Commit – Gardening: Unexpected Gift to the Spirit…

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/commit/

I was able to commit to the idea of ‘birthing’ a garden well before I saw the actual thing. That commitment has deepened and diversified in the subsequent months.

To my great surprise, gardening has become a real joy since I arrived here six months ago. It is so wise and dispassionate somehow, and it teaches you so much – both about the earth beneath your feet and, at one remove, about human nature.

As soon as my ex-husband and I put our house on the market, and I started looking for something I could afford to buy, a small garden – even if it was little more than a square of grass – was important. My reasoning, at that stage, was little more than instinct. I have never been a gardener – and, although I love colour and scent, have never tended plants in any serious way.

Then I found a little house I liked in Wrington. It had a little garden, a tiny patio and, wonder of wonders, a summer house. I was hooked – and, although this abode was sold before I had the wherewithal to put in an offer, the vision of a garden of my own became even more strongly incorporated in my search.

I first visited this house almost exactly a year ago – with my son. In fact, we saw two places in Glastonbury, this one first – and both agreed that this was The One. Although I only peered outside on that initial visit, something drew me to the garden instantly. It was bare then and almost devoid of grass. Several of the fence panels were in a parlous state (and, in fact, succumbed to Storm Doris some two months later) and there was no colour to be seen. But I sensed potential lurking beneath the soil and in the water-starved plants which dotted the place in small arid groups.

The whole place had a good energy – and I could envisage light pouring into it. I was right. It does, and is a continuing delight. I could also see growth, in nature and in myself, lying ahead. Oddly – or perhaps not – I could see this garden thronged with people; it seemed to whisper of social gatherings, of happiness, of shared food, of magic and the imagination, of love, of tribe.

Initially, I left it to its own devices – other than replacing the rotten panels back in February. But, drawn by curiosity and the nurturing urge, I started to engage with the space in a more physical and pro-active way. My son and his lass did the first planting for me. I did not, at that stage, have the confidence, feared I’d get it wrong. The Young Things dug in the raspberry canes (now proliferating with ripe fruit) and honeysuckle (which has now twined itself round my apple trees and is beginning its soon-to-be-perfumed ascent).

I then bought herbs in pots, lots of variegated flower seeds in packets, tomato seeds – and, in a frenzy of joyous naivety, started to arrange them around the garden. Of course, I didn’t know what the hell I was doing – and now cannot even remember exactly what I planted! In a way, this is lovely: Constant surprise and delight! When the first yellow Freesia opened its bud yesterday, I was beside myself with happiness. The orange Nasturtiums also gave me a frisson of sheer energy and triumph, while wholly un-expected small pink roses brought tears to my eyes!

But then, the truth about the new and the old, weeds and flowers, began to dawn on me. Much space was taken up by withered, dying, diseased plants, or pretty weeds which were strangling everything around them and dominating the garden. I knew I had to cull, fairly ruthlessly, for the good of all plant-kind!

This I have now started to do. My old philosophy of, ‘If I nurture you for a bit longer, maybe things will turn round and you’ll flower/fruit for me…’ has been replaced with a far more hard-headed attitude, a kind of, ‘Your time in the sun, in the bed, has passed. Now you need to go in order to give way to new growth, different colours, more subtle scents.’

The herbs, now freed from their pots – other than the mint which has a deserved reputation for spreading itself generously! – are, as of yesterday, dug into the small beds in the front garden. They have replaced a load of tall, pink-flowered, weeds and a decrepit wallflower plant! Another honeysuckle has been planted in front of the back fence panels, so that their wooden rawness becomes softened by trailing plants and my life soothed and enhanced by that wondrous smell. Clematis, planted next to the small rose bush, should add texture, covering and colour in that part of the garden.

A life-long creator with words, this movement – in late middle-age! – to an entirely different form of creation is tremendously liberating and exciting. I am, if you like, ‘writing’ an extended poem with soil and seeds, flowers and fruit. I, an Earth Sign, am expressing something of myself, my tastes, my philosophy, my hopes and, longer term, my gift to the future, in the space I have been so lucky to call my very own garden.

