The Oxen by Thomas Hardy 1840-1928

 Dear Reader,

Apparently robins that live in the countryside become more aggressive when exposed to traffic noise, scientists have found. The red breasted birds are synonymous with Christmas and are fiercely territorial creatures that rely on signals, both visual and acoustic, to mark their territory and repel outsiders.   It has been found that the birds change their behaviour when threatened and that traffic noise was the trigger.

Researchers believe that while urban robins are used to louder habitats and have adapted to tune them out, their countryside dwelling cousins instead respond to raucous sounds - including traffic - by becoming more aggressive.  Dr. Caglar Akcay, of Anglia Ruskin University said: "We know that human activity can have a significant impact on the long-term social behaviour of wildlife, and our results show that human-produced noise can have a range of effects."

                                                                            *

I think I will write a little something every week from now on about my Chimp.  Do you remember when I wrote about the Downing Street cat and when I wrote something about the seagulls riotous behaviour?

Well this week I had a stomach ache and my Chimp told me it was probably stomach cancer.  It went after a day and was probably some prawns I ate.  So once again my Chimp was being over zealous and with the help of Prof.Steve Peter's book : The Chimp Paradox I was able to talk to Chimp as an adult and dispense with my fears. Question the chimp at every turn, especially if it is an emotional dilemma.

                                                                            *

From William Wordsworth, 1799, December 24th in Westmorland

'Rydale is covered with ice, clear as polished steel, I have procured a pair of skates and to0morrow mean to give my body to the wind.'

From James Woodforde, 1790, December 25th in Norfolk

'I lighted my large wax-candle being Xmas Day, during teatime this afternoon for about an hour.  It was very mild, thank God, to-day for this time of year, tho' wet and very dirty walking.'

                                                                               *

I am putting on my favourite Christmas poem.  It is by Thomas Hardy. 1840-1928

The Oxen

Christmas Eve, and twelve of the clock,
"Now they are all still on their knees,"
An elder said as we sat in a flock
By the embers in hearth-side ease.

We pictured the meek mild creatures where
They dwelt in their strawy pen.
Nor did it occur to one of us there
To doubt they were kneeling then.

So fair few would weave
In these years! Yet, I feel
If someone said on Christmas Eve,
"Come, see the oxen kneel,

"In the lonely barton by yonder coomb
our childhood used to know,"
I should go with him in the gloom,
Hoping it might be so.

                                                                          *

Thank you all for being with me on this small blog,
it is very cheering to know that you are out there.

Have a very happy Christmas and very best wishes,
Patricia

Another Chimp message

 Dear reader,

A big thank you to all American readers, I had a big readership from you last week.  You obviously liked my blog which talked about the Chimp.  The Chimp who lives in your head and causes you anxiety.  He means to be helpful, protect you and guard you from harm but sometimes he just overdoes it.  This is a piece of advice from Prof. Steve Peters book :The Chimp Paradox.   He says that in order to work with the Chimp you need to nurture him and manage him. Nurture first and then manage.  "If you have a Chimp that is well looked after by being nurtured and having all its needs met, then it is very likely that this happy little animal will not cause any trouble.If you don't look after your Chimp then it is very likely that it will kick off at any time and cause you a lot of pain."  I think this means, at least it does for me, that you have to question his wisdom.   Sometimes the Chimp in me suggests, for instance, that I should not go out in the snow because I might fall.  Well I might but the fresh air and the exercise tempt me outside so I don't follow the advice and I am fine, and refreshed.  So talk to your Chimp, make him your friend.   He is on your side just a bit bossy.

                                                                           *

From Francis Kilvert, December 8th, 1872, in Wiltshire

 

'....at about half past four began the Great Storm of 1872.  Suddenly the wind rose up and began to roar at the Tower window and shake the panes and lash the glass the torrents of rain.  It grew very dark and we struggled home in torrents of rain and tempests of wind so fearful that could hardly force our way across the Common to the rectory.  All the evening the roaring S.W. wind raged more and more furious.  It seemed as if the windows on the west side of the house must be blown in.   The glass cracked and strained and bent....I went out to see where the cows were, fearing that the large elms in the Avenue might fall and crush them.  The trees were writing , swaying , rocking, lashing their arms wildly and straining terribly in the tempest but I couldn't see that any were gone yet...... Everything was drowned in the roar and thunder of the storm.  The wind howled down the chimney, the room was full of smoke and every now and then the fire flaught out into the room in tongues of flame beaten down with a smother of sparks and smoke.'

