Reading this blog will bring you good luck....

 We get a lot of spam mail.  I imagine most people do these days.  Thunderbird moves most of them to the Junk folder immediately, but one or two slip through.  The latest barrage are headlined I RECORDED YOU!, and proceed to tell me about the compromising images they have of me and threaten me with...  umm ...exposure.   They obviously think I have a far more exciting life than I actually do, and I sometimes wonder what would happen if I asked to see the footage of my imaginary self.  It does lead on to the question : what is the spamming success rate?  Do people actually feel guilty enough about their behaviour to pay a complete stranger untraceable currency to prevent loved ones from seeing it?  Won't you let me know if you have been scammed like this ?- you don't need to send the salacious details, just the broad strokes.  Call it research.

Not all scams are that obvious.  I remember someone coming up to me at a pay machine at Canal Walk parking.  She got chatting - told me how she remembered me from before, and I had helped her with some information.  This is all possible, even plausible, as I worked at an information public library, and that was my job.  She liked my new hairstyle (she said) and asked if I was still working "there."  I am generally polite, so I replied to her questioning, and although I have a good memory for faces, I didn't recognise her.  But I did interact with very many people over the years.    The request for money - notes rather than coins- came soon after, and I suddenly saw through her.  I declined her kind offer to relieve me of my cash, and told her she was very good at this scamming thing.  She smiled and thanked me, and moved on the the next person.

Recently I listened to a Derren Brown YouTube video (Ironing and watching is hazadous, but listening is just as good).  He is  described as a illusionist, mentalist and entertainer. These days he spends quite a lot of time exposing fake "truth" tellers, or scammers.  Whether it is people communicating with your dead loved ones, or someone telling you your future, he educates people about the cues and methods these people use, and the damage they can do.  But the programme I want to draw your attention to is about Luck.  In a social experiment (in 2011), he sent a reporter friend to the small Yorkshire town of Todmorden. She started a rumour about a lucky dog statue, which would bring good luck if you patted it.  It only took about a week for this made up idea to become a sort of folk lore owned by the community, with several locals trying it out.  And indeed, lucky things did start to happen in the town.  The sceptics were not swayed of course, and Derren decided to see if he could change their minds by creating winning opportunities for them to take up (a sure win scratch card, for example.  Or cash in the road.)  It's a fascinating programme, which shows that those who want to see good fortune, make themselves open to experiences that create so called luck.  As an example,  a well known comedian "needed car assistance" in the village, near the two pubs.  The owner of the first pub (a sceptic ) decided he was too busy to help.  The other landlady said she didn't know how to help but went to fetch a mechanic who did, and sorted the problem.  She invited them all to pub for a pint afterwards.  To say thank you, the comedian did a free gig that evening, and the  pub made a fortune.  The landlady described herself as lucky. After that, people came from all over to pat the dog, until after 6 weeks, Derren held a community meeting and explained all. If you have ironing to do, or a spare hour, you can google the whole experiment.

The point is, there are no lucky dogs.  Or lucky anythings for that matter.  We see and create opportunities that help us, or are open to experiences that create positive environments.  Somehow that gives me hope - we can all "be lucky."  We just have to pat our own heads and believe in ourselves rather than mysterious improbable scenarios of luck being presented to us. Those just might be scams.

While I have been writing this, over sixty I RECORDED YOU!messages have been dumped on the computer.  I am hoping our non response triggers the sending algorithm to stop.  

Junk can be very clogging.

I am going to try to be more aware of, and open to, the multitude of opportunities for happiness that are all around me, and cherish what I have. I am going to try to live purposefully, rather than waiting for things to happen by chance.

That should get me to the end of the year...

 

 

 

This is the lucky Todmorden dog........

 

Quite!

 A few weeks ago Andrew and I celebrated a wedding anniversary.  (Our own, actually - but we will be very happy to celebrate yours too if you send us the details...) This year the celebrations were wild - a storm hit Cape Town, and rain lashed the mountainside at our getaway.  So we chose the most obvious form of  adult indoor entertainment - we played Scrabble. As usual we were pretty evenly matched until that annoying stage when the board is full and all the high scoring letters have finally been pulled from the bag. (Are they weighted slightly more heavily, so that they sink to the bottom of the bag and are pulled out last, do you think?).  To get rid of the "Q" I offered the word "QUIT", and I was happy enough with the score.  But  Husband decided to add an "E", and write another word, turning my quit into QUITE, scoring himself very many points, and a frosty smile from me. 

