War on a Whim

 
War on a Whim

A Recipe


Do not entertain any alternatives to war.

Be polished; hone your obvious acting skills and make sure you are always well-rehearsed.

Mix up one full pail of pride and lace it with wishes for a future sense of achievement  and national greatness.  Madness helps.  Believe in yourself.

Convince yourself that 9/11 was instigated by Saddam Hussein.  Or rather convince others  - you have already convinced yourself for the sake of convenience.

Spice the lies and sex them up as much as you can over the few months leading up to the invasion.

Keep the 45 minute mantra going, it will persuade the weak and scare out living daylights.

Hold private meetings away from Cabinet, exclude those in opposition to your plans.  Some will resign anyway, some will die.

Disregard all international legal experts and most senior civil servants when they say military action is contrary to international law.

Override the rules of the United Nations Security Council at all stages.  Call them ambiguous.  Ignore the fact that there is no legal basis for regime change and send in the troops, however ill-prepared.

Play down any mass protests on the streets of Britain and abroad.  People must not believe in such a thing as a democracy.  Ignore all protest, your self-belief will hold the cake together, however fragile the base.

Come the invasion.  Label it with shock and awe.  Be macho. Swagger alongside the Bush man with your coat off, hands in pockets and shoulders wide.

Talking of Bush, keep all your correspondence with the man forever out of the public domain.

After it is cooked, ignore the burnings.  Play down casualties, especially civilians, women, children and babies, young boy soldiers… and their mothers’ tears.

You will have to keep this up for years and years.

And years.

At any possible future enquiries spend your time arguing over pieces of paper.  Bring your professional skills to bear here.  You are so good at this you could win an Oscar. 
Again ignore the tears and the anger of bereaved families by so doing.

Never feel, show or admit regret (this will come easy to you).

Remember that the law is always the law except in an imperialist’s war.

Above all never mention the O word (OIL).

Cait O’Connor 2010

Another Good Read

Dear Diary,

Two things. First is a poem that I promised to post for the wonder that is Willow and then a book review. Well not a proper review, just a little mention really.

First the poem by a much loved poet Czeslaw Milosz

On Angels

All was taken away from you: white dresses,
wings, even existence.
Yet I believe in you,
messengers.

There, where the world is turned inside out,
a heavy fabric embroidered with stars and beasts,
you stroll, inspecting the trustworthy seems.

Short is your stay here:
now and then at a matinal hour, if the sky is clear,
in a melody repeated by a bird,
or in the smell of apples at close of day
when the light makes the orchards magic.

They say somebody has invented you
but to me this does not sound convincing
for the humans invented themselves as well.

The voice -- no doubt it is a valid proof,
as it can belong only to radiant creatures,
weightless and winged (after all, why not?),
girdled with the lightening.

I have heard that voice many a time when asleep
and, what is strange, I understood more or less
an order or an appeal in an unearthly tongue:

day draw near
another one
do what you can.


Czeslaw Milosz


And now the book.

Guernsey is a place I have visited only once but it left a real impression on me and I loved it. My brother-in-law and his family have lived there for many years, they are lucky so to do. We spent a holiday staying with them many moons ago.

My son was conceived there and he is a young man now. I always remember the feeling I had as the boat set sail from Guernsey back to England at the end of our holiday - I just knew that I was ‘with child‘. So it holds fond memories for me. Apart from that it is a beautiful island; it is genteel, quiet, full of gorgeous bays, magical coves and pretty countryside. Island life is very appealing to me though some say it can be claustrophobic. I guess nothing is perfect.

Enough about me and Guernsey; it is a book I want to promote. The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society. You may have already read it as it is not a new one but if you haven’t I would like to recommend it to you.

It is our library book group's latest 'book of the month' and we meet in a week’s time to discuss it. I must say that I am very grateful to the person who put it forward. Someone else had suggested it to her and I find that word of mouth is always the best recommendation. I had picked the book up before in the library but not been tempted. This has happened to me before, with The Secret Life of Bees for example - that was also recommended to me (or rather forced upon me!) and it also turned out to be another must-read book. I digress.

When I finished the Guernsey book I was bereft. I felt I had left a host of close friends behind and I had that awful feeling ‘What can I read now?’ Nothing will live up to this, And the author Mary Ann Shaffer died a few years ago so there will be no more of her writing to look forward to and she has written nothing else in the past.

I turned again to Two Caravans by Marina Lewycka, a book I had put aside for a while, I had been enjoying it very much prior to switching to the Potato book (I call it the Guernsey book or the Potato book for short). But now Caravans was really too harsh and depressed me greatly, so much so that I couldn’t read it - the description within of the lives and deaths of battery hens didn‘t help. I have put it aside for a time in the future when I am over my too recent literary bereavement.

Mary Ann Shaffer wrote her novel as a series of letters sent to and fro between the characters in the story. It builds gently and softly, layer upon layer and you get to know and love each one of the people purely through their correspondence. As a would-be writer I love this kind of writing. I always love books that are constructed from letters or diaries I won’t give much away as I think it spoils a book to do so; I would like all to unfold for you as it did for me but I will tell you is that it is based upon the story of the Nazi occupation of Guernsey during World War II and a literary society that was set up by a few islanders during that period. It is informative, well-written, light of heart, uplifting, romantic and very moving, everything one needs from a novel. A perfect read really..

