There there said Bear …

I have a confession, said I …

I have bear.  Bear is one year older than me.  Bear was my first ever present from my parents. 

At the time, bear was bigger than me and lived in my cot. When I found my first bed, bear was there. Bear, for never having been named, but bear, lives with me still.

Is bear a he or a she, I do not know.  Never asked. Never named. But bear.

Cannot say I loved bear all that much growing up, have no memory of holding onto bear, any photographs, or letters to such, but given the years and all the moves over the world, bear came with.

Times bear was nowhere.  I do not remember so I suppose bear lived in a cupboard, or a box. I do remember finding bear and putting said in my children’s cots, before they were given their own bears, a long time ago.  Bear was there, like a teapot that travels with you, or a photograph album that you hang onto for looking at once in a while.  Bear never seemed to be gone, or present sometimes, but bear was there.

All I can say, is with the years of adolescence, of growing and changing, as life took the pathways we do, I forgot about bear.  Bear I think, never forgot about me, because bear showed up, in my new country, in my new home, as if bear had always been there. I wonder how bear came back to me, I really do for I have no recollection of every having the conversation of ‘here is bear … take bear.’  Strange I thought to find bear in a box of all when I found myself here.  Wish I knew.  But it does not matter. Bear made the journey.  And now bear and I have a new relationship.  Bear is back in the cot, in the bed, in the reality of my life.

Guess bear has always been part of my journey.  When my mother had to leave her home, go to a retirement home after the death of my father, we tried to settle her into that place where she had lost all she knew, given away all she had collected and left with her new reality, and she mentioned one day, she had never had a bear of her own.  

 

For some this may seem insignificant. For me, now living so far from her, an inspiration to find and deliver every bear I could to take the place of me.  Every time I flew to her, at the airport, it was with a new bear – Harrods bear, Paddington bear, Eton bear, you name it, I was the bear supplier and bless her, each and everyone became her friend, to be put, ever so carefully on the chair, in order, for her to coo over in her last years. Bear friends. Huggable friends. I was compensating my not being there for her, with bears.  We both knew it, but we both accepted it.  Now they are all with me.

The thing is, life was very difficult when mom was no longer there to talk to about the bears.  And when others left, I sort of , and I don’t know how, found my bear again. Nights of total lostness, at my age, I would climb into bed (I have a bed I would say to myself, at least I have a bed) and bear would be there, stiff, worn, arm chewed by puppies, still both eyes though, and tuck myself in saying, night bear, (at my age) and wake to find bear there.

There, there.’ bear seemed to say. Stiff as ever.

There, there.’ I replied. You are still there.

I have a bear – almost sixty years old and most likely a vintage celebrity. But this bear is mine, and now with all the others (which I do not have on my bed I may add) but close.  Did I know that a bear would be with me longer than others? No.  Did I know that bear would find me, like now, and I can enjoy just having it around? Who knew?

Turns out I have been so fortunate.  To have a bear for as long as I have lived, a gift from my parents I can still cherish.

Mum, you got your teddy bears ( rather a few) and I always had mine.  Didn’t always know it. but thank you.

Do you have a bear like bear? We all need teddy bears, in whatever form, to be there when it gets tough – and when I go to sleep, at my age, I still say ‘night bear.’

And bear says…’there, there.’

Images Vectis auctions, totally teddy bears.

He loves her, she loves him … a Royal Wedding and love.

Ahhh … isn’t it romantic!

The boy is a Prince.  The lady is going to be a Princess.  Fairytale … some may disagree.

Stories have been written.  Family members rising from the swamp of wanting to get in on  the action.  Opinions made, shared and the tabloids have been in a frenzy for the couple getting married tomorrow.

And I say … hip, hip, hooray.

For a long time, the Prince was sad.  He had lost his mother, trying to find his place in the world.  Now he is happy and in love. Is that so wrong?  Who are we to judge? He is happy.

For a long time, a young woman tried to rise above and follow her dream.  She has.  Unbeknown to her, a prince would enter her life, offering love, not the easy life, but another realm.  Another country, far from what she knows, having to adjust but willing to do so for the one she loves.

I think it makes for a wonderful love affair.  Against all odds kind of love affair.

Some purists may argue that the conditions are not right.  For sure the gremlins are going to jump right in and carve the cracks, bring up the odds, shudder at the thought of what will come to the Monarchy.  But somehow I think this couple have thought of just the same things, nestled and chatted and imagined the pitfalls.  This last week has not been easy for either of them, but still, love will conquer and love will win.

