Saturday 31 December 2016

How Was It For You?

It's the question of the season, isn't it?  'Did you have a good Christmas?' What's 'good' in this context?  Lots of food, lots of booze, wonderful presents (begs the same question, 'what's wonderful?'), and how the usual permutation of 'who's going to whose house on which day?' finally played out.  There's so much there that I'm happy not to be bothered with.

Christmas began for me on Saturday afternoon with the Christingle services at church.  Mainly geared to children, this event is something of a headache for the organisers because of the dangerous combination of large numbers and lighted candles in children's hands.  All reasonable precautions were taken, however, and it all went off smoothly.  We have two services, two hours apart; the first one is always the more popular, and it's the one I attended.  I followed my usual practice of sitting a couple of seats in from the aisle so that, as the church fills up, there's room for a couple to sit on the end.  In this case, the two seats were occupied by a single mum with two children.

Then came the traditional midnight Communion Service, at which I had been asked to read one of the Scripture extracts.  To bed, then, for a few hours' sleep and out as usual on a Sunday morning to ring bells at the church on the other side of the town.  After our own service on Christmas morning, I was able to greet a few friends before making my way home to relax over an unhurried meal.  Determined not to get involved in anything that, in my active retirement, I call work, I flitted from one amusement to another, reading, listening to music, and generally enjoying some time with no pressure - even self-imposed - to get something done.

By Monday afternoon, even I was beginning to get cabin fever, so went out to watch a football match in the next town, where - with justification, I thought - the home team lost 2-0.  By then it was time to prepare for my planned trip to my cousin the next day.  Two more relaxing days followed, albeit in a different location.  The highlight was a brief visit by a family who were formerly involved in my cousin's church, but have now moved to a different part of the country with their two young daughters.

I set off for home in the fog and frost of Thursday evening, but conditions improved on the way and, using a different route from the outward journey up the motorway, I was home in time to unpack and tidy everything away before bedtime.  This was as well, for I was quickly back into the routine of 'normal life', with a day of prayer and fasting yesterday, the last Friday of both month and year.  With the cold weather and darkness morning and evening, few turned up for the triple gatherings in church, and the fast-breaking meal in the evening was even more welcome than usual.

What was, in many ways, the high point of my week also came yesterday, when I made a planned visit to the doctor's surgery.  After the not unusual banter with another waiting patient over the possibility of my being Santa out of uniform (owing to a white beard in need of a trim), it was my turn to enter the inner sanctum.  Here I discussed a problem that has troubled me for the past year in particular (and longer, on and off, albeit less seriously), but with a different doctor this time, who put it all into context with my long-standing asthma, as both being part of the same overall condition.  Not only did he prescribe a suitable medication, but also gave me a few helpful guidelines for the overall strategy of coping with the situation, which I found very helpful.

Here I am, then, on the brink of a new year.  It's over a year now since I finally stopped work and, while at times it scarcely seems a week or two and I remember fondly particular places where I've delivered or collected, and some of the journeys I enjoyed, at others I recall only too clearly the tiredness at the end of some days, the need to stop for a roadside nap, and the delight of an early return with no 'can you just do this?', which would mean another two or three hours before getting home.  With the motor-home on the market and, hopefully, soon to be sold, I shall soon be planning some exploratory trips of a different dimension, aimed at filling some long-standing ambitions, seeing friends, and making good use of a National Trust membership I was persuaded to take out in the autumn.

I wish a happy and peaceful 2017 to all my readers.

Friday 23 December 2016

The Busiest Week ...?

The other day I read that this is the busiest week of the year and, looking at many of my friends, I can understand that this is so.  However, for me, the reverse seems to have been the case.  I likened my situation to the sequence of invading and conquering a city.  There is an initial build up of arms, men and equipment, there is the lumbering approach to the city's boundaries, accompanied by an airborne assault, and finally comes the moment when the walls are breached.

For weeks now, there has been a big build up to Christmas, beginning at the very end of November with the event that we call 'Carols and Chips'.  It's like a parish Christmas party.  There are games, craft work and a tree to decorate, while those who wish gather around the piano to sing carols, and it all ends with fish and chips.  The next step is the distribution of the official Christmas cards, hoping by the use of volunteers to get one through every letterbox in the parish.  I wrote about my experiences helping with this a couple of weeks ago.  Alongside all this has been a mammoth effort to fit in many practices of our choir to lead the singing at the annual carol service: many, because not everyone can make them all.

During this feverish activity there was a week when school parties visited the church to explore a series of tableaux entitled 'the Christmas Journey', and last week some schools have taken over the church for their own carol services and other celebrations.  The carol service for which we had been practising finally took place on Sunday evening, with other music groups taking part in addition to the choir in which I sing.

