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.

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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.' 

 

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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.

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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.'

 

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 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.

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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.

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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.

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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.'

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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

                                                                              

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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

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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.

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The dance of life,
quick, quick, slow.

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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.

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With very best wishes, Patricia