Saturday, 8 August 2015

It's drizzly in the North today, wet roofs and pavements.. what's new?  It's Manchester in August in the suburbs.  Well, we're all used to it I suppose, some would say resigned, to wearing woollies in the summer and having an umbrella somewhere handy.  I'm struggling with withdrawal symptoms from a recently prescribed pill that my body decided it didn't like one little bit, so threw a big wobbly.  The GP said stop taking it.  Just like that, when on the instruction blurb it said, 'On no account stop taking this pill, always taper off over a series of weeks.'  However she said, to go on taking it means certain death..... Cheery thought that!
I think of myself now as being like a typewriter.  Well to be specific, my best friend's typewriter, back in the days well before computers, when we used to type spreadsheets on great big hulking machines in the office where we worked.  Her machine was totally temperamental, it knew when someone other than S was using it and it would go out of alignment, every time.  So I think of myself as 'out of alignment' presently.

Tuesday, 9 June 2015

Hello everyone, I'm really sorry not to have posted for ages now, it's just that I've not been at all well. However I am keeping positive and I do hope to be back
reading your lovely blogs once more very soon!
I hope you won't run off anywhere before that day arrives!  :))

Love and hugs,

Tuesday, 31 March 2015

As some of you already know I don't go out very often now, so my mind often turns to memories and remembrances.

 When my eldest daughter was small we lived in Scotland in a huge white painted farmhouse called Yonderton at the top of a long tree-lined lane.  To the left of the house stood a byre where the farmer who rented Yonderton to us kept a special cow or two.  They looked like Jersey cows to me, because their faces were soft and expressive and their hide was that wonderful honey brown shade, but being a city-bred person I probably guessed incorrectly, maybe they were just being fattened for market, a horrid thought.   'S' and I visited them often because they didn't seem to be put out into the fields, spending long days in the cowshed with only the light from the wedged open doorway and the tall sash window which was permenantly dropped open, the top over the bottom leaving a big opening to capture the sweet Scottish airs.  One morning we made our usual visit and my attention was quickly caught by a small blue fluttering bird trapped in the crevice between the two window panes.  It was too high to reach from the inside of the shed so we made our way around the front to see if I could reach it from there.  I didn't have a ladder and I'm not sure what I must have used to stand on after all the years spanning between then and now, but somehow I managed to climb up precariously, and reach down between the two panes to rescue what I now realised was a baby swallow.  This tiny blue-blue beating heart settled for a few seconds upon my outstretched palm before suddenly taking flight up up and away.  This then became my regular rescue-mission throughout the summer, as the swallow babies learnt to navigate through the opening without first having to stop on that dangerous perch atop the two sashes.  I remember I felt so privileged to be able to hold those feathers of midnight-blue lightening for a second or two, before they took off to practise more aerial gymnastics throughout those days of summer skies long gone.                                          

Swallows.  by Leonora Speyrt,  from:- 'A Canopic Jar'         Illustration: Hector Giacomelli,'With the Birds' via:

They dip their wings in the sunset,
They dash against the air 
As if to break themselves upon its stillness:
In every movement, too swift to count,
Is a revelry of indecision, 
A furtive delight in trees they do not desire
And in grasses that shall not know their weight.

They hover and lean toward the meadow
With little edged cries;
And then,
As if frightened at the earth's nearness,
They seek the high austerity of evening sky
And swirl into its depth.

Thursday, 19 February 2015

                       You are the future, the red sky before sunrise over the fields of time.....

                            -Rainer Maria Rilke-

Saturday, 24 January 2015

It's actually sunny today.  A weak winter sunshine but damp and cold .  In the suburbs the roads and roofs still wet, glisten, and drivers scrabble overhead to pull down sun-visors against dazzling beams slanting low in the sky.  Saturday afternoon is quiet here, apart from the dog living next door who barks in his boredom, having been left behind.  The postman delivered his letters and the dog hates the postman.  If I look through the side windows of our house I can just see into the bay of the semi next door.  There sits the dog on the sofa neatly pushed into the recess of the window, his shiny black nose pushed up against the glass and the offending letter lately delivered lies crumpled on the back of the window ledge, I hope they discover it.
The radio plays in our sunny conservatory here, Beethoven's, Fur Elize.

I was 23 when my Dad died.  He was five years younger than I am now, 42 years have gone by I think of him nearly every day, I have a photograph of him next to me here, by the computer.  When I was very small my Nannie, Dad's mother lived in a house about an hour away in a different Northern town.  I think I mentioned before somewhere she was a teacher and the house was full of books. There were soft carpets and oak doors with brass handles, a big clock that chimed the hours and a piano.  One afternoon I was allowed to sit on the piano stool and tinkle-plonk the keys.  There had been a piano at home, in the big house, but when we moved to a smaller terraced property following the collapse of my Grand-dad's business there wasn't any room for it, so it was hacked to pieces and the beautiful wood made into a bookcase.  There was only me and my Dad in the room that afternoon, the others were busy in the kitchen from whence came delicious smells, my Nannie probably basting the leg of lamb for dinner.  He sat quietly reading the paper, a broadsheet.  Always a broadsheet, so big that he had to hold his arms high to read it.
"Can you play the piano properly Daddie?"
The newspaper rustled and cracked as he neatly folded it down, and he looked across at me and smiled.  Rising he moved to sit beside me on the stool and softly began to play ever so quietly Fur Elize.  No music sheet, he must have memorized it.
Painting: Poul Friis Nybo  (1869-1929)  Danish painter studied at the Royal Danish Academy of Fine Arts, Copenhagen.

Monday, 29 December 2014

Photo found on:  '

Wishing my lovely blogging friends, all of whom are VERY dear to me, a Very Happy Christmas and just the BEST EVER New Year!!

Much love to you all.
Jane xx

Tuesday, 2 September 2014

Me again mes amies.....

I can tell Autumn is slowly arriving now.  The sunlight, even at mid-day is softer where we are in the North.

 I do hope you are all still there, way out there across the miles and continents?

 I always get to this point in the year and try to decide, do I like Autumn best...or Spring?  Not a hope of deciding outright, but I still spare a thought each year.  The birds outside are singing beautifully today, did I simply not hear them before this September morning?  Were they there yesterday or was it that I simply hadn't tuned in enough?  Tuning out sometimes has to be a necessity when you have M.E. when even the sound of a cup being placed upon a table sounds as loud as a clap of thunder.

My son was married during the Bank holiday just gone, they had a wonderful day in spite of the clouds and rain threatening, and I managed to be there after several unexpected episodes designed to throw spanners and clogs in the works.  The burglar alarm started to blare just as we were getting dressed, which was definitely was switched off!  So by the time that was sorted out we were over half an hour late setting off to the venue.  Then we got lost.  Twice.  When we finally found our way to the entrance of  the stately-mansion and found a parking place it was spot-on the time for the wedding to begin, at which point I was faced with a very long steep driveway to climb.  A drive that must have been a 1 in 8 incline and stepped.  I got almost half way up and my legs refused to do any more.  By this time I was more than mildly distressed as you can imagine.  My husband telephoned the cavalry. Two daughters dressed to the nines arrived one either side to yank (crank...more like!) me up the rest of the drive.  Thankfully the bride, as is the custom was delayed and I fortified with a brandy was safely placed in my seat for the ceremony which went off without a hitch and was liberally sprinkled with tears all round.
 'The Register' by Edmund Blair Leighton.  1852-1922.
Painting held in The Bristol Museum and Art Gallery.