So that’s all, if you haven’t yet done so, do read and enjoy.

I started with a poem by Milosz so I may as well fnish with one. It seems appropriate somehow.


And Yet The Books

And yet the books will be there on the shelves, separate beings,
That appeared once, still wet
As shining chestnuts under a tree in autumn,
And, touched, coddled, began to live
In spite of fires on the horizon, castles blown up,
Tribes on the march, planets in motion.
“We are, ” they said, even as their pages
Were being torn out, or a buzzing flame
Licked away their letters. So much more durable
Than we are, whose frail warmth
Cools down with memory, disperses, perishes.
I imagine the earth when I am no more:
Nothing happens, no loss, it’s still a strange pageant,
Women’s dresses, dewy lilacs, a song in the valley.
Yet the books will be there on the shelves, well born,
Derived from people, but also from radiance, heights.


Czeslaw Milosz

Bye for now,
Cait

PS What are you reading?

A Home

Dear Diary,

My little Welsh cottage is writing today.

(She writes in Welsh but I have translated).

I am of the riverside, Ty’r Gof is my proper name which means 'home of the blacksmith'. My other half, the Forge is set apart but not far away. Happily I nestle not too near the water’s edge, I know her moods too well and am always prepared for those rare days when she can quickly roar, flood and turn against me. There are sandbags at my door.

Do come and visit me. Everyone says I have an aura of calm and I will surely welcome you in like a long lost friend. The locals used to call me 'little house' in Welsh for I was not much more than a cabin once, if truth be told, but I have been added on to overtime and always very much loved. I am built of river-stone, no-one knows my age but it is over two hundred years at least. A road of the Romans is in my pastures, I may have dwelled here before but in some other form, a past life is highly likely.

No word like property defines my soul (I am a home) and there are no en suites to be found. My mistress would not allow the words master bedroom over my threshold. She is a feminist and she is rather eccentric She cares not that all about me is offbeat and quirky, all is small. But I do have a big heart (but then between you and me she does too).

I am built of ancient heartbeats, there is buried silver in the ghosts of passed children’s laughter and the sound of the blacksmith’s anvil breathes in my rough-hewn walls.

My kitchen has walls of deep red now, she is like a scarlet woman who comes into her own at night. Her bare wood shelves spill over with staples and pots and pans hang over the cooker. Everyone and everything is just comfy here,not grand but comfy. It is a place to eat, to watch birds at the feeder outside the window, to mull and to moodle or to lose oneself in music or the radio, to cook even and to maybe bake a poem from a dream.

My tiny snug is rough-ceilinged but walls of gold adorn her and the view past the river is of an ancient wood. A very old Rayburn lives here. She is an easy-sleeping and a peaceful reading room, I cast a spell on all who enter here as I sit upon a magic spring.

Come into my parlour where fairy lights adorn the walls and crystals dress the windows - like dogs they are not just for Christmas for the angels love them all year round. They love my bright colours, candles, music too.

My bedrooms have not much room for more than a bed of brass with patchwork thrown across them but there is a vast patchwork of green without for the tiny windows open on to a river-view, the tops of the pine trees and a field with hills beyond.

My garden is still sleeping but as if from a dream has been reluctantly emerging from the deep snow which adorned her for weeks. She was beautiful and magical then, I miss it so, we made such a pretty pair. And now she is just a soggy mess. But Spring is nigh and I promise to show you round her then when she is looking her very best.

For now she must not be disturbed……..

Remind me, do.

Bye for now,

Ty r Gof.xx

Haiti

Go to this blog, Poet in Residence for a brilliant idea, spread the word.

Meditation

Each day I climb my hill to meander through a wood of oak

but I cannot see much below me on this grey December morning.

All is shrouded in silver and even I am lost in meditation,

dry-wrapped in a white and frost-ridden silence

which seems holy and most soothing

for it dulls the senses and muffles tears

with a sound that is something like Peace.

Its soft blanket of comfort embraces and protects me,

over and over till I am warm and safe again,

snug in its womb-like cocoon.

It is starting to clear now and

I believe that with its inevitable lifting

will come a dissipation and true inspiration,

a renewal,

a different view of things

and warm, warm sunshine.



©Cait O’Connor

A Walk in the Snow

White snow, blue sky, black trees, hoar frost.

The bride of Nature is dressed in white from head to toe
and she is calling the tune.
Miles and miles of white, her train is a work of art
and her icicles parade decoratively from the branches.
Across the edge of the frozen river
the Sun picks out the jewels that sparkle on the moor.

It is a day to pause as we put our extra layers on
and other layers are peeled away, like the dour reserve
of adulthood as our eyes widen, our faces glow
and we smile as our childhood selves are found beneath.
I want to be Heidi on a Swiss mountain
and I do not stroll or saunter, I simply tread and tread
and joy fizzes up through my woollen socks and my boots;
up and up, all the way to my heart.
My dogs gallop with white moustaches
as they race and taste the drifted snow,
just right in its pure crunchiness.

