Diaries, 13th January 2024, Saucepans, Poetry and Detective Stories

I’ve just bought some saucepans. Well, everyone needs a bit of excitement in their lives from time to time. I chose click and collect, so I’ll get them tomorrow morning. Woohoo. The purchase is necessary as one of my pans is falling apart, and I’m increasingly aware of how scruffy my ceramic hob is after twenty years of hard wear. Now that Octavia has an induction hob, I cook a meal to take round to share with her it can be a problem. I always used to take whatever it was in the saucepan it was cooked in, but my pans are not compatible with her hob. So I’ve made sure my new pans will be, and if and when I decide on a new hob I may go the induction route too. May. Not Shall. Cousin has an induction hob which I use when I am at her house and it has frequently frustrated me. I do like the way the heat is instant. But boy, these hobs can be very pernickety. Don’t hold your breath.

The weather is cold, and although we are inching (I can’t really say centremetrering with any conviction so in this instance imperial measurements look set to rule for some time. Memo to self: look up the origin of the verb to inch) towards more daylight, it is slow. When not working, I’m reading and watching television. I’ve just read The Raptures by Jan Carson. I loved it and highly recommend it. She’s a writer I come across a lot when I am in NI. She’s evidently a regular at book signings at No Alibis. Maybe she even saw and admired MasterB’s calendar which hung there last year. She sat behind Cecilia and me at the Homeplace in the summer, and admired Cecilia’s top. Mine came in for no admiration. However, here, across the water, it’s rare to find her books. NI is a small place. I have been at so many events attended also by Malachi O’Doherty and his wife Maureen Boyle that he gives me a little confused smile of recognition, but evidently has no idea who I am. I even ran into them when I was Girl From the North Country at the Grand Opera House last year. I don’t think Maureen has registered my presence. Maybe she’s been too busy thinking poetic thoughts. It would be fun to claim I ran into Seamus Heaney in JC Stewarts’s in Magherafelt, but that would be a fib. Did Seamus do the grocery shopping? I have no idea.

Diaries, 6th October 2023, Practical Help and Imaginative Upcycling

I’ve spent a disproportionate amount of time this week sorting out my electricity bill. The mix up was my fault. I have two readings to take each month, and the meter show them as – logically enough – 1 and 2, and that’s how I note them down. Submitting my readings I mistakenly added the 1 and the 2 to each reading, boosting the amount of energy I was saying I had used by a not insignificant amount. I immediately contacted Octopus who acknowledged my message but I was still charged as though I had used this excessive amount of energy. On Thursday I requested a number where I could speak to someone. I don’t know about you, but my experience of customer services with various companies has not always been great. Too often the aim of the person at the other end of the line seems to obfuscate, or answer questions they think I am asking, rather than the ones I am asking. I think price wise Octopus compares pretty well, but after my two ‘phone calls, one where Ahmad untangled all the figures and put things right, one where Esther explained the figures which still puzzled me, I am certainly not looking for another provider. They were a breath of fresh air. They took time, were professional and friendly. And although like everyone else I seem to be paying large amounts for the energy used, I feel I am getting a good service.

Diaries, 5th October 2023, Worst Foot Forward

I was bemoaning the fact that I kept missing the evening news, so two days ago I made sure I tuned in. Big mistake. Suella Braverman strode across a stage while members of the audience at the Tory Party Conference gave her a standing ovation. She gave what I hesitate to call a speech so full of venom, so divisive, so deliberately scaremongering, scapegoating her usual subjects (climate activists, anyone with even the slightest green or liberal leanings, migrants, LBGTQ, refugees) with the usual mixtures of non truths, unsubstantiated accusations and false allegations. It was both nauseating and terrifying. It was like a spoof of how ridiculous extremists on the right can be when they give up on reality, embrace absurd fantasy and enter a mirror world. Yet a spoof which people listening in the room by and large seemed to be loving. One audience member, himself a Tory and gay, spoke up. It’s not true, he said. He was escorted from the room by the police. It reminded me of the scene in the film Cabaret when the Hitler Youth member stands up and sings in the beer garden. Brian and Max quietly leave. Do you still think we can contain them? asks Brian.

