Barren Mare

Feel the fear (and drive there anyway)

This morning when the 4am squawking emitted from Botany's room, I went down to find her standing up at the end of her cot. I am guessing this may herald a new era in the annals of my sleep deprivation; at least until she teaches herself how to lie back down.

So, yes, where were we? Ah, driving. 

I learned how to drive when I was 16 years old; growing up in the boondocks of Nowheresville, PA made learning how to drive as early as possible a necessity. My dad taught me, on the quiet little backcountry roads and around the large parking lot of the local church. I think my driving test consisted of a ten minute session of braking at a stop sign and weaving around some cones in an off-road test centre. I passed, of course. 

My first car, which my parents bought for me that year, was a second-hand automatic Volkswagon Rabbit with half a gazillion miles on the odometer. It was basic, but it ran well. Being small and nimble, it was an easy car to drive. Step on the gas, step on the brake, steer. I drove that car for a further gazillion miles. Just about every other weekend, I nipped home with a four hour sprint down the freeway from college in Massachusetts to home in Pennsylvania. In later years, I took the car across country (and back) to California in a mini convoy with a friend- who, by some spooky coincedence, also drove a tan Rabbit. Particularly out in the wide plains of the West, it was kind of surreal looking out across the tumbleweeds and seeing what effectively the mirror image of myself driving ahead on the highway. There I go! Anyway, I quite liked driving in the States. Most of the time I found it pleasant and sort of mindless; especially on those long rural stretches where you can practically point the car in the direction you are going, climb in the back, have a cup of coffee, do your make up and read the paper before having to steer.

Then I moved here, to Scotland. By comparison, the roads are insanely narrow. The steering wheel and the driving are on the "wrong side".  The transmissions are manual. And I was doomed. Unfortunately, my first job involved working weird shift patterns, so public transport wasn't really an option. It was an hour long commute into the city, and after a few sessions of learning how to grind the gears enough to drive a stick shift, I just got on with it. I think it was a combination of desperation and necessity that made me do it; I tried not to think about it too much because it had to be done. I drove for a year on an international licence; however, for insurances purposes, I had no choice but to get a UK licence. And that meant taking a UK driving test.   

In my experience, learning to the drive in the UK is an entirely different proposition from the "weaving around the cones" standard of my youth. Obviously, I already knew how to drive so it wasn't a question of starting from scratch. But there is a whole industry of driving instruction here, because the driving test  involves a number of (in my opinion) hideous and persnickity driving techniques and moves that must be done a certain way. For example, you can't steer, oh no- you must hold the steering wheel in a certain position with your hands placed just so. You have to demonstrate competency in emergency stopping, navigating through traffic and hill starts.  Even worse, during the test you have to perform manuevers such as parallel parking and my own little Waterloo, a little thing called reversing around the corner. Without grinding the gears or crashing into anything or swearing in front of the examiner. The test lasts for something like 45 minutes during which time there is simply endless opportunity to fuck things up. Oh, and if you take the test in an automatic car, you only get an automatic licence; our car at the time was manual and we couldn't afford a new one.

Well, passing that test was a nightmare. For me, it was like having to relearn a formerly winning golf swing. Driving was such second nature to me by that point that I simply couldn't get the hang of having to steer with my hands gripping that way and ostensibly checking the mirrors every time I blinked, not to mention the infernal reversing round the corner. Hell, some days I could barely remember to get in the correct side of the car. 

I failed that goddamn test three times (at vast expense) and was beginning to panic about how I was going to get to work. Then someone suggesting going out to a rural test centre where it was meant to be a little easier.  So I went out there with my sweaty little palms on the wheel of my vehicle- I had to circumvent a couple of tractors, and all the sheep in town showed up to watch me reverse round the corner. But I did pass, and there was much rejoicing.

Shortly thereafter, we moved into the city, and I stopped needing to drive so much. Everything was in walking distance, or by easy accessible public transport, and gradually, I got out of the habit. Whenever I did drive, it always seemed that I was having to dodge around cars parked halfway on the street/curb, bin lorries, buses breathing down my neck, drunken cyclists and errant schoolchildren. I continually made a mess of parallel parking and came to hate navigating my way through the traffic, and eventually became slightly phobic about having to make the run down the very busy, very narrow side street near my flat.  Most of all, it continued to bug me that no matter how long I lived here, I just couldn't get used to the shifting gears with my left hand and the damn steering wheel being on the wrong side.