This last week Andrew suggested I bring the Scrabble board with me during visiting hour. He has been in hospital fighting a nasty leg infection.  The antibiotics prescribed at A&E and the GP weren't working, so he was admitted to be dripped and prodded and xrayed and checked.  It has been quite an ordeal.  Andrew does not take illness lying down, except when he is forced to.  Now he has no choice, as that leg needs to be elevated, and he needs to rest.  

I found it quite scary.  There is nothing quite like a hospital ward to help one face the fact that everyone is mortal. It is something that is obvious and everyone knows in the back of their thoughts.  But hospitals smell different.  There is uncertainty  in the air, and the acknowledgement that everything  can change from solid to fragile very quickly.  Andrew was in the same ward that my Dad died in a few months ago, and that probably added to my feeling of fragility.  But the care and service was good, (according to Andrew), with the exception of the food.  Nothing new there!  In fact if you start to like the hospital food, it might be time to gather the family.

I reckoned that the Scrabble board wouldn't fit on the bed table so I didn't take it when I went to visit.  Besides Andrew was in a 4 bed ward, and I didn't think it was a suitable game for a public space.  He would have to make do with my scintillating conversations and the books I brought him.  It had absolutely nothing to do with my bruising loss last game.  

Andrew is back home now, and recovering nicely.  We discussed the need for him to possibly give himself a break from the continuous busyness that is his norm.   We'll see - old habits are hard to break.

This is the view from the hospital parking area.  It struck me as quite beautiful as I sat there one day - the mountain, the greenery, even the traffic - a mixture of the unmovable, the seasons and the flow of life.  We are so fortunate with the standard of (private) healthcare in South Africa, and in the beauty of the environment.  If we look carefully, and give it some thought, it doesn't take much to move from a desolate feeling to one of understanding and agreement - changing quit into quite.

That's something we can all celebrate.  And Craig -  you were absolutely right in predicting this blog.😄

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The dark side of gratitude

 It was a glimmery sunny day last Sunday, and I sat in the garden with my mug of tea, rereading The Ugly Duckling and enjoying some tortoise time.  I have an ambivalent relationship with fairy tales - I can appreciate the history and language, but I often find the themes outdated and laboured.  The Ugly Duckling however, has a cast of mostly animals, and that is somehow more palatable.  And of course the themes of finding your space in the world, the hurt of being bullied and appearance discrimination  are important and  thought worthy contemplations for a sunny Sunday morning.  

I was wanting to look beyond the obvious though, to see what else resonated with me.  And guess what - one of the themes was around gratitude. The little "duck", having been rejected by family and community, having survived being shot at by hunters, and having been thankful that he was too ugly for a dog to bite and eat him, finds refuge from a storm in a cottage occupied by an old woman, a cat and a hen.

Sounds good doesn't it, to find a home after such a rough journey, even if he knew he was only being tolerated there for the possibility of his usefulness (alas, no eggs for the old woman, but she didn't know that).  The cat, speaking to our hero who wanted to go for a swim, and who voiced the truth that the cat didn't understand him, tells the swan to "thank your good fortune that you have been received here....I advise you, therefore, to lay eggs, and learn to purr as quickly as possible."  

Be grateful and conform.

Please don't misunderstand me - I absolutely believe in gratitude and am grateful daily for very many things.  But I think it is a mistake to tell/hint to other people to show gratitude, because such an instruction comes fully loaded with oppression, submissiveness and judgement. Telling someone to be grateful for what they have often implies that they shouldn't expect more, and are indeed lucky to be in the situation they are in.  But what if they don't feel lucky?  What if they want more?  What if conformity is damaging to them? 

Gratitude is strictly personal.  Anyone imposing it on you may have an ulterior motive, and it is an easy trap to fall into.  Because if you don't show the gratitude expected of you, the trapdoor of guilt is right there waiting for you to fall into.  Sometimes the negative voices telling us to be  grateful and conform are not from society at large, or even people in your inner circle.  Sometimes it is your internal voice betraying you.  If the sentiment comes out as "I should feel grateful, but....." take a step back from that guilt trapdoor, and ask whose voice you are listening to.  If you do feel grateful then skip right along and enjoy the bounty of your gratefulness.