The analogy with humankind is exact. We all, at some time or another, have to prune back our relationship plants, making often difficult and heart-breaking decisions about which ones can stay and which need to go. It takes ruthless honesty and the aid of a dispassionate trowel/fork/spade. It takes another skill utilised in gardening: The ability to predict, to look ahead, to sum up the likely outcome and the bigger picture; to know, in other words, which plants are worth nurturing for another season and which would be better uprooted and recycled!

I think this can be done gently. We can, in effect, say, ‘You have enhanced my garden for a while, and helped make it beautiful, but now you are poisoning plants around you and dominating the space with your our-of-control growth – and you need to go. Thank you. Goodbye.’

Yes, I have come naturally to the world of the garden – and love it with a passion!

Beltane Weekend

Photo taken by Nathan Pritchard.

Brilliant, exhausting, moving, irritating, inspiring, wonderful: I could slather on a full coating of adjectives, but will quit while the plain bread of creative writing remains unsoggy and relatively crisp!

I have met up with friends both old and new: Sue and Stuart (of Silent Eye fame) who stayed with me all weekend (lovely); Diana and Kevin (both part of last year’s Leaf and Flame weekend); Morgana West; the cast of ‘In the Shadow of the Tor’ (most of whom also got stuck in to one or more of the Beltane events) and many other local people I have come to know and, in the main, like.

Facebook is not short of images of the events, so I won’t labour that pictorial point by reproducing them all on here, other than thanking Nathan Pritchard (whose photo of the Saturday drama ritual I have used on here).

There couldn’t have been a greater contrast between Sunday and Monday, the former apparently trying to recreate at least the beginnings of Ye Great Flood; the latter sunny and bright and warm and winsome in the extreme!

Saturday, Shadow of the Tor’s first performance took place in the Assembly Rooms and was extremely well received. Because I was in it, and thus cannot be truly objective, I am not going to formally review it. Suffice it to say that the audience responded with great enthusiasm, we all entered into the atmosphere of excitement of a shared venture and have bonded tightly as a result. Congratulations to Brad Crowley and Francis Oliver for bringing it to life.

I tried to immerse myself in as much of Beltane as I possibly could, this being my first time in Avalon. Beltane Virgin, as you might say (and I just did), though mainly from memory! I watched the lighting of the Unity Candle; listened to the delightful singing of the Free Avalonian State Choir; danced with maidens young and old whilst waiting for the Morris to arrive; watched as the Green Men, horns and leaves aplenty, hefted the Maypole out from the Assembly Rooms and, from there, down to the Market Cross and then up, up, up to the Tor. I saw many splendid costumes, witnessed great good will and jollity; heard the cheering of the masses as they witnessed the plaiting of the Maypole ribbons and the rituals associated with this ancient custom – and watched a town come together for celebration and acknowledgement of that essential Glastonbury spirit.

There are little videos on YouTube of parts of the whole thing. Feel free to ferret amongst them for more information, colour and Beltane vibes!

As for me, I am hugely tired – but also feel honoured to have played a part in this, my first experience of community Beltane. Most of all though, I am thrilled to have met so many wonderful, and special, people during the past four months – and to have played, acted and laughed with some of them during this weekend.

Roll on the Summer Solstice!

Pleased?! Delighted, more like!

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/pleased/

This merry morning, I was thrilled to pieces – which, for anyone not reading this in their Mother Tongue, is Pleased Squared! – when, upon levering open the laptop, my son asked if I was free to Skype. I was so excited, I nearly cried!

For those not abreast, my nineteen year old son, and his girlfriend (whom I refer to as Lad and Lass in these annals, in order to maintain their anonymity and help cut down on the sheer embarrassment of having a mother who has published a book of humorous erotica!), have buggered off to Foreign Parts for a while as part of their Gap Year experience. They have been gone a couple of weeks – and, the Internet being a tad uncertain Abroad, this is the first time I have been able to talk face to face (well, you know what I mean) with the blighter and blighterina.

I pressed the little ‘Accept Call’ doodad (as you can see, I am reaching my usual high levels of technological know-how!) – and, to my absolute wonder, there he was, my boy, lounging upon a bed in a room somewhere miles from here, the Lass lurking happily in the background.

