph wire "I know your game. Leave the mailbox alone"
They dive bomb and poop on the mailbox, just to make a point.
This morning, as I was leaving the property, I saw something on the floor. I got out of the car to find this morning's mail on the grass at the base of the mailbox. They had thrown it out, and there was a solitary twig, right in the middle of the box, a thumb to the beak if ever I saw one.
This means war.
I may post photos of the military engagement.
I mean, it's not like we are short of trees. We have 50 or so on our property alone, and we are surrounded by forest. Starlings have forgotten how to be tree dwellers it would appear.
Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07548279979459216319noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1446333830994324849.post-89661322939401450342020-06-09T19:17:00.000+12:002020-06-09T19:17:42.517+12:00Sad family taleI have come to a place when I can finally tell a story. It is the story of my great grandmother's sister Jane Ann, or Jenny.<br />
<br />
When my dad died, I took on the mantle of family researcher. Dad was a natural historian and story teller, and perhaps if the world had been different for him, he could have written down the stories. But instead he collated lots of photos and documents meticulously in folders, and we worked together on mysteries of the family tree, me in one country, him in another. <br />
<br />
He periodically mentioned Jenny and her two sons, Charles and Arthur, whom he could not get any further information for beyond the last available Census of 1911.<br />
<br />
So after Dad died, I found myself digging, in his memory. What happened to them, and was I genuinely the last of this family line, being an only child with no children of my own?<br />
<br />
Like many who investigate their long deceased relatives, information often comes in waves, sometimes a piece of flotsam on the beach leads to revelations of joy and sorrow. In Jenny's case, it was mostly the latter.<br />
<br />
Through a group of genealogists on Facebook who gave their experienced help gratis, I discovered that Jenny had four daughters in addition to Charles and Arthur (Dad didn't know this). Three had been born and died between the Censuses. Almost by accident I uncovered a census entry for the second daughter, living far away from either her mother or father's family. It transpired that she had been put into the care of Barnados foster families for several years then returned to her father. In the final official information about her, she was living in a mental hospital during WW2. Tragically, this was also the fate of Arthur, her older brother. <br />
<br />
This week through wild card searches on the web I discovered that the first girl born in the family had died in a freak accident before her first birthday, being smothered by her own bedclothes. The youngest two daughters died age 2 and 3 after the widowed father returned to the E. End of London immediately after Jenny's death. <br />
<br />
Jenny died of consumption aged 38. Her sister, my great grandma had nursed her. I have her death certificate, which had been kept safely with all our family papers. I remember my dad telling me that Jenny and my great grandmother were very close. Their older brother and sister were lost to illness, a burden that many Victorian families bore due to devastating and deadly childhood diseases. My great grandma had lost her firstborn twins and my grandfather was her only child. Then she lost her sister. To my knowledge and my dad's knowledge she never saw her nephews and nieces again. I doubt she knew that the children suffered terribly as their father had a breakdown and turned to drink after his wife's death. So that left me trying to trace Charles. He was last mentioned during World War 2 as a bus conductor and his wife was working making radios for the war effort. I think I found a record of their daughter, and her three sons, who are are of my generation. But here the road stops. There are no more signposts, just lots of dead ends.<br />
<br />
This branch of my family has caused many tears for me - a sense of loss, and grieving for lives that were so hard. Arthur and his sister lived to ripe old age, but we didn't know that. If my father had known, he would have visited them. Family was family. If my great grandmother had known the fate of her nephews and nieces, I think she would have tried to adopt them. She only had one child and she and my great grandfather were modestly prosperous. It could have ended very differently. I just hope the grandchildren and great grandchildren of Charles will somehow carry some of the love and grace of their ancestor Jenny.<br />
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Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07548279979459216319noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1446333830994324849.post-13573699863814613302020-05-09T08:37:00.000+12:002020-05-09T08:37:47.869+12:00TS Eliot and Lockdown<i>April is the cruelest month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire...</i><br />
