To stay or not to stay - that is the question

Three months to think about it. Three months to find a new home. Three months to organise the sale of our house. Six months of downsizing. Throwing out files. Clearing the cellar. Non stop journeys with copious bin bags to the charity shops, Ditto to the dump. Throwing away old correspondence. Old love letters - who was he?! Lamentations and protests from nearest and dearest and similar from friends. "How can you think of leaving?"

And then, twenty four hours of discussion and deliberations and we have decided to stay. Can't quite believe it ourselves but it feels good. A hundred percent the right decision.  Why the change of heart? Blame George Osborne. Stamp duty was rising and our purchasers baulked at the huge extra amount they were going to have to pay for our house.

The sale was clearly going to take even longer before exchange of contracts and maybe it would not happen at all. And we want to get on with our lives. So, do we really want to continue with this frustrating process, we asked ourselves. We love this house and are happy living in it. After all, we have only been in it for fifty years. So we called it all off.

Blow the steps. Blow the stairs. Maybe they will never become a problem. Blow the wasted space. Blow the unused rooms. Let's keep our lovely neighbours. Let's continue to enjoy our lovely home. Let's  rejoice at the number of people whose reaction to our change of plan, has been delight, happiness and approbation. You are so right!

Here's to the next fifty years - and can anyone suggest a good destination for a lazy sun soaked holiday, to get away from it all?

Big Brother is watching me

I know that we are the most scrutinised nation on earth. CCTV cameras monitor our every move. Whether it is walking along the street, entering a shop, sitting on a bus or whatever.

It has not really bothered me unduly, not in personal terms, anyway. I have nothing in particular to hide. Nothing that's going to put me behind bars or single me out for censure.

However, I am definitely irritated now. I took some photos at the crack of dawn, chez nous in France. In fact it was as dawn was cracking and the sky was every magical shade of pink. The ground was still grey and the cows still looked black and white.

And then, the next day we had lunch with friends nearby and I took some photos of the beautifully presented food on my plate  - an artistic masterpiece! I know where they live and what the house looks like but I do not actually know their street address.

And then, a few days ago, I looked at the photographs on my iPhone.  Well, blow me down. There were my snapshots beautifully captioned with the street address of our house, our tiny lane in our small hamlet. And I now know our friends' street address too.

Well, I ask you? Times were when people wrote captions in white ink on the black pages of their photograph album.

Where will this end? Will my phone soon tell me how many calories I consume, which book I am reading, whether I have emptied the dishwasher?

Enough!!

Feel good day

Occasionally, everything is edged with pink. The day is charmed. Dismay at the thought of Scotland floating away is banished. The plight of refugees the world over is relegated to the growing mountain of horror which I am powerless to change.

But yesterday, the day was rosy. Early start before 9am to keep an appointment. No traffic. No problem parking. Twelve o'clock, a Tai Chi class, which always makes me feel good. One o'clock, sit in the car, eat a banana, listen to the news. Cameron supposedly tearful at the thought of losing Scotland. What did he think he was on about when he suggested a referendum in the first place? And why did he do nothing to beat the drum for a United Kingdom until five minutes before midnight?

One thirty, play bridge. Always fun. 30p up. Huge winnings! Five o'clock, come home to change. Drive into town with P to private view of an art exhibition. First solo show by a young Czech painter friend. The place is heaving with a hundred or more young people, drinking beer or water out of bottles. We are the only Crumblies. Get a rapturous welcome from our friend and his girl. Seems that age does not matter and we are made to feel very special.

On to Cote in Camden Town and something to eat.We have never been there before. Chat to Italian waiter about Lake Como, dishy show-you to-your-table man who wants to know how we are today and Italian manager about Sicily.The food is delicious and all the staff are astonishingly friendly and smiley. Tell manager when he comes over,  how welcoming all staff are and how happy they seem.  Manager beams. Later  ask waiter for bill and they have charged for a whole bottle of wine instead of the half we drank. Conversation between three head honchos and then the manager comes over with a new bill and says; "We are not charging you for the wine at all because we love you."
Wouldn't that make you feel good too?