Tomorrow with banting and cucumber sandwiches, we will revel in the victory of love. Fairytale dress, flowers to brighten the world.  Flower girls and pageboys, bands and marching troops – seriously, in this messy world with silly trumps and ugly wars, is this not what we need right now?  Pomp and ceremony, traditions and the Queen. If love brings change, than we are not only celebrating a Royal wedding, we are celebrating tolerance, culture, erasing of boundaries and passion.

We are, at least I am, celebrating love.

Given that there will always be the gremlins wanting to cash in, to offer opinions and stories of yore, bores that they are … it does not matter.  I am going to embrace the changed monarchy, the new era and most of all, I am going to root for my Prince who has found happiness with his beautiful lady.

This eternal romantic is happy too.

Images pintrest, the guardian.

From now on. Why I write.

I write for me, and I write for you …

In the darkest of times, and I have been there … hell on earth and all that, someone said that to find some balance, some thread to hold onto, one should go back to the time you were at your most free.  Usually between the ages of ten and puberty.  So true, in the searching, those years were ones of running without fear of falling, dreaming without wondering if it were realistic.  Of loving and belonging to a family that would catch you.  Of homework in the belief of better to come, engaging with nature, friends, hobbies and the safety of your private space.  Even if it was just in your head. Even those teachers who thought you a dreamer, were peripheral to your path.

Then life comes with the bumps and disappointments and we lose track of simply being.  Like you were back then.  Then relationships become complicated, jobs as bland as cardboard and losing at everything is a reality – you are not the super heroine, the challenger, the saviour or all.  You were simply, well, human. This time of our lives, when some say goodbye, children leave, the body slumps and dreams seem to do the same, it kind of becomes a scary prospect that, in your fifties, you have to face more of the losing for the next twenty years … or you have to gather, go back to the freedom feeling and get those dreams and little you back on track. 

I am getting back on track.  With some regrets, with no regrets, pulling back the veil of disappointment and loss, and wondering how to make the rest of my life count … for me.

If starting again is scary.  It is.  I have cried oceans. Been frightened, paralysed with rejection and loss. Someone not loving you anymore is the worst thing ever and we have all been there in some form or another.  It does not stop you loving them.  Over the decades you have let others go, without blinking, changed direction and maybe it was good … maybe it was not so good but then, here we are, and I did not get the memo on the messy, the uncertain times so go figure.  I aim to figure it out.

To make the new chapter meaningful, one has to assume responsibility for all. Being honest is not always easy, but to say ‘I am here now’ in the ‘mature’ years of my life, I have to be honest.  As do you.  And in this honesty, comes clarity, and growth.

Had the perfect life.  Ain’t so perfect anymore. I stand, yes still stand, growing grey hairs which I loathe and resist to accept, not the super fit anymore, divorced, my parents are gone and in a country not of my birth.  Never been a strictly career orientated gal, financially dependant in some ways, and alone.  Not strictly alone as I have the best children in the world (you think yours are too), travelled and experienced so much and count myself blessed in so many ways.  But there is more to be had of this ballerina.

I wonder where home is sometimes.

The reason I write, or began writing My Silver Street, was for two reasons:

I need to remind myself that life is times without the picket fence ending and I need to write about the good stuff, the bad stuff and all the blessings in-between. All the amazing living about to happen.

I need others who may be in the same situation, at this time of our lives, to know they are not alone. Never alone. Others are going through the same things, the same regrets, doubts, dreams and hoping to make the rest of our time on earth worthwhile, for ourselves. To grow, to discover and if need be, change for the better.  To create new chapters where we can start a new business, travel, nest and take the beautiful we had and harness that to grow to be the empowered women we were meant to be.

I write to tell you, life is worth it, dreams do matter and you can empower yourself to be the best person you are important – from that little girl to the greatness you hold within you.  I write to remind myself, I am here for a reason – as are you. Not just to exist and look backwards, but to use your past to create the most amazing, beautiful, romantic future.

There was a moment when I thought of stopping all this – to discover that other women were reading, sharing and going through the same.  There are many bloggers out there, writing about loss, divorce, starting again, fashion in your mature years, what products to use, how to do this … and do that.  I love them all.  I am writing for the times we fail, doubt ourselves and wonder what the point is sometimes.  Sometimes … till we pick ourselves up and think … I am worth it. That is the reason I write, we are worth it. We have lived and continue to embrace life … faux and fabulous.

