The Intrepid Sentimentalist

Five Quick Takes

1. I keep trying to write a post about my transformation into a ninja, and failing. I am fairly clear on what I want to say, but however hard I try, it sounds ridiculous. Not good-ridiculous, just...silly. And dull. 

So: OK, no, not a ninja. But I have taken a couple of self-defense lessons with someone called Grand Master Angelo. Pretty TMNT, if you ask me. 

It was just the two lessons, then I was declared lethal. Well, not lethal, but capable of inflicting serious pain if needed. It was a good feeling. Also, who knew hitting people was so much fun?

 

2. My children are becoming increasingly picky when it comes to food. At dinner time, you will often hear the words "I want my pasta withooooouuuut sauce" wailed from two different directions. 

Pasta without sauce, I keep telling them, is just flour. They don't seem to care. 

In an effort to shake things up a little, I have ordered a meat grinder. If that doesn't scare them into compliance, nothing will. 

(Alternatively, I can make all kinds of mince. They like mince.)

 

3. Our garden is finished. It looks, quite frankly, amazing. There is no mud. There is only beauty and clean, clean grass and even cleaner paving slabs. The children love it. I love it. The tadpoles in the plastic tank in the corner would love it, but they only get to admire it through a haze of wet grass and tadpole manure. 

We are, as they say, very happy. Even the tadpoles.

 

4. Kelev's remains are in a little wooden box on my desk. I don't know what to say about that. I would just like to point out that it seems to hurt more with time, not less. 

I miss him. 

 

 5. We are going on holiday in 38 days. I cannot wait. Actually, I am torn between being ridiculously excited, and petrified that chicken pox  volcanic ash   attack of the killer tomatoes something is going to get in the way. 

I am sure it will be fine. 

Did you click on the link? Did you see the map? Did you think, wow, how amazing to be on a really, really thin strip of land in the middle of the Atlantic? Or, bloody hell, that place would be obliterated in a tsunami?

Don't answer that please.

Kaputt

My computer died. It started making this strange sound one evening - imagine running a rough pebble over a cheese grater - and the following morning, it was dead. Not surprising, really, given the cheese grater sound effects.

There was no sentimental attachment. My computer was just a tool, and a big, clunky one at that. I still have my collection of iPads, so I am not feeling too deprived. But the one thing it was good for was writing. iPads are useless for typing anything more than "me too!" or possibly "I bloody hate this stupid cold weather OMG OMG OMG". 

So clearly, a replacement is needed. I am tempted by a laptop. My very own laptop, new and beautiful, not just one of Dave's hand-me-downs. I like the idea of being able to write in the kitchen, or when I'm on holiday, or anywhere at all really. I am just not sure if typing on a laptop is as satisfyingly solid as on a real, proper, old-fashioned sweaty grey plastic keyboard.

Which is why I am writing this post. I have borrowed Dave's MacBook Air to see if I might possibly get used to writing on it. So far, it seems ok. I will try a more demanding post in a day or two. I have to tell you all about my recent transformation into a ninja. 

Yes, really. Kind of. 

 

Let's talk literature

I know. Let's pretend! Let's pretend my brain is anything like it was all those moons ago (approximately 136 moons, I reckon) when I used to study literature and linguistics and write long, coherent essays about subjects like Changing Seasons in Tess of the D'Urbervilles and Gender Targeting in Magazine Adverts. 

Ha! I am fooling nobody. It's not even April 1 anymore. 

Okay, I did study those subjects, and I did write those essays, but let's not kid ourselves. The old grey matter is precisely that, old, and occupied by very different thought processes these days. 

No, I won't bore you with examples. 

Nevertheless, I still like to read. I believe I recently mentioned that I had started reading a number of different horror books, having discovered an article with some very persuasive recommendations. Sadly, that went nowhere. Despite my early and voracious appetite for everything written by Messrs King and Koontz, I have never been able to find a suitably grown-up alternative. 

(I still think Stephen King is the best storyteller alive, and I believe I have read more or less his entire oeuvre. But horror-wise his later books are not comparable to say, Salem's Lot or It.)

(Let's not even talk about what has happened to Dean Koontz.)

So for now, I have given up on horror books.

This is long, but it's not very coherent, is it? I did warn you. 

