tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86669084468222781062024-03-27T16:53:40.855-07:00Home Thoughts WeeklyChristine Stovell, author and freelance writer, on living and writing in West WalesUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger518125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8666908446822278106.post-82289699598154818112024-03-05T22:35:00.000-08:002024-03-05T22:35:29.522-08:00Fly Free, Dottie Do<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinX0dJjp-QbLtPIox-YhwbCaAZ6sfLL_oouDyNlQos_px98C_ns9lxajiybLFxye9Vs7QQ1FpzQEehCl2xolgUPqDiQFiVXNDgQMqdXYyKjiE09Rkq6vVLO9KFE429BwMYrMIqEXh9ihbGcchJmCNl9ApYg28HLNHchB-sOKRA34Rt-AfHr2SndF94CN-I/s1121/Mum.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1121" data-original-width="622" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinX0dJjp-QbLtPIox-YhwbCaAZ6sfLL_oouDyNlQos_px98C_ns9lxajiybLFxye9Vs7QQ1FpzQEehCl2xolgUPqDiQFiVXNDgQMqdXYyKjiE09Rkq6vVLO9KFE429BwMYrMIqEXh9ihbGcchJmCNl9ApYg28HLNHchB-sOKRA34Rt-AfHr2SndF94CN-I/w223-h400/Mum.jpeg" width="223" /></a></div><b>‘How many days to my birthday?’ </b>Ma asks. I do a quick calculation. ‘Eighteen,’ I reply. ‘Eighteen days until your ninetieth birthday.’ Ma pulls a face and shakes her head. Every sentence is hard work for her now, when each breath is a struggle. ‘You’ll have to write a book about this, you know,’ she says, with one of her quick, mischievous smiles. ‘“Carry On Dying”. Make ‘em laugh, make ‘em cry.’ The smile fades. ‘Who knew,’ she adds wearily, ‘that dying would be such a palaver?’ <p></p><p><b>It’s only eleven days</b> since Ma was diagnosed with a high-grade, aggressive lymphoma, four days since she was overwhelmed with pain and breathing difficulties and was admitted as an emergency to hospital. Until a few weeks ago, she lived completely independently; shopping, cooking, cleaning and tending her much-loved garden. The deterioration in her health is shockingly rapid. The eight days preceding her death are a living hell, a constant battle with the ward staff to get Ma the pain relief she’s been prescribed by the medical registrar and the wonderful palliative care team. My sister and I - ably assisted by our husbands and my niece - remain at her bedside throughout to protect and care for her. We do our best, but there are some sights I can never unsee, and spiteful cruelties I’ll never forgive. But those are stories for another day. </p><p><b>No matter how many indignities</b> are heaped upon her, Ma’s presence remains undimmed; she’s quick, lucid, sharped-tongued and funny throughout - and is absolutely crystal clear with every medical professional who comes near her that she would welcome a release from her suffering. </p><p><b>She’s still Mum,</b> who used to blaze down to our school to take on any wrong-doers on our behalf; tall, red-haired, a cracking figure in her stylish, home-made clothes, and those remarkable violet-blue eyes. She’s still Mum who doesn’t mince her words, the one who’d sigh even when my sister and I got 99% in an exam and tell us to do better next time. I stroke her arm, one morning and I’m roundly told to ‘stop touching me with your cold spider fingers!’ She’s Mum whose lightning-fast reply when asked by a member of the palliative care team if she has any religious affinity is, ‘Well, He’s not doing much for me, is He?’ And her occasionally ripe sense of humour, still has the ability to catch us off-guard. During her stay in hospital she’s had to cope with the reality that many of the nursing care assistants attending to her personal needs are young men from other countries and cultures. One afternoon, she is calmly reflecting on this fact. She looks angelic, propped up on her pillows, but suddenly the naughty smile flashes and she asks my sister and I a question so rude that it’s a good five minutes before either of us has stopped laughing long enough to tell her we’re not replying! </p><p><b>Then, one lunch time,</b> just after my sister has left for a break, Ma becomes so agitated that I don’t know what to do. I call the palliative care team who arrive within seconds and do a brilliant job of making Mum comfortable and calming me down. It’s suddenly very important for me to tell them what an extraordinary woman Mum is, that she’s travelled extensively, loved Peru, has sailed down the Amazon in small boat, that she was head cook at a small private school for many years, can make any plant grow. That she has grandchildren and great-grandchildren, that she’s always had our backs… and then I’m gently interrupted by a member of the palliative care team who tells me it’s time to call anyone who needs to be there. </p><p><b>From the moment </b>it became clear how very ill Mum was, we promised we wouldn’t leave her. That she wasn’t the little girl whose parents only collected two of their three younger children evacuated to Cornwall. That we wouldn’t abandon her. And so my sister and I and our husbands remain at her side through the long night. We talk about holidays, and Christmases, we laugh and we cry. We hold her hands - sorry, Mum, you couldn’t moan about my cold spider fingers then - we tell her that she’s safe. And just after sunrise, in a high room with large windows and views across to the house where she was born, Mum takes her last breath. </p><p>Some time later, we walk out of the hospital into heavy rain. ‘The world’s crying too,’ says my sister. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8f0afLZ4pBJow1oLhlgGswCa5duQtaMLfdV2uTH3oVqyfQBznqXEBMcMDc0_AwFHZUXLq82lRnGg7zZrS4_MszEEuZN8HuifDPZzX0Lb4PjQFEM3Xy3CmuH_-GCXtph532weqvzzKA-fh8kOPtCu511ZZ8IQEFZMQ1ygEc0I6U1t2uWnl71lHSoNKI7cP/s1024/IMG_8195.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8f0afLZ4pBJow1oLhlgGswCa5duQtaMLfdV2uTH3oVqyfQBznqXEBMcMDc0_AwFHZUXLq82lRnGg7zZrS4_MszEEuZN8HuifDPZzX0Lb4PjQFEM3Xy3CmuH_-GCXtph532weqvzzKA-fh8kOPtCu511ZZ8IQEFZMQ1ygEc0I6U1t2uWnl71lHSoNKI7cP/s320/IMG_8195.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our last photo together </td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="color: #800180; font-family: arial;">Mum chose not to have a funeral - she loathed them and asked that, instead, we celebrate her life by getting together as a family and having fun. Her direct cremation will take place early on Tuesday 12 March. We’ll be marking the occasion by sending all our love to her at 8 am. </span></i></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Fly free, Dottie Do. Always fabulous, always funny, always fierce. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Thank you for showing us the way.</span></div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_C8OoG1uwPxg1y0cbQkcZUt9dJEDiRC_Ko9BYpbXXqfxJlTn3F0EAJUfrA3lq8_MpNebXKYg88GsnFv6c6VyVcyY5xHRcQwmpQxNza9eler2t0htOi6pPtsIO-kCQyosOHnfpTdQI3SJZDK0sdsl1rxQO60IxyxnS6bXNLa06pr0NT-X2GMGNphloHdIC/s2961/DSCN1840.