 By the time I met E., I rarely drove. And like the cooking, I was quite happy for him to do it, all the time. He pressured me a little to keep driving, but I usually weasled out of it, feeling slightly ashamed (since I knew I could do it) but also very relieved (because I had decided I hated it with the fire of a thousand suns).

Now, of course, there is Botany to consider. From now on, she needs to get taken to and from nursery three times a week. There is a bus, but that particular service is both erratic in terms of frequency and unsuitable as far as accessibility with a buggy. It's a walkable distance, just- but in the winter when it's dark and cold- um, not so much. Which means it's going to almost certainly be a case of driving there. It remains to be seen how much I actually have use of the car, which E. and I would need to share (since I won't be able to afford one of my own). But the bottom line is that in order to get Botany to nursery, I'm going to have to get used to driving again- at least a lot more than I have done in the last eight years, and with my baby in the backseat.

The thought sort of makes me want to hyperventilate and throw up. I'm hoping I'll get used to it pretty quickly- after all, it's not as if I have very far to go, and it's easy to park once I am there. It's just...another thing that I had come to rely on somebody else to do that now I will have to get on and do myself. I suppose I should remember that there is nobody out there standing with a clipboard scoring me as I reverse round the corner into a lamppost, but still. What I wouldn't give for a tan VW Rabbit with white lines running into an endless, open distance.

Castle Bloggage

Aha. The phone is still not hooked up, but it's kind of become a moot point anyway since it turns out that we get the keys to the new house next week. For which, yay.  No doubt it will then take another 39 months to get the stupid phone line installed there; however, it means we can draw a line until the futile exercise of trying to get some service in the stupid rental flat.

In the meantime, we've gone on holiday for a week. Nothing fancy, just a cottage in the northeast, an area in which I have not previously spent much time in, but thus far it is very pleasing and pretty albeit in a rather waterlogged fashion.  The house is basic yet very cosy, and it has a huge beautiful private walled garden so that Little Guy can romp to his heart's content.

I owe many emails to many people, and I apologise for the ongoing lack of communictaion. But I'll have to be brief here, because this posting finds me checking in from the world's most expensive and possibly slowest internet connection.  Plus I can only open one browser window at a time. It is however, located in a rather improbably grand castle, complete with faux ceiling roses, vast fireplaces and slightly tasteless statues of, er, cavorting wood nymphs and such like.  I think there was actually a real boar's head on the wall when we came in.

So for sheer novelty value, it makes a nice change from Cafe Oobleck.  If it ever stops raining, we will take Little Guy for a walk/waddle through the woods afterward, and maybe there will be some cake and hot chocolate in the local bakery/cafe later.  The Apocryphetus seems to be enjoying herself so far, or at least I am guessing so, given the vigour with which she is punching me in the upper right quadrant of my abdomen at regular intervals. It's all good.

A little spell of blue

Brrrr..shivering in the sudden Arctic cold snap which has swept the country. Things had briefly seemed there as if we were heading for a mild and pleasant Spring, but now the grim hand of winter has yanked us all by our collars right back into chillyvilles.  As I trudge to work, I feel the icy blasts of wind even more acutely, since I am now too bumped-out to button my warm winter coat properly.

We were advised this weekend that our new house will probably now not be completed until sometime in May- our original move-in date was early April.  And we have to be out of the place we are in by the first week in May.  All of which makes me say: oh poo and merde.

Slippage with new build houses is inevitable, and I knew this from the outset- even started mentally planning ahead for what we would do in the event that we had an overlap between moving out of here and getting into the new place.  But now that I am confronted by the reality, it's come as more a bummer than I had anticipated.  There's absolutely nothing we can do about it- I don't know what it's like in the States, but when you sign the contract for a off-plan property here, the developers retains an insane amount of control over completion dates- in other words, they can finish whenever they like. In one case I know of, they were two years late.  That was exceptional, of course, and I don't think we are looking at anything like that sort of delay, especially since we know for a fact that at least the exterior is largely finished.  But it could be longer than we are currently expecting.  Either way, we are going to almost certainly have an overlap.  So this means everything we own will go into storage while we rent somewhere in the interim.