Dear Mr Media,
don’t make a crisis out of this season
for it is a gift of special days,
a drama rare enough to rise above
and we can all become as players on its stage.
It’s only winter once a year
and at least the rain has left us for a while.

Back home now at the cottage door
my stone angel is white-capped as she sits and blesses me.
Still deep in her book and deep in snow as well.

White snow, blue sky, black trees, hoar frost.


Cait O’Connor

From a train, lightly

From a Train, Lightly

Sentinel trees hold sway
standing watch through back-lit mists
across the anonymous valley.
Emerging from the white fog
the outline of a black farmhouse,
I am half expecting
a troubled Cathy or
an emotionally disturbed Heathcliffe
to emerge from the door.

The unseen river
divulges its presence
by a meandering, fluid cloud
of pale grey.
Flat flood-mirrors
grip leafless trees against
a pink-silver streaked sky
as the rumour of a sun becomes clear.

Dawn, ageless beauty, exits
a la droit
as startled sheep again scatter
from the nant’s edge.
We are speeding now towards the light
still hidden by the ubiquitous hills.
A lonely, lost heron mistakes a puddle
for a breakfast pond.

©Christopher Challener December 2009

Once in Royal David's City

The text that goes with this is in the next post, I had a job posting it.

Just a few seasonal thoughts

A Painting by Pollyanna Pickering

Dear Diary,

Once in royal Davids city,
Stood a lowly cattle shed,
Where a mother laid her Baby,
In a manger for His bed:
Mary was that mother mild,
Jesus Christ, her little Child.

He came down to earth from heaven,
Who is God and Lord of all,
And His shelter was a stable,
And His cradle was a stall:
With the poor, and mean, and lowly,
Lived on earth our Saviour holy.

For He is our childhood's pattern;
Day by day, like us, He grew;
He was little, weak, and helpless,
Tears and smiles, like us He knew;
And He cares when we are sad,
And he shares when we are glad.

And our eyes at last shall see Him,
Through His own redeeming love;
For that Child so dear and gentle,
Is our Lord in heaven above:
And He leads His children on,
To the place where He is gone.

I’ve been thinking about Christmas, well you can’t escape it really can you? As I drove home from work last night I heard the carol Once in Royal David’s City on the radio, it was sung so beautifully by a choir, I forget which one. I found it very moving, a story plainly told with due relevance and reverence, it was all there. The line where a mother laid her baby has always brought a tear to my eye. Perhaps thinking of an unmarried mother, homeless in a strange land, reliant on charity is something close to my heart. I got to thinking about the story of the birth of Jesus, the nativity tale that we are told from childhood and I wondered again about its truth in historical fact. We know Jesus existed but how can we be certain about the circumstances of his birth? I believe he was a healer, a holy man, a mystic, a psychic, a prophet indeed , but not the only one that has walked the Earth amongst us. And what he preached was quite simply love and that is all there is. We should take heed of this all year, not just at Christmas.

There are things I hate about Christmas but when I started totting up I discovered that there were many that I love.

Shall I start with the negatives?

Things I hate.

The pressure on women.
The pressure on everyone to consume.
The element of competition that creeps in, the need for everything to be perfect just like in the magazines and now the TV programmes that have popped up with Delia, Nigella, Kirsty and even Rick Stein.
Music in shops (if you can call it music).
Tackiness everywhere you look.
Overindulgence.
The loss of its true meaning.
The hijacking of the Winter Festival by the Christians many many moons ago.
Enforced jollity.
The Queen’s speech.
Repeats on TV.
Crackers, far too expensive, always disappointing.
Pressure to conform, I have always resisted that.
Most of all I hate the fact that it all starts far too early.
The phrase Are you ready for Christmas?
The very people, the over-zealous types who start Christmas far too early are the very ones always moaning just after Christmas and cannot wait to take their decorations down! Don’t they know that Christmas starts on Christmas Eve and that is the proper day to bring in the tree and decorate the house?


Things I love?

Snow, a white Christmas is magical, I love it when it starts to snow on Christmas Day for the first time, alas that won’t happen this year but it might well be a white one.

Carols, their words are pure poetry and the music heavenly.

Red candles.

Fairy lights indoors and understated outdoor lights in trees, I am going to look for some solar lights today. I have fairy lights up in the parlour and will probably keep them up all year. The spirits love them as much as they love bright colours.

Evergreens, holly, ivy, laurel and pine.
Holly wreaths on doors.

Spicy smells. I had a lovely essential oil last year, a special Christmas blend, I must try and track it down.

Brown paper parcels, bright ribbons, hand made labels written out in beautiful italic script.

I love those nativity cribs, I don’t own one but one would look nice on the cottage windowsill.

I don’t send cards, I donate to a charity instead but I always pick a favourite from the ones I do receive. This year’s winner features a picture of a country kitchen with a Rayburn, below which is a sheepdog like mine and a tiny lamb curled up together. It is from a painting called Keeping Warm by Pollyannna Pickering, great name. The winner is usually an angel so this will be a change.

I would like to say I enjoy the alcoholic drinks associated with Christmas but I have had to give up the demon drink because of my migraines. I will so miss Baileys, sherry, brandy, whisky, mulled wine. Not all at once though…. I will be content with grape or cranberry juice or tonic water.

