Please!
Two tonnes of sand being delivered, where there’s no space for two tonnes of sand. Oh well it’ll be worth it in the end!
Tag: Musings
Six Word Saturday
Chococo today, what do you think?
Missing, me?
We don’t always notice someone’s missing until they return do we? Well, I’m back after an unexpected two week hiatus, courtesy of our National Health Service. It was rather strange being an in-patient at the hospital where I work, I stayed close to my ward to avoid being seen, looking so dreadful. Of course that didn’t work and I was spotted several times. The care I received was faultless, I can’t thank the team enough, the Trust really do deserve the good Care Quality Commission reports it’s received.
I’ve been going a little stir crazy, with little energy to go out, and lacking concentration to read, never mind blogging. I’ve watched a little bit of TV and had lots of visitors, including my daughter and granddaughters to stay, the cutest distractions, so I’m in good spirits, even if I’m far from 100% yet.
Here’s a little glimpse of my recent world.
I’m going to start visiting you and catching up on what you’ve been up to in my absence soon, i feel I’ve missed so much!
Awards, poetry and Blogging Addiction
Yesterday I received a nomination for the Leibster Award, from my dear blogging sister Meg. It’s my first award for some time, and I remember in Lucid Gypsy’s early days, seeing awards flying back and forth and wondering if I’d ever receive one. One they began, they came thick and fast. Flattered, I accepted and shared the love, until I realised that I was spending way too much time on them and decided I wouldn’t take part anymore. Awards seemed to peter out a little anyway.
The Leibster was one of the first that I received, but when I saw Meg’s post I decided that I would take part, simply because it was Meg! Then, I remembered that I haven’t posted for three days, have lots of photos and things I want to share as it is, how on earth could I fit anything else in?
Time. My nemesis and many other peoples. Of the 168 hours in a week, I spend 43 walking to work, being there and walking home again. I spend 56 attempting to sleep (and usually achieving about 42). Probably 26 hours are taken up with cooking, housework, grocery shopping, and self-care. I might watch TV for 3 hours a week, 5 hours a week might be social times, 10 if I have a day out! That still seems to leave 4 hours a day to be too exhausted to move uh, have fun, be creative, walk the dogs.
Write. That’s the one. That’s the reason I began blogging, at the end of a three-year period of study, that was undertaken to improve my creative writing skills. Twice a month I go to my writing group and sometimes share some work, but I actually write very little these days. I’m one of those people who is too interested in too many things. I want to learn everything, read everything, experience everything, from block printing to training ants, and talk to everyone I encounter.
My writing blog isn’t, it’s a photography blog. Lured in by the Weekly Photo Challenge and similar, I get to indulge another of my passions. Sharing photos is far quicker and easier than writing and I’m kind of cataloguing some of my life, that’s how I justify it to myself. But the reality is, like Meg, I’m addicted to blogging, both posting and visiting my blogging friends around the world. Some of you are very special, you know who you are and you’re the other half of what fuels my addiction.
I’d like to be able to say I’m going to change, that this will become a writing blog, but I’d be kidding myself. So dear Meg, thank you for choosing me for the award, but I’m declining. Instead I’m going to schedule my weekly events and of course I’m going to write, perhaps, maybe, sometime. Meanwhile, I went hunting for my Leibster Award and instead I found this poem from 2011, and thought I’d share again.
By Train Through Somerset
Country gulls flushed by the 10.53
arrow from fields with frosty periphery
like yuletide tinsel under threadbare trees
lamb filled ewes felted and jacketed
join blanketed ponies to nibble on nothing
awaiting a ride or a jar of mint sauce
depart the Levels undulating uphill
where railway huts stand derelict lonesome
the sizzle of pylons shoot towards ozone
old man’s beard helplessly clings to dense hide
of hedge where Roe stags lurk in dank
acres furrowed and ready for spring
spires crack the mist near burst banks
where Saturday shoals of angling young men
stand fishing
and wishing
Encounters with youth
Recently I was walking home from work and gang of young lads were coming towards me, rowdy and fooling around. They were daft, squawking and pushing each other, but I knew there was nothing bad happening because they were wearing the uniforms of the public school over the road. Interestingly, I made a spot judgement based on their appearance that there was no risk to either the puniest one of them, or to myself. Rather sad really, but if a gang of lads from the Academy half a mile away were heading towards me I’d feel rather different, possibly a tiny bit anxious if I had to pass them. They would probably be pushing at the uniform boundaries with hoodies and trainers, this bunch had polished black shoes and crisply pressed shirts.
