disappearing act

Oops.

After all my ramblings you’d be forgiven for thinking I’d run off to actually be someone else. I just don’t know where the last three weeks have gone!

I usually find a hint while looking through my photographs.

Hmm, yes.

So, there’s been a trip to London (for work), trips to lots of other places (for work) and some festive flute choir expeditions. Also some failed soap-making (more on that later), and lopping down of trees in the garden (more on that later too). I spent a weekend at the national permaculture diploma gathering (er, more on that later too). And a bit of time wandering around some fields and some more time knitting.

Oh, and Peter bought 67 bananas that were reduced to £1.50 so I’ve spent quite a lot of time eating those.

This week’s adventure was having the gas supply cut off. Fortunately it was all a misunderstanding and we do not have a gas leak, and everything is switched back on again. Thank goodness.

We do need a new cooker though, and I’m a little bit sad because the old one is quite old and I’ve come to think of her rather fondly. I say ‘her’ because she’s a Flavel ‘Fiona’, and she’s been with Peter for over 25 years (and was well used by someone else before that). It’ll be sad to see her go but she could probably do with a rest now.

(and yes, I could have tidied up before taking that photo, but then you might not have heard from me for another three weeks)

The reason we had people fiddling with the gas supply in the first place was to have a smart meter fitted. While I know not everyone approves of these, for us it’s a good option. We get a little ‘Pippit’ display which tells us how much gas and electricity we’re using, and we can keep track of how much our bill will be.

Over the years, several plumbers have told us we need a new boiler. We much prefer to repair things where we can, and fortunately have found a cheery plumber who is willing to keep our boiler going as long as he can (it’s pretty much as old as me). I confess I don’t trust people who just take one look at the outside and say ‘that’s ancient love, you might as well get a new one’.

Ours isn’t the most efficient boiler, and we’d likely save a few quid on our monthly bill if we replaced it, but we just can’t bring ourselves to do it until it’s necessary.

For now, it still works. Which is fortunate because things have turned rather chilly out there.

Wrap up warm folks!

sometimes i want to be somebody else

This is the view from our kitchen window, and I sometimes wonder what life would be like with a different view.

Not from a different house (although I do think about that often enough), but a view from a different life, through a different set of eyes. And not because I don’t like my life, because I do. But in idle moments I think about what it would be like to be someone else for a while.

I know I’m not alone, because Victoria Wood wrote a song about this very thing. It makes me laugh every time I hear it, because it’s so true. She sings about not wanting to be reincarnated as a famous historical figure, but rather as just another ordinary woman, with a different ordinary life. And I understand, because that’s what I want too.

I’ve had a surprising number of jobs in my life. I’ve worked in a newsagents, a factory, and a nightclub. I’ve worked for a conservation charity, handed out leaflets for a hairdresser, and taken notes in lectures for deaf students. I’ve written reports for construction industry seminars. I’ve been a personal assistant, taught economics to undergraduates, and for a short time I was self employed as a Victorian. I even spent a day as a lingerie model. Many of those jobs I’ve enjoyed, and some I’ve loathed, but all have given me a glimpse into what it might be like to be somebody else.

Years ago at a family Christmas do, the conversation turned to dancing. I made some wild declaration (as I do now and then) that I was going to leave work and become a ballerina (while twirling ineptly around the room). ‘You can’t be a ballerina!’ I was told, ‘you need to start when you’re a child!’

I seem to remember declaring ‘I can do whatever I want!’ and being told I couldn’t be an astronaut, a physicist, and a variety of other eminent professions. My young cousin joined in, telling me ‘you can’t be an elephant!’ (there’s a certain logic to that, at least…).

My family of course were right – given my age and lack of athletic background or any interest in science, it’s unlikely I’m going to make it as a professional astronaut or ballerina any time soon. But my interest in wanting to know what it’s like to be those things will never go away, and might explain my desire to do so many different things at once and never settle on any particular thing. Even if I won’t be an astronaut, I can learn a little about the stars, maybe even dress up in a space suit once in a while, and get a feel for what it might be like.

Because I can’t live all those other lives, I sometimes imagine I’m looking at my own life from the outside. Have you ever tried doing this? It’s fascinating. Just observe yourself, even on a dull day, and watch the little things you do automatically, and think about why you do them. It’s almost as good as observing someone else.

Today, for example, I watched myself lie in bed for almost an hour after the alarm went off, and then run to the bus stop and eat my breakfast on the bus (and if the me from ten years ago had seen myself I would have rolled my eyes in horror). I saw myself get excited about a potential new project, and my disappointment after I was told it wasn’t possible. I ate leftover risotto for lunch, and donated ten forks to the communal kitchen as I was fed up eating my lunch with a spoon.