What I wanted to say, and it has taken me this long to get to the point, was that I bought a new book yesterday. This book. It's a collection of short stories called This Is How You Lose Her, by Junot Diaz. So far, excellent. Strange, and occasionally difficult because it is peppered with odd, colloquial Spanish, but the writing is unique and powerful.

I don't know why it's been so long since I bought a book of short stories. A good short story, to me, is perfection. When it works, it's a smooth marriage of poetry and fiction. You get a story, a proper plot, but there's also that feeling that you get from your favourite poems.

(Sorry. If you don't know what I mean, or don't have any favourite poems, I can only pity you and urge you to read more poetry. I know that sounds patronizing. Deal with it.)

Ahem. It would appear that I am only capable of rambling on endlessly, so I will stop here. I am sorely tempted to delete this entire post, but then I wouldn't be able to share my favourite short stories and my favourite poems with you. 

And wouldn't that be a real shame?

Please don't answer that.

Swirling

I have to write something, anything, because I can't bear seeing the previous post at the top of the page any longer. 

Sadly my brain is frazzled. It's full of little fragments of today, swirling around in my head like newly hatched neon tetras. Blink, blink, blink.

Mugs of tea. The children on a yellow roundabout, going too fast, screaming. Trying, then failing, to find a lost cucumber in our stupidly big fridge. Changing sheets. Watching the snowflakes outside the window. Eating a custard cream while watching the kettle, waiting for it to boil. More mugs of tea. Noticing that I need to go and get petrol soon. A loose tooth, finally coming out. Peppa Pig soap in the bath tub. Reading the Jungle Book, forgetting to whisper Kaa's voice. Feeding the dog.

So many little moments. 

Someone, I'd never met him before, said to me today: "Sounds like you have a very nice life!"

I do. It just seems to go very quickly, that's all. 

He's gone

It took a while. It took long enough that I almost regretted writing that last post about Kelev, because clearly, he was going to be around for quite a while. He wasn't great, but he was okay. Until he wasn't.

On Thursday, Kelev died in my arms, nudged along by an injection of blue liquid. It was, as they say, a good death. It was peaceful. It was quick. He wasn't in any pain. But as he stopped breathing and became limp - so horribly, totally, limp - it was all I could do not to scream at the vet and tell her it was a mistake, that we had to do something, anything, to reverse this terrible, awful error. How could killing my beloved friend ever be the right thing to do?

I don't know. I think it was, but how can you ever be sure? He was getting worse, quickly. Painfully thin, barely eating, falling over, shaking. He would no longer relax when I held him - he didn't seem to know I was there - and most of the time he had no idea where he was. He slept a lot, deeply, his breathing both shallow and slow.

He didn't seem to be in any pain. I wanted to make sure we didn't get to that point, so we decided to intervene. After we made the decision, he went downhill quickly, making it easier for us to go ahead with it. On Thursday morning, I held him close, fed him chicken liver pate, and told him what a wonderful dog he had been, and how grateful I was. By 11:45, he was gone.

Was it upsetting? Of course. You don't share half your life with someone without feeling a crushing, mind-numbing sense of loss when they are gone. I keep bursting into tears at random moments, and I feel an urge to paper the walls of our house with pictures like this one.

But at the same time, his death has made me realise that it has been a long time since he was the dog I used to love so much. Old age arrived, changed him, changed everything. At the time it was upsetting, sometimes even annoying. But now I see that those changes prepared me - the loss wasn't sudden, wasn't unexpected. It was lots of small, almost imperceptible steps towards this one, final destination. I am grateful for that now.

It has also given me the chance to remember him as he used to be, which is something Dave and I have spent a lot of time doing in these last two days. That helps, too.

I'm never completely sure where I stand, as far as any kind of afterlife is concerned. But I have never been quite as keen to believe in it as I am now. Surely, one day, somewhere, I will meet Kelev and our other dog Lilly again? I have to believe that.

While they're waiting, this is how I like to think they spend their time.

Forest affairs

I can be quite naive. Well, maybe that's harsh. Let's be nice, and just call it blissfully ignorant. Either way, when a friend of mine told me that "dogging" is quite common in the New Forest, I assumed she was referring to some sort of canine pastime. You know, like agility. Or maybe fox hunting. 

Yes. Turns out I was wrong. 