The Ugly Duckling found the strength to leave warmth and safety of the cottage to follow his instinct that better things were out there.  It wasn't easy, and he had a rough winter, almost freezing to death, facing more rejection and much self loathing.  

But, as we all know, it ends well with him finding his place and happiness.   

The fable makes me uneasy to be honest.  A lot of it centres around others' reactions to the poor little outcast, and even in the end, the duckling is only happy when he finds acceptance in community of lookalikes. I often find myself on the outskirts of groups - sometimes by choice, but not always, and I wonder if I were to look into that reflective pond as the Ugly duckling did, would I like what I saw as much as he did?

I love swans.  In my family they are known as "Oofs" thanks to K who was delighted by these creatures when we stayed on Eel Pie Island near Twickenham when she was a toddler and inventing words.  They swam gently on the Thames River, coming up to the edge to be admired.  They can be scary creatures too - loud and aggressive when they feel threatened. We took quite a few happy snaps of them that holiday, and Andrew kindly and skillfully painted a couple of pictures which hang in our house. They are  constant reminders to me that reflections of kindness and self acceptance are the positive outcomes of gratitude.

Travelblog

Those people who say Life is about the Journey, not the Destination, don't travel Economy class on long haul trips.  This time last week we were chatting to an over zealous check-in assistant at Heathrow airport, who thought the battery in the built-in scale of Andrew's suitcase, might pose a security risk. We were coming home -via Doha- after the most fabulous two weeks in the UK. 

The absolute highlight was also the reason for this trip - we were privileged enough to watch our son receive his PhD in Mathematics from Cambridge University.  I guess it is a private sort of moment to see someone you love achieve something he has worked so hard for.  I can't yet put into words the explosion of celebration I felt on a synaptic, cellular level.  Being together as a family was the background of happiness, celebrating is the overlayer of  fireworks and champagne.

Trinity graduates walking to Senate House

Even the weather smiled on us that Friday - the daily drizzle stayed away.  After the Latin ceremony (I had brushed up on Duolingo and could follow most of it), Trinity treated us to lunch in the college grounds.  We celebrated later with a sublime dinner.  What a day.

I know, I know.....here we go again, me bubbling over with green-making potions.  But it has been a tough, exhausting year, and this was just the reset I needed.  Let me bubble a bit.

We started our trip in Surrey with much loved family, walking country lanes, eating, laughing, catching up.  Trying to forget that we live continents apart, and time together like this has to be savoured and put in the memory bank because the distance is so great. 
The teenage niece taught me to Just Dance, as my attempts at Mario Kart (these are Wii games) have not improved in the last 6 months and probably never will.  I am ok with that.

 

 

We stayed one night in the very middle of London - Piccadilly Circus -  and managed to tick off a few of the sights we really wanted to see. 

If you want details of the V and A or Science museum visits, or the interesting statue in one corner of Trafalgar Square, or how K got pickpocketed, or Spitalfields market send me a DM.  :)

But on to Cambridge (via a non functioning rail trip...) .  It is a magical place, with beautiful buildings, parks, and abundance of museums (opening hours are strange - best to check), a market,  quaint shops and something of interest around every corner, and of course the river Cam. It helps to have family with inside knowledge of  whats-on too.  S suggested we try a Shakespeare from the selection being performed in the colleges' gardens. What fun to picnic beforehand and belly laugh through the wit of Much Ado about Nothing in the grounds of St Johns College.  Not even the bracing dampness could spoil the evening.....

I will mention just two more things (hope your tea is still hot - otherwise I can wait while you make another cup) :  Another trip to the theatre, and what to do on a rainy Saturday afternoon.

R treated us all to tickets to see the Agatha Christie play, "Witness for the Prosecution" .  The theatre is the County Hall in London (next to the London Eye), and used to be the Greater London Council headquarters.  So the setting is perfect for a courtroom drama, and if you are sitting in particular seats, you will be chosen for jury duty. It is immersive theatre at its best, well acted, fast paced and more of an experience than just a play.