To say that I was pleased to see and hear him is to waste subdued adjectives when other, more colourful, ones lie to one side begging to be used! I was made-up! I was torn between weeping and laughing! I was as happy as a bee in a shower of pollen!

You get the idea, I am sure. Far be it for me to flog a dead linguistic horse here…

We chatted. We laughed. We caught up. I showed them my dress and both were suitably impressed, or diplomatically polite (!), Lad having never known me to lift a needle in the direction of material and both aware that I am cack-handed in the extreme and more than likely to go base over apex at the drop of a chapeau.

It was so lovely to hear of their adventures in lands far away, to feel a faint echo of the intense experiences they are having. It was, of course, very reassuring to see them looking happy, tanned, relaxed and well.

I am unambiguously happy for them that they are on this trip; that all their hard work (and both did work incredibly hard for over six months to earn the money they needed) has paid off; that they are learning about different cultures, lands and people; that they are brave and adventurous and open-minded.

I miss the Lad. Of course I do. Other than Nepal, three years ago, this is the longest we have been parted since I hatched him getting on for twenty years ago. But, being realistic here, he will be off to university soon anyway – and I would have had to face that parting some time or another.

We spoke for ages, the three of us. I cherished the time spent – and wallow in the afterglow. Love is not a chain. It is more pliant and stretchy than that. In the end, we have to let those we love fly free because a cooped, tethered bird is only half alive.

Pleased? I was bloody ecstatic!

Lad and Lass planting my raspberry canes a few weeks ago.

Unravelling…

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/unravel/

A year ago, I felt as if I were unravelling with terrifying speed. Mid-divorce, my then-husband away on the first of two visits to Crete, battling constant letters from my solicitor and trying to keep the Lad, who was coming up to his A’ level exams, on an even keel, it was a grim time indeed. The wool of my soul was frayed and knotted with care, and I could feel odd strands peeling away no matter how tightly I tried to hold onto them.

My blog posts written at that time reflect this anguish, this sense of a dizzying and unstoppable fall; my journal, which told the truth more openly, speaks of a sense of utter desolation and such fear for the future, such self-doubt, such a feeling of imminent falling-apart, that I want to hug that earlier Ali and say to her, ‘It’ll be all right in the end. You are not going to unravel completely – just as much as you need to…’

Metaphorically, I can now see that I did need to unravel to a certain extent because there were intractable burrs which had attached themselves to the skeins of wool which make up my ball. I had to unwind great lengths in order to rid myself of these encumbrances. There was a pivotal moment, some time in late November – when it looked as if the move would never happen – in which the scales seemed weighted in favour of complete unravelling.

But, as you know, I did move, the day before the Winter Solstice. Originally, I had hoped to be gone by the Autumn Equinox, then Samhain – but, looking back, I think it needed to be the day before darkness began to travel back into light.

My little ball of wool, though tattered and tear-stained, ripped in places and dirty, stayed firm – and, for all that tears often dampen the surface upon which I write – and the pillow beneath my head on sad, sleepless nights – the lengths of multi-coloured wool are curled up snugly and show no obvious desire to unwind.

For a very long time, I felt almost incorporeal, as if I didn’t truly exist. I felt I had to pinch myself in order to be certain of my physical existence – and I felt so hideous, so snarled and snaked, that I would not even look in the mirror. I think – looking at this side of things now – that this is the reason why I post so many pictures of me on here. I am not, in the usual run of things, remotely vain – but, I can see now that I am not the grotesque creature I thought; I can see that I am real and that I do exist, and those things are so lovely that I do celebrate by sharing images of the real me!

I haven’t really felt I could love my looks, and positively enjoy flaunting them, since my nude modelling days back in the mid eighties – so, perhaps, the word ‘unravelling’ can here be applied in a more positive way: The unravelling of the tightness within which has, for so many years, kept me trapped in a tangle of low self-esteem and the conviction that I was ugly, fundamentally unlovable and deeply flawed.

Something toxic, taut and tortuous sure is unravelling now! I can look in the mirror, often for long seconds at a time (!), and think, ‘Hey, Ali! You ain’t bad for a Crone of fifty-nine!’