It's not the end of the world, but I confess I really wish we could just get in and get on with settling in. I mean, I have nesting to do! I have loads of baby crap to buy, for crying out loud!  Well. I've decided that if it drags on into summer, I am going to start wandering back and forth in front of the not yet finished house, clutching my belly and wailing like a fishwife.  Think that might spur the builders on?

Anyway, not to sound all moany-whingey but the combination of bad weather and the whole moving fandango and some ongoing irritants on the work front has conspired to bring on a small fit of the blues. I tell myself daily that in compensation for the apparent good fortune I have recently enjoyed, I am not allowed to feel bad about anything again, ever- and certainly not small trivialities like these. But in all honesty, I do admit to being just a trifle low. Or perhaps that is just hormones talking; I found myself having a little weep over a TV advert to raise funds in aid for abused animals the other day while simultaneously rolling my eyes at what a cliche that is.

Now, where are my mittens?

Gremlins in the house

We are plagued with gremlins in this house at the moment. It seems like everything we own is breaking, broken, or is suffering from intermittent faults or malfunctions.

A few examples:

• The car

Remember how we bought the car and it crapped out the same day?. Well, it was apparently an omen of things to come. A couple of weeks ago it died again, as E. was barrelling along the busy motorway, forcing another delightful interlude on the side of the road awaiting assistance. Cue two weeks of mechanics scratching their heads, unable to figure out the cause. In the end, they decide it needs- wait for it- a new engine. Aieeee!

The good news it that some of it may be covered by warranty, but the bad news is that most of it will not. And the further good news is that because we bought it less than six months ago from a dealer we may still have some protection under the consumer legislation in this country. Though the further bad news is that he's a two bit dealer operating out of his garden shed and he doesn't give a shit about our statutory rights so it may involve taking him to court to obtain any satisfaction. Oh, what larks.

• The kettle

If you don't live in Britain, I am not sure you can fully grasp the sheer horror of being without a kettle. The kettle is the source of all lifeblood- that is, endless cups of tea. When the breakdown occured, E. and I staggered around in a daze for a couple of days before flailing around in the cupboards to see if we had a spare fuse. We did not. Then we remembered that we have an entire garage filled with crap, including the exact same style of kettle (when furnishing two houses, if you find something you like, why not buy two?). Of course finding it meant going to confront the utter, utter nightmare that is the garage. It's still crammed to the gunnels, and things are beginning to get rather fusty.

• The battery on the camera

One of the reasons I have not taken more pictures of Little Guy is that everytime I reach for the camera, the battery is dead. A direct result, I am sure, of the damage suffered earlier when E. dropped the damn thing in a puddle of water. The nice guy at the camera shop managed to fix the camera itself but the battery seems to be a bit gubbed ever since.

• Little Guy's intestines

I applied his worming meds the other night, and twelve hours later, a series of the most ginormous roundworms emerged from his bottom. Aieeee! The vet tells me that is a sign that the medicine is working properly, but good grief. Poor little guy. As E. pointed out to me during our walk in the park, if I were to poop out something on a comparative scale, there would be worms the size of my arm. Nice.

• The roof

I think I wrote a couple of years ago about the saga of the roof leaking, though I can't now find the link back to it. Never mind, it's not that interesting a story, really. In a nutshell, there is a structural fault running the length of our building and somehow when it rains (which it does a lot, this being Scotland), the water gets in- either into our flat (i.e the kitchen or the hall) as well as the flat directly below us. It was supposedly repaired by the builders a couple of years ago after a protracted, annoying fandango, but guess what? It's leaking again! Hurray.

• The internet connection on the laptop

Since getting Little Guy, I prefer using the laptop computer to blog, because then I can sit on the sofa while he plays on the rug at my feet, and he likes that better than weaving under the chair legs at the dining room table. It's also baltic-y cold in the study in the winter. But for some totally unexplained reason, the connection is busticated. I've rebooted everything there is to reboot, and still it defies me. Mustn't grumble, I suppose, since I am lucky to have an at least one working connection (touch wood)- even if I may have to chop off a my frostbitten fingers afterwards.