My friend - who used to work for the Forestry Commission and as such is very well informed - assured me that it was not the innocent puppy play I was envisaging. No, "dogging", it turns out, is when people go out to car parks in the Forest and make wild, passionate lurve in their cars - all for the benefit of the dog walkers who are standing outside their windows, panting, as it were.

Apparently those dog walkers aren't innocent either - they have been known to, shock, horror, join in. My friend explained that if you leave your car unlocked, that's the equivalent of a cosy little Welcome In  doormat. 

Indeed. 

Anyway. After my friend told me all this, and mentioned some of the car parks where it takes place, I was obviously curious about how common all this really was. When I'm curious, I Google. So I did. Although not for long,  because some of the things I found were strangely incompatible with peaceful pizza-making in the kitchen. Yuck. 

No, I didn't read much, but there was one bizarre forum thread where lots of men posted about single women who show up in these car parks looking for, ahem, action. Lots of other men then disagreed, saying it had never happened and all those pining single ladies are just a forest myth. Blah blah. Lonely men arguing online, not exactly revolutionary. 

So. Today I took Penny for a walk in the Forest. Can you see where this is going yet? Good. Please don't panic.

I was planning on going to Vereley Hill, but that car park was closed for the winter, so I decided to park at Vereley, across the road. Yes, I vaguely remembered that it was one of the places my friend had mentioned, but it was ten in the morning and the sun was shining, for heaven's sake. Surely all those sordid little dog people only have sex in the dark, or under bushes, or something? The car park was busy with what looked like totally normal people (or maybe just really perverted people who get their kicks from pretending to be 75 years old and drinking tea from a flask, what do I know?) and the road was busy. 

I took Penny for a walk, and it was lovely. Sunshine for me, mud for Penny, blue skies, horses. Bliss. 

Then we returned to the car. Penny jumped in the car, and I changed out of my muddy wellington boots. I don't know why, but I felt unusually awkward getting changed. I was very aware that I kind of had to bend down a little. Then I felt stupid, because really, there was nobody around - all the other cars were parked at the opposite end of the car park. 

Another friend of mine had sent me an email, and I decided to make the most of the peace and quiet and read and reply to it in the car. I got into the car, closed the door, and started reading. The sun was shining, I was hot, I opened the window. 

Ten seconds later, a man in a white van pulled up next to my car. 

I froze. He rolled down his window - I could hear the music he was playing, it was quite loud. 

Now, this is where you will realise that I have been in this country for too long. What did I feel? Two things: intense embarrassment and a very slight sense of guilt. The guilt meant that I had to fight the urge to apologize to him - "I'm sorry! I'm sorry I opened my window! I'm sorry I parked here! I really don't want to get in your van with you, I'm ever so terribly sorry for giving you the wrong impression!". Madness, right?

Luckily, the embarrassment won, so I threw on my sunglasses and reversed out of there like a crab on wheels. Well, no, crabs are good at moving backwards whereas I'm awful, but I was pretty speedy considering couldn't remember what the car park looked like and the view was limited.

As I drove out on the road, I saw the white van moving back to the other side of the car park.

And that was the peaceful end of my morning adventure. I won't be going back next week. In fact, I won't be going back until I replace Penny with a Rottweiler. Or a piranha. 

 

Three random things

Have no fear, faithful reader(s). I am still here. I am just not sure what is happening to time lately. I feel like I am in some sort of strange loop where time just rushes forward and I get absolutely nothing done. Well, nothing substantial anyway. I do manage to feed, clothe and wash everyone. 

But I do want to keep writing, so here. Three random things:

1) I went out for a meal with some friends last night. This doesn't happen often. Actually, I would say it has only happened once since Edwin was born. It wasn't a big event - just a Wednesday night in a local Indian. But it meant I could, you know, wash my hair and put some lipstick on. I was looking forward to it. 

Naturally, my children responded by spontaneously developing a fever (Edwin) and a stomach bug (Esther). There were tears. There was pleading. There were desperate hugs and lots of "mamma pleeeeease don't leave when I'm feeling so poorly."

Here's the surprising thing: I left. I didn't even feel too guilty. I knew they would be more than okay in the capable hands of their daddy, and I told Esther that if she started to feel really awful, I would come home. So I left. I had a really fun, relaxed evening. And everyone survived.

That might not sound like a big deal. But it kind of was, to me.

