Decluttering

A good day.  More energy.  Major decluttering in the kitchen, the logic being while I'm sorting out my digestive system in the spirit of fengshui why not spring clean the surroundings as well and maybe help things along. Deeply embarrassing to discover so many food items in the cupboards that were way past their sell-by dates. I mean two or three years. Mainly stuff in tins and packets.  So they go on the compost or into the bin. I hate throwing food out but it's got to be done and the streamlined shelves and cupboards are now a joy to behold.

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I've recently discovered Ann Cleeves and her northern detective stories and I'm hooked.  Brain fog means that of late crime fiction is pretty much all I can focus on, and she is very good. 

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The silver birch sways languidly in the fresh north-west breeze and the evening sun warms the brickwork. The horse chestnut is clothed in a pale green mist, not yet leaves but no longer buds. Dandelions, daisies and forget-me-nots have sprung up on the lawn. I'm happy to see them all, even the dandelions.  No, especially the dandelions - there's something so cussed and undaunted and cheerful about them, as if they know they're not always welcome and they don't care.

Like I said, a good day. It finally feels like spring.

Power

Spring sunlight and long shadows.

Then an urgent swish of large wings cutting through the peaceful garden sounds.  Loud and rhythmic honking.  Two swans, necks extended, skim over the roof of the house like daredevil pilots and continue their straight line west towards the river.   More than a little disturbing, all that power, in the midst of such a golden afternoon. 

Alive

I sally forth by taxi to the office of the notary public for the first of the twice-yearly form stamping exercises. Each trip out frightens me a lot.  Am I strong enough?  Is my back strong enough?  Yes I am and yes it is but more than a trace of terror lingers.  And the only way through it is to keep doing these small things that scare me so that eventually they don't.

Anyway.  My two French pensions, from the state and from a private provider, both require formal verification each year that I am, well, still alive.  So having arrived at his office Mr B, the elderly, slightly raffish but charming notary, duly scrutinises me, my passport and my most recent British Gas bill (oh the horror) and then fills in the form and brings out this impressive red seal and stamp and signs to the effect that I have presented myself before him and that I was indeed alive (est vivante pour s'etre presente aujourd'hui devant nous) on April 17th, 2013 

Et voila I am officially confirmed as not dead and consequently eligible for the next twelve monthly payments.

I  hand over £25 and we chat a bit.  He says that he knows of many other people locally who are eligible for some kind of European pension which surprises me as I thought we were a comparatively rare breed.  I  say that if the UK does pull out of the EU in a few years time then they'd better make sure that our rights are preserved.  He says don't worry, he is sure they will be as it is a legal commitment which cannot be countermanded.  Hope so.

Why are solicitors' offices so fusty and Dickensian?  I temped for a solicitor in London whose office was very similar, both based in converted Victorian houses with poky, high ceilinged offices and uneven floors.  Dusty files everywhere, full to bursting and stacked haphazardly on metal filing cabinets, wartime utility desks and chairs which remind me of the furniture at home when I was growing up in the 1950s, and a dingy, worn and tea-stained fitted carpet.  I think Mr B must be keen on the horses, which would fit in with his raffishness, as there's a huge painting of a racing scene hanging on the wall behind his desk. 

In actual fact it's endearing. The office has character, as does Mr B.  I'd rather this than some modern, high-tech, glass and metal outfit. I'll be back again in six weeks or so with the second form. Hopefully I'll be a little less frightened.

Raindrops

A wild and blustery wind from the south-west so the shower passes as quickly as it arrived and the sun reapppears for fleeting moments. Now the raindrops on the window are diamonds, each one reflecting and refracting: clouds, sky, houses, trees.  

 

Lavender and Blackbirds

One of the joyous side effects of the sorting out of my gut flora has been the occasional flare up in the sinuses (don't ask me why, but apparently it's not uncommon).  I've never been particularly prone to sinus problems.  There's no sore throat or cold or flu, no swollen glands, just a dry burning pain at the top of the nose that at times makes me want to rip open my nasal cavities with my bare hands.  

The first bout was in early March when I tried to increase the probiotics dosage too suddenly; then a badly upset stomach was accompanied by the world's worst ever sinus headache.  Fortunately I had an appointment already booked with the cranial osteopath who worked her usual magic and the pain dissipated the same day. A second flare-up yesterday; this time the osteopath's on holiday and anyway it isn't that bad, but it's bad enough.

So switch off the central heating (too drying), open the windows to let in the damp rainy air and steam inhalations every few hours.  A towel to cover the head and a bowl of hot water with a couple of drops of lavender essential oil.  Surprisingly soothing.

But I wish it would all go away.

By way of homage to the modest but so useful plant, my own lavender bush a few summers ago - a magnet to the bumble and honey bees of the neighbourhood. 



(For anyone out there with an astrological bent my natal Moon at 25 Aries is currently  being battered by the ongoing planetary line-up and, yes, in particular Mars.   So no surprise perhaps.)

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A pair of blackbirds have built a nest in the large evergreen shrub (nobody, not even the gardener, can identify it) by the compost heap. Peering into the shrub's depths the other day I caught sight of the female sitting on her eggs, quiet and unmoving.  I feel honoured.  The downside is that I won't be able to have the lawn mowed for several months until the young ones leave the nest for fear of driving the parents away, but do I care if the back garden resembles the savannah grasslands come June?  No.

Shades of Brown

Emotion

I don't cry much nowadays.

Increasingly my way of navigating life's rockier passages has been governed by pragmatism.  What must I do to sort this out?  Will crying help?  No.  Right then, let's move on.  Let's plough through.  Action.  Distraction.  If I start crying or allowing myself to wallow I won't be able to cope with what must be done.

 Odd then that twice before 10.00am today I became watery-eyed over something on the radio:
 the wonderful Kathleen Ferrier, who was to die far too young herself, singing  Che faro senza Eurydice (What is Life) from Orfeo et Eurydice, and the final episode of the Radio 4 Book of the Week adapation of The Love and Wars of Lina Prokofiev by Simon Morrison, the story of Serge and Lina Prokofiev.  Both in their way heartrending but very beautiful.  Love and separation and loss. I remembered: those are the things I used to cry over.  For hours, days at a time.

Good to be reminded that my emotions haven't shrivelled and died.  And good that I am able to respond once again to beauty. 

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I must avoid this becoming a weather blog, but the forecasts say that from next week it will be getting warmer.   A pale, timorous sun appears for a few minutes then, seemingly overcome with shyness, disppears behind the clouds.  Perhaps she will become more courageous with time.