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2961" data-original-width="2259" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_C8OoG1uwPxg1y0cbQkcZUt9dJEDiRC_Ko9BYpbXXqfxJlTn3F0EAJUfrA3lq8_MpNebXKYg88GsnFv6c6VyVcyY5xHRcQwmpQxNza9eler2t0htOi6pPtsIO-kCQyosOHnfpTdQI3SJZDK0sdsl1rxQO60IxyxnS6bXNLa06pr0NT-X2GMGNphloHdIC/w305-h400/DSCN1840.jpeg" width="305" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Doris Lilian May Stovell<br />March 1934 - Feb 2024</td></tr></tbody></table><br /> </div><br /><b><br /></b></div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8666908446822278106.post-62491675039233093022024-01-31T07:39:00.000-08:002024-01-31T07:39:44.530-08:00Liminal Space<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgidAqkmbKIAdxXJxv1xgfieBSXO5Wx2-WZoFZSTNCz0o1WeEBGTKjvkuykGuO25SRdYrLnp9aSGf1FJdGFd_l3RQ7OQKltQqp4YG10aVGZvGuwR8JC9_u50ALJ-B_N1wHDuqkl8WNEIuUodVaSMyc4P4Rrk7bsXCgLM3_A7Z28VkuimUTVgxpu8z0zl1ad/s4032/IMG_8285.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgidAqkmbKIAdxXJxv1xgfieBSXO5Wx2-WZoFZSTNCz0o1WeEBGTKjvkuykGuO25SRdYrLnp9aSGf1FJdGFd_l3RQ7OQKltQqp4YG10aVGZvGuwR8JC9_u50ALJ-B_N1wHDuqkl8WNEIuUodVaSMyc4P4Rrk7bsXCgLM3_A7Z28VkuimUTVgxpu8z0zl1ad/s320/IMG_8285.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><b>It turns out</b> that writing a book is not the first thing I’ll do in 2024. The first thing arrives promptly, on 2nd January. It happens amongst the slew of bodies in an everyday, overcrowded, overworked A&E department. It imparts devastating news about a precious loved one. It brings a flurry of all manner of scans and tests, sucks the air from normality and distorts time. We wait for days to pass and wish they were longer. This is not particular to us: we are where all families have been and will be again, so I have no wish to remind others of their pain or dwell on ours, but this is where we are, drifting on an uncertain tide.<br /><br /><div><b>My firstborn daughter</b> celebrates a big birthday so, inevitably, I think back to her arrival when she brought sheer joy, utter terror and a fall of snow that seemed to symbolise how greatly my world had changed. Now, as Tom and I look after my daughter’s daughters, someone knocks on our bedroom door in the night and, shortly after, a small figure folds herself into me. ‘Sorry, Nana,’ she says. ‘I couldn’t sleep.’ ‘You don’t need to be sorry,’ I tell her, stroking her hair ‘It’s horrid when you can’t sleep.’. After a while, I take her back to her own bed. I visit the bathroom and notice my reflection in the mirror is shimmering strangely in the low light. Little Miss, has been to a party, I remember, and her hair glitter is now all over my face!<br /><br /></div><div><b>‘Come on,’ says Tom</b>. ‘We can’t sit around waiting all the time.’ He’s right, of course. It’s too easy to do nothing in between the long road trips which have become our new normal. He suggests a trip to <a href="https://aberystwythartscentre.co.uk">Canolfan y Celfyddydau, the Aberystwyth Arts Centre</a>, where we have lunch, look at the sea and mingle with normal people. We also visit an exhibition, <a href="https://aberystwythartscentre.co.uk/impactardrawiad-angharad-pearce-jones/">IMPACTArdrawiad</a>, by artist Angharad Pearce Jones. At first, I’m too preoccupied by my own dark thoughts to engage, but gradually these twisted and imploded gates and railings draw me in, striking a chord in me that chimes with the space we’re currently inhabiting, this in-between zone.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgju-_t3XZwf5jrVBPZbgw-qA36gCFf45gKXLOcgY1wU7RP6rcQt5stL3Ocy_3cDzvXm35cSbNH8pOD-YH9h6iJX4pEmxEvOoYmYTMQRVV24s39PTiouvC7Jdk_lj5xyjbhFVyF3XxyDObJCo3NVE1eMj1TH4oU4NCKgKovBqHTzQBXmLYH0KpbK9pdQDRb/s4032/IMG_8286.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgju-_t3XZwf5jrVBPZbgw-qA36gCFf45gKXLOcgY1wU7RP6rcQt5stL3Ocy_3cDzvXm35cSbNH8pOD-YH9h6iJX4pEmxEvOoYmYTMQRVV24s39PTiouvC7Jdk_lj5xyjbhFVyF3XxyDObJCo3NVE1eMj1TH4oU4NCKgKovBqHTzQBXmLYH0KpbK9pdQDRb/w300-h400/IMG_8286.