                                                                               *

Chimp, give me a break

This Chimp lives in my head,
he is my protector
my guardian.
He works hard, too hard
he sees danger everywhere
alerts me to it
every day.
Obviously he loves me
doesn't want any harm to befall me,
but I am losing patience
with him, he overdoes it.

Surely I can drive without
serious problems arising.
Surely I can shop without
a gunman pinning me down.
Surely I can have a drink
without cirrhosis of the liver.
Surely that noise was a car backfiring,
not a shot.

Advice ad infinitum,
and my Chimp can't let up.
I want a peaceful life,
Chimp, give me a break please.

                                                                                *

If you like reading my blog why don't you treat yourself to my memoir : "Half a Pair of People" which can be obtained on Amazon.  In the reviews people have written that it is hilarious and thought provoking.  I t would make a good Christmas present for an aunt or someone who enjoys true life stories.

                                                                                  *

With very best wishes, Patricia

Chimp, give me a break

Dear Reader,

 A little time ago I read a very interesting book called "The Chimp Paradox" by Professor Steve Peters. My daughter Jessica gave it to me knowing that I am always very anxious and thought I might enjoy it.  I did and I do.  It introduced to me the idea that in my head lives a chimp.  This chimp looks after me sees that I come to no harm and alerts me me to danger.  He sees danger everywhere. Whilst he had been very helpful in the past, I now want, and live, a pretty peaceful life and wish he would calm down a bit. But he likes to be active and I think stops me from doing very ordinary things which, if I challenged myself, I could do. I managed to drive somewhere this week which I would have thought, on advice from the chimp, was impossible. But I did it and was proud of myself.  I haven't driven much since lockdown and have lost confidence driving in a town. I love the chimp and don't want him to leave me, just to let me be a little more peaceful.

                                                                                   *

From Dorothy Wordsworth, November 24th, 1801, in Westmorland

'I read a little Chaucer, prepared the goose for dinner, and then we all walked out.  I was obliged to return for my fur tippet and spencer, it was so cold .....  It was very windy, and we heard the wind everywhere about us as we went along the lane, but the walls sheltered us....As we were going along we were stopped at once,  the distance perhaps of 50 yards from our favourite birch tree.  It was yielding to the gusty wind with all its tender twigs, the sun shone upon it, and it glanced in the wind like a flying sunshiny shower.......We came home over the stepping stones.  The Lake Grasmere was foamy with white waves.'

 

From John Ruskin, November 24th, 1857, in Denmark Hill, Surrey

'Very wet. But quiet, and the birds singing all sorts of delicate airs, richly, as it it were spring.' 

 

                                                                               *

Chimp, give me a break

 

This Chimp lives in my head,
he is my protector,
my guardian.
He works hard, too hard,
he sees danger everywhere,
alerts me to it every day.
Obviously he loves me,
doesn't want any harm to befall me,
but I am losing patience
with him, he overdoes it.

Surely I can drive without
serious problems arising?
Surely I can shop without
a gunman pinning me down?
Surely I can have a drink
without cirrhosis of the liver?
Surely that noise was a car backfiring,
not a gun shot?

Advice ad infinitum,
Chimp, please, give me a break.

                                                                                    *

With very best wishes, Patricia

 

My Patch is

 Dear Reader,

I used to live in old Charlbury, Market Street, for many years after leaving Oxford for a quieter and more peaceful life.  We bought an old cottage built in the 18th century with all its charm and inconveniences.  The stairs were treacherous, the windows let in the wind, there was damp and there were mice.  Lots of them.  But it was pretty and "quaint" and I was happy there.  Until the council decided that we could no longer leave our car in the field at the bottom of the lane. So we had to move. My stipulation to the estate agents was simple.  We wanted a garage more than anything else.  

The only houses for sale at the time were on a Cotswold stone estate away from the centre of town.  We bought one.  The central heating does a wonderful job of keeping us warm, the rooms are light and airy and we have a small and delightful garden.  And there are no mice.  I wouldn't have imagined myself living somewhere like this years ago, but it is the best move I ever made for so many reasons.  Do read the poem and you will see yourself what they are. Just to let you know the best reason.   It is the neighbours, both kind, helpful and funny. What more could you want?