Nobody else saw me sneak to the cafe for a sweet treat this afternoon, and nobody saw me make a hot chocolate and put 20p in our saving-up-to-replace-the-hot-chocolate pot (because I’ll happily pay £2.50 for a hot chocolate in a cafe, but somehow paying £2.50 for a jar of hot chocolate that will make 15 cups feels extortionate). Nobody saw me make a gantt chart that only I will ever see. Nobody saw what I wrote (and then deleted) in response to some reviewers’ comments on an article I’d written.

When I was younger, I used to imagine that when you died, you and all your friends got to sit and watch a video of your entire life, start to finish, in real time. I loved the idea of showing other people all the tiny details of my life that they’d missed out on, and I loved the idea of seeing theirs. I didn’t think too much about the practicalities (would my friends all be dead at the same time? How would we ever have enough time to watch everyone else’s lives in real time? Would it actually be really boring??) I was too focused on thinking about how fascinating it would be.

Maybe that’s what I’m doing here, trying to pin down some of what I do to show somebody else. I’m quite obsessive about writing things down sometimes – I keep this blog, but I also write elsewhere on several different forums, and in emails, and letters, and usually have at least a couple of notebooks on the go. I make myself charts and lists and am forever declaring goals and intentions and ticking things off.

Why? Am I afraid of forgetting what things are like? I do love to read what I wrote when I was younger, and often curse myself for having been such a poor diary writer as a teenager (they’re full of typical teenager things – mostly ‘it’s not fair!’ and ‘they don’t understand!’). Am I trying to justify what I do? (I’m not sure I’m doing a very good job of that!)

Maybe, since I can’t live everyone else’s lives, I’m just trying to make sure anyone else can read a piece of mine, just like I love to do with other people’s.

What about you? Are you as nosey as me? I’d love it if you told me something about yourself!

yorkshire sculpture park

Today we’ve been to Yorkshire Sculpture Park, and I don’t know how I’ve lived here for eleven years and not been before.

I also don’t know how I managed to take so many photographs (155!) and yet so few pictures of sculptures…

Oh wait – that’s one – I almost didn’t recognise it for a second as it looks just like a set of steps.

Ah, there’s another – Andy Goldsworthy this time, and while I do like some of his work, these dead trees suspended in stone felt a little sad.

(Yes, I know they’re trees. And dead.)

I imagined a field full of large, obvious sculptures, and that is there near to the buildings, but a trail runs for nearly five miles right round the park, and today was the perfect day to wander through the woods in all their autumnal glory.

Every so often we’d come across another sculpture, peeking out through the trees.

Anthony Gormley this time. Bet it’s a good view from up there.

I confess I’m not much of a sculpture fan, and I’m not sure why I suggested we go there today (it might have had something to do with the cafe).

The thing that captivated me most wasn’t a sculpture at all – it was these bright blue berries. I have no idea what they are. They look just like robins’ eggs.

Utterly charming. It took me a while to realise they were real.

We so very much enjoyed being outside. These past two weeks have felt dark and a little shut in, and a good stomp through the woods with some long views was just what we needed.

I was very taken with the exhibition of Emily Sutton‘s paintings in the gallery too, especially this one. They did have a few cards in the shop but sadly none of the ones I was fond of. It seems she has a studio in York though, so maybe one day I’ll peek in on the way home from work.

I’m tired now. We’ve been outside for hours, walked miles, and eaten nothing but cake. If that doesn’t warrant a bath I don’t know what does.

my garden, myself

I haven’t talked about the garden much lately, not because I haven’t thought about it (because I have, oh so very much), but because I haven’t been out there much and I feel a bit guilty.

It’s been nagging at my mind to do an update, but I didn’t know what to write until I popped over to the wonderful Grow Write Guild and saw the latest prompt:

What does your garden say about you?

Well, if you asked the garden itself, I’m pretty sure it would say I was a slovenly, idle mistress, prone to grand ideas and flights of fancy but unwilling to put in the effort required to keep up any semblance of order.

Which sounds about right.

But it got me to thinking that what the garden says about me depends on who’s asking.

If you ask people who know me, and who grow food, they’d ask how I managed to kill off two courgette plants when everyone else is overwhelmed with them.

If you asked someone who loves flowers, they might admire the fuchsia and the planter full of nasturtiums, both still blooming late into autumn.

If you asked the neighbours, they might tell you how much less neglected it looks now than in previous years (and they might also note that it’s probably about time to prune the willow hedge)

And if you asked me?