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div><br /><br /> </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8666908446822278106.post-64513426277799365812023-12-31T09:05:00.000-08:002023-12-31T09:05:06.220-08:002023 Retrospective<b>‘So what,’ asks my son-in-law, Simon, ‘is the first thing you’re going to do in 2024?</b>’ After spending a perfect Christmas, firstly with Lily, Russ and the girls in Cardiff then with Rose, Simon and the children in Keynsham, I’m moaning away again because our house is still on the market and no one who’s viewed it appears to have read the particulars. ‘Make selling the house the second thing on your list,’ Simon continues. ‘Let it run in the background while you get on with something else or it’s going to dominate your life. Think about what you’re going to do first.’<br /><p style="text-align: left;">Simon’s got a great knack of coming up with the right advice at the right time and it turns out that his comment does make me think, but more about that later. ‘Well, we’ll carrying on enjoying where we live and continue doing what we always do,’ Tom replies. And, as I look back over 2023, it hasn’t all been dominated by a fruitless attempt to move house. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><b>Strava tells me</b> I’ve been active for 251 days of the year. Our ebay bargain swimming pool - now into its third year - has been a source of utter joy; those precious moments of peace at the beginning of the day is the most brilliant way to appreciate the changing seasons.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO16cjvqbn1DDmOmKZnQzSgUkfHYElr4CoJmtEnQuyGVLJ5GF5ta-D2p41yKuWocgJ2aNHvvc4fNX2iaUPp6V7hmM07cAqmFQGoCZDAwmuAZpBB2o2XuFJSF6IR6Xk5b9vrlzYZeaHs1S8IrMFL-PGReQtXr_3Nd5Mk8sadtS-bLG5fmuadzwc8pQcMVzR/s4032/FullSizeRender.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="2268" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO16cjvqbn1DDmOmKZnQzSgUkfHYElr4CoJmtEnQuyGVLJ5GF5ta-D2p41yKuWocgJ2aNHvvc4fNX2iaUPp6V7hmM07cAqmFQGoCZDAwmuAZpBB2o2XuFJSF6IR6Xk5b9vrlzYZeaHs1S8IrMFL-PGReQtXr_3Nd5Mk8sadtS-bLG5fmuadzwc8pQcMVzR/w215-h320/FullSizeRender.jpeg" width="215" /></a></div><br /><b>I’ve rediscovered my running mojo </b>- after a period of feeling a bit slow and a bit old - and zipped round the Aberystwyth 10k coming in at 58:40 and my parkrun pace is back where it was. And, of course, there are the many hours of running, chatting and laughing with my dear friend and running buddy Helen.<div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgThxTk4aaWUuf7QFApYohcNDZK0ZM6KTuziata6LpOaMKWlqKuG2ZiC8pEHJxvExweN_FqLfx14rQhbD1rMPQprE8faanppVgwtJOQGkHRxA2vamACVGtaJk6gS0mSKBTqsq8CdJZeeIHhtKNgr1devpA8p_EVmUwP8BsNgnKOaDe2h9Jccc6-hl9OkNo9/s1080/running%202023.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgThxTk4aaWUuf7QFApYohcNDZK0ZM6KTuziata6LpOaMKWlqKuG2ZiC8pEHJxvExweN_FqLfx14rQhbD1rMPQprE8faanppVgwtJOQGkHRxA2vamACVGtaJk6gS0mSKBTqsq8CdJZeeIHhtKNgr1devpA8p_EVmUwP8BsNgnKOaDe2h9Jccc6-hl9OkNo9/s320/running%202023.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><b>I hated sewing</b> at school but somehow I found myself making myself some long-sleeve T-shirts and enjoying the process. Well done Tilly and the Buttons for your patterns with easy-to-follow instructions!</div><br /><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlsr1bieRQopNFfj46kPN__BUWjCVweGNaRlmCYy-50kfMDSBoh6zVflRmP2Izhk_lIjmfzcmtbRbwjrrB5T64ZM9fIjK0dV71_57G74Hnj6ZOSxRDB6afMJ7hlQOHRCbi2W41UA-kKYQfgKXBOwtl_R39DOe64504s6eqdozwy0nVzlFRr1GTLvq1UmVr/s4032/IMG_6629.