 

From George Sturt, November 21st, 1890, in Surrey

'I noticed in the poplar above me two sorts of sound; the leaves pattering and rustling against one another, each with its separate chatter; and then as accompaniment and continuous ground-tone, the wind itself breathing audibly and caressingly between leave and round twigs and limbs.' 

 

From Gilbert White, November 26th, 1775, in Hampshire

 'Fog, with frost.  As the fog cleared away, the warm sun occasioned a prodigious reek, or steam to arise from the thatched roofs.'

 

                                                                        *

 My Patch is

houses with small gardens
bricks that are uniform
pale gold in the sun,
grass on the greens,
trees scattered here and there
a ted post box round the corner,
the Co-op a short walk,
dogs on leads, owners friendly
with a good afternoon, or hello
with kindly neighbours,
nothing too much trouble in the way of help
and bouquets of flowers
on my birthday,
lots of peace and quiet except
for the odd dog bark or a child's cry,
lots of space for cars,
and a blackbird singing on the roof tops.

My patch is perfect,
makes my heart sing.

                                                                       *

If you enjoy this blog why not try my memoir:  Half a Pair of People    out on Amazon.  Reviewers have said it is hilarious and also thought provoking.  Put in Patricia Huth, click and you will be there.

                                                                        *

With very best wishes, Patricia
                                                                          

Thanks Private Norfolk

 Dear Reader,

The 11th of November seems to come round very quickly and as usual my thoughts are with my dear father, Harold Huth, who was a soldier in this terrible war.  He served as a major with The Royal Army Service Corps and was mentioned in Dispatches on three occasions.  I have a letter written in January 1916 congratulating my grandparents, from a Colonel Harrison and his other officers, on their son's distinguished conduct and gallantry.  So today, Remembrance Sunday, I am thinking of you, Dad, and thanking you for the part you played to give us all the freedoms we now enjoy, and am sending you my love.

I have been reading a book about the first WW and am astonished afresh at how many men were killed in this war, and also how many animals were killed too.  Mules and horses, much loved by their riders, died in their millions.  I read that sometimes officers would sit by the heads of their beloved horse until they died, talking to them the while.

I always think, in an nonintellectual way, that wars are so unbelievably stupid. To waste your precious life on a small foot of mud or to bomb buildings and people, for what?  And the devastation afterwards is monumental, emotional and physical.  I despair thinking of Ukraine and seeing the aftermath of Russia's invasion.  Burnt out houses and cars, and what has anyone gained except an enormous amount of sadness and grief.

                                                                                      *

From Gilbert White, November 27th, 1782 in Hampshire

'Fierce frost.  Rime hangs all day on the hanger.  The hares, pressed by hunger, haunt the gardens and devour the pinks, cabbages, parsley, etc.  Cats catch the red-breasts.  Timothy the tortoise sleeps in the fruit-border under the wall, covered with a hen-coop, in which is a good armfull of straw. Here he will lie warm, secure, and dry.  His back is partly covered with mould'.

From John Ruskin, November 30th, 1875 in Surrey

'Herne Hill.  Bitterly cold and dark; the paper chilling my fingers.'

                                                                                     *

Thanks, Private Norfolk

You left singing, with your pals,
marching for good and glory.
You hadn't yet dug a trench,
killed an unknown soldier,
seen dead bodies, smelt their stench,
heard comrades' last sickening cries.

You gave your life with generous heart,
believed the lies
dispatched by loftier ranks.
And so to you, dear Private Norfolk,
I give my salute,
and my deepest thanks

for swapping your mauve rain-skies,
your white-breast beaches, and beckoning sea,
your level fields of ripening corn,
to fight in foreign fields, for us,
for me.

                                                                            *

If you enjoy my blog why not buy my memoir:   Half a Pair of People.  It is out on Amazon under the name Patricia Huth, in the book section.  Lots of reviewers think it is both hilarious and thought provoking.  It would make a good small Christmas present for someone who likes reading.