Diaries, 31st August 2023, In and Between Two Places

Uncle Bill’s funeral is less than three weeks ago, but it feels like a lifetime has passed since we were gathered together to hear tributes to him and present a family front of mourning. Since then I’ve shuttled between countryside and Belfast, between family and friends, walked dogs from different households, eaten in some of my favourite places, taken photographs which I can’t share as I left my camera at Cousin’s. 

Now I am at the airport waiting for the gate to be announced. Three weeks away from home. Reports from the team of friends caring for him show a happy contented cat enjoying a varied social life. I can’t help but think he’s going to find life with me rather flat after the company: the games, next person coming through the door, the craic. 

He’s bonded well with A&M, his initial caution giving way to sitting beside them, lying across them, lifting his head for chin scritches. Given some of the horrific footage I have seen these past few days of animal cruelty, I am more than grateful he knows he is safe and loved. I wish the same were true for all animals.

B has sent photos of him at play. There are more from her as well as from Tessa and Simon of a him lying on his back in sunshine. Such pictures tell their own story.

Westie Boy is better than he was, but nothing like his usual rumbustious self. He lets me take Poppy out for walks while he stays at home. I offered him a short walk, but he chose his bed. Cousin thinks he has become old, and the illness has accelerated his decline. She may be right, but I am hoping over the coming weeks he’ll recover some of his vim. He has resumed scratching at my leg when I’m eating, hope triumphing over experience, as I have never fed him from the table and I’m not going to start now. Poppy has sniffed her way around the neighbourhood, tail waving. She’s seen Sam several times and they have playbowed through the fence. I’d love them to have a play date, but whether that will ever happen is doubtful.

Cousin and I now belong to a family group, descendants of a great grandmother. I had to join FaceBook to do this, overcoming a mistrust I have long felt. That mistrust has not gone away. Despite refusing to share contacts, I am receiving dozens of suggestions to ‘friend’ people I may know. Some of them are the most tenuous connection, people who are friends of friends, people I’ve not seen for years. It’s hard not feel spied upon. Anyway, I’m not friending anyone. The family group is quite enough. Coming to terms the fact that I have nine more first cousins than I knew, the children of my grandfather’s second family, is as much as I can cope with. It is all very strange. 

Diaries, 27th August 2023, Saving the Planet, Seeing Friends, Poetical Afternoons

Gosh I am not doing very well at this blogging business recently. You’d think, or at least would, that being away and not working would mean more time for such things. Apparently not. There’s been the drama of Westie Boy’s ill health, then I stayed in Belfast for the best part of a week with two further Westies and a cousin whose grasp on recycling leaves much to be desired, back to the countryside and two splendid afternoons of poetry. Tomorrow it’s back to Belfast for a bit more culture and to catch up with a friend I’ve not yet seen his trip. Tuesday is my penultimate day with no plans other than walking Poppy the Labrador, and Wednesday I go home.

Lots of updates from the team looking after Bo’sun. He looks happy and relaxed, he’s enjoying all the company and I fear when I get home he’s going to miss his social life. Helena has adopted two young cats who are currently residing under the sofa. Baby steps.

The Coronavirus Diaries, 4th May 2022, a Birthday Weekend

Celia wanted to post her brother’s birthday card. No sign of a post box, but there was a postman in a stationary van. Celia waved to him and walked over as he started move. Is it just the one thing you want to post? he asked. Yes, she said. He reached out a hand. I’ll take it, he said.

In my head I could hear my mother’s voice. They’d only do that in Ireland, she was saying, probably correctly, proudly pointing out yet again how the country of her birth was far superior to anywhere else.

We were in Belfast. The centre, not the suburbs, a stone’s throw from City Hall. It was the end of the weekend we spent in Northern Ireland celebrating both our birthdays. Working backwards, yesterday we had been in the centre, meeting Fiona for coffee at the Linen Hall Library, a favourite venue of mine, then staying chatting for so long we decided to have lunch there and forgo our other plans. We had already had coffee at the Two Sisters coffee shop off the Cregagh Road. I also had a vegan brownie there and Celia had resisted a bag she would have liked to buy. If you are near this coffee shop I recommend you pop in. It’s lovely. The coffee is lovely, the goods on display available to buy are lovely, the staff are even lovelier. It’s spotlessly clean, welcoming and probably saved our lives on Monday when we first visited it bleary eyed after a bad night’s sleep in a cold Airbnb with inadequate bedding. We compared notes in the morning, discovering we had each struggled to get warm. each been convinced in the small hours we had Covid. There were no extra blankets, no hot water bottles. The heating system resisted our efforts to spring into action despite our following the instructions to the letter. Via email I requested help, blankets and hot water bottles. Someone would come to sort the heating later I was told. Twice more I requested blankets and hot water bottles, requests which bore some fruit as we found blankets on our return.