Happiness seems almost frightening to me. I am borderline afraid to fully let it in. But, this little snapshot, from yesterday, will tell you all you need to know: After a lovely, and hilarious, rehearsal with the Shadow of the Tor team, I walked home, up the High Street, then up Bove Town, through honeyish late-afternoon sun – and felt such a warmth of joy cloaking my entire being that I wanted to sing and cry simultaneously.

Overweight: In Denial?

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/denial/

Am I, as some have assumed, in denial about the fact that I am overweight?

No, not a bit of it! I am well aware, fully cognisant, of the fact that my tonnage and poundage does not fit the norm – and that, by not going on a diet or fussing over-much, I am, by some, seen as over-indulgent, lazy and reactionary.

But, by the same token, I am not, and never have been, taken in by this wide-spread belief that slim is the only way to be; that it is the Holy Grail of size; that it automatically confers the gifts of beauty and sex appeal; that it makes the narrow of waist automatically happy and healthy, successful and wealthy.

Yes, I could be thinner. Couldn’t we all be more, or less, of something in our lives? But I think we obsess over size to a depressing and ridiculous degree – and, in so-doing, we are in denial in other, equally relevant, ways. We deny the basic truth that there is more to a person’s character and level of attractiveness than perfect vital statistics. We deny the fact that some people find generously-built women more sexy, rather than less. We are in complete denial about the fact that body-shape fashions fluctuate – and what is seen as the size to aspire to now, in 2017, would have been laughed to scorn by earlier generations.

My own opinion is that a person glows, or fails to do so, from within. Light does not start from an hourglass figure, perfectly-coiffured hair and a designer wardrobe. We emit light from a source that is other than the physical form with which we show ourselves to the world – and, saying this, I can see that the oft-quoted saying, ‘The light shines through the cracks,’ may, in fact, have more than metaphorical truth about it.

The word ‘hot’ has come to mean a certain look, hasn’t it? And, with that rigidity at work, we deny any appearance which deviates from this societally-agreed standard the various appellations which point to sexiness, or beauty or gorgeousness.

You see, I am not in denial about my weight, my statistics (vital or otherwise!). I just don’t think they matter as much as the qualities I have as a person, the pleasure I get from life, the enjoyment of friends. All too often, the action of losing weight becomes a sour kind of denial (of life’s richness) in itself – and the ‘fulfilment’ (one assumes emotional) of not eating certain things, of denying appetite and the sensual delight of food, strikes me as being as sad in its own way as the binge-eating associated with larger people.

Self-denial, no matter how worthy, always strikes me as a thin (all puns fully intended), almost mean – and, all too often, sanctimonious – kind of pleasure. There is, I’m afraid, usually an underlying superiority, a covert, ‘I can do this. You can’t. I’ve got self-control. You have none!’

So what are we in denial about? Where size and weight are concerned? That losing weight may not alter our lives for the better! This: Our weird belief, almost a religion in its own calorie-counting right, that getting to that desired size will cure every ill we suffer and make our lives all they should be. That weight loss, or gain, has anything to do with fundamental happiness or contentment in life.

We deny the reality, the stark and unpopular truth: That losing weight per se makes no sodding difference to quality of life within. Or it only does if our lives revolve around fitting certain clothes, being fit and admired by men and being envied by fatter women!

Of course lose weight for health reasons. I am not denying the logic of that one. But let us stop twinning slimness with grace, beauty, moral superiority and high intelligence. Let us cut this spurious link between being slim and being happy, sexy, loved and confident.

Happiness is a state of mind. It is an emotion. It is not linked to bodily dimensions. Call me a bitch if you will (many already have!) but I see no contentment in people so afraid of putting on an ounce that they deny themselves yummy food, weigh themselves every hour on the hour and purge any known excess from their systems.

If that is what it takes to be slim and ‘happy’, count me out!

I am overweight! I am active. I walk every day. I eat some so-called bad foods. So what? I am happier now than I was a year ago! After a year of eating little more than Granola, I am, currently, not denying myself!

The above image show the latest phase in the Silent Eye costume process. I shall show no more, and have deliberately hidden most of it within the all-purpose purple cloak!

Is slim really analogous with beauty?

Over to you!