All these thoughts passed through my mind as they got closer. They were giggling and jeering and I had the distinct feeling that some of it was at my expense, I sucked my cheeks in to stop myself laughing. Next, the tallest and probably sweet sixteen year old, detached himself from the rest and followed with his hands behind his back. The giggles of four pre-pubertal boys, with unbroken voices, got louder as they drew level with me, and then I was eye to eye with Mr Sixteenish.
‘Excuse me’, he said ‘would you like a flower?’ He held out his hand to offer me a freshly picked sprig of blossom. I took it with a smile and a thank you. Meanwhile, of course, he’d trotted to catch up with the younger boys, who were convulsed with laughter, at his accepting what was so obviously a dare. I called after them that they should ‘learn from their handsome friend, he will be a success with the ladies.’ More laughter.
A young boy was brought into my office for a work experience day. He spent some time with someone in the opposite team and then was given to me for the afternoon. I welcomed him and asked him why he had chosen this particular experience, in a busy finance department, he muttered something that sounded like ‘It’s what I want to do’, ‘really?’ I said ‘what school year are you in, have you chosen your GCSE subjects?’ Another mutter.
He didn’t listen, so he made small mistakes, the same one several times, so to help his learning, I got him to correct them. I found out later that he had been in another finance department for four days, somewhere a lot more sober and serious than mine, with rather more senior staff. I have no idea how he survived. I was gentle and kind to him the whole time, trying my best to bring him out, and I rarely fail, but oh he was hard work. It turns out he was just 14, imagine knowing that you want to be an accountant at that age, I didn’t know what I wanted to do until I was middle aged! I hope he succeeds in his chosen path, but I can’t help feeling that he was just too young for the situation, he was cocky, bright, but not as clever as he thought.
Driving home across the city, close to the University campus, dark apart from the street lights, I saw the silhouette of someone in the road twenty metres ahead. I instinctively slowed down and the car in front of me swerved sharply as the man reverse staggered back to the curb. I could tell it was a guy, late teens in jeans, tee-shirt and a beanie hat. Several vehicles came towards me but as I crept very slowly, they were leaving a 20 mph area and speeding up, unaware that he was about to dash and wobble on to the road again. Horns sounded, he nearly fell but just saved himself. My mind was flying through the options, stopping with hazard lights in the hope that he would cross safely and away from the traffic, shouting at him, I really thought he was going to be run over. Where are the police cars when you need one? This lad was desperately drunk, alone and vulnerable. Then there was a pause in the traffic and he reached the opposite path and sat down. With my eye on the rear view mirror I eased slowly away, and as I moved I saw him up and still swaying around. I still hoped to see a police car as I got closer to the city centre, and hoped even more that I wouldn’t hear anything nasty on the news in the morning.
Seven young boys, 36 hours.
A Golden Age
If you had to live forever, what age would you choose, childhood, adolescence or adulthood, and why? This is the question posed by the Daily Post today.
I’ll start by saying why I wouldn’t want to be an eternal child. I had plenty of fun as a child, simple fun, where I could play for hours sitting in a den under a table, covered in a chenille cloth or eating raw sausage meat when my grandmother made sausage rolls. A wooden box full of buttons was perfect to let my imagination run wild, as I conjured up the garments they had fallen from.
But I also had strange and difficult times as I struggled to know where I belonged. No, belonged is the wrong word, it was more that I was trying to work out how I fitted in, an answer that I didn’t get until I was middle aged.
My teenage years were worse, expected to and indeed wanting to go out and meet the world, I was often fearful and I most definitely did not fit.
But that’s the past. Now my skin fits. It won’t fit for many more years though, in stead it will become looser, as the subcutaneous fat redistributes itself, and I take on the guise of the crone.
So I want to stay where I am right now. I want to keep the strength I have, keep the ailments that come with age at bay. No arthritis, hypertension, high cholesterol, thyroid problems or dementia, because I need time.
I didn’t begin travelling until I was in my forties, I’d always wanted to but hardly dared to dream. I got my hit of exotic destinations watching Michael Palin, everywhere he went, I wanted to go. It wasn’t until I began to break free, that some of those places became reality.
But oh, there are so many places I need to see. Ethiopia, Mali, Uzbekistan, Namibia, Chile, Libya, Israel, Jordan, Greece. There are places that I couldn’t go to at the moment, even if I had the time and money. Pakistan, I’ve always wanted to visit, but I’ve just this evening watched a documentary, about it’s incredible history and culture.
I dream of being able to walk safely around the cities of Nigeria, to travel Ibgo country freely, meeting more of my family there and really understanding the culture. As things stand, it’s doubtful that this could happen in my lifetime. Who knows, give it fifty years and some miracles then, perhaps, it could be possible. So, I need to live forever as I am now, with the wisdom, confidence and experience that I have, and the brakes on the physical deterioration. This is my Golden Age!