I write because I want to understand.  I write because I want you to know, you are not alone. Ever.

You are amazing.  You are going to be even more fabulous.  You are me and I am you.  Women who refuse to live anything but an empowered and romantic life. I write for the future, with all the love of what the past made me what I am. To thank all those who made me what I am.  And to say, love is all.

No more fear. Honesty and running into the future.

Let’s go for it.

 

 

The dreamer’s disease. Fine by me.

Age does not make of you a dreamer less …

 

‘Oh dear.’ said Sister Margaret. ‘ This one’s a dreamer for sure. What to do with her?’

Oh dear, in the Silver Street avenue, she is a dreamer still. What will become of her?

When all my friends were dissecting the dead frog – I cried for the loss of the little jumping fellow. Cleary a biologist was not the future.

When others were doing their math – I as staging a ballet in the garage for the SPCA. Someone had to look after the abandoned animals.

Friends told me that golf was not my thing, obviously, as I was picking up pine cones, dreaming of winter and my mother’s Dutch soup.

She still believes in fairies and elves that sew and make magic. In the bunny at Easter, Father Christmas and his gift to the lonely at the festive season. She dreams of great things for her children, for tucking in and stories. For family feasts and holding old hands as they speak of dances in tulle and pretty shoes. She believes in artists who suffered for their art. In flowers … she is a great believer in flowers, and seasons.

And she is not alone. Life may have send those curveballs in their hundreds. Despite all resistance raised the ugly of mankind and greed. In indifference. In broken hearts and broken dreams. Some of them did break, mangled and brick broken. Disenchantment. The practical and must do attitude remain foreign to the dreamer. Be it young, or older, those who dream – of what was, or could be is fundamental to the being.

True dreamers do not dream of millions (though it would help with that lotto ticket) or summers in Monaco – they dream of little things … like sunshine, nestling, a gathering of happy people. They dream of rain on the roof, saving the little fledgeling fallen, of tea to save the moment and every busker, every forgotten, every child given a chance. Of blossoms and crumpets on a grey day.

The nuns gave up on me. There had to be a cause and remedy, they thought. The girl likes cemeteries for goodness sake! The girl runs and dances in the garden during break. She builds houses from sticks and engages in witchery. The adult dreamer cries all the time. In the movies, at songs, just because the world is beautiful. And loves despite it all – loves snow, her children needing her, lovers and weddings. Best friends, coffee, missing all. She is the writer, the baker, the fetcher and believer that Paris is the city of love, still.

To say she was useless at fighting for the first spot, is true. That she was useless at being the competitive, the originator, the driven, is true. She choose to dream of mud luscious puddles and hated seeing ‘the kill’. Dreamers stay clear of aggression – of ‘that’s life’ for it is not their lives – love above all, is.

It is the best disease to have in life. To be a dreamer. It can be infectious in it’s own way.

Where are those nuns now I think. I hope dreaming that one little girl, now a Silver woman, stills sees the world in the most optimistic, though a veiled, humbalicious, magnificent, light way.

Image – pintrest

The dreamer’s disease. Fine by me.

Age does not make of you a dreamer less …

 

‘Oh dear.’ said Sister Margaret. ‘ This one’s a dreamer for sure.  What to do with her?’

Oh dear, in the Silver Street avenue, she is a dreamer still.  What will become of her?

When all my friends were dissecting the dead frog – I cried for the loss of the little jumping fellow. Cleary a biologist was not the future.

When others were doing their math – I as staging a ballet in the garage for the SPCA. Someone had to look after the abandoned animals.

Friends told me that golf was not my thing, obviously, as I was picking up pine cones, dreaming of winter and my mother’s Dutch soup.

She still believes in fairies and elves that sew and make magic.  In the bunny at Easter, Father Christmas and his gift to the lonely at the festive season.  She dreams of great things for her children, for tucking in and stories.  For family feasts and holding old hands as they speak of dances in tulle and pretty shoes.  She believes in artists who suffered for their art.  In flowers … she is a great believer in flowers, and seasons.

And she is not alone. Life may have send those curveballs in their hundreds.  Despite all resistance raised the ugly of mankind and greed.  In indifference.  In broken hearts and broken dreams.  Some of them did break, mangled and brick broken. Disenchantment. The practical and must do attitude remain foreign to the dreamer.  Be it young, or older, those who dream – of what was, or could be is fundamental to the being.