Not the best start to our only full day in Belfast. Still, we managed a good walk through a bluebell clad Cregagh Glen to the rath at the top, then back on the Cregagh Road we enjoyed a tomato and chilli soup at the café attached to the Museum of Orange History, and where my cousin Kathryn collected us for a drive round south and east Belfast which included visiting a property she intends to renovate. She suggested we spend the evening in the buzzy cathedral quarter. All we could think of was bed and an early night, both duly achieved. Thank goodness we both slept well.

We’d arrived in Belfast by bus from Castledawson at lunchtime on Sunday. Our very lovely B&B landlady having left us at the stop after also coming for a walk with us around Church Island in Bellaghy, a walk we had hoped to do on Saturday but it had rained most of the day, and was raining particularly hard at the time we thought we might walk. We caught another bus out to our airbnb, dropped our bags and headed straight out again to the Titanic Quarter and exhibition. I think it was only when we came outside again that Celia believed my assurances that I was more than happy to go the exhibition again. Since I visited it a few years ago I’ve wanted to return. Celia is now where I was then. I am now ready for visit number three. The exhibition does everything only the best exhibitions achieve. It informs, awes, makes you think, has an emotional impact.

It had been overcast when we went into the exhibition so to emerge to bright sunshine was an added bonus. Fortunately I checked my phone as we sat looking at the water. Petra had sent a message saying she could after all join us for dinner. However, she thought we were still in Bellaghy, and was intending to travel down to Co Derry. I called her to say we were in Belfast and Home was the restaurant, not a reference to our Airbnb. Disaster averted. Home is a great place. My friend Jo, who we were also meeting there, introduced me to it last summer. The food is excellent and the service friendly and professional. Celia was impressed by the level of customer service she was experiencing. We had a great evening. Lots of chat, lots of laughter. The craic, as they say, was good.

Jo and I have known each other most of our lives. By one of those freak coincidences she was buying vegetables in the supermarket near the airport at the same time we were shopping for provisions after Cecilia (our landlady) had picked us up on Friday. That woman looks like Jo, I thought. Then, that woman is Jo! She had been at a flower show in Antrim, and had left her car at a park and ride by the supermarket.

Friday the weather was amazing. Blue skies, warm sunshine. A contrast with the grey skies and low temperatures we had left behind in London. Saturday not so much. It started with drizzle and became rain. But we spent most of the day at the Heaney Homeplace, first at the exhibition and enjoying the new digital archive in the renovated library, having a snack lunch in the café so we weren’t exactly inconvenienced.

The Coronavirus Diaries, 30th January 2022: Birthdays and Poetry

Today is B’s birthday. She got lots of jolly cards and she and J were off to a pub for lunch when I saw her earlier. They had also been to her native Bedfordshire yesterday for a catch up with school chums which was postponed from December.

Coincidentally, Celia and I have been planning a birthday treat. Celia’s birthday is 26th April, mine 1st May. We met and became friends through the poetry group which was a monthly affair at our local library. It was, as I have written before, cemented in 2013 by the awareness of other mothers’ increasing fragility, and then by their deaths. Before the summer had ended we were both orphans. In the autumn we went on a Dead Mothers Walk, a few miles of time out and blackberrying picking. We got lost, of course we did, but it was refreshing and we picked a lot of blackberries. It remains a stand out moment in my memory of that year: sitting on the ground, eating as many blackberries as we put into the containers we brought with us, often silent, being. I don’t actually remember much about that year at all. Death is like that. It is so consuming that when you look back things are a blur. So I am pleased my memory has hung onto that day.