Rusty Shackle at Thekla, Bristol: Passport to delight!

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/passport/

A ticket can be seen as a passport to a cool and groovy experience. So it was for me and two friends last night! Read on…

Late last August, a close friend and I went to the Towersey Festival, near Oxford, for a day. Wonderful, it was, and our experiences are covered in greater detail in a previous post: (https://orangehairedalienorabrowning.wordpress.com/2016/08/27/towersey-festival-near-thame/).

One of the acts we particularly liked was Rusty Shackle, an Indie-Folk band from Wales. Something about their energy was really appealing. I loved their music – and the combination of instruments – which includes fiddle and trumpet – was refreshingly different and very effective.

About a month ago, I saw on line that they were coming to Thekla in Bristol. Thrilled to pieces by this welcome news, I contacted my Towersey Pal and another friend, ordered three tickets and then waited, with increasing excitement and impatience, for the day to dawn.

Now, Thekla, for those unfamiliar with Bristol, is THE place to go for live music, if you are part of the Happening Crowd, that is – and, as I gathered from my son, a very cool club for the Younger Generation. My boy was diplomatically silent on the likely reaction to three representatives from the Over Twenties (and the rest!!!) Brigade.

Last night, full of vim, vigour and, in my case, vino, we sauntered coolly (or as close an approximation to that much-to-be-desired state as we could manage) into the bowels of the ship, just in time to see Rusty Shackle emerging from Stygian gloom and, in a welter of noise and colour, erupting upon the stage.

A fantastic hour and a half followed. The crowd – a reassuringly diverse group chronologically! – gyrated and jived, whooped and waved, danced and dived, buzzing, the whole time, like a colony of honey-high bees.

Some of the numbers my friend and I thought we recognised from last August; others were new to all of us – but the vibe was amazing, the mood elevated and the band combined excellent musicianship with huge charisma and boyish good looks. Put it this way, had I been thirty years younger…

At the end, the three of us tottered over to the merchandise table, behind which members of the band were waiting to sign CDs. I confess I didn’t dither for long – and, like a homing vulture, went straight for a Rusty Shackle t-shirt. My two male companions approved – and one of them was, I think, briefly tempted to get his own!

I then had what I can only describe as a Teenage Fan Moment (or possibly a rush to the head caused by three glasses of red!) – and, taking my ticket in an awe-struck paw, I asked the band to autograph it.

This they did, most willingly and cheerfully. They seemed like genuinely nice, down-to-earth guys, musicians without side, fun people.

I was so pleased to have these two souvenirs.

Once it was all over, we three made our way to a Burger Boat (like you do!) – and, over our meal, chatted and laughed and made much banter about the evening specifically and life generally.

Cool? Yes, I think we were! Defying age, convention and all that tedious bollocks, we behaved like students and showed the world, and ourselves, that there is still plenty of life and musical passion in these two old dogs and, dare I say it, one old bitch!

As for Rusty Shackle, if they ever appear anywhere near you, do get along there and see them! They are superb!

Ali in Teenage Fan Moment Mode!

A house full of music!

Music did not feature largely in my previous home. By this I do not mean to imply that there was none, for that would be an outright lie. When I had the house to myself, I would tentatively practise my violin and my lad – a far better musician than I will ever be – went through his repertoire on guitar and trumpet.

But the Great God Television – which had a central spot in the Living Room and in my ex’s heart – took precedence. Allied with an attitude of disdain for my musical taste and performance.

Thus, I shut myself away and listened very quietly to CDs, played rarely and always with a sense of inner muffling and shame.

Now? Ah! Now, my home is full of music. Instruments lie in most rooms: Two violins, one of them electric, a viola, guitars, an ornamental family mandolin, a tenor recorder, its treble sibling, half a dozen descant little sisters and loads of records and CDs. The Boy keeps his trumpet at his father’s domicile so that he can access it speedily for band rehearsals and the like.

I did think, very seriously, about bringing the piano with me – but, as stated in a previous post, it was too large – and so I gave it to friends.