                                                                             *

With very best wishes, Patricia

Quick, quick, slow

Dear Reader, 

Most old people when asked how it is to feel old say: I don't feel old at all, I still feel 18 inside.  I now absolutely understand this sentiment.  Francis and I have a small routine acting role every evening, he sings something from yester-year's musicals with an assortment of props, hats, berets, and belts and I do the same when it is my turn.  I love trying to sing Shirley Bassey's hit : Big Spender, with all the actions needed.  We both laugh and laugh and truly feel young again.  It is a marvelous way to go up to bed, and assure us of a good night's sleep.  Surely it is only our bodies that get old and a bit worn not our souls or our spirits.

So the winter is nearly upon us.  We have bought a small stove with gas canisters and it seems to work very well.  Should we find ourselves without heat or electricity in those cold months coming we should be alright. And I have lots of jerseys and thick tights so, I hope, I will not be too cold.  I do recommend these small stoves you can buy them on Amazon.

                                                                             *

I have put this piece on before but it is worth, I think, of repeating again.

 

From Jane Austen, 1798, November 17th, in Hampshire

'What fine weather this is!  Not very becoming perhaps early in the morning, but very pleasant out of doors at noon, and very wholesome - at least everybody fancies so, and imagination is everything

                                                                              

                                                                             *

Quick, quick, slow

Up at 6.30, no time to lose
quick cup of tea, muesli and toast.
Rush to the station, hurry up
the steps, run to the place of work.
It is 8 am exactly

Meetings
Emails
telephone contacts
lunch a snatched sandwich at the desk
people to see
reports to write
papers to assemble
home by 7 pm
dinner to cook
wash up, watch the news
bed by 10.30 pm

                      *
 

The dance of life
quick, quick, slow

                       *
 

At 8 am she made a cup of tea,
pulled on her old pink cardigan,
went downstairs, made porridge.
Perhaps someone might telephone today
of even come to see me
she thought as she fed the cat
and put the washing in the machine.

She turned on the radio
listened to the news
went upstairs and made the bed.
Later she shopped at the Co-op
and tried talking to the busy
lady at the till.  Her first spoken
words and only ones that day.
Slowly, the only way she could walk,
she went back to her house
heated baked beans for lunch.

The afternoon crept by.
She knitted another blue scarf,
tears spilling into the wool,
her heart full of sadness.
At 7 pm she made a cup of soup
and later wearily climbed the stairs to bed.

                                    *
The dance of life,
quick, quick, slow.

                                     *

My memoir : 'Half a Pair of People'.   is published on Amazon, you may enjoy it.  Read the reviews which say it is funny and insightful.

                                     *

With very best wishes, Patricia

 

Suit, Waistcoat, Tie

 Dear Reader

 

 

To save money in this difficult time I have decided not to buy any more clothes.  I have enough clothes and have had most of them for more than twenty years.  Looking through my cupboard carefully I found a rack of my ties that I always used to wear years ago.  My sister started a shop in the 60s called "Night Owls" and in it, along with the nightgowns, were a selection of ties, mostly liberty prints. I am wearing one of them in the photograph today and it is, I think, about fifty years old.  It seems to have stood the ravages of time pretty well and I am enjoying wearing it.  

I was looking at some photographs of the Wrens serving in the navy in WWII and I think they look so smart with their black ties.  And wearing a tie has given me lots of new ideas to go with the pinafore dresses I usually wear, so lots of new outfits without buying anything. Do any of you readers like the idea of women wearing ties, or do you wear one sometimes, do let me know?:    patricia.huthellis@googlemail.com

                                                                                         

                                                                                       *

 

From Francis Kilvert, November 3rd, 1874, in Wiltshire

'......the strange hoarse belling of the buck, the fluttering of the coot as she skimmed the water with her melancholy note, the cry of the swans across the lake, the clicking of the reels as the fishermen wound up or let out their lines, the soft murmur of the woods, the quiet rustle of the red and golden drifts of beech leaves, the rush of the waterfall, the light tread of the dappled herd of deer dark and dim glancing across the green glades from shadow into sunlight and rustling under the beeches, and the merry voices of the Marquis's children at play.'

 

From Richard Jefferies, November 3rd, 1878, in Surrey

'The horse-chestnut buds at end of boughs; tree quite bare o leaves; all sticky, colour of deep varnish....Still day: the earth holds its breath.'

                                                                                  *

Suit, Waistcoat, Tie

Why wear his best suit,waistcoat, tie
at a talk on Nuclear Waste?
The village hall crumbles,
lit by dusty neon lights,
tea is served from cracked cups
and dull biscuits offered.