Back to our birthdays. When I was in NI for Uncle Bill’s 100th at the end of October I was also able to attend the John Hewitt Birthday readings in Belfast. All three poets were great, and one knocked my socks off. Gail McConnell reading from her book length poem, The Sun is Open. Several of my friends received it as a Christmas present. I’m on the Heaney Homeplace mailing list, having been, in my small way a regular, if distant and sporadic supporter since it opened a few years ago. I saw that Gail McConnell was going to be there 30th April, talking to Jeannette Winterson.

Several years ago, again with Celia, I went to hear Winterson talking about her then new novel The Gap of Time. For those of you who don’t know Winterson, she’s not one of those shy violet types. The event started with incredibly loud music. I don’t recall what it was, but it signalled this was to be as much rock show as literary evening. We were hyped up before she walked down the aisle, a diminutive figure in jeans and a white shirt, a huge smile on her face and owned the podium.

Oh my, I wanted to be at the Homeplace 30th April. Snag. It’s close to where I stay with Cousin, but she will be just returning from Australia after visiting two of her children and their children – including a new granddaughter – for the first time since the start of the pandemic. So not possible to claim her hospitality this time.

The Coronavirus Diaries, 11th January 2022

I think it was still last year when I put up my last post. Maria very sweetly got in touch to find out if all was well I have been silent for so long. I’m fine.

I have been busy and a deal of that business has meant being in front of the computer, so when I stop there is something very liberating about shutting it down and being screen free for the rest of the day. I have also been out and about, taking pictures, making new contacts, and going to hear the ten shortlisted poets for the TS Eliot Prize on Sunday.

Celia is our convenor. She sends out an email in the autumn asking who wants to come, gets the tickets for all of us in our favourite row at the Royal Festival Hall (AA if you are interested, and actually even f you aren’t). It’s a great start to the new year every time. We lost a few of our number at the last minute. Three couldn’t attend after all due to geographical difficulties or family responsibilities. But last year it was on Zoom, so to be there in the flesh, to hold up the queue finding our COVID passes, well Cynthia and I did that, the others managed just fine, and so be queue jumped because of our incompetence by a COVID-pass p-ready Frank Skinner, meant it was already a red letter day.

Cynthia was back from Canterbury for the event. Nicola arrived with Martin from a different part of London, as did Tony. I haven’t seen Nicola for a year. A woman with long hair, wearing a blue beret above her mask, walked towards me smiling. I didn’t recognise her. “All that hair!” I said. “Your wild hair!” is what she said to me. She teaches voice and Kayo Chingonyi, one of her erstwhile students, was the tenth to read. He was good. Very good. We wondered if he might win. My heart was with Raymond Antrobus whose poetry shows you don’t have to use complicated images or obscure language to have depth. I loved Hannah Lowe and I definitely want to read more by Selima Hill. Joelle Taylor’s high octane performance alone was worth the ticket price. I felt blasted back into my comfortable seat.

Afterwards we headed for the ballroom bar. Viv had to leave as she had someone coming round early in the morning. Not that we were going to be late. The Royal Festival Hall is hardly a lock in venue. Martin had slipped out before the end to get a train which in the event he missed. The poets were at the bar. No book signings this year for COVID reasons, but as Ian MacMillan, who did a grand job of introducing each poet with his usual mix of wit, knowledge and humour, said, it’s the unsigned poetry books which are worth something due to their rarity.

So everyone I was with had received a copy of The Sun is Open by Gail McConnell as a Christmas present. This was my poetry tribe. We talked about the poets, who we liked, how we disliked the poetry voice (Cynthia and me), who we wanted to win. Someone questioned whether Antrobus’ poems were too much in the quotidian to scoop the prize, but Roger Robinson, a worthy winner in 2019 writes so much about his home, his family I didn’t think so. And why should a poem be thought good, or better than another poem simply because you struggle to understand it and sometimes never do? There is nothing wrong with accessibility. A poem’s ability to reach in and express something, a truth perhaps you have never considered, an emotion, a feeling you have never put into words, is powerful. Simple language is often all the more effective for its directness and clarity.