2) I was walking Penny on the beach the other day when I met an old German gentleman who somehow managed to tell me his life story (it involved lots of oil, as far as I can recall) and insult my dog in less than ten minutes. He bent down to pat her, laughed, and said "You're a fat little girl, aren't you?"

I was surprised by how much I wanted to kick him in the head.

(For the record, she is not fat. I checked with the vet today.)

3) The pit of mud is no more! Well, it is, but it's a pit of mud that has been created by three strong men and a digger, and it's a pit with a purpose. A pit that will very soon be transformed into something wonderful. Something non-muddy. 

We are very excited. 

The only downside is that I hadn't realised that the price for the garden would be £xxxx,xx + 7300 mugs of tea. Seriously. Tea is its own currency in this country. If you don't provide workmen with regular cups of tea, they are likely to, I don't know, bury a horse under your pergola. Or leave bodily waste under your petunias. Or spit on your windows. I really don't know, and I don't want to find out.

So there I am, like a smiling Stepford wife, stepping out with three steaming mugs of tea (two with two spoons of sugar, one without) four or five times a day. Invariably, I am greeted with smiles and  appreciation, but the whole ritual still feels vaguely alien to me. 

Whatever. If it gets rid of the mud, I am happy.

Remember, this is the good version. It was a thousand times worse.

Less mud, more cake.

Would you believe that since I wrote my last post, we have not had a single drop of rain? Clearly I should have written it a long time ago. 

Anyway, I have not been able to post of picture of the pit of mud since it's not actually that muddy at the moment. It's still vile though. I will post a picture later and you'll see what I mean. 

In other news, I am baking a blood orange and olive oil cake. I will post a picture of that later, too. Recipe here. 

The pit of mud and unspeakable horror

Words are good. Words are useful. If you want to describe something, anything, words are usually the way to go. 

Our garden, however, is beyond words. 

I am not joking. There are no words that could possibly convey just how horrific our garden is at the moment. I will try, of course. But I don't think you will get anywhere near the full horror of it until I post a picture tomorrow.

Why is it so awful? I can name five reasons:

1) This has been an absurdly wet winter. Our garden is damp at the best of times, but this year, it has turned into a swamp. Not pretty and interesting with alligators and herons - just vile and wet. Like a rubbish tip after a hot shower.

2) The children occasionally - very occasionally, and you will soon see why - venture out in their wellies and stamp around, making holes bigger and turning small mud patches into slides large enough for an elephant party.

3) By delightful coincidence, the wettest winter ever has also been the first winter with a large, boisterous puppy who needs/wants to go outside every hour or so. When she's out, she runs around in the manner of a demented polar bear, shredding like a seal carcass whatever trophy she grabbed on the way out (cereal box/sock/plastic bag/carrot/rawhide chew). She then leaves the ripped up bits of rubbish strewn across what used to be our lawn. It looks like confetti after a wedding in hell. 

Speaking of things that she leaves, there is also That. The Things. The unspeakable matter. Crap, basically. I won't go into too much detail but if you saw the things she leaves, you would assume she was a shetland pony. Or seven. 

I clear it up, of course, but because of the mud and the water and the general horror, I can't quite get all of it. It sticks to things. It is now part of the mud. Are you starting to see why this is so horrific? Good.

4) There is also Old Dog. Still alive. Still shitting. Only his are tiny and impossible to see, until they are right there, stuck to the bottom of Dave's Crocs or my wellies or Penny's paws.

I think that's enough said about that.

5)I'm not sure there is a five. I think those four things cover it pretty well.

I could talk about how much mud/not just mud gets dragged into my house on an hourly basis, but I won't. It will just make me cry. Plus you'll never want to come and visit me, and that would be a shame. 

Instead: onwards and upwards. Positive action. Happy thoughts. Dry thoughts. Clean thoughts!

The end is in sight. Well, if not in sight, in some sort of reach. Eventually. If all goes well and we don't run out of money or my husband has an expense-induced aneurysm. I have contacted a landscape designer and they are currently working out a miraculous way to transform my landscape of doom and dogshit into a pleasant, clean, child-friendly, clean, dry, lovely and clean helicopter landing pad. Well, no. Although that would be clean, and it is tempting. But they are working on something. When I know more, I will tell you more. 

For now, suffice it to say that I am beyond excited at the thought of having a garden that we will actually be able to use. Without rubber boots and latex gloves. 

(Still not joking.)