Same goes for chocolate but I will get vicarious pleasure from watching the men in my household tucking in to chocolates.

Christmas pudding I will enjoy, just a wee bit with custard as I shall be too full of roast dinner, rib of Welsh beef, Yorkshire puds, roast potatoes, parsnips, sprouts, carrots, horseradish. Yes I know I said I abhorred overindulgence!

Mince pies are nice too with a blob of cream.

Children make Christmas for me, I love to feel their excitement and see the happiness on their faces.
I miss Father Christmas, he used to visit when the children were small. That was the time I really loved Christmas because with children ‘therein the magic lies’ but sadly those days of childhood went too quickly.

I love watching others opening presents, that always brings me joy. But I would rather give spontaneously than feel it is an obligation at Christmas.

I don’t want any presents and have asked folk not to buy for me. I don’t need anything and am trying to simplify my life. Just lately I have been getting a good feeling from getting rid of stuff, I certainly don’t want to accumulate more.

But I am having the best present I could wish for this year - my fourth grandchild is due any moment, s/he was expected on the Winter Solstice. I can’t think of anything that will bring me more happiness than holding the new baby in my arms.

I wish you all great happiness over the Christmas period too and not just for Christmas, let’s keep the goodwill and the love going for each and every day.

Thank you for visiting my blog and if you have read all of these ramblings…..congratulations.

Bye for now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait.

In the Bleak Midwinter

All Things Radio

Dear Diary,

I shed a tear this morning (I do so at the drop of a hat these days) because I caught the ending of Terry Wogan’s last programme on Radio 2. I bet I am not the only one.

Also on the radio theme.

I have been listening to Dear Granny Smith which is Book of the Week on Radio 4 this week; I haven’t been able to hear it all but what I have heard has been very moving especially if you work in public service as I do and can empathise with a lot of his experience. So much of it I understood and could identify with, working in public libraries as I do which are also under extreme threat.

If you want to break a civilisation you close libraries, it has happened in the past.
Just an aside here….something struck me as odd, interesting, infuriating (pick what word you like) when I heard we were giving Pakistan money to set up libraries for the people........????

I digress again forgive me, back to the Royal Mail, for which I have nothing but the highest praise.

Roy Mayall is a postman. 50 something. Lives down south and has been doing his round for "a number of years". Roy has the most fascinating blog detailing his working life and he portrays a wonderful view of life within the Royal Mail.

His book, 'Dear Granny Smith: A letter from your postman', is currently the Radio 4 Book of the Week. "A letter from your postman written by Roy Mayall and delivered by Philip Jackson; a heartfelt musing on the past, present and future role of one of the oldest British institutions, the Postie. Why postmen used to have the best job in the world, and why it's heading towards becoming the worst"

There is to be a discussion on issues raised by the programme on Radio 4 at midday today, I must try and catch it.

Also on Radio 4 this morning I caught Carol Ann Duffy on Woman’s Hour talking about poetry (of course) and she read this poem - I thought it tied in well with the postal theme.

Christmas In Envelopes

Monks are at it again, quaffing, carousing;
And stage-coaches, cantering out of Merrie England,
In a flurry of whips and fetlocks, sacks and Santas.

Raphael has been roped in, and Botticelli;
Experts predict a vintage year for Virgins.

From the theologically challenged, Richmond Bridge,
Giverny, a lugger by moonlight, doves. Ours

Costs less than these in money, more in time;
Like them, is hopelessly irrelevant,
But brings, like them, the essential message
love

U A Fanthorpe

Bye for now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait

Voices

The Other Elizabeth Taylor

Dear Diary,

You don't have to burn books to destroy a culture. Just get people to stop reading them.

Ray Bradbury

Once again it has been too long time since my last posting and I do humbly apologise. My computer has been very poorly, it went on an absolute go-slow and had to have a spell in a local hospital for computers with some expert intensive care. It is back now thoroughly rejuvenated and raring to go with faster speeds than it has ever had and with more memory installed. To think I thought it was on the way out and was ready to throw it out the window such was my anger.

Wish I could go somewhere and have similar treatment for today I am a wee bit slow and poorly myself as I have a very sore throat and have lost my voice. It came on suddenly so I guess it is the laryngitis type virus which has been doing the rounds. (Some may call it a blessing perhaps, my loss of voice? But I say that if I lose my voice it can also be to my advantage as I don’t have to answer people if I don’t want to).

There is not much news to report. The monsoon season continues and I think we are probably into our sixth week of rain, it could be more.

Thank God for books I say and music and Strictly on TV, all pure escapism that I am happy to admit to. I may not be able to speak but I can read , I can watch and I can listen.

I have been doing a bit more on M’s family tree and was very excited the other night when I discovered that he is related to Elizabeth Taylor, no not the actress but the famous novelist. Now I am envious because I have not found anyone quite so illustrious in my family and a writer to boot.

I thought I would seek out a biography of said lady and lo and behold, one of those coincidences, her first and only biography was published in April of this year by Nicola Beauman of Persephone Books fame and we have copies in the library service. All are out on loan but I have placed a request for it. I have always admired Taylor and know several other people who do as well, little did I know that M was related to her.

