Sunday, 27 May 2007
Weekend So Far
The first painting is another by the Irish artist Paul Henry. Two fisherman going out in a curragh.
The second photos are of a home made magic lantern 'going up' at a party next door.
Talking of Ireland.
A Kerryman man and his wife were sitting in the living room and he said to her, "Just so you know, I never want to live in a vegetative state, dependent on some machine and fluids from a bottle. If that ever happens, just pull the plug." His wife got up, unplugged the TV and threw out all of his Guinness.
Hard to wake as I have only had about five hours sleep as I was babysitting last night. Part of me hopes it will be a quiet morning in the library, it may well be as it is another Bank Holiday and people often think I will be closed on such weekends. But we only get the Easter Saturdays off.
But I had a lovely time with the girls though. S, E and I went through the farmyard and the sheds into the field to collect the eggs. Only one chicken, The Loner, was about, in the lambing shed so we set off to find the others. S, only nine but already a very competent farmer, was confident that she would find them and she did. She went straight to the cattle shed and the chicken were already on their way out coming to meet her. They dutifully followed her back to their house and lined up to go in. I was impressed! E and I collected the eggs; there were five and one was huge and bound to be a double yolker. S looks after the chickens single-handedly and the novelty hasn’t worn off, she is a very special girl. (I can say that as I am a granny and we grannies can boast to our heart’s content). She is also very artistic and before we went a-farming she had shown me her latest pics. I had been reading about watercolour pencils in the blogs that very day and S showed me her set which the other Nanny had bought her. I had never even heard of them before I read purple coo so it was another one of those coincidences. She also showed me her charcoals and ordinary colour pencils as well as the pastels that I bought her at Christmas.
K, the eldest granddaughter is very, very nearly 11 and she is a keen writer. She has joined the children’s group, the Powys Writing Squad and is off to the Hay Festival next week for a creative writing class, lucky girl.
We watched the DVD of Chitty Bang Bang and K, eleven next Thursday, a typical Gemini, a mine of information, informs me that this old screenplay is by Roald Dahl and it was written by Ian Fleming (news to me, but she is reading the DVD box). She then informs me of fiIms that Dick Van Dyke has been in relatively recently! I was never a lover of musicals and must admit none of us stayed the course. E was so tired she wanted to go to bed as did S a while later and shortly followed by K. I read a book to E, the youngest, who is five. It was Dogger by Shirley Hughes and I was taken back to the days of reading Alfie books to my own young children. I adore Hughes’ stories and illustrations. Then, story over, E is seemingly no longer tired and we have a very long and cosy conversation. E is just so wise-beyond-her-years and her vocabulary wide; she thinks deeply about everything she says and we cover a variety of subjects about events in her life; past, present and future.
So at 10.45 pm they were all tucked up and soon fast asleep.
I had a quick look at CCW, well you have to don’t you or withdrawal symptoms set in) and then settled down to watch Jonathan Ross, soon gave up on that one too. Later was Jools Holland, much more up my street, and I did enjoy. Then I found a book of Irish poetry which I had given to my daughter as a present a few years ago. I picked out a few gems to share with you another day.
When I drove home after 1am it was under a cold moon but She loomed large and low and lit my way home.
I wake, just about.
The squirrels are en famille outside the window, totally at home now in the garden, especially by the bird table. The wood pigeons and the doves too are constant visitors as is that most attractive bird, the jay. Shy birds those jays, they rarely venture out of the woodland except at certain times of the year when they are seeking food to feed young I guess. Little jaylets. The heron is always around and the magpies. The red kites are circling overhead in our field as are the buzzards. The birds and creatures seem to take it in turns to seek sustenance or if they happen to be there together they co-exist happily. More often than not, however, they seem to have their own inbuilt clock.
I am beginning to think my home should be called the Bird Sanctuary not Ty ‘r Gof (house of the blacksmith).
Drizzly, cloudy, very cool.