Good moments

We are in France. Sunday lunch in one of our pleasant local restaurants.  Next to us a big table of English eating quietly, unobtrusively. Well behaved little girl. What a change from the too frequent rowdy, noisy groups..
A wonderful Kir aux peches is followed by delicious langoustines a la beurre d'orange and then suddenly, a white haired Frenchman, eating at the next table with wife and daughter, appears at our side, holding out a small black and white photo. Do we, by any chance speak French, he asks. Yes we do.
The photograph shows three Tommies in English army uniform, a couple of French civilians and a  little boy- our white haired diner.  The place, the mining town of Lens, the photographer our friend's father. The year 1940. The Fall of France. The English soldiers heading towards Dunkirk.

On the back of the photo, a name and an address in Yorkshire. Had they made it home? He had been trying to find out for years. Carrying the photo in his wallet. But for the English and the Allies, he said, we would not have been liberated. Great people, the English, he said.

And tomorrow is his eightieth birthday. We congratulated him, wished him well. Sorry that we knew nothing about his English Tommy. Said goodbye.

Then decided to have glasses of champagne brought to their table when they got to the dessert stage.
Ostensibly to wish him Happy Birthday. But really because we were so touched by his sentiments.They were thrilled. We were thrilled. Entente tres cordiale!

From zero to gee whizz

Nothing much happens in this sleepy French village of ours. The most exciting so far has been when they block off our ruelle because there is a funeral about to happen and they don't want people to park  chez nous or chez eux. But today was big time. We sloped off to a neighbouring village because the Tour de France was coming through.

What a treat! We got the timing wrong but it did not matter. Two hours before they were going to shoot past at 50 kph, families were gathering, complete with folding chairs and baguettes wrapped in foil. All local. People carrying on conversations across the road, the gendarmes nonchalantly letting people wander around. And then with more than an hour to go, the fun started.

Motorcycle outriders, complete with helmets and goggles, looking very Big Brotherish, lights flashing and then dozens and dozens of publicity cars with Things on the roof - Mickey Mouse, horses with riders, giant bottles, dolly birds sitting in armchairs......and all the time, armfuls of stickers, fridge magnets, peaked caps, packets of crisps are being flung out in our direction and all the kids are going mad with excitement and amassing little piles of goodies.
Eventually, a few helicopters fly over head, more serious outriders and then the great moment arrives. They are coming. Just two initially who, amazingly are ahead by a clear two minutes. Then the rest shoot past in a great flash of yellow, red and green tops, the flics remove the yellow cones and it's all back to sleepy sleepy land.

Phew, what excitement! And to think that we were there!

Doom and Gloom

I thought it was just me. Thinking that the world is going to pot. That there is war and violence in every corner of the globe. That the poor are still poor, that the rich are getting richer and that the gap between them is getting larger.

I suppose there is nothing new in any of that. It was ever thus. But what really saddens me and makes me feel increasingly despondent is the seeming collapse of standards in this country. I am not talking of table manners and common courtesy. I am referring to the increasing number of people in public life who are caught with their hands in the till, lying through their teeth, perverting the course of justice, paying themselves whopping bonuses while sacking people galore and so on and so forth.

England used to be a country where, on the whole people could not be bribed, where garden produce or Evening Standards were left unattended in the street and buyers left their money in a box. Where huge deals were sealed only with a handshake and nobody defaulted. Where people left their front doors unlocked. Where children played out in the street.

What has happened? Has integrity become an obsolete word? Has honesty become outdated? And isn't it sad that people much younger than me are also pessimistic about the state of the world.

No - I am absolutely not that old!

In this large family, birthdays come round all the time and this weekend, we celebrated our elder twins' birthday. Since you ask, they turned fifty or, seen as a banded pack, they were one hundred.
Of course, I am thrilled to bits but do I really have to own up to having children of that age? And while we are being honest, my eldest is older than that.
I am pondering, quite unsuccessfully, how I can pass all that off. Conventionally, women of a certain age, never admitted to more than fifty but I can't get away with that, can I? I will have to settle for inspiration at some future date.
In the meantime, over twenty of the very nearest and dearest celebrated  in style with accompanying garish balloons and a great deal of laughter.
And then again, I ponder how one can produce two (fraternal) twins who are as unalike as chalk and cheese and then, one marries a Chinese girl who was a fashion designer and then retrained as a speech therapist. The other one marries a Japanese girl who takes a degree in textile design and is now in the process of becoming an art therapist. One has been married for about twenty years, the other only seven or eight. And guess what? They both got married on September 19.
Coincidence? Predetermination? Or what?