I am reading a new book written by another of my favourite authors, Susan Hill. It is called Howards End is on the Landing, great title eh?

The subject is books and reading - a year of reading from home - so for a bibliophile like me it is pure heaven. Once I finish this blog post I will retire to my bed with honey, lemon and paracetamol and lose myself in her words. If you haven’t ever read Susan Hill, apart from this one I would recommend The Magic Apple Tree, it is one of my top ten favourites and a must-read book.

So that’s all for today, I have no energy for much more.

But I shall sign off with not one but two poems by Carol Ann Duffy, Poet Laureate. I watched the South Bank Show on Sunday night which featured Carol and was reminded again of two of my favourite poems.

Read.

Enjoy.


Prayer


Some days, although we cannot pray, a prayer
utters itself. So, a woman will lift
her head from the sieve of her hands and stare
at the minims1 sung by a tree, a sudden gift.

Some nights, although we are faithless, the truth
enters our hearts, that small familiar pain;
then a man will stand stock-still, hearing his youth
in the distant Latin chanting of a train.

Pray for us now. 2 Grade I piano scales
console the lodger looking out across
a Midlands town. Then dusk, and someone calls
a child's name as though they named their loss.

Darkness outside. Inside, the radio's prayer -
Rockall. Malin. Dogger. Finisterre.


Carol Ann Duffy


A Child's Sleep


I stood at the edge of my child's sleep
hearing her breathe;
although I could not enter there,
I could not leave.

Her sleep was a small wood,
perfumed with flowers;
dark, peaceful, sacred,
acred in hours.

And she was the spirit that lives
in the heart of such woods;
without time, without history,
wordlessly good.

I spoke her name, a pebble dropped
in the still night,
and saw her stir, both open palms
cupping their soft light;

then went to the window. The greater dark
outside the room
gazed back, maternal, wise,
with its face of moon.


Carol Ann Duffy


Bye for now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait

Smoke rising above the showers

Dear Diary,

Rain, rain go away.  Come again another day.

Early this morning the sun was out, I could hardly believe it and I (almost) got up to rush out with the camera to capture the brightness, fearful that it would not last.  I should have acted on my instincts, it did not last and today has been showering heavily on and off and it has been dark, very dark.  I wanted to post some sunny pics for you but never mind, there will be sunshine one day, folk have told me so.

Today’s blog is as mixed as the weather, there are a few bits of sunshine but there is an angry raging section too.  Right at the end you will smell the smoke rising.

I have acquired a new library book, not a novel this time, it is Dara O’ Briain’s new one about the English.  I am not very far into it yet so I will report back another day with my opinion.  I wanted to read something funny and always find him laughter-inducing as a performer. 

This is a description of the book.

Tickling the English

Nostalgia, identity, eccentricity, gin drinking and occasional violence... these are just some of the themes that stand-up comedian Dara O Briain explores in Tickling the English. O Briain moved to England many years ago, but when he takes his show on tour around the country – from deserted seaside towns and remote off-shore islands, to sprawling industrial cities and sleepy suburbs and it's clear to him that his adopted home is still a bit of an enigma. Why do the English pretend to be unhappy all the time? Why can’t they accept they rank about 5th, in everything? And what’s with all the fudge? But this Irishman loves a challenge; he's certainly got the gregarious personality and the sure-fire wit to bring down the barriers of that famous English reserve, and have a good old rummage inside. Swapping anecdotes with his audiences and spending time wandering in their hometowns, this nosy neighbour holds England up to the light while exploring some of the attitudes he brought over here with him too. As Dara goes door-to-door in search of England in this part tour diary, part travelogue, the result is an affectionate, hilarious and often eye-opening journey through the Sceptred Isle.

There have been other blessings today, I felt rested after a long good night’s sleep in clean sheets and I have a day off from work.  It was very busy yesterday in the library, I think everyone is escaping the weather and losing themselves in books.  I have swept up even more wet leaves, got lots of indoor chores out of the way and that always makes me feel better.  I’ve written a poem too.

The debate about global warming has been in the news again, re. does it exist or is it a fabrication?  Global warming or not there is definitely climate change, the winds are stronger, the rainfall heavier and floods are becoming commonplace.  It’s almost as if the Earth is showing its anger at Man's greed and the rape, violence and plunder it is experiencing.

I shall finish with something serious.  This is not just a rant, it is both alarming and outrageous.  I want to draw people’s attention to the fact that cancer drugs (and other drugs too) are in very short supply because pharmacists are taking advantage of the state of our pound and are selling drugs abroad in order to make more money.  A very good friend of mine has been experiencing difficulties in obtaining her supply of a drug called letrazole that she has to take on a daily basis.  And not only a friend of mine, I have too!  My friend C was told that there are only ten  packs of our particular drug left in South Wales.  C and I take this drug as a preventative measure but it is also given to patients with advanced breast cancer. So lives will be lost if their medicines are not available to them.  My friend’s pharmacist actually told her that he has been asked to send a photocopy of her prescription to the wholesaler in order to get two month’s supply of letrazole!  This surely goes against the data protection act apart from anything else. This time last week  I had a real to-do with two local pharmacies and eventually got my three month’s worth - thanks to G my breast care nurse from Cardiff (a real angel flying too close to the ground) who acted swiftly on my behalf and contacted said pharmacies. 