• My reproductive system

Oh, wait, that was already broken. No change there.

Rarer than hen's teeth

Excuse me while I clear my throat and join the national caterwauling about the bizarrely warm weather we are having here in the UK.  Most of bonny Caledonia has been bathed in sunshine and yes, even heat as well. I know hearing about a few random days where the mercury exceeds 75 degrees must be intensely boring for people from places like Gary, Texas where, at the time of this writing, it is a sizzling 100.4.  But really, anything resembling a heatwave in this country is such a rarity that I cannot let it pass unremarked upon.

In my office, people are showing up for work in the most extraordinary outfits. Most of us don't have anything resembling a proper summer wardrobe, you see- apart from the sorts of things you might take on holiday. So improvisation is the name of the game, and as a result there are slightly odd items creeping into the attire here and there- rather saucy colored tank tops, unusual casual-ish sandals and a frightening amount of pale Scottish flesh.  Everyone sits around fanning themselves with expressions of dazed lassitude, commenting at regular intervals to anyone within earshot that "it's boiling".  Boiling out there!  Boiling!  You half expect the women to start toppling over like wilted flowers, calling for their stays to be loosened.

To be fair, it is quite warm by Scottish standards.  Air conditioning is not standard, so it does get rather stuffy inside. The other night I sweltered even with the window open, driving me out of the bedroom at midnight to the relative comfort of a better ventilated living room.  I fell asleep and woke up at 3am with a sweaty cheek stuck to the leather sofa. Wandering back to my bed, I found E. lying spread-eagled across only a fitted sheet, having kicked off all the remaining bedcovers in the night.  Staggering into work, I discovered my colleagues were similarly hollow-eyed from a heat-induced lack of sleep.

"Boiling last night!  Boiling, I tell you!" we muttered to each other, before universally agreeing that we should all be sent home when the temperature exceeds 70 farenheit. Not to worry, a freakishly chilly sea mist or possibly even a thunderstorm is no doubt right around the corner, at which point normal service can be resumed; that is, we can all go back to moaning about the cold and wet. 

In other news, I have purchased one of these.  One of the finest gadgets ever; extremely addictive.  I don't quite know how I have lived all these years without one.         

On Holiday by Mistake

I meant to post something in the brief few days between my parents' departure and my leaving on holiday, but I ran out of time. Yes, you read that correctly, I was on holiday. Again. Now, lest you start rolling your eyes and muttering under your breath about how often I seem to disappear off on these little jollies, let me remind you that my allotted vacation days add up to something like seven weeks in total, and to use all that up every year is hard work. Takes a dedicated, methodical approach.

We decided that it was our civic duty (not to mention environmentally sounder) to opt to spend at least one holiday in Scotland. Support the home team and all that. We've done this in the past, and- at the risk of sounding negative- invariably regretted it somewhat. Let's be frank- taking a trip in this country tends to mean indifferent food, rip-off prices, poor service and crap weather.

And I regret to report that this time was no exception; all of those elements were present.

I suppose, given the spectacular countryside much of the aforementioned craptitude could be overlooked, had the weather not been so appalling. We left home in relatively balmy temperatures. Then, as we drove further north, (our destination being island off the west coast rhyming with, er, "rye"), the clouds rolled in. The sky turned dark. The thermometer plummeted to 55 degrees.

To our teeth-gritting annoyance, whenever we turned on the radio or the TV, the announcers were gibbering on endlessly about the heatwave in London. Temperatures in the high 80s! Pensioners collapsing from heat exhaustion! Photos of carefree families frolicking happily on the sun dazzled beaches!

Meanwhile, we reached, er, the place that rhymes with "lye", and found ourselves in a slightly damp rented cottage. Cue endless hot baths to try to stay warm, as a roaring wind blew the rain at 90 degree angles across the front of the house. There was a fine view of the sea from the living room window- or at least there would have been, had the hills not been completely shrouded in low hanging mist.

"But it's Julllllly," I moaned to E. as I scrabbled in my suitcase for a wooly hat and long underwear. (I packed on prior knowledge of what to expect). "We should be strolling hand in hand down some sunny promenade, sipping cooling fizzy drinks in a sidewalk cafe, basking like sandsharks in the warm waters."