I might tell you that right now the garden says I want to grow food, but am pulled in other directions. The garden holds evidence of activity – a functioning compost bin, a full watering can, laid out beds and even some kale. But there’s also evidence of neglect – empty pots, dead plants, untidy corners, abandoned tools. If you look at my list of how much I’ve harvested this year, you’ll see October’s harvest ran to a total of £1.80. Hardly spectacular.

I’ve been thinking a lot about what I want the garden to say about me.

I want it to say that I love colour and abundance and lying in the sunshine watching the birds. I want it to say that I can find a use for things that would otherwise be thrown away, and also that I have enough attention to see a plant through a whole season. I want people to look in and smile, not mentally make a list of jobs that need doing.

I’ve got many plans for the garden this coming year. I’m using it as one of my projects for my permaculture diploma, so I’ve been out there measuring and creating maps with overlays of greaseproof paper showing wind direction and shadows.

I’m slowly coming to the conclusion that this is not the place to grow food, not in the way that I’ve tried to anyway. I’ve been offered the use of a friend’s garden to grow in, so that will change how I use this one quite dramatically. For the first time I’m thinking about colour and shape and a planting scheme.

I’m quite excited to see what it says about me when I’m done…

more wanderings

We’ve been wandering around the city again.

A different side this time, and one I’m not too familiar with, although I have crossed over this river before. This is the River Don, and our walk was another part of the Sheffield Country Walk, which eventually takes you all the way round the outskirts of the entire city.

Just four miles for us this time, in the cold autumnal wind. Along the river, through the woods, up the hill, and out onto this edge, where the wind almost blew us away and I saw the city from an angle I’ve never seen it from before and barely recognised it.

We took a detour from Birley Edge down Jaw Bone hill. This is one of the hills Le Tour climbed up when they came through in the summer, and we were very glad we were going down and not up (although down would have been much easier if we’d been on bicycles!)

We’re enjoying this new weekend tradition of ours. As we head towards winter and the days feel short and dark, it feels good to be outside, stomping about in the leaves and watching the landscape change. Things can feel rather gloomy at this time of year, and I’m happier when I’m outside (or when I’ve just been outside and I’m now inside wrapped around a hot chocolate).

Have you been exploring anywhere local to you lately?

sorry fishermen only

A couple of weeks ago, a friend and I went to Wetlands Animal Park. I’d not been before, and knew nothing about the place, other than it had lemurs and llamas (neither of which seemed very wet).

It was quite a surreal afternoon.

We were the only visitors, and shared the cafe with several inquisitive peacocks.

We walked around the lake, and had a fit of the giggles at these signs on every gate that led to the lake.

Cheerful fisherman? Unrepentent fisherman? Heaven forbid – fisherwoman? Be gone!

We spent a happy few minutes taking photographs of ourselves acting like sorry fishermen.

Childish, I know.

It was a pretty place, but felt strangely empty with just us in there. We did see the lemurs, and the llamas, and, oddly, a yak. And more peacocks (including a purely white one), and some prairie dogs, which were my favourite animals when I was small.

I got another fit of the giggles when the peacocks hopped into the prairie dog enclosure. A prairie dog would pop up, see a peacock and disappear – and then the peacock would stick its head down the hole, looking for the prairie dog.

Most amusing.

I always have mixed feelings about places like this. The animals seemed well cared for and happy – but there’s a large part of me that feels a yak would be much happier in Tibet than the outskirts of Rotherham.

It was another sunny day, and felt very autumnal.

I’m afraid I giggled again at the coati enclosure.

I’ve not seen a coati before – they seemed like a cross between a guinea pig and a hare, about the size of a small sheep. The sign said ‘they use a slightly hostile creche system’ – and trying to imagine what on earth that meant made me giggle again.

And then we found a pin board with a list of the food to give to the animals, including specific treats for each one. Mostly it was as you’d expect – a bale of hay for the yaks (with fruit and vegetables as treats) – but I was quite taken with the thought of the meercats enjoying ‘baked potato and hard boiled eggs’…

After all that giggling it was time for another cup of tea (in a different cafe this time).

We did share that cheesecake – but it wasn’t quite enough, so we followed it up with a shared piece of carrot cake.

Sometimes half a piece of cake just isn’t enough.

waste not, want not

Oh dear.

This poor little dotty bag has been looking a little worse for wear for a while now.

I’ve been on the lookout for a replacement, but nothing quite fit the bill.

A couple of weeks ago we took a car full of stuff from the cellar to the tip. In the pile was an ancient MDF table from an old campervan (not ours, sadly). The table was rotting, but the jolly picnic oilcloth on the top was still in good condition, so I peeled it off and brought it home again (this is why our house will never be clutter-free and minimalist).