The rest wear jumble-sale clothes,
too dispirited to care,
their appearance long abandoned.

But is there someone there
who has stirred his heart
made him feel alive again?
The reason for his best suit,
his waistcoat and his tie,
his winning smile, his bright eye?

I like to think so,
hope so.

                                                                                *

If you enjoy reading my blog why not try reading my memoir:  Half a Pair of People.  It is about my life as a single divorced woman in Oxford in the 1980s.   Go into Amazon click Patricia Huth and they will send it to you.  Do read the reviews which, among other things, think it is hilarious and thought provoking.

                                                                                  *

With very best wishes, Patricia

Not one of us

                                                                            An autumn road to where?

 

 

 

Dear reader, 

I often think of autumn trees making an avenue on a long and lonely road to where?  These two pictures are telling us, perhaps, our own story.  Are they asking the question: Where we are going?  Have we arrived or are there still exciting things in store for us?  Now that I am 82 I haven't got miles to go on life's journey but fortunately my love of reading and writing poetry is still very strong and, of course,  I have you my friends reading my blog each week. And, as people do, I fell in love with the small garden we have.  I emulate the King and talk to my plants as I watch them grow, and I am sure plants like to have a word or two with them as you pass.  I think these beautiful rows of autumn trees are telling us to be brave, go forward with our lives, enjoy the wonders of nature and be happy and keep on keeping on.

                                                                               *

From John Constable, October 24th, 1821

'Does not the cathedral (Salisbury) look beautiful among the golden foliage?  Its solitary grey must sparkle in it.' 

'

From Gilbert White, October 25th, 1784, in Hampshire

Hard frost, thick ice.  In my way to Newton I was covered with snow!  Snow covers the ground and the trees!!.'

                                                                                     *

Not one of us

A small figure at school in
a hot, strange land.  The
children left her alone,
she didn't speak their language
or know their games or rules.
She was not one of them.

Winter now and an English
boarding school, where the rules
were known, but not to her.
She was clumsy, wore spectacles,
couldn't tie her tie, dropped the netball,
couldn't master dance steps gracefully
to the music of :"Greensleeves",
was not an asset, wouldn't do.
She was not one of them.

She simply asked,
why do the safely-grounded
hear the beat of a terrified heart
and seek to silence it?  Is the beat
too loud, something not understood,
something to frighten?
Are things better when the group
destroys the alien in its midst?

She never knew,
she was not one of them.

                                                                                  *

If you enjoy my blog why not try my memoir: "Half a Pair of People", now out on Amazon.  Critics have said it is hilarious, touching and well written.

                                                                                   *

 

With very best wishes, Patricia

Clanking

 Dear Reader,

Do.you remember the poem by Jenny Joseph about growing old and wearing purple.  The poem is called 'Warning' and is well worth looking up as it is both funny and thoughtful.  She lists in this poem the many things she is going to do when she grows old, one or two of them is learning to spit and another is to spend her pension on brandy and white gloves.  She is going to sit on the pavement when she is tired and run her stick along the railings.

So far, now I am old, I haven't been very adventurous but I have started to wear purple.  Purple is the most beautiful colour and suits everyone I should think. But it is difficult to come by so buy it if you feel tempted buy it when you see it. I am also letting the blonde grow out of my hair so that I will have a white thatch which I think is more suitable to my age.  I see white hair everywhere today and  both my daughters have let their hair go white and it looks stunning and so today.

The poem today is about one of Francis's fairly mad ideas.  He thought I should have boiled eggs whilst I was seriously ill in hospital but obviously this was not possible. 

Do read the poem and see what you think.

                                                                                    *

From John Everett Millais, October 16th, 1851, in Surrey

'Worked on my picture; pained nasturtiums; saw a stoat run into a hole in the garden wall; went up to it and endeavoured to lure the little beast out by mimicking a rat's or mouse squeak....Succeeded, to my astonishment.  He came half out of the hole and looked in my face, within easy reach'.

 

From Francis Kilvert, October 25th, 1874, in Wiltshire

A damp warm morning steaming with heat, the outer air like a hothouse, the inner air colder, and in consequence the old thick panelled walls of the front room streaming with the warm air condensed on the cold walls...The afternoon was so gloomy that I was obliged for the first time to have lights in the pulpit'.