E., who had optimistically packed the bikes, his fishing rod and his hiking boots, stared grimly out the window.

"We've gone on holiday by mistake," he muttered a la Withnail & I.

We stayed in and watched England get knocked out of the World Cup; later that evening, as a change of scene for the Brazil game, we decided to make our way down to the local pub. It was set back from the road in a pleasing little dell surrounded by trees, lights glimmering appealingly in the rain-sloshed gloom. But as soon as we walked in, we realised our mistake. The place was filled entirely with sullen English people, and the atmosphere varied between mildly unwelcoming to slightly hostile, overladen with a veneer of funeral gloom. Oops.

Unfortunately, this was to be a recurring theme throughout the rest of our stay on the island. For example, we tried to book a table for our anniversary dinner at a nice-ish recommended restaurant. "If you can find a table, you can order," grunted the owner, waving his hand dismissively in the direction of the bar, slapping the change for our drinks into E.'s hand in an unfriendly fashion.

I tried to order the fish special- nope, off the menu. Turns out this was to be the first of many things unavailable at various venues throughout the week. No giant chocolate chip cookies as advertised. No, there's no ice cream for a milkshake. No, sorry, we're out of the Moroccan lamb stew. No, the library is closed all day on Tuesdays, you can't book a computer to check your email. No, actually, we haven't had internet access available for two years- we really must get around to updating that leaflet sometime. No, we don't have the recommended walking guide book in stock, maybe check in the town 25 miles down the road- they might have it. Or not.

Complaints aside, the island did nevertheless work its slow magic on us over the next few days. It stopped raining, and the sun came out. We played a round of comedy golf on a funny little course. We walked to a white beach, waters as clear as the Mediterrean. E. caught dozens of mackerel skimming just off the surface in silvery schools. We looked through the binoculars at seals frolicking offshore. We hiked up an eery hill, the cloud suddenly rolling in over the sea, whispering the names of the strange stone formations; the Needle, the Prison, the Table. We walked an isolated peninsula, through the crumbled remains of a village lost to the Clearances, inexplicable patches of daffodils growing around the old stone walls.

Then the weather turned crap again and we came home.

So, now you know where I have been. I should perhaps mention, one slightly odd thing happened. You see, we spent a lot of time in the car, both driving for hours to get to the island and then once there driving around to the various parts (which are otherwise quite inaccessible, not being terriblly well served by public transport). And for the first time ever in the whole of the history of my relationship with E., I got a strange sensation that something, or more specifically, someone was missing. The backseat looked so empty. I found myself imagining, repeatedly, a little person in the back- a baby, a child.

I say it's odd, because in the whole of the saga of trying to have a family, I've never ever really pictured it so vividly before. Never really pictured it all, actually. And now that I have done so, I'm suddenly finding it hard to stop.

Consider me worried and intrigued in equal measures.

Accidentally on purpose

There is no good reason for my lack of postiness except that every time I have sat down to write something, life has gotten in the way.  But! As one who previously spent so many months crouched over the keyboard endlessly google-mining for the buried treasure of a solution to our infertility woes, I can say that dealing with a series of "real life" stuff comes as a sort of a good thing.

Note the manner in which I put such a positive spin on the silliness that has ensued here at the Barn in recent weeks. For starters, we accidentally on purpose sold our car. Well, I say "we" but in fact, I was simply following in the slipstream of one of E.'s half-fermented ideas.  Thing was, E. figured he'd "try" to sell the car privately, and no one would buy it.  Then we'd concede defeat, decide what kind of car we want, and head round to that dealership for the ritual trade-in mating dance with the salesman before enduring a shafting for way more money than we wanted to pay in the first place.

Only guess what?  The very next day after putting up the ad online, we had a buyer coming round to view the car with the cold hard cash in his pocket. Cue a bit of manly pawing of the ground interspersed with kicking of the tires, and by the end of the weekend we had ourselves an envelope with a fat wad of cash and a nice big empty space in front of the garage where the car used to be. Huh.

Turns out thereafter we have had quite a lot of trouble figuring out what kind of car we do want, and then finding one that actually fits the bill.  Thus several weeks later we are still sans auto. Which makes doing the grocery shopping that much more amusing.