Since late December, I have had the delight of resuming my musical life. Music has always been a vital means of expression for me, and I have been listening to records since early childhood. The freedom to pick up any instrument at any time, and to play it with confidence, rather than crippled and fearful inhibition, has been so lovely that I still pinch myself to make sure I am not dreaming. Pushing through the scar tissue left by my ex’s feelings of humiliation and embarrassment at my musical abilities (or lack thereof, in his eyes) has been much harder, however, and I still cannot bring myself to join in with public events such as local Open Mic evenings.

But I am getting bolder, getting more confident. I had such a magical afternoon about ten days ago, when close friends came for lunch and we spent the post-prandial potential slump listening, with great and nostalgic pleasure, to records from our combined student days! The Who, Patti Smith, the Rolling Stones, Fleetwood Mac: Need I go on?!

Now, I can listen without fear, play with joy. I do watch the television, but it is not the God Form it was in my old home. In truth, I spend much of my down time, my relaxation moments, soaking music blissfully up into my very pores. If I feel so inclined – and it has been known! – I can pick up a recorder, whilst waiting for something to cook, and blast away, in the kitchen, going through my repertoire (which is catholic and eclectic), twiddly bits and all, as sauces bubble and the dog looks pained.

Or, equally heavenly, I can curl up, a human prawn in my big armchair, and luxuriate in the sounds of all my favourite tracks! Ah, bliss!

Liberation!

I tremble: Let there be Light!

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/tremble/

I tremble with combined fear – and pleasurable anticipation! An unexpected £20 refund from B & Q allows me to indulge my creativity and imagination as far as the garden is concerned.

Long have I bemoaned its pitch-blackness at nights – though broken up, I have to be honest, with regular surges of the Moon and brightly twinkling kisses from Venus; but, when it comes to putting the bunny away of a night, I am all too likely to trip, to slither, to encroach upon her most personal space through dodgy footwork getting over the gate. Of torches, I am currently bereft, my last one, which might have condescended to illuminate a speck of dust so tiny was it, having flickered its last some days since.

So, off I go, full of excitement, and nervous tension, my skin all a-tremble at the thought of getting it wrong, judging badly, making a hideous reality out of the gorgeous patches and colourful rags of my tatterdemalion vision. The juddering reflects past reality, however: I am Mistress of my own Castle, and do not need to fear the disapproval and anger of anyone else in matters of taste. But the old habit of ducking my head to avoid the flare of fury, of shaking in an excess of terror, of freezing when iced with anger is hard to break – and I am semi-convinced I will make a mess of this.

There they are, in a box, six LED outdoor lights which correspond so exactly to my hopes and dreams that the trembling intensifies almost unbearably for a small moment. Two switches, they have, which means I can set them either to plain white -or to the wondrous kaleidoscope of colours which will not just light, but also warm and inspire, my lovely garden.

I put them together with care, though not with complete success; but, in the end, this does not matter because the little ones can rest on squared off abutments of fence, while the longer ones can burrow into the ground and shine their lights gloriously.

I plant them as tenderly as, two weeks ago, I did my snowdrops – now beginning to rise above the deepest Winter and put out little shoots of green edged with promising white – and then I have to wait, for these garden lights will not burst into flower until the darkness begins.

I immerse myself in other tasks, losing my tremble in sticking much-loved pictures to my walls, and dangling pretty pendants in various places throughout the house – and so I am caught unawares, bamboozled by the daylight sliding away, stunned by the sudden beautiful flicker of lights turning from pink to green to blue to red outside. I clap my hands in pleasure, for it is like seeing little fairies dancing magically upon my lawn and in the secret places by the growing foliage.

I dash out, laughing, so excited I am a-quiver once more; I rush into the smoothing navy of early evening, delight in the rounding of the nearly Full Moon, watch as each lantern takes on a different hue, no two the same at any point – and I point my mobile phone at the garden, take photos, try to capture this loveliness, even though I know that I cannot do the scene justice photographically.

Ah well! I can see it, enjoy it, tremble in its emotional message, know that I have chosen wisely, that I did not mess it up or do the wrong thing: Knowing that I can make decisions for myself and create an atmosphere, which reflects my taste, all around my new home.

A happy tremble! A good tremble! A healing tremble!

Ten out of Ten: Happy Dog!