True dreamers do not dream of millions (though it would help with that lotto ticket) or summers in Monaco – they dream of little things … like sunshine, nestling, a gathering of happy people.  They dream of rain on the roof, saving the little fledgeling fallen, of tea to save the moment and every busker, every forgotten, every child given a chance.  Of blossoms and crumpets on a grey day.

The nuns gave up on me.  There had to be a cause and remedy, they thought.  The girl likes cemeteries for goodness sake!  The girl runs and dances in the garden during break.  She builds houses from sticks and engages in witchery.  The adult dreamer cries all the time.  In the movies, at songs, just because the world is beautiful. And loves despite it all – loves snow, her children needing her, lovers and weddings.  Best friends, coffee, missing all. She is the writer, the baker, the  fetcher and believer that Paris is the city of love, still.

To say she was useless at fighting for the first spot, is true.  That she was useless at being the competitive, the originator, the driven, is true.  She choose to dream of mud luscious puddles and hated seeing ‘the kill’. Dreamers stay clear of aggression – of ‘that’s life’ for it is not their lives – love above all, is.

It is the best disease to have in life.  To be a dreamer. It can be infectious in it’s own way.

Where are those nuns now I think.  I hope dreaming that one little girl, now a Silver woman,  stills sees the world in the most optimistic, though a veiled, humbalicious, magnificent, light way.

Image – pintrest

Humba Khale. Go well and to understand. And be understood.

Of moet dit wees ‘n stofdeeltje wat op die plaaspad beroer word en ‘n oomblikkie lank bestaan en weer gaan lê?

Of ‘n blink filofyn grassie wat ‘n oomblikkie lank die son sien voordat die skadu hom weer bedek, en sy blaartjies toevouw?

Dit is genoeg.  Dit is bestaan.

 

Elsa Joubert, ninety five years old, famous South African writer, has published her recent book, called ‘Spertyd.’   To beat a self-imposed deadline. A friend recommended I read this, thank you Marna, and I not only read it, but wished that everyone who has ever had to be with her mother in her last years, could.  Should.  I wish I had read this in my mother’s last years.

In all the taking care of my mother, the frustration, the worry and the knowing that time was short, I never really felt the devastation of growing old through her eyes.  Elsa makes it plain.  She is that age, and writes of the frustration of what it is like to lose everything, to be in a home where others die as regularly as meal times.

Brutally honest, humorous and poignant, she speaks of her own story.  Of being old and close to death.  The friends who were once there, and now gone, her husband.  All familiar lost yet not giving up. Not just yet.  Failure of body, prodding of medical, caring of strangers who become the lifeline of daily existence.  Frustrations and loss. Without complaining.

My mother never complained.  We were so adamant that she understand that selling her house was best for her, moving her to frail care was in her interest, having security and pills was essential.  Afternoon tea and trying to adjust was just the way it was.  Elsa speaks of the smallness of her reduced life, the going back when going forward is short, when being afraid is normal. Giving over and trying not to give up.  The uselessness of feeling valuable and counted for when all is shutting down.  And wondering about the purpose of it all, her life, her existence.  As I said, honest.

My mum is gone.  Many friends are struggling with the situation now.  They are exhausted and terrified at the same time. Children becoming parents and parents becoming children.  Elsa is never the child in her book, grateful for her family and acutely aware that her time has come, and gone but that her life counts for something. She makes the best of it, without regret.

She speaks for all who are there – at the end of the platform.

Humba Khale is a Zulu term for go well. Never goodbye but travel well.  This book shook me in a way that I always saw my mum’s life ending, but never as part of another journey where I cannot go.  I miss her still, but I am saying Humba Khale to her … and I am sorry I never really understood how it must have been, being removed, re-located, parcel in another chapter she wanted little part of. Without complaining – maybe we just get to that stage where we know others mean well and there is no point in fighting the inevitable?

What is our meaning, our purpose on this earth.

‘Or is it a speck of dust on a farm road, that stirs for a moment and then settles again? ‘

‘Or a shining tendril of grass that catches the sun for an instant before the shadow enfolds it again?

It is enough.  You exist.

Understand all, in youth and old age.  It will be your turn soon enough. Listen and remember the young girl in your mother and say ‘Humble Khale Mama’ – you were part of the universe and always will be.

Image: Dave Ross photography

 

 

The danger of the waning thrill.

There is a difference between being contentedly bored,

And that gnawing lull of ‘being over it’.

Now, would the second be something you feel lately?  I have. Admittedly I have times that the numbness of everything is nestlingly comfortable – and some may say a tad depressive, but it is a very real thing when life seems to be on playback and repeat rather than thrillingly mobile.