I woke up on Monday morning feeling quite depressed.  To return to my opening metaphor, the climax of the operation had been reached, the city walls had been breached and the city taken.  Now I was walking along the deserted streets, looking at the open spaces and wondering what to do once I'd actually arrived.  In practical terms, so far as they affect me, there was no men's breakfast on Monday, there was no home-group meeting during the week, and I was aware of other regular activities - that don't involve me - also having come to a halt, and not happening now until after the new year has begun.  Apart from the midweek service on Wednesday, I've had nothing to be involved with.

Fortunately, my depression soon lifted as I found things to get on with at home.  I even spent a morning tidying and dusting my bedroom, and clearing out lots of old magazines that had been stashed away for no useful purpose.

There were other shafts of brightness too.  One was a card that arrived from a bereaved friend to thank me for a phone call and some sympathetic words that I'd sent by way of follow-up.  More brightness came from sharing the work situation of a friend who this week faced the preparation of an important report virtually from scratch.  I learned yesterday that this had been completed and sent off by Monday evening, although the absence of any response was still causing concern.  For my part, I could tell of the completion of a big slice of my family tree that I had been working on for several weeks, now allowing me to do some almost casual tidying of loose ends in other areas.

And I woke up this morning with a silly story buzzing around my mind which I was able to share with a small selection of friends who would understand certain aspects of it and enjoy my amusement.

While many of my friends have been preparing festive food or keeping the children amused - one said she wasn't taking her son to see Santa a second time for fear he might be perceptive enough to point out that he had already divulged his wants when asked a couple of weeks ago! - I am looking forward to the simplicity of an almost normal weekend, after which I shall make what has become a regular post-festive visit to my cousin, where a different normality will surround us all, and relaxation can really triumph!

Friday 16 December 2016

A Funny Thing Happened ...

I promised last week - having nothing specific in mind - that this post would be more light-hearted.  And so it has worked out.  A number of 'funny' things have happened this week, some in one sense, some in another.

It all began, I suppose, in church last weekend when a lady told me about an accident that had befallen her husband a couple of weeks ago.  He had stepped awkwardly off a kerb, twisted and fallen and suffered a badly sprained ankle.  At least I think that's what happened.  The end result was that a flat-pack desk that had been bought for his newly-decorated study was in the garage and not where it was intended to be.  I offered to help if required and a couple of days later after an exchange of text messages, arrived on their doorstep.

The erection of the desk went well; the main problem was the carrying of the pack into the study and man-handling the parts as necessary to effect the assembly.  After coffee and a chat, I was easily persuaded to assist in the removal of a sofa from the lounge into the study.  His wife and I got it onto its end and were manoeuvring it through the first of the two doorways when it lurched and pushed my knuckle into the door.  I thought no more of it until the exercise was completed and I checked my knuckle for damage.

The knuckle itself was intact but, blood was oozing fairly freely from a cut on the inside of the joint, where the impact had forced the corner of the sofa into it.  First aid was readily applied to my middle finger amidst the subdued mirth that the church's health and safety officer (me) had been injured and there was no accident book on hand in which to record the fact. I just had to be careful the following morning, when questioned as to its recovery, how I gestured that it hadn't fallen off overnight!

One of the relaxing amusements in my solo life is a snooker app on my tablet.  I just wish I were as clever with cue and balls on a real table as I am electronically.  The other night I hooted with laughter at my achievement. Being caught in a snooker, I realised that, not only could I just see the edge of the object ball but if I were to hit with sufficient energy the small edge I was offered, it should go into a pocket.  Taking careful aim, I let fly with as much force as the app would allow.  Crack!  The object ball moved only a short distance, albeit in the right direction, while in a flash my cue ball had struck a cushion and belted directly into the far pocket!

For months, now, I have slept badly because of what had been diagnosed as maxillary sinusitis.  During the summer I had been told that it is due to an allergy to pollen and that, as a 'Garden City', my home town is prone to this problem.  One doctor advised with a smile, "For a cure, you would have to move ... South America would be effective!"  Thanks to the prescribed medication, I enjoyed a few weeks' relief but, for the last couple of weeks, things have been just as bad as before.  This morning, for example, I was awake at 4.15, finished the overnight washing run, set the resulting wet clothes to dry and went back to bed where, as if at night, I read until about 6.0 before settling down for sleep once more.  When I eventually got up and finished breakfast about 9.30, it was with the washing all dry and ironing queuing up for attention when my errands were complete.