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlsr1bieRQopNFfj46kPN__BUWjCVweGNaRlmCYy-50kfMDSBoh6zVflRmP2Izhk_lIjmfzcmtbRbwjrrB5T64ZM9fIjK0dV71_57G74Hnj6ZOSxRDB6afMJ7hlQOHRCbi2W41UA-kKYQfgKXBOwtl_R39DOe64504s6eqdozwy0nVzlFRr1GTLvq1UmVr/w240-h290/IMG_6629.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b style="text-align: left;">This is the year</b><span style="text-align: left;"> I took on temporary care of my neighbour’s inscrutable tortoise, Storming Norman, and Squidge, a very elderly cat. They both survived! We also acquired grandguinea pigs and a grandkitten.</span></div></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivayOghdFv1Y3xyVag2Rz9k3DO-E8JmYX3dYQtHwtCzsFNXApHlSxluJXWRfcLGpLVAiRo3PSUdT9hyphenhyphenN4QtGkFUVoCXDNX1yag0Gr8dWJeK1XBx-iD4jUZ7TG_CMLBWdHw4jaratJlI4XMgxweEgwHkLk55oK03y1IVFwmLFqJjRFbiAhyphenhyphentM5wuYdmsVJ_/s1080/Pets.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="335" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivayOghdFv1Y3xyVag2Rz9k3DO-E8JmYX3dYQtHwtCzsFNXApHlSxluJXWRfcLGpLVAiRo3PSUdT9hyphenhyphenN4QtGkFUVoCXDNX1yag0Gr8dWJeK1XBx-iD4jUZ7TG_CMLBWdHw4jaratJlI4XMgxweEgwHkLk55oK03y1IVFwmLFqJjRFbiAhyphenhyphentM5wuYdmsVJ_/w320-h335/Pets.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><b>For personal reasons,</b> I’ve never been interested in tracing my family tree, but when my brother-in-law, an aspiring Viking, turned out not to have a drop of Viking blood, I decided to take a closer look at my DNA… and yes, you guessed, not only 17% Scandinavian but also 35% Welsh.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXlAiV232LeKAp3Y0a3Yg6n5z1MnfhxFup19ggXRlzTBMIpTOTfLm3wP8yA4EY3d93On16f_nHqblOnYRi91gJ7XEWVvq6_QZBz5JkMGN8Vpkj0vmVYiJHa91RA_n0Wuxje0vzzEh_QmOSsV_1v9GpSykpaMhIvGZxPmuCicmItDpldBQIc0ik8k-MQhwZ/s4032/IMG_7280.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="307" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXlAiV232LeKAp3Y0a3Yg6n5z1MnfhxFup19ggXRlzTBMIpTOTfLm3wP8yA4EY3d93On16f_nHqblOnYRi91gJ7XEWVvq6_QZBz5JkMGN8Vpkj0vmVYiJHa91RA_n0Wuxje0vzzEh_QmOSsV_1v9GpSykpaMhIvGZxPmuCicmItDpldBQIc0ik8k-MQhwZ/w230-h307/IMG_7280.jpeg" width="230" /></a></div><br /><b>Yes, there have been some rubbish moments</b> in 2023 - Tom and I could both have done without losing the first week of December to a vomiting bug so severe I actually thought my number was up. And ten days later, Ma could certainly have done without our 5 hour wait in A&E to have a rib injury checked (lots of muscle damage, no broken bones).<br /><b>Above all, however</b>, Tom and I have made lots of happy memories with our family. We want to move to be physically closer to them, but when I look back through my photos and see so many smiling faces and celebrations, I realise how lucky we already are.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPWDKOVJv7cbC3yczyKZA_oeRbAcsZ_nPZEKH4w251uX4ri4pYhqL0GGibVYWnTtz3BcDrwYK-ZYHcijxsrGSZPqpx-Rf59Gd2222nxDmNQaEcdxR39nSJLvg2Y5_o8d6qppVae6YyFnQcQ0BXGHWhClYUXoRkss2wQRAnSOSYslLo8kg7VeWHgZskk2tl/s1080/Pets-2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPWDKOVJv7cbC3yczyKZA_oeRbAcsZ_nPZEKH4w251uX4ri4pYhqL0GGibVYWnTtz3BcDrwYK-ZYHcijxsrGSZPqpx-Rf59Gd2222nxDmNQaEcdxR39nSJLvg2Y5_o8d6qppVae6YyFnQcQ0BXGHWhClYUXoRkss2wQRAnSOSYslLo8kg7VeWHgZskk2tl/s320/Pets-2.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><p style="text-align: left;"><b>And as for the first thing</b> I’m going to do in 2024? Ah, well, there’s a book I’ve been trying not to write because writing a book is hard work, but the idea won’t go away so it looks as if that’ll keep me busy.