                                                                                            *

Clanking

She was ill, in hospital
seriously ill and
the hospital food was not good.
A boiled egg is what she needs,
he thought.
Clanking down the passage
he came, with saucepans,
and a small gas fire to light
in the bathroom, he said.
Thank you but no she said
you could set the hospital on fire.
Sadly he agreed it wasn't possible
and stepping into the passage
he left, forlorn,
clanking, clanking.

                                                                                *

If you enjoy my blog why not try my memoir: Half a Pair of People.  Reviewers have said it is hilarious and insightful.  The book can be bought on Amazon with the name: Patricia Huth, click that and you will get me.

                                                                                  *

With very best wishes, Patricia

My Husband and Other Men

 Dear Reader,

                                                                    Me dressed in violet for the first time

 

 

Originally the flowers of violet were known ever since the ancient Greek time or around 500BC.  Greeks and Romans believed that this flower was useful as a herbal remedy for different illnesses and sicknesses. The flowers were also used to create wine and to sweeten their dishes for festivals.  Violets are mostly found in shaded grounds and hedgerows specifically in areas where deciduous trees provide shades and protect the plants.

In 1814, Napoleon Bonaparte covered the grave of his wife, Josephine, with the flowers of Violet. He also declared violets as his signature flower.  Because of this he was called Corporal Violet.  Blue violet is meant for faithfulness and love, and white violets represent chastity and purity.  Violets are also know to have some nutritional value.  Since ancient times people use this flower in different recipes and savory dishes.

                                                                                  *

From Francis Kilvert, October 9th, 1874, in Radnorshire

'For some time I have been trying to find the  right word for the shimmering glancing twinkling movement of the poplar leaves in the sun and wind.  This afternoon I saw the word written on the poplar leaves.  It was 'dazzle'.  The dazzle of the poplars.' 

 

From Dorothy Wordsworth, 1800, October 8th, in Westmorland

'A very mild moonlight night.  Glow-worms everywhere.'

 

From S.T. Coleridge, 1800, October 10th, in Cumberland

'The first snow fell on Skiddaw.'

                                                                              *

 

My Husband and Other Men

My husband is from heaven,
well, he is close to God;
but goodness me, even so,
I do find men are odd.

                                                                              *

If you enjoy my blog why not try my book:   Half a Pair of People.  It is a memoir and people have found it funny and entertaining.  It is on Amazon under the name :Patricia Huth

                                                                               *

With very best wishes, Patricia

The Brown Bear

 

 

Dear Reader, 

In North America the brown bears are called grizzly bears.  This bear is often described as nocturnal but it frequently seems to peak in activity in the morning or early evening.  In summer the brown bear can double it weight, gaining up to 180 kg of fat which it relies on to make it through to the winter when it becomes very lethargic.  Although they are not full hibernators and can be woken easily both sexes like to den in a protected spot during the winter months.  This species is mostly solitary and adult males are particularly aggressive so are avoided by adolescent males, both at concentrated feeding opportunities and any chance encounter.  During combat bears use their paws to strike their opponents in the chest or shoulders and bite the head and neck.  Males take no part in raising the cubs, parenting is left entirely to the females.

I had always imagined that bears were kindly and friendly but I suppose that is because we think of teddy bears rather than the large aggressive real ones found in forests and lonely wild places.  And the teddy bears picnic ditty, of course, makes those bears just like us!

                                                                                          *

From Dorothy Wordsworth, October 3rd, 1800 in Westmorland

'A very rainy morning.  We walked after dinner to observe the torrents....the lichens are now coming out afresh, I carried home a collection in the afternoon.  We had a pleasant conversation about manners of the rich - avarice, inordinate desires, and the effeminacy, unnaturalness, and the unworthy objects of education....a showery evening.  The moonlight lay upon the hills like snow.'

Plus ca change.

                                                                                          *

The Brown Bear

lies on the floor,
the rocking chair still,
the house mute,
the children gone.

Three months of silence,
as boarding school houses my children,
the woman thinks.
How will I endure the emptiness,
the ache of missing them,
not being of comfort?

She sees the bear's blue jersey
is torn, has large holes in it,
like the large holes in her heart.
She picks up the bear,
holds him tight,
pours herself another drink.