It was raining quite heavily on the last Saturday we were there.  Cambridge is definitely a Walking Zone ( we averaged about 10km a day) and after a fancy brunch at a restaurant, we decided we needed an indoor activity. R and S knew just the place.  We were lucky to get a table for a couple of hours at the Board Game cafe, slightly out the centre of town.  And we spent two happy hours playing board games from their large (over 500) selection, sipping tea, chatting, and you guessed it - more laughing. The vibe is relaxed and animated, the perfect way to spend some quality family time together on a wet weekend.

We had such a good holiday, that we just let the airport official fuss about the battery in Andrew's case without it bothering us or us needing to show him the absurdity of his logic.  His supervisor did that anyway.  Airports can be stressful environments, as we were reminded right at the beginning of this journey.  K sometimes holds her breath when her back pack goes through the x-ray machine, as she carries insulin and needles and such like paraphernalia. And indeed at Cape Town International, her bag was sent for second look.  She explained the situation, started hauling out the doctor's letter, but the official said no, that wasn't what they were looking for.  Security isolated the object of concern.  It was a toy car that K was carrying with her in memory of her grandfather.  (They had a thing, and indeed a whole language, about vehicles. ) Apparently a toy is of more concern than the needles and medicine vials. 

I guess in life, the journey and the destination are equally important and  indeed symbiotic.  But should you get stuck in the airport of life and happen to be in Doha, head to Terminal C - there is a cool, misty indoor garden to enjoy while you wait for your next flight and choose your next destination.

        

 

 

 

 

Losing the block

 When we got married we bought a small dilapidated house in a friendly suburb.  It had everything we needed - walls, a roof and some outside space.  We added love and happiness, and within four years it was transformed into a family home.  (We also added paint, carpets, curtains and a kitchen with a dining room - but those were just structural changes.) In year 5 we celebrated our son's first birthday in our back garden.  It was a big family affair, because we had a big family.  Andrew's dad made a push along trolley for R with blocks that could be taken out and played with, and then neatly stored back in the trolley.  Such handmade gifts are real treasures.  R loved the block trolley - he wobbled up, grabbed the handle and started walking.

A few years later it was time to move.  We found a dilapidated house in another friendly suburb, and fell in love with this old fixer upper. (We're still here.) Moving is a stressful task, and being young and naive we decided to move everything ourselves with the help of a borrowed truck (and a friend - thank you Hazel).  We did car trip after car trip, and were pretty exhausted by the process.  And upset.  We couldn't find one block from the trolley that Grandad had made. Just one. We searched and searched, and finally reached the conclusion we had to let it go, and move on.

 Every now and then we would drive past that first house on the way to Andrew's work, and admire the garage door we had sanded and varnished.  Or see how the trees we had planted were doing.  Time passed, as it does, and we were well established in our new home.  I used to be an avid reader of  the property section of the Weekend Argus (one of my many strange habits....) and saw our old house was up for sale and On Show that Sunday.  We couldn't resist a trip down memory lane, so off we went to visit the tiles in the kitchen I had sealed a week before R was born, and see the kitchen cupboards we finished a month or so before selling the place, and check out our much loved garden.  We wandered through, pointing out this and that to the kids. In the back garden we had made a quiet spot with a bench and surrounded it with foliage to make it private.  It looked just the same as when we left. We went to sit on the bench as a last goodbye to the place.  And here comes the point of the story:  We sat, peacefully, admiring our handiwork, when one of us reached our hand down under the bench, and picked up the missing block.  Ten years later, and there it was, waiting for us to find it.

It was another extraordinary moment in my life. 

The lost block was returned to it's home, and the memory was complete.

But this is the other point of this story:  Andrew and I were chatting  to my brother about this incident a couple of weeks ago (while we were packing up the house my Dad lived in).  When we came to the part about who reached down and found the block, we each thought it was ourselves.  All these years I had been convinced I had seen the block. Now I am not so sure - Andrew thinks it was him.  The outcome is the same, but the process is different.  This is important to me, because memory can be a fickle friend. What other memories have I (unwittingly) distorted to fit my own narrative?  How much can I trust the details of my memories?  I found myself on shaky ground. I have been doing a lot of remembering lately, and I would very much like to be sure of the content and accuracy.  