</p><p style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Thank you for reading this blog. I wish you and yours and happy, healthy and peaceful New Year.</span></span></i></p><div><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8666908446822278106.post-25097821388340001492023-10-25T08:10:00.000-07:002023-10-25T08:10:10.325-07:00Tripping Hither, Tripping Thither<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXZ59I2ZcW7DNapAOlzqOb3XPSmoZ8rnBHwpbx4rqEJHYUws6r1TaBvlSA10yNHJ2AqM-SR6bOOjwSLQsNkMjwkWaROB3u8bLEWjNzoOJwVuwudFwAb5_CD0X38FZ5yIlkKesxBabS3YWubTHI9qV4xBJW15WEXi5jVYmYUTkEKviHXNToXtXSDYmw5goA/s4032/IMG_7655.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXZ59I2ZcW7DNapAOlzqOb3XPSmoZ8rnBHwpbx4rqEJHYUws6r1TaBvlSA10yNHJ2AqM-SR6bOOjwSLQsNkMjwkWaROB3u8bLEWjNzoOJwVuwudFwAb5_CD0X38FZ5yIlkKesxBabS3YWubTHI9qV4xBJW15WEXi5jVYmYUTkEKviHXNToXtXSDYmw5goA/s320/IMG_7655.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"><b>'Where shall we take your mum this year?’</b> asks Tom. After the success of our Isle of Skye trip last year, we warm to our theme and pick another island but one - given Ma’s recent trials and tribulations - a bit closer to home and which comes with added ferry trips, namely the Isle of Wight. Ma has to put up with lots of ‘do you remember whens’ on the way out as Tom and I fondly reminisce about our sailing days in the Solent (see <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/SAILING-KIND-Adventures-small-wooden-ebook/dp/B09TRZB35C?ref_=ast_author_dp">Sailing Kind</a>, but once we’ve disembarked it’s only a short drive to our holiday accommodation which comes - rather splendidly - with its own private beach and occasional flashes of red squirrels in the garden.<br /><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">Our holiday home is very comfortable and decorated in a slightly chintzy style which - as Tom points out - would have delighted his mum. It’s ‘Peak Rita’ but we’ve chosen it because there’s a large downstairs bedroom with an ensuite and walk-in shower which is perfect for Ma. We don’t discover the hidden drawback until the next morning when I take a cup of tea into Ma and learn that she barely made it into her ginormous and very high bed. The combination of a bad accident (see <a href="https://homethoughtsweekly.blogspot.com/2010/12/winters-tale.html">A Winter’s Tale)</a> and her poor back makes it very hard for her to gain any kind of purchase to lever herself up. I ponder different solutions but Ma - with her usual grit and determination - decides she can manage.</p><p style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3GBMNIuVLWLAq7l0dNvV0z4VmPvUXz157Zy_v5t1d9Qxjg6rMRRx2q1e43CKn5oRgURcdrfm-yGC4_9n25NPk8HlaMfRbhlcZ0z9Z4nU1UN3MuVW7j0yOlQWHYScx6jqdUeD11kpfJaZ1861naP81aelqj-N01PicoKrzehx6aN-d1k8jDF4L0U5PxPHJ/s4032/IMG_7701.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3GBMNIuVLWLAq7l0dNvV0z4VmPvUXz157Zy_v5t1d9Qxjg6rMRRx2q1e43CKn5oRgURcdrfm-yGC4_9n25NPk8HlaMfRbhlcZ0z9Z4nU1UN3MuVW7j0yOlQWHYScx6jqdUeD11kpfJaZ1861naP81aelqj-N01PicoKrzehx6aN-d1k8jDF4L0U5PxPHJ/s320/IMG_7701.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><b>Accessibility</b> - or the lack of - becomes a bit of a theme during our visit (poorly positioned disabled bays, hard-to-reach loos) but three cheers to <a href="https://www.english-heritage.org.uk/visit/places/osborne/">Osborne House</a> where we can borrow a wheelchair and Ma can see most of the house. I’m by no means a monarchist but I’m rather seduced by Victoria and Albert’s seaside retreat which is unexpectedly charming. I especially like the ‘his and hers desks’ set before a saucy painting of frolicking bare-naked ladies, and the rows of little beds in the upstairs nursery (the consequences of all that frolicking).