So that’s all for today, C and I are on the case and will be contacting our Welsh Assembly member and our hospital consultants who have prescribed the drug to us.  My GP did not seem particularly caring when I rung her about it, she feigned ignorance on the matter even though it has been in the Times and the Observer and all over the Internet. She said I should order the drug two weeks in advance and when I said I had to travel 22 miles to get my tablets and that they very often have none in stock when I get there - even before all this blew up - she more or less blamed me for living in the country. 

Watch this space,

Bye for now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit.
Cait

Mood

Dear Diary,

Our river has gone down a little and when I wake it isn’t actually raining. This state of affairs doesn’t last long though and then when I switch on the radio I hear sad news - a woman is missing after she fell into the River Usk at Brecon and then there is coverage of the ongoing suffering in the flood-stricken county of Cumbria. I am reminded, as if I needed to be, of the supreme power of Nature and I can foresee that these cataclysmic floods will soon become too commonplace for comfort. When will governments realise/own up that climate change is the real terrorist hiding in our shadows? We should not be at war in far off countries (for dubious reasons) killing innocents and sacrificing our young soldiers but rather fighting to save Planet Earth of which we are all citizens. I feel we are not taking it seriously enough and just paying minimum lip service to the environmental cause. If we go on like this it will become too late - I really pity the world we are leaving to our grandchildren and great grandchildren and I carry some guilt along with that pity.

I have started reading Banville’s The Infinities. It could not be less like Love and Summer and I am not sure I am in the mood for it. It reads like another Booker winner for him though - Banville won it in 2005 with The Sea. I loved The Sea but the subject matter of his latest book is depressing me, even the parts which I can see are meant to be darkly humorous. I am always being reminded that sometimes a book will only work when the mood of the reader fits. I am in low mood today, can’t you just tell?

So here is a poem by the dear departed John O’Donohue.

Just for me.

It is not even nightfall and yet various things have unnerved me today and sometimes only these words will do.


Beannacht (Blessing)


On the day when
the weight deadens
on your shoulders
and you stumble,
may the clay dance
to balance you.
And when your eyes
freeze behind
the grey window
and the ghost of loss
gets in to you,
may a flock of colours,
indigo, red, green,
and azure blue
come to awaken in you
a meadow of delight.
When the canvas frays
in the currach of thought
and a stain of ocean
blackens beneath you,
may there come across the waters
a path of yellow moonlight
to bring you safely home.
May the nourishment of the earth be yours,
may the clarity of light be yours,
may the fluency of the ocean be yours,
may the protection of the ancestors be yours.
And so may a slow
wind work these words
of love around you,
an invisible cloak
to mind your life.


John O'Donohue

Bye for now,
Cait

A Good Read

Dear Diary,

A great book should leave you with many experiences, and slightly exhausted. You should live several lives while reading it.

William Styron

After a night broken by thunder and lightning the monsoon season continues and we spend a lot of time watching the river to check if the water level has reached the bridge yet. The garden is one big Sog and I only venture out to empty the compost bin. We lit the woodburner this morning to cheer the cottage and even the dogs are happy to stay in by the fireside.

Today I did something I haven’t done in a long while - I read a book in one sitting. It was Love and Summer by William Trevor and I can highly recommend it. It takes a very special book to keep me in my armchair for four hours but this one is THE book. I had forgotten that it has been Booker short listed but I think it deserves to win and I am not biased just because it is an Irish novel. This man writes like a dream, the setting is an old Ireland and the pace is slow but it draws you in. It is unashamedly old-fashioned and very moving; I would say it is his best book yet. It did put me in mind of Colm Toibin's Brooklyn, if you haven't read that one it is another must-read,

I am starting John Banville’s The Infinities next, I will report back on that one.

Are there any blessings? Apart from books?

Well there are poems, here is one by one of my favourite poets, Czeslaw Milosz.


And Yet The Books

And yet the books will be there on the shelves, separate beings,
That appeared once, still wet
As shining chestnuts under a tree in autumn,
And, touched, coddled, began to live
In spite of fires on the horizon, castles blown up,
Tribes on the march, planets in motion.
“We are, ” they said, even as their pages
Were being torn out, or a buzzing flame
Licked away their letters. So much more durable
Than we are, whose frail warmth
Cools down with memory, disperses, perishes.
I imagine the earth when I am no more:
Nothing happens, no loss, it’s still a strange pageant,
Women’s dresses, dewy lilacs, a song in the valley.
Yet the books will be there on the shelves, well born,
Derived from people, but also from radiance, heights.