A-reading-and-an-afternoon-nap-but-not-a-gardening kind of day. Very quiet around these parts considering it is a Bank Holiday.
M brings me tea very early after another late night. I had planned to go to bed earlier last night but we had an unexpected invite to go for a drink with two very dear friends. I prefer spur-of-the-moment social occasions and we enjoyed a happy evening in a local hostelry back in the Smallest Town where our friends live. Preparations are getting underway there for the Man V Horse which is in a fortnight’s time.
Our friends have exciting news as they have been to visit a medium for the first time and it was a productive visit. M and I (and other members of my family) have much experience of this sort of thing so we loved hearing B and C’s story.
After my tea I doze a lot and then start to listen to the Archers, drifting in and out of the programme and waking to Desert Island Discs with Paul McKenna. I fall asleep during Led Zeppelin’s Stairway to Heaven which is rather worrying. I finally wake having been assailed by dreams which were very strange and filled with frogs and fish and flowing rivers. And people losing their jobs (not me).
It is a relief to escape from my slumbers and I get up. A quick breakfast of two of S’s fresh eggs, soft-boiled, accompanied by Marmite soldiers and then I run a long warm and oily bath. I lay and listen to the Gardeners’ Question Time which is being broadcast straight from a wet n’ windy Hay Festival.
My much-loved wind-up radio.
The chap who invented it is a genius. I heard on the radio this morning that he failed his eleven-plus. Discussions on the radio confirmed my own belief that people who passed that, myself included, were coached for the exam. Back in the late fifties I was lucky enough to have a jewel of a teacher, a Miss Bray at an ordinary South London junior school and I am sure the massive preparations that she gave her pupils helped a lot of us succeed. Not only that but she was kindness personified. The school was Winterbourne in Thornton Heath and If anyone knows the family of this woman I would love to find them. Miss Bray is long gone now I would imagine (my maths is no good !). But I learned all about verbal reasoning that type of thing and she made it FUN.
Antiques Roadshow. Michael Aspel. Another South London person.
My Saturday Guardian. I love the Review section and the magazine. All very literary. I like the writers’ rooms section and today it is one of my very favourites, Edna O’Brien, no less.
Chocolate puddings. I will say no more. It is a craving thing.
Jack Savoretti who I hear is playing live in New York as a support to Corinne Bailey Rae. I would love to hear the reviews. Frances are you there?
Three more blessings for you as it is Sunday.
Mediums and all psychic people whose reach is beyond this Earth.
Baths, sometimes only a bath will do.
The Archers. But I am getting a little bored by story lines that seem to drag on. Same thing is happening on Eastenders (whoops have I confessed to another this-time-shameful addiction ?:>)
I was going to write about how to make magic flying lanterns but I am a little worried after reading Zoe’s post. (Zoe are you married to the fireman?)
Actually I know a very nice fireman (yes I know I am lucky girls!) whose advice I will seek before posting anything dangerous.
I will refrain from a long and rambling rant today and will only mention two words which are ‘police’ and ‘stop and question’ (that is not two is it? Told you I was no good at maths!). I believe it is the duty of all women of a certain age to rant, are we not the wise and so experienced ones after all? Some cultures recognise that fact but then some others would call us crones.
I had tried writing some haiku but the muse would not come. I love haiku. The best I can do is below and it is a few-syllables- short-of-a-haiku (bit like me really!).
A happy Sunday to you,
Dreams are prayers; I kid you not; long may we weave the dreams.
So I will sign off now but below is a little poem wot I wrote in the bath. It’s something about the influence of the water don’t you know? Elemental and all that.
Bye for now,
This was the family’s language
So lies within my soul
In stories and in dreams
My genes will speak its name
And in my sleep I speak it
At times ornate
Its garlands are spread
Bedecked and bejewelled
with long-stretched imagination
And sounds of banshees wailing
Keening to the wind
And spatterings of ghosts
With lies that are truths
And truths that deceive
(In the name of religion)
All but the all-knowing
Cait O’ Connor