<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK2oxRtC8NJEXTx3l5-tDjE7p3aTdGJ9rW9YyniQcW-rP592oVwm185rDHgJm5rQTWu9MrXyu9GaE8Ae9cSYIROJ02xtJihU6ntSLxax4BBPq-Ta3Br1Vqv2Jq6Io1GRKKGToencYOjPhFhuzZ9wdLJvCnf-B2JUPpHtooTdqUhyphenhyphen2Wwznsyx1B5ELEftfq/s4032/IMG_7683.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="2854" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK2oxRtC8NJEXTx3l5-tDjE7p3aTdGJ9rW9YyniQcW-rP592oVwm185rDHgJm5rQTWu9MrXyu9GaE8Ae9cSYIROJ02xtJihU6ntSLxax4BBPq-Ta3Br1Vqv2Jq6Io1GRKKGToencYOjPhFhuzZ9wdLJvCnf-B2JUPpHtooTdqUhyphenhyphen2Wwznsyx1B5ELEftfq/s320/IMG_7683.jpeg" width="227" /></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAXii_q1MIqX4xV8x51nVypD3-ebOjMewM3JPdWdi0bH0cqVAscEMkE_s73rNYuDMzl_1uP7ABMQjlBXQ1r5nKbj-a6-eZH4XQEQntpFwx1M4xl7vHChd8LvY_1rcpru86oCJLCSLTnGqB9IPJ1JaL7KHDOALVt1d0ftmBJVNx4WuS1bo1Jm0wC5kdzZl9/s4032/IMG_7685.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAXii_q1MIqX4xV8x51nVypD3-ebOjMewM3JPdWdi0bH0cqVAscEMkE_s73rNYuDMzl_1uP7ABMQjlBXQ1r5nKbj-a6-eZH4XQEQntpFwx1M4xl7vHChd8LvY_1rcpru86oCJLCSLTnGqB9IPJ1JaL7KHDOALVt1d0ftmBJVNx4WuS1bo1Jm0wC5kdzZl9/s320/IMG_7685.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><p style="text-align: left;"><b>After a really lovely stay</b> on the Isle of Wight. Tom and I round off our trip to the southeast with a foray up to London where Tom’s booked tickets at the ENO to see <a href="https://www.eno.org/operas/iolanthe/#synopsis">‘Iolanthe’.</a> Gilbert and Sullivan ‘comic’ operettas are absolutely not my thing, but Tom adores them and I’m always happy to hear live music. The London Coliseum is gloriously over the top as is the English National Opera’s production which opens with a psychedelic riot of colour and yet more frolicking and wire-flying as rings of fairies beseech their queen to bring Iolanthe back from exile. It’s all very silly but it’s a great evening, although struggling up to London and back in the teeth of Storm Babet is a right pain.</p><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGz305tyMqtX0HLzQs7gycOKbsgM7NTV1MA2fY5BMmWHbu-vc2sZ1-x-7oLUqnSZCh6CqAOLroXfzRyQWtjJu_clcmbvENoIF_oMmoXrPunJsDlSifdmzrBSMPFyyFPy4UlKJvdNLJVBZ8alBW_VPs_zCQUBVQhdCW06mhiwvWspK4PF8WSIbNxZPVRmk1/s3088/IMG_6185.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2316" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGz305tyMqtX0HLzQs7gycOKbsgM7NTV1MA2fY5BMmWHbu-vc2sZ1-x-7oLUqnSZCh6CqAOLroXfzRyQWtjJu_clcmbvENoIF_oMmoXrPunJsDlSifdmzrBSMPFyyFPy4UlKJvdNLJVBZ8alBW_VPs_zCQUBVQhdCW06mhiwvWspK4PF8WSIbNxZPVRmk1/s320/IMG_6185.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRBGZTzaZlv_xVRYtH0ak__mcVq5rNDnjqiyoE2GnKHs6aDTey0btZP_dqPIRR7qiHXfplLUYRG8YMAP1RGXoXIR0qtUz6QRc1PgNEq-ygtYj3brqXMghqB_57LUMKQQMMZhM4ABa9lHnrHjF9oCanfesUbnwAnpw5mRMmLOtMzE40wV5Rox2DD_539dx9/s4032/IMG_7747.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRBGZTzaZlv_xVRYtH0ak__mcVq5rNDnjqiyoE2GnKHs6aDTey0btZP_dqPIRR7qiHXfplLUYRG8YMAP1RGXoXIR0qtUz6QRc1PgNEq-ygtYj3brqXMghqB_57LUMKQQMMZhM4ABa9lHnrHjF9oCanfesUbnwAnpw5mRMmLOtMzE40wV5Rox2DD_539dx9/s320/IMG_7747.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: left;"><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgokXO0frzdRjbY-rFErEpOxGx78anbZl7veYji1U6MxJxysJWBt-h94j57rNS_66gGpfAPnhuMC5V5ZUUgPhMS-olsiRtUDIEtd2OqkTlxjAWcbnJPXe3lDp2uvPHXFrNXZAMQP1hFd6dlDM_2h30gdr6GqUUhHxNELCd3_vGw0NVv3oK_IaYQxS8mwViU/s4032/IMG_7752.