All is not bad

The world is a horrendous place and human beings behave abominably. And yet, there are chinks of light. There are many people who behave wonderfully well. There are good people around. There are those who give up their free time to help others.

We have just been to a really heartwarming occasion at Hackney Town Hall. Held in the Council Chamber, this was an award giving ceremony for twelve kids, aged somewhere been 8 and 12, all of whom either came from troubled families, or had problems at school, or lacked self esteem and all of whom had had regular input on a weekly basis, from a volunteer mentor.The mentors ranged from media executives, scientists, property consultants, administrators and more, different colours of skin just like the children and each one of them had volunteered and then been trained  intensively. Their brief to spend three hours of one to one time with their charges once a week for a year.

Three hours away from their regular lives. Three hours to let seeds of self confidence or maybe new values, a new sense of morality, be sown and nurtured. By taking them swimming, to the zoo, to a museum, trampolining, playing football or whatever.

Children and mentors were awarded certificates to great rounds of applause from family and friends who attended. And it was quite apparent that whatever had caused these kids to be selected for mentoring, they had benefited immeasurably. They were now doing well and were well on the way to becoming worthwhile adults in their own and other people's eyes. Then lots of official photos, plates of sandwiches and fruit and a huge iced cake. And glowing, self confident children smiling and looking proud.
Really heartwarming. 

And the other totally good event was the news that our favourite outlaw is going to become an in-law. 

Geniuses galore

I am in awe of writers. I can write and I earned my living as a writer for many years. But only of factual stuff. I can organise complex information, make difficult things easy to understand but I lack imagination. I can't invent. Even when my children were small and the cry "Tell me a story" went up, I could do it with ease, but only by having the little boy, little girl, witch or elephant came to a crossroad and I would ask "Which way did he/she turn?" and then, when they came to a house, what happened when they knocked on the door? And so the story unfolded helped along by my children's imagination. Not mine.

But here are all these amazing writers who can create a world of their choosing for me to savour. Just take the last three books I have read: The Siege of Krishnapur by one of my favourite writers, J. G. Farrell about the Indian Mutiny,  An Officer and a Spy by Robert Harris, an incredibly dramatic account of the Dreyfus affair and Animal Dreams by Barbara Kingsolver, set in Arizona, about politics, love, idealism and ecology, wonderfully written and a book that stays with one.

What these writers have in common is not only a rare gift for stringing words together beautifully but of making one want to turn page after page and preferably not put the light out to go to sleep. Before reading those books, I was riveted to nearly a thousand pages of Thackeray's Vanity Fair. Not a page too long!

Where do these wonderful novelists get it from? How can they imagine themselves to such a believable extent in other people's shoes? In other lands? In other centuries? With other beliefs? I just don't know.

The eighth sin

I am a sinner. At least according to my children, I commit a crime on a regular and continuing basis. I disregard sell by dates on tins and dry goods because I think they are a con trick. And I was not well pleased when on a visit to the Cottage, one of the children to the merriment of his kids, found spices, tins and who knows what else, wich they proceeded to throw in the bin. They were doing me a favour. I was furious!

I was brought up to be thrifty, to eat up what was on my plate and not to throw things away that could be eaen or made into something else. Such habits die hard and my better half moans about my view that old bread has to be eaten up, before a new loaf is started.

And, of course, there are the exotic delicacies that lurk at the back of a shelf. The trouble is, they are enticing but unknown and untried. A present from somebody. But what are Lingonberries and they do come from Fortnum & Mason but what do they taste like and how do you eat them? OK, five years out of date in their pretty glass jar and it's time to bite the bullet. I'll serve them up like olives to nibble but they turn out to be horribly vinegary - one of the ingredients but, guess what, they were quite good cut up and added to a stew. And last year's Stollen was never taken out of its box. There was too much else at Christmas. But i did take it out this Christmas and, heigh ho, it's in perfect condition.

Do I feel guilty? No!