Then there was the saga of the bathroom tiles. The previous owner of this flat had put carpet in both the main bathroom and the ensuite. Now, I don't know about you, but something about carpets in bathrooms equals heebie jeebies.  You could practically hear the mildew growing underfoot.  It wasn't even nice carpet but this sort of bland pale beige colour. Ack. It gives me the shudders just thinking about it; I don't know how we put up with it for as long as we did.

Anyway, so we decided to rip up the carpet and put down tiles. Since the layout is a bit weird, complete with funny shaped bathtub, the tiling wasn't the kind of thing we could do ourselves. So we phoned a tiler guy to come round to give us a quote, and he actually showed up more or less on time, provided a reasonable estimate for what would be a two day job to lay some natural slate tiles and offered a start date of before next Easter.  Super, I thought!  This might actually be OK!

Erm, well, it started OK. Except that his tile cutting machine broke on the first day so he didn't get very far past laying a few tiles in the ensuite; then the next day he explained that the pesky natural slate tiles were in fact  causing a bit of bother in terms of needing to be recut; then the day after that he didn't show up at all but texted E. at 11pm to say that he wasn't sure about how long it would take, the tiles being sort of crappy and all; until finally the last day, when he finished off the small ensuite before departing in a puff of dust, flat-out refusing to do the rest of the job because the tiles were the worst he'd ever seen, leaving a note charging more than half the estimated price for doing less than half the work. Then texting us every half hour to ask for his money.

I know!  The bloody cheek! To cut a long story short, First Tiler Guy was jujitsued with one of my sharp email specials, and we got somebody else in to do the rest of the work.  Second Tiler Guy efficiently completed the job in a day (turns out much the maligned tiles were absolutely fine), and all was well. Even if he did leave a big mess behind when he left.  I don't even care, such is the vast improvement to the previously manky bathroom floor. Really, it is so much nicer in every possible way, and far pleasanter underfoot.

And that is more or less what I have been up to.  How are you?  If you get a chance, please go round and give some blog lovin' to both Thalia and Pamplemousse, two fine women on the receiving end of some particularly cruel blows.

The darling buds

When I went out at lunchtime, I noticed the trees are now bearing fresh, new green leaves.  It seems that Spring is here at last- funny how it seems to happen overnight. I love this time of year; the light is lengthening and it seems like we are tipping into something brighter. Coming out of the inexpressibly dark winter into summer always feels like a great burden lifting.

We went to a big out-of-town garden centre over the weekend, and I bought a few new plants. Actually, I find garden centres like this one a bit overwhelming.  So many green things, so little time. I walk around with my eyes bugging and my tongue hanging out with greed. And I always want to buy hugely impractical items- look, a magnolia tree!  A gigantic box shrub! A couple of evergreens!  But then I look at the price tags, shuddering; or else E. talks me out of it.  Quite sensible really, since I have now basically run out of space in my tiny alloted garden area, and besides, I don't think the magnolias would like it here.

When we moved to this flat a couple of years ago, one of the first plants I bought was a little standard bay tree. That green lollipop head cost a fair bit of money and I was fairly sure I would manage to kill it quickly, but it was just so cute and shapely that I felt I had to have it. It suggested an established garden, permanence, security. Long term love and patience. Even though really, the garden people had honed it into that shape, and were now gouging my pocketbook as penance for my topiary aspirations.

In any event, I took great pleasure in it, and it did well for a season.  Then in a fit of stupidity, I brought the bay inside into an overheated room during a fierce cold snap. In a short of space of time, it picked up some sort of horrible leaf cooties, and slowly, slowly, it began to wither. The leaves turned brown and curled up. No new buds would bloom. I bought fungus spray, I fretted over it, googled for solutions, talked to it, cajoled it all last summer.  Live, little bay tree, live.  It was unresponsive. 

When the IVF failed last summer, I went out and sullenly kicked the base of the large earthen pot in which the bay tree resides. Everything dies on me, I thought. I looked at the bay tree, and it looked back, and I could see was withering, inside and out.