One way to do it is to make memory blocks and try to fit them together to see if they work, and fit in the trolley, so to speak.  Mostly, though, I think, I need to learn to trust my heart, and accept that my experiences are just that - my experiences, and the memory of them forms part of the fabric of me. 

Lost things sometimes make their way back to us.  Even when we think they are gone forever.  Watch out for the unexpected!

Lemon juice

 Invisible words were such fun when we were kids.  Remember squashing lemons to create magic ink?  We would write our secret messages in lemon juice, wait for it to dry, and then give a seemingly blank piece of paper to our friends.  Those in the know immediately decoded the message using a candle to brown the paper, revealing the words in a darker shade of burnt.  Somehow we managed to not destroy any great buildings or need any hospital visits while performing these dark arts. 

Invisible messaging is still around, and perhaps even more pervasive in the social media society.  It is often the unspoken and implied words that form the backdrop to the world of text we live in.  Advertising is the most obvious example, where most often the hidden message is you are lacking if you don't own The Product or Lifestyle choice on offer.  Invisible messaging is often about comparison, and implied criticism.  It can be very destructive.

For most of my life I have struggled with the balance of being visible and invisible.  Most often as a child I wanted to blend in with the wall paint, and I think I used a beige personality to achieve this.  Being invisible allows you freedom of movement, and access to knowledge that people don't realisze you are gathering.  Much like a spy in a war - blend in or hide in plain sight, and use the cover to keep safe.  But as I got older, I so wished to be seen.  Really seen, and this meant I had to show more colours than beige, and actually find out what colours suit who I am.  It is a long process.

Women tend to be more invisible than men.  It is not uncommon when I am out with Andrew that I greet someone, and they reply with a greeting to Andrew only.  It frustrates me no end.  It is not news that women have been overlooked and underestimated for centuries, but it is time to achieve some balance.  That's what I am working on now - seeing people as they want to be seen (beige or bright), hearing people and listening for both the words and the invisible messages in their tone, body language and what is left unsaid. Maybe then, when people are heard and seen, we can use the lemon juice for more tasty experiments than secret letters. 

 

 Like this one - an upside down lemon pudding:

 

As the worm turns

 Why, do you think, are butterflies exalted and moths just tolerated? Indeed, butterflies come in majestic colours and gracefully dance on flower tips while moths are a dull brown or grey and tend to fly annoyingly around a light source. I love watching the butterflies in my garden, and feel quite privileged when a particularly beautiful one settles near me and keeps me company. But moths - not so much.

I have been watching the clivia plants near my washing line.  Some of the leaves are rich breeding grounds for worms.  They (the worms!) are stripey and obviously very hungry.  Unlike other caterpillars, these seem to suck the moisture out of the leaves, which look withered and discoloured.  But they don't actually eat the plant flesh.  I was wondering what to do.  Instinctively, I thought of picking them off and sending them to a unpleasant end.

  But I stopped to remind myself how much I like the next stage of their life cycle as butterflies.  So I took a judgement call that we could sacrifice some clivia leaves for a beautiful future.  I do need to keep an eye on the situation though, because too many worms will destroy all the plants, and that isn't eco-friendly either.  The masses of orange flowers delight me as much as the wild life in the garden.  It is, as usual , all about balance.  I hope I have judged the ratio of worms to leaves correctly.

Nothing other than hope is informing my judgement either - these worms could turn into those dull moths for all I know.  I had to look up the difference between the species too.  The main difference seems to be how the wings fold and unfold. And the whole daytime versus night time thing. Moths are not brightly coloured, but muted and dreary.

I am finding writing difficult at the moment.  This blog is an exercise in the the Just Do It philosophy, because writing is really important to me, and silencing myself feels a bit like the leaves that have had the life sucked out of them : Wilted, and on a one way trip to the compost heap.  But maybe, if I live with the unwordiness I am feeling now, some of those worms will turn into butterflies, and some light, attractive thoughts will land on my paper.  To be honest, I would be just as happy if they turned into moths.  Dull and steadfast is just as good for me.  

The beauty of a creature is about perspective isn't it.  Moths and butterflies are both exquisite complicated insects intricately formed, and as lovely as each other.  Worms and caterpillars too for that matter.  We all start somewhere until we evolve to whoever we want to be.

Here's hoping my pupa stage doesn't last too long.