One funeral and a supermarket

More than a week and no blog. The time is flying by. Last Monday was a complete blur. We gave ourselves loads of time to get to Dorset and were doing so well that we stopped for a coffee at Exeter services. The coffee was very hot, so we waited for it to cool a little ... and suddenly realised we might be late if we didn't get a move on. A funeral is probably the worst thing to be late to, don't you think? Odd really, as it actually is too late, full stop, but there you are.

We roared past all obstructing vehicles including the obligatory tractor and trailer and arrived in Shipton Gorge with about five minutes to spare. Ended up parking opposite the house George and Daphne used to live in, which was a bit bizarre, and sprinting up the path to the church on top of the hill. Very Hugh Grant when you think about it.

Opened the church door with a feeling of triumph - made it! - to be faced with rows of people sitting quietly and wearing black. Almost a physical shock and an abrupt change of mood. I suddenly wanted to cry, well, howl actually and you don't do that at an English funeral, do you? It was a moving service; I don't think it could have been better in any way. Well, actually the vicar could have been a bit more subtle in his delivery, but that would have made it unbearable. Perhaps he's used to a large church.

And then on to the 'thing'. Why is there no name for the event which happens after the funeral? It's not a wake, 'reception' seems too much associated with weddings, and nobody would call it a party. So what is it? Whatever it's called, it was good and strange to see my cousins again, not to mention exhausting. It had started to rain by the time we hit the road and so poor Andy had a foul drive back, apart from the break for Waitrose at Okehampton, of course. I don't think either of us was particularly in the mood for superior food browsing though, and we were glad to get home and stick a pierce-and-bake in the oven.

Needless to say, Tuesday morning and the alarm clock came round far too quickly.

The end of the world as we know it?

I've been working hard this weekend because we are driving up to Dorset for Uncle George's funeral tomorrow and that pretty much wipes out the whole day work-wise. It will be strange to see my cousins again after 25 years. When you think about it, it's downright weird to go so long and not see each other. OK, so they live in Sussex, but that's hardly the other end of the world, is it? These people are my family and yet we tell ourselves we don't have time because of work etc etc. It is beginning to dawn on me just what a sick society we are, and if I'm living in it, then that includes me too.

I keep running across mentions of Tom Hodgkinson's book How to be Free - yesterday there were copies in Fopp in Truro. Then I found a book called Living the Good Life on the website of Snowbooks while doing some industry research. Finding a new way of living which doesn't involve working for wages and paying it all out on bills and taxes is very appealing. I am convinced the money system in the West is going to come crashing down at some point, and that when it does, we will all be much better off, but I'm not at all sure when it will happen. I do think it will be in my lifetime.

In the meantime, who can imagine a different way of doing things? Exchanging money for time, labour, goods and services has been the way for so long that who can even think of a world without it? Well, I'm beginning to think about it and I'm sure far greater brains than mine have been for a long time.

Duh

I'm braindead - had a long day at college today, starting with Non-Fiction, followed by a couple of hours in an overheated IT centre putting together the UK and US competition for my book, and then finally a talk by Peter Hobbs, novelist and short story writer. After which I got into the car and headed home in a daze. On days like this, I am so much on autopilot that I feel more like a passenger than a driver. I keep well back from the car in front and hope for the best. Usually I can't remember whole stretches of the journey. But according to Andy my subconscious is far more efficient than my conscious mind - so that's all right.

'Second Honeymoon' by Joanna Trollope

Derrek gave us some advice on writing a book review. He said to remember the rule of thirds - in the first third describe the book, in the second say what's bad about it, and in the third (third!) say what's good. So I am going to use that formula about Second Honeymoon by Joanna Trollope:

Unfortunately I read this book weeks ago, just before the big build-up to Jan 19, so I didn't get round to writing about it then and now it's not very fresh in my mind. Anyway, I'll do my best.

Second Honeymoon is about a couple whose three children have all finally left home. Russell, the husband, is glad to see the back of them and looking forward to having his wife to himself at long last. Edie, however, is suffering from empty nest syndrome and desperately wants to return to the days when the house was full. Meanwhile her sister Vivi, with whom she has an awkward relationship, is living alone, her husband having left her and her son having gone to Australia. The novel recounts the events which lead to the return of the children and the husband, and the consequences of them coming back.

Goodness, is there anything at all I could put in the 'bad' section? For me, reading Joanna trollope is pure pleasure and I can't remember one single thing in the whole book which struck me as false or clumsy.