I ask you ... pollen? ... in December?  I've just made an appointment to ask my doctor for a second opinion!

This morning, I made my annual pre-Christmas pilgrimage to my local Waitrose.  My records tell me I didn't go last year; I must have been too preoccupied with my new car and the final onset of full retirement.  One of my credit cards gives me vouchers that I can spend there and, while I was working I used it for the servicing of the van and for the biggest item of expenditure, its insurance.  Hence a pile of vouchers has built up ... all amazingly with no expiry date!  When I first enjoyed this benefit, I was like a kid in a sweet-shop, piling up my basket with luxury items I wouldn't otherwise feel justified in buying.  It was noticeable this year, though - whether through retirement (and hence a much reduced likelihood of replenishing the stock of vouchers) or as a result of price increases following the summer's Brexit vote - that my shopping was more focused on things I would buy anyway, like bread, tea, spreads and spaghetti.

The week's final smile came when I returned to town this afternoon for a forgotten essential.  I found a cheque - valid, and in date - laying on the pavement in front of me.  I looked around to see if anyone showed signs of having dropped it but saw no likely candidate.  I decided that my choice lay between putting it back where I'd found it - hoping that the owner would discover the loss and return before fate, wind or ill fortune should overtake it - and taking it to a bank.  The bank upon which it was drawn has a branch in the town, only a few hundred yards away, so I took it there.

The cashier heard my tale with some incredulity and at first said there was nothing that could be done.  I pointed out that it was made out to an individual, who would probably like this sum in her account for Christmas.  I indicated that the cheque was drawn on this bank, and made the suggestion that its discovery could at least be reported to the drawer, so she consulted the manager.  After what seemed a long while, she returned to thank me for bringing it in and reported the manager's opinion, which coincided with my own.  Whether the cheque went straight into the bin as soon as my back was turned, I know not.  My reward was the smug satisfaction of having done 'the right thing'.

So many 'funny things' ... and not a Forum in sight!

Friday 9 December 2016

More Friends

I began last week's post with the comment, 'I've been reflecting today on friendship'.  So today I have to add 'still'.  I'm still thinking about friends and my relationship to them.  In my solitary life, most of my personal communication is by text messages, e-mail or social media: facebook or occasionally twitter.  For the phone actually to ring is something of a rarity. This week it's been unusually busy.

Early in the week I had a Christmas card from a lady who is no blood relation to me, who had written a message inside - as people often do - opposite the greeting.  This one read, "I'm really struggling with this time of year.  Tony passed away suddenly on Easter Monday."  I glanced again to the opposite side; she had put just her own name, without the usual '... and Tony'.  I've only ever communicated with her, never her husband, and only by post.  It was her husband, though, who was my relative.  We were at opposite ends of two large generations.  His great-great-grandmother was my grandfather's eldest sister.  It seemed quite impossible until I remembered that my father was the youngest son of a family of twelve, and my grandfather was the youngest son of a family of ten.

I was saddened by her news and began to write a letter to express this.  The longer I struggled with my words, the worse it got.  I broke off for a meal and, before returning to it, discovered that I had a note of her phone no. The letter was abandoned and I rang her; there was no reply, so I left a brief message and after an hour or so she rang back.  Eight months have passed, but she was still clearly devastated by her loss.  She was pleased that I'd called and, although we'd never spoken before, it was as if we were old friends, and we chatted for quite a while ... that is, she chatted and I listened, making appropriate noises when necessary.

A couple of nights later, completely out of the blue, the phone rang again. The caller this time was a lady whom I knew from my native Norfolk, a former bell-ringer, whose husband died around the same time as Tony, but in this case I had learned of his death almost immediately and had responded at the time.  His life had been linked to my own in many different ways down the years, beginning when I was still at primary school, so I felt I knew him very well.  Instead of the usual bland expressions of condolence, I had written a 650-word tribute to someone whom I described as a 'genial, determined and loyal man, a true gentleman.'  I was astonished at the response this drew from his widow.  She phoned me to express her immediate gratitude while I was on holiday in Scotland, and I was the one who choked up.

This week's call began with those same thanks, and repeated a pledge she had made then to use my words in a public tribute to her late husband. Being now in her mid-eighties, I forgive her for having forgotten that I had already given my approval to the idea, but she has yet to get round to it, and it's one of a number of things that have been 'shunted' down the calendar since his death.  Nevertheless, she sounded very positive, and something of a contrast to the younger woman I had listened to earlier.

