Don’t some people say, ‘My New Year’s Resolution is not to make New Year’s Resolutions’?
This level of self-flagellating persistence can be good. Yes, I did run the marathon. Yes, I did plunge into the sea on a freezing cold New Year’s Day to raise money for refugees. Yes, I did do the Masters at university. And so on… And, of course, I felt good about myself when I’d achieved my aim. But sometimes, it’s quite sensible to give up on things if they’re not working out or it’s detrimental to your health. That, for me, is where resolutions can turn out to be far more of a burden than a joy and I curse them with every fibre of my being.
Does this stop me from making New Year’s Resolutions? No, it doesn’t. I like fresh starts, even if it’s finishing a packet of Special K Red Fruits (other cereals are available) and opening a new one.
To save on the angst, I endeavour to make resolutions into possibilities, now. And what, I hear you ask, is the difference?
Here are two resolutions I’ve made. These are temporary, measureable, simply for myself.
I will drink no alcohol at all in January.
2. I will do exercises to get rid of my flabby inner thighs.
I’m not by any means overweight and my outer thighs are trim with all the horse riding I do – but I don’t like my inner thighs, and I want to be leggy again. Flamingo-like.
Now, here’s one of my possibilities for 2018. A world without plastic packaging.
Well, that’s enough resolutions for January 1st, 2018, don’t you think?!
Why the thanks for a (painful) operation? (Is there any other sort?) Because I am completely hopeless about stepping back and saying no to commitments. It’s harder for me, takes more discipline for me, to take a rest cure than it is to carry on. I’m always telling myself I should do it – but never quite seem to manage it.
For years, YEARS, I have been schedule-driven in a crazy way, thinking I must adhere to a timetable in order to get everything done. My alarm is set for the following times: Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Saturday: 6.15 am. Friday – 5.15 am. Sunday – the Big Lie In – 7.15 am.
So – back to the rest cure. It was devised in the late 1800s by Silas Weir Mitchell, an American neurologist, to treat hysteria, neurasthenia and other nervous illnesses. (Yes, I often descend into hysteria.) Since my operation, until recently I’ve been (mostly) confined to bed; I’m not allowed to do anything at all strenuous, like lifting a kettle (ha!) and I’m not allowed to drive. If following Weir Mitchell’s rest cure regime to the letter, I would be fed “a fatty, milk-based diet, force-fed if necessary – effectively reduced to the dependency of an infant.” Thank goodness husband Peter didn’t read that bit! He’s been absolutely tremendous.
I HAVE RESTED. What’s more, my mind has rested, for the first time in forever. It was actually quite scary at first, not being able to do all those distraction activities that kept me from…thinking too much? There was a massive hole where chaotic mind used to live.
Hello, zen-like calm. Hello creativity. Thank you, operation. Thank you, rest cure.
Not, here, referring to my newly-achieved membership of the Green Party, you’ll be relieved to hear – that’s incredibly easy.
For for several months now, for reasons of conscience, primarily, but also for the sake of my health, I have chosen not to eat any meat or dairy products.
(While I DO realise that there are plenty of cows who live a long and happy life on grass, it’s somehow easier to be an all or nothing sort of gal).
Actually, the not-eating-meat side of being green-ish is easy. People understand it. It’s the dairy-free that causes me the most difficulty.
The first to be covered in this blog.
Hoorah. I shall not use animal milk of any sort. I shall instead be very green and use such products as almond milk.
But wait a minute… each almond requires 1.1 gallons of water to produce and most almonds are grown in often drought-ravaged parts of California. Water diverted to almond farms threatens salmon in northern California etc. etc. etc… Damn.
I know. Soya milk. Phew.
I now drink oat milk. Oatly. (Other brands available but I like the packaging and branding. Go figure).
Is that okay? I hardly dare investigate.
Little memories – or larger ones?
International reputation? Ooops. Mea culpa, as if apologising in Latin makes a blind bit of difference.
And that’s always, ALWAYS associated with some happy memories of my university days, up in Liverpool.
As a surprise treat for my parents, Peter and I booked the four of us tickets to see Romeo and Juliet, the Prokofiev ballet, at the Liverpool Empire. We went out to dinner first and we still kept it a secret what we were going to see.
Arriving at the Empire, everywhere there were huge adverts and billboards for the act appearing the next week at the same venue. Misleading.
An absolute classic of horror and disappointment, quickly transformed to British stoicism and good manners, expressing delight in the prospect of an evening’s entertainment with these comedy stalwarts of the late seventies.
Nothing against Little and Large, by the way, but absolutely NOT an act that my parents would have enjoyed in a million-zillion years.
Romeo and Juliet was magic!
Not starring Hugh Grant and Alan Rickman.
Like this one, only going in the opposite direction. Left, that is. Towards Canada.
To see my lovely little family…Laurie, Irene and Tilly.
and my fantastic daughter-in-law, Breanna.
I shall be in Mummy and Granny heaven!
One Awfully Big Adventure for one Awfully Excited Caroline.
“The most important thing in life is knowing the most important things in life,” said someone called David Jakielo, who is on Goodreads but hasn’t, apparently, written any books.