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As a teenager I found Eliot's poetry weird. I didn't understand it or like it. If that makes me a peasant in the eyes of many, I don't care. But this opening to The Wasteland has reverberated since Lockdown. Our extraordinary "halt", standing on a planet that still spins whilst we don't has certainly mixed memory with desire. All the things which only two months ago we could have are now a memory. The spontaneity of showing up at a friends door, laughing with strangers sitting at the adjacent cafe table, the monotony of the weekly grocery shop, planning a road trip to the next city. All gone.<br />
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I love being at home. I never run out of things to do and I'm quite happy with my own company if my husband is closeted away writing. But sometimes it is really hard to smell the lilacs, knowing that there are many millions barely surviving.<br />
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The Biblical book of Lamentations opens with "How lonely sits the city that was full of people!" The prophet talks of Jerusalem, but his exclamation could rattle and echo around every city in the world right now. I am longing for the muted hum of people against the stones and the walls of my small town again, not the echoing crack of just one footfall. The loneliness of the inanimate is palpable.<br />
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And the future lilacs, where shall we find them? I remember a lilac bush in our garden when I was a small child. At certain hours of the day, I could smell its fragrance through my bedroom window. It would catch me by surprise and then its intensity would grow until everywhere I went in the house I could smell it. I am grasping for that intensity now. I want the fruit of this experience to bring something so intense to my life that it changes everything that remains of it for the better.<br />
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I am looking for lilacs.<br />
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Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07548279979459216319noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1446333830994324849.post-27091827566912129702020-04-21T10:59:00.000+12:002020-04-21T10:59:44.622+12:00Channeling my great grandfatherYesterday we saw a small flock of sheep run past our garden gate. They were on a mission, but being sheep, had forgotten what it was.<br />
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I phoned a neighbour who told us later they had been captured and their wooly bottoms had scuttled reluctantly home.<br />
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This morning, on a rare walk towards our hills, I was almost knocked over by the same flock, skipping down the 'long acre' looking for clover.<br />
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Thankfully another neighbour happened to be walking in the opposite direction. She had been the one who had got them into a paddock yesterday. Between us we gathered them up. She ran ahead and opened the gate on a neighbours field. I got behind them and ran them to the right side of the road. They stopped abruptly and started to graze. Then another neighbouring farmer's dogs started to bark which was enough to get the wooly bums hopping through the gate and be secured, until next time.<br />
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I had to smile. I have been doing family history research for 6 years, picking up the mantle of my late father. We're an ordinary bunch, no skeletons in cupboards, no hidden aristocrats (at least on my dad's side). We used to joke that we came from a long line of shepherds and sheep rustlers.<br />
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I rest my case.<br />
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Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07548279979459216319noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1446333830994324849.post-26596383948336406642020-03-07T19:09:00.000+13:002020-03-10T15:27:57.779+13:00The bungalow on the cornerMy dad was a man of many talents. He was a trained toolmaker and spent his working life controlling a massive lathe, making very intricate pieces of machinery. He started with severe osteoarthritis in his 40s, partly the product of standing on cold concrete floors in draughty factories and shipyards.<br />
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He was also a very gifted handyman and gardener. When he and mum bought their first home, it was bought from a plan, and needed a lot of personalising to make it into a home. Dad did this by making the most amazing rose garden, lawns and a garden wall, complete with hundreds of succulent plants. I clearly remember him building it from different coloured bricks and stones. It was a masterpiece.<br />
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After Dad died, I had the job of going through the hundreds of slides he kept in the wardrobe in the family home. This was one of them. So many memories. I think I was four years old and I remember clearly him building the wall I am stood next to, so this must be one of my earliest memories. <br />