Czeslaw Milosz


Bye for now,
Happy Reading,
Cait

PS Here is another must-read.
Talking of books I have been meaning to recommend this blog for all teenagers who love reading.
It is called Wondrous Reads
http://cityofbooks.blogspot.com/

Nemesis, David Gray

Neath an avalanche - soft as moss
I'm a creeping and intangible sense of loss
I'm the memory you can't get out your head
If I leave you now
You'll wish you were somewhere else instead
I'm the manta ray - I'm the louse
I am a photograph they found in your burned out house
I'm the sound of money washing down the drain
I am the pack of lies baby that keeps you sane
Gates of Heaven are open wide
God help me baby I'm trapped inside
Feel like I'm buried alive
I'm the bottom line - of the joke
I am ecstasy - spilling like bright egg yolk
I'm the thoughts you're too ashamed to ever share
And I am the smell of it - you're trying to wash out of you hair
Gates of Heaven are open wide
God help me baby I'm lost inside
Feel like I'm buried alive
Possibilities limitless
Just give me something that's more than this
One shot and I'll never miss
yes
I'm the babe that sleeps through the blitz
I am a sudden and quite unexpected twist
I am your one true love who sleeps with someone else
I am your nemesis
Baby I'm life sweet life itself

The storm has passed

Dear Diary,

Music by Halle

Do not believe in anything because you have heard it.  Do not believe in anything simply because it is spoken and rumoured by many.  Do not believe in anything simply because it is found in your religious books.  Do not believe in anything merely on the authority of your teachers and elders.  Do not believe in traditions because they have been handed down for many generations.  But after observation and analysis, when you find that anything agrees with reason and is conducive to the good and benefit of one and all, then accept it and live up to it.

Buddha
Hindu prince Gautama Siddharta, the founder of Buddhism 563-483 BC

Well the rain is still falling; it seems as though the Welsh monsoon season has arrived and today it’s that slow, steady, quiet kind of rain, dropping in a soft way onto the already sodden ground.  The river is behaving itself so far but we followed the course of the River Wye in the car yesterday, down to Hay and it was already up to the top of its banks.  

We had battened all the hatches and were on high flood alert yesterday but the gales that were forecast were not as bad here as predicted, I think they were at their peak overnight but we may have missed the worst of the weather for a change. 

I had stocked up with food and had meals planned for a few days - I’m not usually this organised but I am in hibernation mode and comfort eating always accompanies the survival of Winter as far as I am concerned.  That and nice log fires and books of course.

And I’ve more books!  A lot of new books are published at this time of year, ready for Christmas. 

There are two men I hold in high esteem, one is my hero Tony Benn who is 84 now.  Whatever your politics may be he is a man of high intelligence and the words he writes are laced with great wisdom.  I have borrowed his latest book, Letters to my Grandchildren. Thoughts on the Future.   If you are tempted to read this do also read his book Dare to be a Daniel because this is another great read.  All his books come highly recommended, there are many to choose from.

Don’t tell anyone but I’ve fallen for another man just lately, it is Monty Don - I blogged about him just the other day. I reluctantly returned  his Ivington Diaries to the library this week as there is a waiting list for the book. 

Monty is another ‘sweet heart‘, a beautiful and a gentle man in the truest sense and such a gifted writer, I think whatever he wrote about I would read  because he writes from the heart, his words flow with passion and an enthusiasm that just shines and inspires.  That is a word I love… enthusiasm - it comes from the Greek… en theos… from God. 

I am now reading his book My Roots.  A Decade in the Garden which is made up of articles he wrote for The Observer and Monty admits in its introduction that he always wanted to be a writer, not a gardener. To my mind it is obvious that he is a very successful gardener but he is first and foremost a writer.

It is not only men who write sense.  I have just read Janet Street Porter’s latest book. Don’t let the B******* get you down.  I am a great fan of JSP and I do recommend her book although I have to say that with me she is preaching to the converted and I already practise and am prone to preach most of what she espouses.

So are there any other blessings on this wild, wet day?

Welsh lamb stew bubbling away on the hob, dumplings to be added soon. 

The woodburner is lit and a stack of logs is at the ready.

Television.  Sometimes it is just the thing, usually when I am tired and want to flop.

And it’s Sunday tomorrow, my favourite day.

Before I go here is a poem - and it is written by another octogenarian, Maya Angelou.


Touched by an Angel

  
We, unaccustomed to courage
exiles from delight
live coiled in shells of loneliness
until love leaves its high holy temple
and comes into our sight
to liberate us into life.

Love arrives
and in its train come ecstasies
old memories of pleasure
ancient histories of pain.
Yet if we are bold,
love strikes away the chains of fear
from our souls.

We are weaned from our timidity
In the flush of love's light
we dare be brave
And suddenly we see
that love costs all we are
and will ever be.
Yet it is only love
which sets us free.





Have a great weekend,

Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait.

When will they ever learn?

About profusion

Dear Diary,

How long should a cyclamen flower? I have one in a pot which lives on a windowsill in my cottage that I bought last Christmas. It has flowered since then and not just a few, it blossoms in abundance. the flowers seem everlasting, the whole plant is amazingly healthy and somehow radiant. I took advice on the best way of watering these plants as before I had not kept them flowering for long and had always planted them outside when their flowering days seemed over - under the pine trees on the riverbank, where they always surprise me come springtime. I have blogged about them in the past.

A very wise and very experienced plantswoman by the name of Withy Brook told me not to water from below, not to stand the pot in water but just to keep the soil moist and water regularly from above. I have never fed this cyclamen, well only with loving glances and the occasional stroke, just to keep it happy you understand. I don’t think I have ever spoken to it though I do speak to some of my babies.

Here is a photo of said plant.

Soon I will endeavour to make babies from this plant and so may have to consult dear Withy once more.