It was my intention last weekend to uproot what I thought was the dead tree, give it a proper burial and at last use the very nice pot for something else.  But when I bent down to look at it, I noticed something interesting.  Buds. Little buds, lots of buds.  It's early days, of course, and it may still succumb to whatever nasty thing that has killed all the other leaves.  But for the first time in a long time, my heart surged with something like...hope.      

During moments like that, I suddenly believe I am going to be OK.  On days like that; when the light comes surging over the water and dazzling into my eyes, when I hold up the watering can, dig my hands into the soil, catch the bit of a new season in my mouth- I believe that I might be over the worst. It suddenly seems like I have broken the back of this pain, at least while the sun shines.

And I think that maybe there is still something left to hope for after all; and that being able to feel that small tendril of hope is a sign that finally, I am on my way.

The pause that refreshes

I'm off tomorrow on my trip, so in my absence I will leave you with some visual floral entertainment. I hope it's not the equivalent of blog Muzak, but better than nothing, right? It's meant to be a reminder that Spring is springing; a time of blossoming, abundance, and most importantly, chocolate Easter eggs.

See you soon.

To arrive hopefully is better than to travel

Once upon a time, I used to try to post something every other day, or at least every three days. Now, it seems I am lucky if the muse descends once a week. Probably because the most exciting thing to happen to me in recent days was re-arranging the living room. I have to say, it does look an awful lot nicer now!

Next week, I am due to get on a plane to go on our holiday/trip. E. is already away on business, and in thinking about how I would get myself to the airport, I remembered a little story I had meant to relate in January when I returned from Florida. It's one of these "apropos of nothing" tales, so doesn't fit in neatly anywhere, except perhaps as padding in my current museless state.

I was sitting in the Stateside airport on a very long layover. I had finally slumped into a chair after hours and hours of padding around the terminal in a feverishly bored state. At the gate, a fellow passenger was talking on her cell phone.

Now, I should state from the outset that I was not trying to eavesdrop on her conversation- but nor was she making any special attempt to lower her tone, and she could clearly see I was sitting there within earshot. There was something in the way she was speaking; slightly tense, slightly awkward that caught my notice. Also, she closely resembled someone I used to share a house many years ago, so I was surrepetitiously observing her, in the way you do when you think it might just be possible that it actually is that person.

Suddenly I heard her changing her tone, as if speaking to a small child. She was explaining that "the lady from the church" was coming to take care of him. Yes, tonight. No, she didn't know the lady's name. No, ask your father, he'll tell you. Yes, she would try to phone later. Be good. Bye bye.

There was something about this that gave me a bit of pause- she was flying overseas, and didn't know the name of the person coming to take care of her child in her absence? Then I remembered it was none of my goddamn business and gave myself a sharp mental jostle, putting myself back in my place. The woman closed her phone with a sharp snap before wandering off in the direction of the food hall.

But as it happened, she ended up sitting one row opposite and behind me. The flight was half empty and both of us had an entire row to ourselves. I took the opportunity to move to the window seat, whereupon I tried to contort myself into a supine position while still complying with the Fasten SeatBelt sign. Rather unsuccessfully, I might add- a bit too constraining around the midriff for comfort. The woman, on the hand, remained in her aisle seat, her coat wrapped tightly around her, staring blankly into the distance. She did not read, she did not eat. She barely moved the entire flight.

When we landed, there was the usual kerfuffle of disembarking, collecting bags, shuffling through immigration. I like to move briskly when I arrive- gets the blood moving, you know- and the woman kept pace with me. At customs, I lost sight of her as she dashed on ahead. But as I rolled my cart into the arrival hall, there she was, right at the entrance, in a passionate clinch with a tall man. Kissing, kissing, kissing as if the world was coming to an end.

I moved on, of course; it was not polite to stare. However, in the days that followed, I found myself continuing to wonder about her. Who was that man? Why was she flying to meet him in Scotland? Did her (ex?) husband know? Who was the lady from the church and why didn't she know her name? And why doesn't anybody snog me like that when I arrive, apart from the obvious dangers of plane breath?

I suppose her story will always remain a small mystery, just one of those passing moments which so frequently occur on journeys. But it cheered me a little to realise that at times, it may not always be better to travel hopefully than to arrive.

Because sometimes, the arrival can be pretty damn great, too.