It was Nicola who wasn’t staying, but who in the end stayed as long as the rest of us, who asked what was with all the thank-yous. Yes, we chorused, what was that? The first poet did it – editor, publisher, mother-in-law, flight attendant on the plane from the States, barber, bus driver, Joe Biden, us the audience – yes I do exaggerate, but not by much – then they all did it. As Nicola said, that’s what you do when you have won, not when you have been shortlisted.

Finally we separated, Tony headed off to the North, and Nicola elected to walk along then across the river to her station. Celia, Cynthia and I made for the bus stop.

The Coronavirus Diaries, 10th November 2021

Big news: I am plaster cast free. Oh the joy. My wrist is stiff and a bit sore, I have to make sure I don’t lift heavy objects, I have a splint to wear when I am not exercising or engaged in an undemanding activity, and my sling is still a good idea when I am out and about.

I had been trying not have my hopes too high before attending fracture clinic this morning. Obviously I wanted the X-rays to show everything was healing well, but I didn’t want to pre-empt anything and come crashing down in disappointment. The waiting area is airy and light. We are all spaced out, or rather the seats are. Some patients might have been actually spaced out, I shouldn’t like to say. Michèle had been there yesterday. I don’t think there’s a way we can make our appointments chime, though it would be nice. Instead I wondered if I were sitting where she had sat yesterday (no, she was in the area reserved for wheelchair users), and that made me wonder about a series of narratives, tales of different people sitting in the same spot throughout the day.

• 

  Blurred profile, encased in plastercast

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  Top view encased in palstercast

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  Naked and plastercast free

Left Wrist

I settled down to read more of The Sun is Open by Gail McConnell. Two weeks ago I became suddenly a fan, having previously been entirely ignorant of her work. It was while I was in Northern Ireland. Two days after Uncle Bill’s 100th, there were the annual John Hewitt Birthday Readings. For a while I have thought I’d like to attend, and that thought was cemented last year when Roger Robinson and Sinead Morrissey did the readings and had a discussion online. So Fiona and I had tickets. Only Fiona was not well, so I attended alone.

What a friendly welcoming bunch the John Hewitt lot are. A lovely man, very dapper and with silver hair took my name and made me welcome. I didn’t recognise his name, but it turns out he’s a literary agent and an actor. We were chatting, and he told me Tome French, one of the poets, was already inside ( I was the first member of the audience to arrive having allowed myself lots of time as I didn’t know where the venue was and thought it more than likely I should get lost). I picked up a book of poems by another of the poets Siobhan Campbell and was immediately taken by her work. Lucky perhaps, as she arrived while I was reading it. I bought two books of her poems as gifts, and decided to leave it there. The third poet arrived, Gail McConnell, dressed in black but with a bright yellow checked jacket.

I recognised some members of the audience from other literary events I have enjoyed down the years. People were talking to each other and it would have been easy to have felt excluded, but somehow I didn’t. It was as though I was included, though silently in the warm embrace of the John Hewitt Society.

It was a small audience, an intimate audience. I settled down in my seat. As it was in a lecture theatre at the university there was a comfortable ledge to rest my beslinged arm and throw my coat. I didn’t take notes. The lights dimmed. The evening began. The poets read in alphabetical order, so Siobhan was up first, then Tom, then Gail. I am not actually on first name terms with the poets, but I think if I were to move to Belfast I might be soon.

The Coronavirus Diaries, 20th January 2021

Trump has gone. I am sure I wasn’t the only one who had one eye on the clock during Biden’s inauguration and breathing a huge sigh of relief once I knew Trump was now ex President. I watched parts of Obama’s inauguration, and of course I have seen pictures, but today was the first time I have watched everyone assemble and then the whole thing unfolding. The flags which replaced the usual crowds were great. Whoever thought that one up deserves recognition. Perhaps it was because it felt as though the flag had been reclaimed by people who don’t want to use it to divide but to unite.

I found the inauguration moving, emotional, and above all hopeful. Biden seems a calm person, a thoughtful person, and I felt by the end of his speech a glimmer of hope for the future, not just for the US but for the rest of us. He doesn’t seem like someone who is going to set on the world on fire, but frankly a world on fire is not what we need. He’s going to be the fireman, not the arsonist. Trump stoked flames, Biden is going to use the embers for a community barbecue.