There are healthy debates about this, but the truth is that at this stage, all the gathering and doing and planning have could reached a flat lining plateau in your life.  The house has been painstakingly decorated, your clothes suffice, the garden is well, gardened and so forth.  You just don’t get the thrill out of shopping anymore (say what!) and work, relationships, just about everything seems dull and repetitive. Boring. 

A discussion the other day, about this very ‘blah’ feeling we get, is that our generation has perhaps really done it all in a shorter time frame;  we have been in many different jobs, travelled often, moved home more than a few times, educated and seen the children fly,  attended a hundred functions and over the gym.  Rather than toss our furniture and stuff – we hang onto them now for sentimental reasons – this reminds me of the children, that when our parents were alive – something else from someone else and our nest becomes our museum of our own making.  We hang onto clothes that may come in useful when the plague is back in fashion, or all those knitted jerseys and beanies never quite looked good so why knit some more?  Tired of your own cooking – it happens.  Cooking may even cease to be anything but practical. Series watching seems less work.

The Thrill is gone, or waning and leaving the building. 

Our lives seems to get smaller (some say they like this) and the thrill of starting anything new seems too much effort.

So, the other day, in one of those distinctly sitting and staring at nothing outside kind of moments, I was not bored, I was thrillless.  Without the slightest flicker of a thrill situation. This could have gone on indefinitely but I was likely to join the likes of Miss Havisham at the table with cobwebs glistening in my hair – it was time to realise I was the bad kind of bored.  I was the thrill missing in my life kind of bored and that is not good.  Not good at all. 

I was leaving my own table with nowhere to go.  So what to do other than the weekly must do’s and the occasional blimp of a highlight on the horizon. Anything but nothing I said to myself and set a task to get the bum off the chair and the blood pumping to Thrill status again.

It may not be skydiving but there are some thrilling little creative lists in action.

Don’t let the waning of thrill get the better of you. And don’t tell me you are content. Only Charlotte Collins, nee Lucas, is. Choose Elizabeth Bennet.

 

Images:  Craft your content.

Never, never apologise for loving someone.

Do you know that the heart is the strongest organ in your body?  It breaks so many times and yet it still goes on, ready for the next opportunity to love someone.  Over and over again.  It is not the heartbreaks we should tally, but the ability, the amazing ability we have to love.  In so many ways, for so many people, and for that, and your heart, you should never apologise for loving.  You just should.

I remember the heartbreaks.  Times when you felt foolish and rejected and stupid for giving your heart to another.  When the euphoria of being loved turns into a ghost. Rather than smitten are shattered. As one gets older the loving becomes deeper, and the heartbreak fathomless. 

But, and I say but … don’t. Do not allow yourself to be diminished by the rejection of another.  You loved someone, be it familial, sexual, friendship, there are so many different kinds of love and if you gave your heart to someone, you did good. You loved.

Tonight this is on my mind.  Having returned from a dinner with close friends, childhood still matters friends, we spoke of past and present loves:  the love for our parents, first crushes, children, some that lasted and others that scarred.  Those lesions are part of the journey. Be they right, or wrong, given in the light or given in hope, each one is the making of you. Which is why one should never take those moments you gave your heart, when you loved someone and apologise for doing it, even if it never stayed the distance. They are the making of you and you did good. You loved.

The world is cloaked in easy blaming, in broken dreams and fractured hearts.  Call me naive but I cannot buy into the whole, you did this and I did this thing if it was done with love. Got the plot all messed up … shared in the hurting and goodbyes? You are human, with all those delectable nuances of stuffing up royally when you should not have.  Where were all those Calvinistic codes you thought you had down pat when love came through the wall of your chapter? What does Sunday School help when someone tells you they love you and it may not be part of your plan?  You just love I guess.  You just love. 

So the conversation went: don’t see them anymore … they hurt me … they broke my heart … I never want to see them again and so on.  And I thought … hang on … hating someone you loved says something about you … okay they hurt you, you hurt them, but you loved them right … so you did good … you should remember that you did. Or maybe still do … and you must never apologise for that. It was agreed.

As we age, in our Silver Streets, it’s time to count the chapters and those you loved.  And admit that you were fortunate to have felt love in the first place. 

So, to my first boyfriend who tossed me, to the Varsity loves, the crazy years, the marriage years, the children years, the friendship years … each one as you look back, were actually pretty interesting … and the reason for this is …  you loved each and everyone. Never, never apologise for that. Some people never get to have that … and you have had that in abundance. 