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/ten/

We learn, from our earliest years, to mark, or count, things out of ten – with ten being the epitome of success, joy, spelling ability or sexual attraction (quotient thereof).

Jumble, my fourteen-and-a-half-year-old border collie, has really taken to life in Glastonbury. He has perked up. His interest in life is re-awakened. He adores our surroundings and likes to rub noses, through the bars, with Pippa. He is delighted with his new freedom to wander where he will – and even curls up at the bottom of my bed some nights.

There are a couple of areas in which we do not see eye to eye, the main one being his extraneous fur. I want to thin it out. He wants me to bugger off. Stalemate at present. I clip bits as and when I can, but the large nests in his posterial thicket could really do with a hedge trimmer!

But, in the main, we co-exist amicably – and he is almost back to the bright-eyed, bushy-tailed puppy of yesteryear: Very touching! So, for Jumble, this move has been an unambiguous TEN – as, I feel, the photo below suggests! – and I, as his owner, protector and chaser-with-nasty-sharp-scissor-Witch, am delighted at how much better he is in himself.

Moving Day: The Frustration and Joy

So there we were, a mismatched quintet, still clinging like ancient and frayed wallpaper to the now-redundant eleven rooms of a house all-but sold. Boxes narrowed every space, their destinations and contents emblazoned – in black or blue permanent marker – for all the world, or at least that part of it trained in the mystic art of removal, to see.

A week of intensive packing – hefting, dragging, ripping and sealing – had left me with painful swollen hands and an aching back. Looking at the sand sculpture of boxed possessions lying upon the low-tide beach as one village’s sea of time was sucked slowly out, I found it hard to imagine how my much smaller new house could possibly find room for it all – and that before you factored in the furniture!

The four removal men, and their two lorries, arrived, as they said they would, early – and, starting with my stuff, began the back-breaking task of attempting to fit what looked like several gallons into the proverbial pint pot. I supplied tea, biscuits and laughter, whilst manically hoovering and cleaning all surfaces for the new arrivals.

Then came the delay: We, as top of the chain, would be last out of the Completion Slips and the combined weight of solicitors appeared ponderous and slow, to say the least.

In the end, my Glastonbury-bound crew having set off at eleven, I decided to load up the car with bits, bobs and the two animals and head off that way myself. It made sense: I had to collect the keys from the estate agents in my new town – and preferred to be a two minute walk, as opposed to a forty minute drive, away once the call came.

Of course it was a risk: Had the delay gone on past a certain hour, extra costs would have been incurred and it was still possible that Completion would be put off until the eleventh hour – meaning that I could, potentially, be holed up in the Abbey car park, with two frankly foetid and stressed animals, for hours, if not days!

Pippa, the rabbit, who honked something chronic, was next to me, in her carrying cage, on the passenger seat, while Jumble – who gave every olfactory appearance of having rolled in a dead badger, sat behind me and whined. I don’t blame him in the least. As the minutes turned into hours and the interior of the car reached a state of ripeness which came very close to decomposition, I felt like howling myself – though a small local pasty soothed the canine’s savage beast (even if it did nothing for his industrial-strength halitosis) and brown bread distracted the bunny from her crouched woe.

Finally, at three in the afternoon – and mindful of the removal men and a friend who had come to help – I left my pets in the car, with windows ajar, and tottered down to the estate agents.

To my utter delight, and relief, they had just had the call – from a young woman several root vegetables short of a ratatouille, if I’m any judge – to say that, monies having been received, I could now take possession of the house.

As I drove up, and up still further, my whole body was churning with excitement and wonder. Even the Dismal Duet in the back and side had perked up!

I turned the final corner – and there it was: My house, my dream, the end of one phase and the start of the next. I beamed from ear to ear, told the furry ones to look at their new des res (which prompted a groan from the dog and a wee from the rabbit!) and then leapt out, full of the joys of December’s Solstice Eve.

As I opened my own front door for the first time, I trembled and laughed and felt quite overcome with emotion. After all the twists and turns, terrors and disappointments, arrival felt as sweet as Lindt chocolate and so liberating that, were I not an uncoordinated old thing, I would, I am sure, have turned a trillion cartwheels through sheer joy!

For the first time in years, I felt as if I had come home!

Yay!