I spied my dotty, blotchy bag and a plan started forming…

Two hours of cursing and sewing and undoing later, and I’d made an exact replica of my old bag, in brand new picnic oilcloth with a new dotty lining.

I couldn’t tell you how I did it. I wish I could remember. I undid all the seams on the old one, rescued the handles and the base, drew round everything – and then spent the next two hours putting it all together in various combinations and unstitching them again.

At one point I’d managed to sew the handles inside the lining of the bag. Later I sewed the entire bag up inside out.

Eventually I made it work, and I’m rather taken with it. It’s the wrong season really. It doesn’t feel like a bag for taking to work – it feels like a bag to take to the seaside, filled with picnic and books to read and sunglasses and money for ice cream.

All pens are now being kept inside a case. I’m trying to keep this one intact until next summer…

walking round the city (1)

Today we went for a walk.

Along the deeply eroded path through the heather, and up on to the top of the rocks.

I love this place. It’s close to the city, and so windswept, and you can see ever such a long way.

There’s no chance of solitude here – not on a sunny Saturday in early autumn. We were surrounded by walkers, dogs, cyclists, climbers and even paragliders today, but it felt companionable, a happy place.

I was quite taken with the paragliders, lying in what looked like sleeping bags, floating gently over the hills. They looked so peaceful up there (even if they did get so close at times we could have handed them a cuppa).

I love the way the rocks have fallen over the years.

I felt like I was getting a glimpse into another world.

This walk was part of the Sheffield Country Walk, which runs for a very specific 53.5 miles around the edge of the city. I have a not-so-secret plan to walk the whole way round over the next few months. We started here, with Section 3, because it was closest to home, and I can’t decide whether to do the rest of the sections in order, or pick and choose on a whim.

I confess it was Very Nice Indeed to stomp about without worrying about saving my legs for a long run…

whose stupid idea was this?

Here I am, being laughed at by my sister at the start of the Chester Marathon last Sunday. You might remember she was meant to be running too, but hurt her leg (apparently) so had to pull out.

She doesn’t look too sad about it, does she?

(I know she was disappointed though)

I set off far too fast. I ran too fast for twelve miles, in fact, carried away by the enthusiasm of the pacing group I was running near. Sadly, after twelve miles, my legs started to object. The pacing group disappeared into the distance.

The next few miles were a bit of a trial. My mum and sister popped up at various points which was lovely – they took my spare top away, brought a new pair of shoes for me to swap into, and provided treats and a much-needed excuse to stop and rest for a while.

The supporters along the route were brilliant, and some had even put out bowls of sweets and fruit at the ends of their gardens. The marshalls were fab, especially the one who gave me a cheese butty at 20 miles when I was about to cave in.

After 18 miles it became quite clear I wasn’t going to meet the six hour cut off, and I did toy with the idea of dropping out, but then realised if I did drop out, I’d just have to come and do it again another day. What a horrifying thought!

So I carried on, and at mile 25 a marshall finally admitted there was only one person left behind me. One person?? What if they dropped out??

I don’t know how, but I found some strength from somewhere, and did the final mile almost as fast as I’d done the first one. I overtook five people, was cheered down the riverside, and even managed a bit of a sprint finish, crossing the line with six people behind me, after 6 hours 24 minutes.

So, half an hour faster than last time, and (most importantly) not last.

Was I pleased? I was certainly pleased it was over! And I was pleased I didn’t come last, that I was faster than last time, and that I’d managed to speed up and overtake people in the last mile.

There’s still a tiny part of me that’s a bit disappointed I didn’t beat the cut off or get anywhere near the time I was aiming for though… And it’s been strangely hard to talk about that.

People keep saying helpful and supportive things like ‘at least you did it!’ and ‘I could never run that far!’ and ‘you were faster than last time!’ and I appreciate all of those things, I really do, as well as appreciating that they’re trying to cheer me up.

But I wasn’t aiming to be faster or run further than them – and I’ve already ‘at least finished’ one marathon before. This time I was aiming to see how fast I could go if I actually trained properly (or at least as hard as I was willing to).

Turns out as hard as I was willing to wasn’t quite enough to get me the time I was after.

And so I feel a bit ambivalent about the whole thing. Not sad, or upset, not at all, just ambivalent. People seem to want me to be celebratory, and I am, but I just needed to acknowledge somewhere that it wasn’t quite what I was aiming for. It’s difficult to do that in an actual conversation because it’s often met with another round of ‘yes, but at least you finished!’

I should point out this is probably exactly what I’d say to someone else in my position. It’s entirely natural to want your friends to see the positive side and I love it that my friends want me to celebrate my achievements. But we all need a space to acknowledge slight disappointments for a while, before moving on.