That’s enough about plants.

On to books.

I have another gem to recommend, this is our latest book group choice and it is yet another American novel, The 19th Wife by the rather good looking author David Ebershoff.





There are so many great American and Canadian writers aren’t there? This one is a thickish tome but I would wager that its size will not daunt you once you start reading it. I won’t say too much as I always think it is off-putting to have too many preconceptions about a book before reading it. All I will say is that it is impressive writing, very well constructed and seems to have been researched in great depth from an historical perspective. It is one of those books whose subject matter stayed on my mind even when I wasn’t reading it and I am still thinking about it now it is finished. I've been thinking about (in no particular order) men and even more about women, about sexual orientations, about power, evil, child abuse, religious faith, cults, marriage and of course polygamy. Parts of the book are chilling, nauseous even, though there is some fine humour within its pages. I am looking forward to our book group meeting and hearing how other members got on with it. I will report back.

And now for something completely different. I am going to read The Return Journey which is the latest offering by the dear Irish writer Maeve Binchy; this one will make a change as they are short stories. I have also added to my book mountain Tracy Chevalier’s Remarkable Creatures. Apart from the book mountain at my bedside I have an ever-growing list of titles recommended to me by enthusiastic readers at the library.

So many books so little time.

I often wonder how others manage their time? Can anyone tell me how to lengthen a day? I have so much writing to do, blogs to read, my own to write (more often) and so many poems to bring to life that are labouring in my head (as well as an ongoing novel) That is apart from other projects I have on the go. Sometimes I envy retired folk but there is no use looking forward to those days as I know I shall have to work till I drop.

So I shall sign off now but would love to hear how you ’spend’ your days, how you decide whether to read or to write, to garden or to walk, to cook or to not cook, to go to bed at a sensible time or to stay up late, to do housework or to ignore it, to go out or stay in………………I could go on.

I look forward to hearing from you,

Bye for now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait.

November

Dear Diary,

Today.

Samhain left us quietly and October was pleasant, warm and perfectly well-behaved to the very end.  That month has given way now to All Souls Day, the first day of November.

October may have been undemanding but November came in like a new born baby making himself known in a big way.  I blame myself, I should not have badmouthed him in a previous post.

As you may know our cottage sits beside a mountain stream and we woke yesterday to an unfolding drama,  heavy rain and rising waters; the field was awash in a big way, luckily for us the flood water was heading that way and not towards the cottage, not yet anyway.  I had not heard the rain but it must have been torrential all night. I had slept silently and dreamlessly fully expecting any rough weather to arrive during the day but No, this baby had come early.

*
Yesterday.

The waters are rising and even though it goes against the grain because it is a Sunday morning I must rise too, I dress quickly and don my wellies and rain gear.  Once outside it is already dramatic, the sound of the wind, the roaring of the water and the extent of its spread.  We know what to do now though, it is a race against time, experience guides us as we have been flooded before.  Everything is moved, anything that could float away.  We must move things before they are moved for us.  In the past we have lost benches, tables, chairs etc.  We rescue the mowers and the chainsaw from the shed;  pots, tables, chairs, ornaments and bits and pieces I value, even the bird feeding station, all are moved to higher, safer ground.

It rains on, waters rush by and  rise.

I have a great time then sweeping the leaves, both our own and those that have swept downstream in the flood.  I clear them all and send them on their way further down the river.  It was a job waiting to be done so I feel quite pleased about that.

We watch giant pooh sticks sail by and wonder if they will go left into the field and be future firewood or if they will go straight on and end up who knows where. 

The wind is very strong and we wonder if any trees will come down anywhere, not here because we are in a fairly sheltered valley but we know if the wind is strong here then it will be very wild elsewhere.   The bridge has been covered in debris, mainly wood and leaves and it strongly resembles Niagara Falls now but God willing the bridge itself will not move this time as it is now jammed against a tree.  A new kind of island has appeared in the field and we know that the river course will be altered again.  ‘Twas ever thus.   I thank God it has made a good flood plain though and  the cottage has not been put at risk.

Even so we phone the local council emergency line as the water is edging towards the back door, it is about twelve feet away but we know from past experience how quickly it can move.  Even though it is a Sunday it is not too long before the sandbag angels arrive (Aren’t they wonderful?  Full credit to our local council) and the men lay the bags snugly at our threshold and leave us some spares too.

Then at last everything calms, the rain eases and then stops, the waters recede slowly but not completely.  We are safe and we can relax,  We take the dogs into the field, going round the main road way and we survey the damage, wading through the floods we take a few more photos and then return to the cottage for a well earned hot cuppa.

November has settled now and like any new baby, this new month has quietened at last…..until the next time. 

And today there is no drama, no excitement and the river too is quiet, she does not cry, she only murmurs.

Bye for now,
Cait

PS  I am still reading Monty’s Ivington Diaries and have discovered that he too lives by a river, the Arrow, his garden is flooded sometimes and the water in the past has come to his back door.  That is comforting in a way especially as he thinks it is a beautiful sight and considers himself lucky in that the flood water is clean and brings not rubbish or anything disgusting with it but only lovely silt to the garden.  Dear Monty, he is a man after my own heart.