Here’s a confession: I am sometimes guilty of rushing around like a headless chicken.
What happens is, I think I have too much work to do so, whenever I’m out and about, I’m hurrying to get back to my desk. Outstanding pieces of work (by which I mean ‘not done yet’ rather than ‘exceptionally good’ !) become Very Important Things which divert my attention from what is REALLY important.
This means that I don’t stop to take in the beauty of the world around me.
I don’t take the time to chat to people that I meet, including friends. I’ve been known to scuttle down supermarket aisles to avoid acquaintances because I ‘haven’t time to talk.’ I sometimes keep my car windows firmly wound up so I can drive past people on the lane without engaging them in conversation. I pretend not to notice people.
Yet, I wouldn’t say for a single second that I’m anti-social or unfriendly. I’ve just got my priorities a bit skewed. Sometimes.
Yes – the most important things in life aren’t things like pieces of work and deadlines.
…spending time with people and animals – REAL time, not time with half an eye on my watch worrying about the seconds ticking by.
I can’t promise it will never happen.
You have my permission to remind me if it does.
A complaint-free world? Surely that’s not possible?
Tell you what, I’m giving it a good go in mine!
With thanks to the lovely Leisa Brown, a Brighton friend, who got me interested in creating a complaint-free existence.
So, the idea, which comes from a motivational speaker chappie called Will Bowen, is to wear a bracelet on one wrist and keep it there until you notice you’re complaining.
…Then swap it to the other wrist until your mind is clear again. The target is to have twenty-one complaint-free days. The difficult bit is, that each time you catch yourself complaining, you have to start again with the 21 days… I fear this is going to take me A Very Long Time.
I don’t think legitimate complaints count – for instance, if you receive a meal alive with maggots at a restaurant. It’s possible to complain without whining, I suppose, to be factual and lose the emotional charge.
So – things were going very well for a couple of days until I had a riding lesson on Alfie.
Alfie had other ideas. He wouldn’t budge. Or at least, he would budge, but only at the expense of me kicking and slapping and puffing and panting and expending so much effort that by the time he took a few steps forward I was so exhausted I crumpled into a collapsed heap on his neck in desperate need of oxygen.
I caught myself complaining! I swapped my bracelet on to my left wrist.
When I’d recovered my composure, and a right-wristed bracelet, things were going very well UNTIL…today.
We all started laughing at the same moment.
Anyway – the next week is going to be full of surprises – not for me, but for Peter, because it’s his sixtieth birthday. That’s not a surprise to him, his birthday, more of an occasion to ignore, I think!
I’ve planned a lot of surprises.
Perhaps Peter was expecting SOMETHING and what I had planned just wasn’t it? Or perhaps it’s that he doesn’t like the feeling of being out of control of his emotions, which is an inevitable result of a surprise?
But I so much want him to have some happy surprises that will fill his day with joy. So I’m risking it. Again.
“There is no surprise more magical than the surprise of being loved,” said Charles Morgan and Caroline Coxon, not necessarily to the same person.
Listening to the Easter Service on Radio 4 – yes, Thine Be The Glory.
Uplifting and takes me back to my childhood, attending St. Matthew’s Church in Northampton.
Looking at some images just now, everything’s so familiar it’s part of my DNA.
Here’s the sculpture of Madonna and Child by Henry Moore. I loved the smooth curves. “Everyone wants to touch the sculpture, to connect and interact with it, and make sure it’s real. The Madonna’s knees have over the years become darkened and shiny where visitors have done just that.” Visitors – and me. I can feel those cold knees now.
And here’s the Graham Sutherland ‘Crucifixion’ (Oil painting, 1946) which rather haunted my childhood.
I always saw a hideous mutated goat’s head. In fact, I had to avert my eyes to avoid nightmares. The horror it generated in me was, I’m sure, very appropriate. Yes – in a description…” Sutherland seeks to bring home the horrific reality of death by crucifixion.” Well, he didn’t just seek, he succeeded.
St. Matthew’s Church – gosh, blessed with some iconic artwork for a regular parish place of worship.
Then here’s the chancel, altar and the elaborate marble pulpit.
Sad to say, the last time I was in St. Matthew’s Church was for Daddy’s funeral in 2003 – and few childhood memories of the place itself surfaced on that day.
Today, looking back, it’s the happy memories that triumph.
And so Daddy would have wanted it to be.
“In an article about Tesco on the BBC news, Easter was described as ‘an important date in the shopping calendar’. In the context, I understand why – but purlease! Easter is an important date in the Christian calendar. Rant over.” Yes, Libby, I share your opinion, even though I’m more of a humanist than a church-attending Christian, these days.
And do you know how many outdoor clothing and footwear shops there are in Brighton?
I think it’s about three hundred.
I think it was three hundred and two.
And do you know how many pairs of walking boots Peter tried on?
I think it was ninety seven.
And do you know how many pairs of walking boots Peter bought?
And do you know how much the parking in Brighton cost?
Yes, EIGHTEEN POUNDS AND TWENTY PENCE for between 3 and 4 hours.
Peter might go shopping again on Monday.