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Mum was equally clever with her hands. She made the dress I am so proudly showing off!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhJUhyphenhyphen2NwH0n0wdE2c5GrZuaGsiE08HUz2Dz8j3iazBq-uZOu28xmy2__v56k8epJ1h5LNkVdnoY8_jRnrg4xiamB0IxqvNzY7olhEPsolqNJXZXiojhee-_uEI8QgTZd97ln5vcXrsA/s1600/fullsizeoutput_3694.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhJUhyphenhyphen2NwH0n0wdE2c5GrZuaGsiE08HUz2Dz8j3iazBq-uZOu28xmy2__v56k8epJ1h5LNkVdnoY8_jRnrg4xiamB0IxqvNzY7olhEPsolqNJXZXiojhee-_uEI8QgTZd97ln5vcXrsA/s640/fullsizeoutput_3694.jpeg" width="480" height="640" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="1600" /></a></div>Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07548279979459216319noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1446333830994324849.post-64707246197330867372020-02-05T20:36:00.002+13:002020-02-05T20:36:27.427+13:00A moment of the ordinary in time and spaceTonight I had the most bizarre experience. I was trawling through the internet, trying to find ANY information about my great grandfather's family. In the process of increasingly more desperate and random searches, I came across the website of the photographer and postcard producer Francis Frith. They took photos all over Britain of villages and towns, large and small from the 1860s onwards, although inevitably the bulk were as cameras became less complicated and less expensive to use, producing postcards for the mass market. <br />
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I did a search for my father's village, and lo and behold I saw a photo of a Morris Minor that my dad inherited from his godmother. I'd seen the photo before in a book about Morris Minors, so that wasn't a complete surprise. The site invites you to give comments or information on the photos and so I was able to write a small blurb about the family who bought the car from new in the 1950s, and my family's connection with that family.<br />
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But then the BIG surprise. I decided to go through all the other photos of the village. There is only one main street and I have very distinct memories of it from my childhood as we spent every weekend there with my grandparents. In the 1960s there were still lots of independent shops. There was a Co-op (my grandma was a great fan of the Co-op and had shares), the Post Office, several pubs, a fish and chip shop, a library and two grocers. <br />
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There before me was a photo of the main road and two women walking on the footpath, one elderly. I took one look at the older woman's gait (flat feet) and the way she buttoned her cardigan, and knew it was my grandmother. Next to her, holding her handbag in a distinctive fashion was my mother. They were conversing and walking on the opposite side of the road to the Coop, heading towards home probably via the Post Office. Such an ordinary, unexceptional view, with the two most important women in my life in it! I am hoping to purchase a copy of the photo, and if I succeed, I will add it here.<br />
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Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07548279979459216319noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1446333830994324849.post-31798753709579280122019-12-28T12:39:00.002+13:002019-12-28T12:39:39.115+13:00Life lessons from a bramble bushI am COVERED in scratches. With even the best evasion tactics and gloves, I could not avoid it. Over two days we have both had a go at a monstrous blackberry bush (bramble) that has been growing out of reach behind several other bushes and trees. It had gone nuclear so something had to be done.<br />
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Our neighbour has also tackled it from her driveway. Still it growled at us.<br />
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Half way through hacking and clipping, with overhead branches pulling my hair, and thorns ripping my wrists, I had a glimmer of hope.<br />
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There, at eye height, in one of the dense bushes, was an exquisite bird's nest. She had very cleverly parked herself out of sight, and beyond predator reach behind the thick wall of tangled thorns.<br />
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I couldn't see the nest from the lawn or the neighbour's driveway. I had to get through the thorns and the challenges of branches that were dangerous in order to see new life.<br />
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There is something sweetly victorious about this. Here's to keeping bramble bushes at bay, so that new life can grow and be nurtured.<br />
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Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07548279979459216319noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1446333830994324849.post-75569056482372323912019-12-27T16:10:00.000+13:002019-12-27T16:10:10.600+13:00Book illustrations 1936I have one book from Dad's childhood. It was given to him by his god-mother, Miss Eva Creaser. She lived in the village where he was raised and was a doting member of his extended family. I met her as a child and went to garden parties in her large house.<br />
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In 1936 she gave my dad a book published by Blackie called "Read a story"<br />
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Here are some of the charming illustrations. Three of them could be prescient of his future daughter - a little girl threading beads, another one about to go on a journey and most important of all, a girl posting letters!<br />
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Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07548279979459216319noreply@blogger.com0