And do we need love … for sure so honey, you just keep on doing it. Your heart can take it.

 

Image. Seacampion

 

Dear Social Media… have you been a naughty girl?

 

  Baby you can drive my car … but hope you ain’t taking me over a cliff anytime soon.

If you only knew how long it took this Silver Streeters to get to know you. I mean let’s face it, some things were not in my schoolbooks back in the day – twitter this and twitter that, loading Instagram (which I have noticed many are less than instant what with blossoms in December if you get my drift) and Facebook was this anemone’s way of checking up on her long lost what you want to call it people, it took time right?  Let’s not even go to the Snapchat number, I mean who wants to spend time loading a picture and have it snap and vanish … ah maybe some of you do, but I was quite happy with the chosen three to the point of addiction and say what … now the dark side powers that be have been selling my data to the enemy? Little old moi?

I am innocent M’Lord.  Checking it all out is what makes the tube ride shorter.  Focussing on the snapping of flowers, sunsets, bridges and tufts of snow helps me focus on pretty things when the world is bug ugly. Innocent stuff indeed. Thought I was being challenged and victorious when words were limited to limericks and so many characters and yes, believed all these warriors were my army in business and marketing. So what if I told you where I went to school and proved to the world that may children were the best in it – harmless stuff. My voice.

For now it seems my trivial pursuits are part of a darker scheme. Could it be that I have voted for Trump without knowing, that my ‘I am here at Heathrow’ has sent a subliminal message to the trackers who have twisted my course for their own benefit?  Shudder M’Lord, shudder and shake at the thought that I many have swayed the Brexit vote – could it be? Mais non!

Say it isn’t so.  I am just little old me wanting to have a voice that tells my story, not yours. Thought you were the sisterhood but maybe you are the sinister hood after all.  Get it about Ads and such, but voting and endorsing other people’s screwball antics is not what I followed you for.  So you big guns with the golden pockets (lined by the likes of little old me) get your act together and clean up your conspiracies. I don’t want to delete (oh dear what shall I do if I don’t have you) so let me play and go about my business of pretty things without feeling like Salieri with the possible poison.

Phew!  There I have said it. If you want me to be your friend in the future, you are going to have to stop being a naughty girl – my BFF’s do not use me, turn on me or help me sway an election.

We have a lot to give, but it will be on our terms okay?  This way we all get to win.

Your dubious friend on Facebook.

Images Telegraph, Hastac

Rainy days and Mondays are perfect.

  ‘Rainy days and Mondays …’  Paul Williams did not like them.  I loved both yesterday.  Don’t love drab, soot cloudy sky in perpetuity, or bone cold, but yesterday, the rain and the beginning of a new week was perfect. No death eaters in sight.

No thinking of them yesterday.  I choose instead to work in the Orangerie, a diamond view of the Kitchen Garden at Ham House. Echoes of 1672 on a rainy day – there is birdsong, and the dripping of drops from the eaves.  Old books, warm kitchen cafe and tea.  Lots of tea.

Standing in what could have been a scene from Bridget Jones, only I waiting for the bus with the huddled in Richmond, narrowly missing the wave of water every time a bus stops here, I knew it would be a long walk.  The House is far for the footed and public bus travellers.  It meant a walk in the rain, with bag, another bag and countryside challenges.  I had three options:  the river walk, which may have swollen and cut off the path, the meadow and turnstiles, possible deep drifts of water and horses to tread lightly past – and the longer, but safer option in the wet.  Longer being the operative word. It’s a Winnie-the-Pooh kind of thing and this was English country living mouse time.

In the quiet of the Orangerie, I sat still.  Worked in stillness. Beginning of the week plans and execution of business, immersion of garden and planting for future crops. The tulips are budding, the ducks conversing on the river and I am telling you this because it all felt … so peaceful. So very English countryside life. Unhurried and uncomplicated which is anything but what some of our lives are in Silver Street.

I work seven days a week.  Commute most of these.  Taken to pencil writing in the diary for all the changes that happen – it’s just the way it is at the moment, so when it rained, was Monday and a good one and I wanted to share it with you.  Times you just have to find the quiet corner and be still.

Would have been a good time to pen a poem, but that was asking a little too much.  Time ran out.

Puddle luscious, drenched and not a care in the world, for a Monday.  Was a good one. A new page didn’t care if the hair went wild kind of day.  Find the same, just for a little while.