I’m adding this comment I found on Facebook this morning. It’s from my lovely extra son, my daughter’s partner Steven, who has hidden talents that I hope he will use one day. Thanks Steve xx
This is a tough question. On first thought it seems easy, however who would truly want to live forever? The fact that we have such a brief sneeze of time to enjoy this crazy, heart aching, beautiful thing called life is what makes it so truly special. We live each day never truly knowing if it is our last, so we grab hold of it, squeeze it for every little drop and savour every morsel. If we live forever then surely part of that essence fades, knowing that we have forever to do the things we want. We lose the sense of urgency, the need, the desire to do today all the things we fear to delay until tomorrow. The fear of tomorrow makes us live today.
But then I realise that I could spend forever with my beautiful family, watching my daughters play and grow. If only….
Packaging Insanity
This morning I received a parcel, small items that I will need in the next few weeks. Much as I love a certain international company that began by selling books, and now sells everything I could need and many things I didn’t know existed, sometimes the amount of packaging is crazy. I applaud them for using packing that can be recycled
but the sheer volume? 
Thank goodness my city is brilliant at recycling!
One of Those little dilemmas
This morning as I walked up the road towards work, I noticed a lady ahead of me who I know by sight, as someone who heads the same way each day. She walks slower than I, so I quickly caught up with her. She was wearing a mid calf length, floral summer dress, of rather limp fabric. It had a split up the centre back.
You’ve guessed haven’t you? The split was not the discreet vent to knee that allows for movement. Nope, it was a full on unravelled seam that went right up to her btm. Still behind her I thought quickly, was this how it was meant to be? no way, did she know and if so was she unconcerned, surely not? She is middle aged and how shall I put it? a substantial lady.
What to do, what to do? I’ve never spoken to her before, but if the tables were turned I’d hope someone would point it out to me, there was no-one else around. I reached her side.
‘Excuse me, I hope you don’t mind me saying, but I think the seam of your dress has come apart at the back.’
‘Oh, how far up? ‘she asked, reaching around to feel for herself.
‘Sorry’, I said ‘If it was me I’d rather know!’
‘Yes, okay uh thanks uh It will just have to do for today’ she replied.
I wanted the pavement to swallow me up. I KNOW she lives somewhere around the corner from me, no more than five minutes walk, but she had no intention of turning back to deal with it. I scurried ahead. Five minutes later I looked back and she was indeed continuing on her way to work, wherever that is.
Now, the dress she was wearing was so flimsy, that the slightest waft of breeze would have lifted it, and there is no way on God’s earth that she could lean her body more than an inch, without showing everyone what she had for breakfast. I’m still cringing twelve hours later and I think I will every time I see her again.
Was I wrong to tell her? surely not, at least it gave her the option of popping back home to sort it. I’m mystified, what do you think, would you have said anything or left her to it?
Oui, c’est moi!
I’m sharing this photo of a sculpture at Broomhill, just because I like it. Why do I like it? She reminds me of me. The curl of her lips, pouting like I did as a child, still do when I’m playing mardy. Her nose doesn’t have a round upturned blob like mine, she’s far more elegant. It’s more her personality, she looks feisty, stroppy, possibly because she’s just had a fight with her hair. Second thoughts maybe she isn’t stroppy, she could be sorrowful, frightened or in pain. She could have been reprimanded, punished for some real or imagined misdemeanour. So she isn’t me after all.
How strange that I have endowed her with a personality and lots of potential stories. It’s interesting how we each interpret art, perhaps you could tell me what you see? I wonder what the sculptor, from Zimbabwe I believe, was intending to show and if she is based on a real person. I guess I’ll never know. Is there a piece of art that you identify with? Let me know in a comment or with a link?
Google Image ‘Sky’
I kept seeing the same post appearing in my daily visited list as well as ‘sky’ in my top search list and had no idea why. It’s this one, from December last year https://lucidgypsy.wordpress.com/2013/12/01/travel-theme-sky/ . Then I thought I would search for sky and see what came up. A photo just a little way down the first page looked familiar, lo and behold it was mine.
Does that mean I have a famous photo? 🙂 🙂 🙂
Thoughts that came to mind, oooh I should have put copywrite on it?Maybe I should take it down and make it smaller? Maybe I should put a water mark across the middle? Maybe I should just take it down? I wonder if anyone has pinched it?
Actually none of the above. It’s pretty but nothing special and if it makes someone smile then I’m happy too. I would like it if anyone who uses it credits me and perhaps it’s time I put that somewhere on my page. I rather like to think about someone thousands of miles away seeing that Dartmoor sky and wondering . . .
Lucid Gypsy 