Goodbye

                                                                                     Mountain river

 Dear Reader

If I had to go on a march for something it would be to stop water companies polluting our rivers with sewage.  This is an unacceptable thing to do, absolutely disgusting. Here is a quote from The Daily Telegraph this week: Liz Garfield, the chief executive of Severn Trent, said spending more money on reducing sewage overflow into rivers would not have been good business because it had not been of concern to the public until recently. She went on to say that she thought it was a consequence of people connecting with nature during the Covid-19 lockdowns that had shifted public opinion. She also said that water companies had been investing £12 billion into river quality as a sector over the last few years.

Water companies are allowed to release sewage into rivers in extreme circumstances such as heavy rainfall, to flooding homes.  But data collected since 2020 has shown storm overflow systems are being  used on a daily basis in a potential breach of licences.

Ms. Garfield is one of the highest paid chief executives in the industry, earning £2.8 million in 2020.

                                                                                    *

I simply can't imagine earning that amount of money for whatever job I did, especially perhaps that one.

                                                                                    *

• A short extract from "Half a Pair of People' my book to come out soon. 
  

chapter 4

A Youthful Fantasy Realized

     

 

Until 1950 I lived near Windsor, so for many years of childhood was

able to enjoy the famous Windsor pantomime. Each year I looked

forward to it and was never disappointed. After the war children had

few treats so perhaps the ones we did have seemed extra

memorable. It was at a production of Cinderella in 1947 – a vintage

year – that I vowed I would one day perform in a pantomime myself.

     Some thirty-five years later, a friend lunching with me in Oxford

announced that the Chipping Norton Amateur Dramatic Society

were auditioning for Dick Whittington the following evening

Here then, was my chance to fulfill the childish ambition to be in a

pantomime. Chipping Norton is twenty-seven miles from Oxford and

and this, in itself, should have been the best reason for not

embarking on this particular venture. My twelve-year-old Renault 5

was temperamental enough in the warm months; in the winter it

frequently could not, or would not, start at all. The heating worked 

erratically, petrol was expensive but this then was my chance to fulfill my childish ambition.

                                                              * 

 

Goodbye

Why is it I can't ever
say goodbye to anyone, anytime,
without my throat contracting,
my eyes awash with tears,
a desperate feeling
of emptiness overwhelming me?

All those things I was
going to say but never did,
whirling about in my head.
The words I meant to say
but left unspoken,

that thanks I meant to write
but left virgin cream paper
on the shelf,
the love I meant to tell
imprisoned in my heart.

Don't shake my hand,
hug me,
kiss my cheek,
catch my eye.

I will dissolve.
Can only turn away,
blinded, speechless.

                                                         *

With very best wishes, Patricia

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Realization

                                                                                  Yellow butterflies



 Dear reader,

On the afternoon of my birthday I started coughing.  I had been down to an 80th birthday party in Sussex at the weekend and thought I had probably got a chill at some time.  We stayed in a hotel which didn't provide blankets so we had to put up with duvets.  I can't bear duvets, either I am much too hot or much too cold.  Perhaps that it where my cough is coming from I thought. But just to be sure Francis tested me and yes I had Covid.  So this last week hasn't been tip-top for  me.  Coughing most of the night and thereby not sleeping very much at all has made me very tired. But I am so grateful that the three vaccinations helped me so that although Covid is not what you would want but not bad enough for hospitalization. I went for a short walk this morning and it was lovely being out in the sunshine, I have taken a turn for the better I think.

                                                                                      *

Out of my study window I saw this week lots of yellow butterflies.  Are these butterflies the first to appear in spring?  I haven't seen any other coloured ones.

                                                                                      *

A short piece from my book: 'Half a Pair of People', Chapter 3.

 

 Depression, despair, and misery swept over me quite frequently in

the early months. It struck around the hour of the dawn chorus.

Sleep was impossible. Eventually, however, I did find some good

ways of combating it. Thought control at night was essential; simply

not allowing your thoughts to stray into depressing areas. I made

literary problems for myself to work out. I pondered upon what Miss

Haversham would have done with her life if she had not decided to

spend it in one dark and cobwebby room? Or, had she lived now,

would Lady Bartram have risen from her sofa to raise money for the

Conservative Party, or NSPCC or rather, in her case, for the RSPCA?

That sort of thing. Sewing is soothing at 3.15am and with the World

Service and a cup of tea quite an enjoyable way of spending the

night. My sewing abilities are non-existent, but I made an attempt to

master easy patchwork; now tablecloths and several cushions

stitched in the early hours. My sister gave me some tapes of Peggy

Ashcroft reading four Katherine Mansfield short stories. These were

wonderfully sleep-inducing.

                                                                   *

Realization

I am
part of the whole.

I am
in the first light,
the bird's first song,
the sun's first dart
through the curtain crack,
in the music of summer trees.

I am
part of the alpha,
the birth,
the awakening,
the growing and spreading,
the throbbing of life.

I am part of all suffering
hands blood-stained.
Part of the love
humanity shares and
of all good things.