                                                                               *

If you enjoy my blog why not try my book?  It is called:   "Half a Pair of People" and can be bought on Amazon in books under my name:  Patrica Huth.  Lots of people have found it funny, you might too.

Best wishes, Patrica

The Man from Middlesbrough

Brighton

Dear Reader, 

I am so sorry that I didn't write my blog last week, I went to Brighton to see my sister who lives there and who has dementia.  It was a 'curates egg' stay with ups and downs.  It is very sad to see someone who was so active and funny become much less so with wild stories of people stealing her things including her jewellery.  None of this was true but I went along with the narrative, even suggesting she went to the police.  She was going to do that she said.  In fact she can't now use her telephone, has hearing problems and difficulty understanding how to use it.  BUT being in the marvelous town of Brighton was a complete treat.  

My daughter Jessica drove my there in her usual responsible way so no worry about the dreadful  M25 and all its traffic problems.  And then suddenly in the sunshine we arrived in delectable Brighton.  We parked outside my sister's house and then trotted up the road to a cafe. This cafe was full of the exciting and interesting people that live there.  Lots of colourful clothes, stripey stockings, small dogs on leads and blonde pony tails by the dozen.  Everyone having a good and fun time.  On Sunday morning Jessica and I left my sister's house and on the way home we sailed down to the sea front.  We walked along the promenade and chomped over pebbles on the beach and then munched a brunch in one of the sea front cafes, watching the world go by, in the sun.   

I always wish I lived in Brighton.  It is a magical place, exciting and colourful and I love it.

                                                                                  

                                                                                        *

From John Clare, 1824 in Northants, September 26th 

'Took a walk in the fields, heard the harvest cricket and shrew-mouse uttering their little chickering songs among the crackling stubble'.

From John Clare, 1824, in Northants, September 29th

'Took a walk in the fields, saw an old wood-style taken away from a favourite spot which it had occupied all my life. The posts were overgrown with ivy and it seem'd so akin to nature and the spot where it stood as tho' it had taken on a lease for an undisturbed existence.  It hurt me to see it was gone'.

                                                                                     *

 

 

The Man from Middlesbrough  

ordered another cup of tea,
lit another cigarette.

He held his head
in his history-stained hands,
nicotine fingers clutching
tufts of dirty grey hair.
He stared, not-seeing, at
the plastic table-cloth,
his mind numb.

His father, his grandfather,
worked in this shipyard
watched ships lovingly grow
from steel plates to proud traders,
built to sail from the Tees estuary,
into the North Sea
and the world's great oceans.  

In his head the man heard the noise,
music to him, of drag chains,
when a ship pushed along
the greasy slipway, slid into the sea.
And the man thought of his mates,
of shared experiences from schooldays,
first girlfriends, first kisses,
walks in the Cleveland hills.
And he thought of the old canteen,
warm with steam from the tea urn,
from brotherhood.

The man wiped his eyes
with the back of his hand
ordered another cup of tea,
lit another cigarette.

                                                                                   *

With very best wishes, Patricia

 

 

 

 

                                       

Unexpected sorrow

Dear Reader,

I didn't know that, immediately I heard the news of the Queen's death, I would shed a tear.  What is it about the Queen that each of us feel to her we were important and perhaps loved?  I went to the Coronation taken by my godmother, the Countess of Northesk, a childless woman who decided to take me as her guest.  Being very shortsighted I don't remember much detail but do remember being very cold in the Abbey.  Since then she has been our humble, modest and humorous queen setting us an exemplary example of right living.  Living a life of goodness.  She was for me a mother figure, someone reliable, kind, and wise.  So thank you Queen Elizabeth from all my heart.

I wish the King, Charles III, a very happy reign, and very best wishes to him and his Queen Consort.

                                                                                  *

God Knows.   A poem by Minnie Louise Haskins.

And I said to the man who stood at the gate of the year
"Give me a light that I may tread safely into the unknown"
and he replied:
"Go out into the darkness and put your hand into the Hand of God.
That shall be to you better than light and safer than a known way".
So I went forth, and finding the Hand of God, trod gladly into the night.
And he led me towards the hills and the breaking of the day in the lone East.

                                                                                    *

An Unexpected Sorrow

I felt the prickles in the
back of my throat,
watched tears run down my cheek
when I heard the news.
This  unique woman, loved by so many
was dead. Had just died.