So I'll move onto the good! Trollope obviously observes people minutely and understands them profoundly. She is excellent at conveying the intricacies of relationships through snippets of dialogue. (Sorry - no time to rummage through for quotes). She has also written here the best portrayal of a cat I have ever come across! Arsie (finally a quibble - cats deserve elegant names!) becomes almost another character, not just a dumb animal providing a bit of descriptive colour. There are many examples scattered (ho ho) throughout the book, but have a look at pages 369 to 370. Cat-deprived as I presently am, it gave me a huge pang.

For me, Joanna Trollope is like a box of really good chocolates - I know I should ration them for maximum pleasure, but actually I want to gorge the lot. And invariably do.

'Rough Music' by Patrick Gale

I am reading much more this term but not recording it anywhere, as Bill's space seems to have lapsed into disuse. So in future I will write it here instead.

Yesterday I finished Rough Music by Patrick Gale at a gallop, partly because it was due back today and I didn't want to renew it, and partly because he belatedly gets into his stride and I just wanted to read on. It didn't grab me as quickly as some of his novels (A Sweet Obscurity and The Facts of Life, for example) but is just as acutely observed.

There are two storylines, one with the hero as a child and the other as an adult. The chapters alternate between the two and are headed with the name of the house the action takes place in. More confusingly, the hero also has different names, but I won't reveal more! Part of the action takes place in a village called Polcamel, which I am guessing is probably Polzeath.

Gale is really good at portraying relationships between family and friends, especially the little niggles that dog all relationships. He conveys this in excellent dialogue. He's also very good at writing believably about sexual attraction.

I see that he has another novel coming out this summer. It is set partly in Penzance, about the life of a female artist - definitely one to look out for in paperback.

The final journey

I have been thinking about death lately, for obvious reasons, particularly the tradition of the family gathering round the bedside of the dying person. Why do we do that? Is it to provide comfort to the one about to die, or to each other? Does it date back to times when people wanted to be completely sure the person was dead before the spoils were divided up? Or even more cynically, did each family member want to be there in case a last-minute bequest was made to another? I wonder because it seems to me that it must only emphasise to the dying person that this is a journey they must take alone. Which seems kind of cruel. Maybe one day I will experience it and find out.

Thoughts of mortality

It has been a sobering weekend. Ages ago some friends in Lyme Regis mentioned they would be inviting us for the weekend at some point in the future. Ah great, I thought, I can combine that with a trip to see Uncle George near Bridport. He was living in a residential home after becoming ill last year and I was aware it would probably be the last time I saw him.

Unfortunately my timing was out and on Saturday afternoon, when I should have been visiting, he was reaching the end of his life, his children around him. And it turns out it is only a 2 hour drive away. I wish I had gone before. Living in Cornwall can make you insular; I've noticed it time and again but I never thought I might suffer from the same curse. It takes about as long as it used to take us from Bath and we'd go down from there without a second thought.

Apart from that, it isn't really an occasion to grieve. He was always an active man in brain and body, a farmer, and leading a full life until last year when his heart started to pack up. I'd rather anyone shuffle off this mortal coil than be reduced to a shadow of who they used to be.

Birthday blog

Yes, today is my birthday, not a fact I wish to publicise widely amongst my fellow students. Oh no, have I already reached the age when birthdays are glossed over? I prefer to think it's just that so many of my classmates are mere babes in their twenties and I don't want to draw attention to the age disparity. I remember what I thought about anyone over 30 when I was that age - dessicated graveyard material with very little relevance to me. I never actually think about age when I'm at college, we're all just students together, but bearing in mind I'm probably about the same age as many of their mothers, they may not feel the same way.

The weird fact is that I am now nearer 50 than 40 - how did that happen? One minute you're in your mid-twenties and there's all the time in the world, the next you're a fortysomething and there isn't. Not that I'm unhappy to be the age I am, far from it, it just seems to have arrived quicker than anticipated. I always used to say my ambition was to be an eccentric old lady, but I notice I have stopped saying and thinking that, I guess because it's no longer just an interesting theory, but a distinct possibility, the old bit, I mean. I still rather like the idea of eccentric.

I hate techies

At last I'm back! For the last few days I have been thwarted by Blogger, which insisted I start to use New Blogger and set up a Google account to do so. Having no idea what they were on about, I had to wait until my personal technical support desk was available to assist. And then of course it turned out to be perfectly simple. But I'm on now, until the techies in their wisdom decide to do some clever upgrade yet again. It seems I can now create Blogger widgets. Uh? What on earth are they and why would I want to?

Anyway, enough moaning. Last week there was cause for celebration in the form of a cheque for £520 from the CEC scheme. Very nice too and thank you for my own slice of European funding. It added an extra dimension to a pleasant day spent at Wood Lane discussing photography with Tom Ingate and a very select group of fellow students. We all produced some interesting photos, some of them rather 'arty' if I say so myself. Maybe now I will produce a higher standard of shot for my Bath website.