What have I learned?

I’ve learned it’s easy to get caught up with others going faster than you, but that it’s better to do your own thing in the long run. That when you’re tired and hungry, a cheese butty tastes better than any other food on earth. That having people cheering you on makes all the difference in the world. I’ve learned that even when you think you can’t go on, there’s often a little part of you that can keep going when you know the end is in sight.

So will I do another one?

Nope, absolutely not.

I adore running, and I won’t stop doing that. I love the places its taken me and the people I’ve met. I love the local parkrun, and running alone through the woods in the sunshine. I love running through the park at sunset, and I adore races. There’ll be plenty of those next year, but I’ll be sticking to 10ks and half marathons, and trying to get a bit faster.

I’m looking forward to not having to run for three or four hours at a time on a Friday. I’m looking forward to some other types of exercise – cycling, dancing, hula hooping, maybe even swimming! I’m looking forward to walking everywhere again, rather than saving my legs for long runs.

More than anything though I’m looking forward to a nice long rest and a few weekends of doing absolutley Nothing At All…

who loves ya, baby?

If you’ve known me for a while, you’ll know I’m given to starting ludicrously ambitious craft projects with very short deadlines, and therefore presents from me are very likely to be late.

This time it was a house warming present for the lovely Fay, and looking back at her blog I see she actually moved house back in June. So only four months late this time.

I originally made some plant pot holders from old carrier bags, but they looked rather underwhelming, so I cast my eyes around for inspiration and found an old tartan skirt that, appropriately enough, I bought in a charity shop when I visited Fay in Orkney. It was an old old Marks & Spencer skirt, size 16 on the label, although the waist measured 26 inches. Floor length, and fabulous – but I haven’t had a 26 inch waist since I was at school and am not likely to ever again.

I considered a cushion, and cut out the right shapes, but it just didn’t feel right.

And then I remembered Peedie 2. Peedie 2 is a replica of Fay’s dog Peedie, that I made for Peter a couple of years ago. Which, when you put it like that, sounds rather weird. Peedie 2 is still a much-loved member of our household, and even met the Real Peedie once (that was an exciting day for all concerned).

Peedie 2 wasn’t my first patchwork dog (although he’s still my favourite). I made a very colourful one for a friend’s daughter, and I have a feeling I might have made at least two more over the years.

And so I set about cutting what felt like hundreds of small squares.

All my other patchwork dogs have been machine-sewn, but I do love sewing patches by hand, and since it was obvious this present was going to be late, I thought I’d take my time. So I cut fabric, and I cut paper squares, and I tacked the fabric round the squares, and I thought I’d taken pictures as I went along but clearly not…

And when I had enough for one side, I started sewing them together. That’s the bit that I love – taking two paper and fabric squares and stitching along the join. I sewed on the train, at a car boot sale, in the garden, and when I should have been doing the housework.

Eventually my creation started to look vaguely dog-shaped.

Once I was part way through sewing the second side, I had the deluded idea that I could finish him in an afternoon. So I plonked confidently on the sofa and switched on an old episode of Kojak, recorded off the tv.

I love Kojak. I wasn’t born when it was on first time around, and was only introduced to it recently, but I’ve rather taken to it. Our futuristic magic tv machine automatically records every episode, which meant that, at that point, I had 67 hours of Kojak available to watch. Hooray!

And so I sewed. And Kojak did his thing, clearing the streets of 1970s New York of criminals and ne’er-do-wells. And after ten hours, I was rather tired, and the dog still wasn’t finished (Kojak was still going strong though).

The next day I thought ‘today is the day! I can really finish him today!’ and so after breakfast I sat down with Kojak again. And I was still there at lunchtime, but at least I had made progress.

Look at that! Inside out and covered in paper, but dog shaped and cheerful.

‘One more episode and he’ll be finished!’ I thought, with characteristic (and again, deluded) optimism.

Do you know how long it takes to remove nearly 100 paper squares? More than one episode of Kojak, that’s how long. It took three episodes to turn him inside out and stuff him with old cushion fillings. I had to stop and wait til the next day to remove all the tacking stitches that had held the paper in place becase the light was so bad.

But eventually he was done, and temporarily named Kojak (of course).

It seems I was rather overenthusiastic with the stuffing, and he’s already burst at the seams once. Pesky creature.

I’m quite chuffed, and I LOVED making him, absolutely loved it. If I could figure out a way of getting people to pay £500 for one I’d leave work and make patchwork dogs and watch Kojak all day long.

Less than 50 episodes of Kojak left now. Just enough to crack on with a couple of early Christmas presents I reckon.