I am
part of the omega,
the closing, the last light,
the call back from the dark
to the bright, eternal night.

                                                                                  *

With very best wishes, my dear friends,

Patricia

 

Miracle

                                                                                        Barn swallows
 

 

Dear Reader, 

I have decided this week not to watch the news any more.  It is just too awful to think about and horrific to see the pictures.  I have read much about the two wars of last century and came to the obvious conclusion that wars are senseless, horrendous and barbaric and for what?   Why do men (and I say men because it has been men who have declared war) want more land, or more of something, when they  seem to have plenty of land already and the people of their country are getting on with their lives in peace. And peace is what most of us aspire to I suggest.  What can we do to help?  Well send a donation, which is what I am doing, otherwise if you are a believer, pray for a ceasefire and a halt to the war.

                                                                                   *

 A small section of my book : 'Half a Pair of People' which will be out in April I hope.

I did the desk work in the mornings. Necessary fresh air was taken daily, after

lunch. Oxford is traditionally a city full of bicycle riders. (I think many

of them bicycle with an image of someone else in mind. Either a girl

at a secretarial college trying to resemble a student or a student

trying to resemble an academic. Or a North Oxford housewife trying

out her Greenham Common outfit).  Anyway, I hate bicycles, and

maniacal cyclists. So, I tried a new venture, walking, which proved

both beneficial as exercise, and uplifting.  It is a magical experience

exploring the diversities of Oxford on foot. Watching the canal boats

at Donnington Bridge, visiting the beautiful colleges, or walking

through the water meadows and stopping on the way back in a

bookshop, was a perfect way to spend the afternoon. In the evening

after supper, I learnt to enjoy the peace. It is, I know, corny to

elaborate on the process of ‘knowing thyself’. Newly single people,

intent on finding their own ‘space’, whatever that means, can bore

on about it interminably. But as Socrates, Alexander Pope and

Herman Hess strongly recommend the idea of knowing oneself, and

as I greatly respect their judgement, that is precisely.........

                                                                                     *

  Miracle

 Rich in England's spring
cowparsley entrancing
in dog-rosed hedge,
the fecund earth lush green,
a baby swallow
hatches in a Suffolk barn,
to the cries of gulls
flying over mudflats,
over sea-lavender.

This small bird grows
embracing our summer warmth,
swooping on insects caught
above rolling grasslands.
It dips and tumbles gracefully,
trouble free.

But what instinct tells of winter cold?
This bird, hand-sized, will
fly over icy Pyrenees,
thirst through the parched Sahara,
soar and glide on trade winds,
south to the Cape of Africa
drawn, inexplicable to the heat
of the southern sun.

In early spring does
this swallow's courageous heart
grow restless, homesick for
 a Suffolk barn?
Is it a miracle that some force
of nature returns this minute bird
to its birth-nest by the English sea?
Who knows, but it seems so to me.

                                                                                        *

With very best wishes, Patricia

Questions

 Dear Reader,

It is always difficult for me to know which of my various poems you will like.  I wasn't sure about the one I put on last week: Questions, as someone in the media said it was rather 'twee'.  But it has had the most 'likes' or equivalent on my blog that I have ever had So I decided to put it on again in case you missed it.  And I will put it first today so you don't have to read anything else if you don't want to.

Questions

Were the summers different then,
did the sun shine more, when
wet and cloudy days were few, when
butterflies took wing, and warm wind blew.

Did the bees collect more honey,
did we laugh more, were more things funny,
was the sea less rough, more azure,
did finer shells bewitch us on the shore?

Did roses fade so soon, wind or rain blown,
or were hedgerows so rich and pretty, grown
when all the summer days were bright,
not awash with rain, but drenched in light.

Were the days so cold and dreary,
and did we ever feel so weary
of days of heat and sun and sea,
picnics, sandcastles, flasks of tea?

Did dreams then, sometimes, come true,
when love would find us, hold us too,
and make our whole world seem completely new,
when butterflies took wing, and warm winds blew?

    A small snippet from my book "Half a Pair of People'.                                                                          *

 I thought of the Schopenhauer quote:

"He who does not enjoy solitude does not love freedom”, and decided that

solitude equaling freedom would be an acquired taste, arrived at 

time, with much planning, effort and thought. As it was, I had

 forgotten to buy any food. So hungry, cold, and feeling less

courageous than I expected, I burst into tears. Until that evening I did

not realize exactly what it would be like to be totally alone:

something which is perhaps not possible to know until experienced.

In the midst of noisy families women dream of endless peace and

quiet on their own, sure that they would be entirely happy in

isolation. But in truth they might be no such thing. An hour or two

maybe…. But real solitude, though aspired to by many, is in practice

only really enjoyed by a few.

 

                                                                                          *

While the whole world is weeping it is difficult to think of anything funny.   But if you didn't see this piece in the newspaper this week let me tell you and perhaps you can smile a little.    Slugs and snails are no longer to be called "pests".  To help shed their negative image they are, from now on, to be called "garden visitors".  I will remember that when next one visits the garden. Could you too?

                                                                                          *

Very best wishes, Patricia