Why this extreme emotion in myself?
She was for me a role model
of goodness, of discipline, of humility,
which so many of us aspire to.
She never stepped out of line
performed her duties with humour
and constancy.

She was the mother I didn't have,
my safety, my security, my example
of how life should be led
with kindness, humour and wisdom,
She was "Elizabeth the Great" and
I shall miss her until my time is over,
as will so many of us, her devoted subjects.

                                                                                    *

Very best wishes, Patricia

This man

 Dear Reader,

I thought I knew which apple was which and which ones I liked eating most.  But I have been proved wrong this summer.  I thought I was partial to Cox's apples but they didn't come up to my expectations, they were too sour. And then I tried Granny Smiths but I couldn't chew the skins and they were too sour too. So I tried something new.  Pink Lady.  And they are delicious.

In 200BC. Ancient Romans planted apple orchards in Britain.  The Romans discovered apples growing in Syria and were central in dispersing them around the world from there, using the Silk Road as a means of transport from East to West.  The Romans practiced the skill of grafting - selective breeding apples they wanted based on their size and taste.  

Victorian gardeners in England took pride in cross-pollinating and cultivating new varieties.  Often large country estates would compete with one another to present the best fruit dishes on the dining table.  In the walled gardens apple trees were pruned in many unusual forms such as espaliers, cordons and goblets.

                                                                                        *

From Francis Kilvert, September 6th, 1875, in Wiltshire

'The morning suddenly became glorious and we saw what had happened in the night.  All nigh long millions of gossamer spiders had been spinning and whole country was covered .....The gossamer webs gleamed and twinkled into crimson and gold and green, like the most exquisite shot-silk dress in the finest texture of gauzy silver wire.   I never saw anything like it or anything so exquisite as 'the Virgin's webs' glowed with changing opal lights and glanced with all the colours of the rainbow.'

                                                                                         *

This man

loved blue

it was a ship, a blue ship

that he sailed in

it was his power

made his heart beat faster

drove him along life's waterways

but he sailed away

came adrift

became shipwrecked

no power no heartbeat

this man

had lost the blue

but I made a small ship out of wood

gave it sails of the finest silk

an engine fired with love

now he sails again

his power came back

and I painted the ship blue

for

this man

                                                                                *

With very best wishes, Patricia

An old friend

 Dear Reader,

In Queen Victoria's reign the manor houses shed their fortifications to embrace new domesticity and aristocrats decorated their homes to make them warm and inviting.  The great hall, dating back to the middle ages was used to receive guests and tenants and continued to be used, as such, by the 19th century lords to throw balls and celebrate special occasions.  The site of hospitality later became the more informal living room, furnished with sofas and billiard tables.

Outside of the house gentlemen entertained guests with sport such as croquet and shooting.  While the great hall became more intimate, the drawing room became more formal with the institution of two social functions: morning calls and afternoon tea.  Some of the protocols associated with morning calls had been established during the Regency Era and reinforced by the Victorians with a strict set of rules.  Calling cards, or visiting cards, containing a person's name and title were as essential part of this social ritual.  The habit of having "afternoon tea" became a quintessential English tradition that survives to this day.

                                                                                          *

From William Cobbett, 1823, September 1st, in Kent

'From Tenterden I set off at five o'clock, and got to Appledore after a most delightful ride, the high land upon my right, and low land upon my left.  The fog was so thick and white along some of the low land, that I should have taken it for water, if little hills and trees had not risen up through it here and there.'

 

From Nathaniel Hawthorne, 1853, September 1st, in Cheshire

'The chill, rainy English twilight brooding over the lawn.'

                                                                                           *

An old friend

dies and all the memories
come flooding back,
the dances we went to,
the picnics we enjoyed,
the boys we talked about
the boys we met and dated.

The marriage and children,
being God parents to each
others brood,
the setbacks, the good times
and the not so good,
getting older, lines and wrinkles
appearing, middle age upon us,
children grown up,
leaving home, us bereft,
comforting each other.

Old now,
sorting out the world's problems,
discussing the books we read,
when suddenly Covid arrives.
She catches it, fought it, and died.

My grief and the emptiness
are constant,
strike me at all times, day or night.
I miss you, my dearest friend, I miss you
more than words can say.

                                                                                       *

With very best wishes, Patricia