Like the two women I wrote about last week, these two are so different, and yet so alike.  One I spoke to this week for the first time; the other I've known for nearly 50 years.  One who has got to know me through the annual exchange of Christmas cards and by reading the newsletters enclosed; the other who has seen my progression from teenager via husband and father to divorced status, and followed news of my life's path into retirement.

I ask, as I did last week, how close does someone have to be in order truly to be a friend.  I'm not sure this comparison sheds any more light on that than last week's rambling narrative did.  One thing I have learned, however, with all four of these ladies, in different ways.  It's important to be willing and available when there's a need, whether it's foreseen or not.  I suppose the case of unforeseen need is actually more important, because that's when availability is less guaranteed.

No conclusions here, just as there were none last week, and I suspect there never will be.  There is just a warm feeling to have friends, both to turn to in one's own need, and to be there for in theirs.

With only a week to go before Christmas, I promise that next week's post will not be so deep as these two.

Friday 2 December 2016

Hey, You! Get off ...

If you're a Rolling Stones fan, the significance of my title will become a little less obscure as you read on.  I've been reflecting today on friendship.

I've had encounters this week with two particular friends.  One was on line, the other face to face.  I have no wish to embarrass either, so 'no names, no pack drill'.  The first encounter was spread over a number of days, with messages flowing to and fro via social media.  The topic is a common one at this time of year: 'what are you doing for Christmas?'  It was quickly established that, if things stayed as they were at that moment, each of us would be 'home alone'.  The exchanges then became more nuanced than forthright in both directions and it was only eventually that a proposition was made that we should meet for some hours during Christmas day.  This was turned down, and apologies were exchanged each for misleading the other.  It was all rather messy in a distant sort of way.

The second encounter took place in the street.  This week, our church has seen the annual burst of community activity to acquaint some 4,000 parishioners with details of our Christmas services by means of a special church Christmas card delivered through every door.  As one of the active newly-retired, I have enjoyed taking part in the campaign, since it gave me a good deal of exercise with more motive than just the exercise itself.  I readily admit, however, that - in contrast to my usual walking habits - these walks were topped and tailed by a car journey from my home in the neighbouring parish.

I had just finished my deliveries in one road and was almost at the point of getting back into the car, when a familiar figure rounded the corner. I walked over to exchange a greeting, and was met by the question, "What are you doing on my patch?"  By way of response I gestured to the remaining cards in my hand.  In some consternation, the ensuing conversation revealed that we had each delivered cards, within the space of only a few hours, to the same 31 houses.  Having determined how this had come about, through no fault of either of us, we parted company.  As I walked to my car I heard a shout of mock anger from across the road, "Now, get off my turf!"

That final word has been rolling around my mind.  It's one I've only heard before in connection with horse racing ... with one exception.  A few weeks ago, I spent some time helping in the Liberal Democrat campaign office at the Witney by-election, where I found that the software with which they were monitoring the canvassing uses this word 'turf' to specify a particular street or area where printed materials are to be delivered.  My friend had engaged to deliver cards to all the roads on her estate, and so was using the word in exactly the same context.

Yesterday, another by-election took place in Richmond Park, Surrey.  Up to this point, I have felt much more distant from this campaign than the one at Witney.  I quickly decided that, although this constituency is closer to my home than Witney, the fact of having far more to do on the home front as Christmas approaches, together with the unwelcome thought of the journey there - whether through or round London - made helping there a non-starter. It wasn't until I saw a picture on line this afternoon of yesterday's winning candidate surrounded by some of her campaign team, and recognised two faces as having been at Witney, that I had considered any of the folks I'd met there as 'friends' ... and I suppose, on the strength of only twenty or thirty hours, that term is still a little closer than would be accurate. Nevertheless, it was warming to see those familiar faces once more.

But, continuing my line of thought, I ask myself how close someone has to be in order truly to be a friend.  In the case of those two encounters I described at the start, I've known the first lady some fourteen years and the other little more than one.  One I haven't seen for some years now, and our recent contact has been by the annual exchange of Christmas cards and on line, while the other I probably see two or three times a month, and we exchange a few words on about half of those occasions.  Over all, I suppose my level of intimacy is the same with both.  And yet, I fear, the need for that exchange of apologies has slightly damaged one friendship, while the apparently harsh dismissal that ended the other encounter has, if anything, deepened that one.

Many years ago, I met the new Rector of my village church for the first time outside the church door on a weekday morning.  As he struggled with his key in the lock, I chided the clumsiness of his unfamiliarity, got out my keys and let us in.  In the following years we became firm friends, and I have often quoted that incident and suggested a definition of a friend as 'someone you can offend with a smile without causing offence'.  I'd say that's still true today ... what do you think?