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgokXO0frzdRjbY-rFErEpOxGx78anbZl7veYji1U6MxJxysJWBt-h94j57rNS_66gGpfAPnhuMC5V5ZUUgPhMS-olsiRtUDIEtd2OqkTlxjAWcbnJPXe3lDp2uvPHXFrNXZAMQP1hFd6dlDM_2h30gdr6GqUUhHxNELCd3_vGw0NVv3oK_IaYQxS8mwViU/s320/IMG_7752.jpeg" width="240" /></a></b></div><b><br />We make a final stop</b> on our homeward bound journey to have a pub lunch with Tom’s son and our daughter-in-law and three Sussex grandchildren. My daughter-in-law tells me that this is Tom Hardy’s local, but we’re having such a nice time that I forget to look out for him. So, no sighting of Tom Hardy to report, alas, but I have, at least, seen red squirrels for the first time since I was a very little girl and that’s good enough for me!<p></p></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4CllEsVuElCDOMi37BITXvp1qyN0FyH97FRk20HJsEWy6DLhUqtldKceOaZyTt8Ws2AaJcGo_ZUYC1kUOz15wRlIVOzQ_gjfvq4HfKWBlZ9WpAzUAMXZwVjanNrwaT4n9SHsNmIUO9xdRJGx2cdpiAQGZDzMXfMHwH-QU2MDSwWScAkgRAMGr3Tkm9zeW/s4032/IMG_7698.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4CllEsVuElCDOMi37BITXvp1qyN0FyH97FRk20HJsEWy6DLhUqtldKceOaZyTt8Ws2AaJcGo_ZUYC1kUOz15wRlIVOzQ_gjfvq4HfKWBlZ9WpAzUAMXZwVjanNrwaT4n9SHsNmIUO9xdRJGx2cdpiAQGZDzMXfMHwH-QU2MDSwWScAkgRAMGr3Tkm9zeW/s320/IMG_7698.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not Tom Hardy</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8666908446822278106.post-14765517390130523912023-10-03T08:26:00.006-07:002023-10-03T08:26:48.597-07:00A 'Diff full of Memories<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikCYGBQUz0q6FX7QhWwWYnvH9MxrK0dDJV48FLp5GbxVCOOt7FmWYCy8UjNb00vVaf2F4SeGUpziIjCIYHvvRcA0rgiYk9HnZIdQ8yW55-xOo_16RAIP_Vk6jrixneJEX_gJzeHHrRb19brnv9tzhV2PLU8fNb0vdbREZBvqvFP64TsFC-JOhydjbqOFD9/s3769/FullSizeRender.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3769" data-original-width="2014" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikCYGBQUz0q6FX7QhWwWYnvH9MxrK0dDJV48FLp5GbxVCOOt7FmWYCy8UjNb00vVaf2F4SeGUpziIjCIYHvvRcA0rgiYk9HnZIdQ8yW55-xOo_16RAIP_Vk6jrixneJEX_gJzeHHrRb19brnv9tzhV2PLU8fNb0vdbREZBvqvFP64TsFC-JOhydjbqOFD9/s320/FullSizeRender.jpeg" width="171" /></a></div><b>The pavements in Cardiff</b> are packed - of course they are; there are some 27,500 runners, plus supporters, in the Welsh capital to mark the 20th anniversary of the Cardiff Half Marathon. Even though Tom always drops me off in plenty of time to get to my starting pen, just moving through the crowd is a challenge.<br /><br /><div>Although this is my 10th time of running this race and I should be used to it, I feel a bit tearful and lonely at this point. I know a dozen or so runners who’ll be here and a few of the spectators, but with that many participants there’s almost no chance of me meeting anyone en route. I resign myself to feeling a bit Billy No-Mates and look up to see my dear running buddy, Helen, who’s queuing for the loos! We have a joyful hug before going to our separate pens, where I meet a lovely group of women who are running to raise funds for Pancreatic Cancer UK. I think of my dad and start crying again.<div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjngtnnt79bXNNAis1YCoriR60jHLz0CLKWe_-GtEf7wIf3MPw90v7wmTZBUS6_M7_YaLQhLpKyrxcL9ChUl1gIae7kBNEtG4YSM0yRIyk7J-jWOhTQBTCYJdgC-Y7T-0Qmp59Yo4-9wwMr4GZbCQBQM8ys49Ju-tvRMjd3RLQdf6cSQQw0Y4dVLvyCToXX/s4032/IMG_7608.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="2066" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjngtnnt79bXNNAis1YCoriR60jHLz0CLKWe_-GtEf7wIf3MPw90v7wmTZBUS6_M7_YaLQhLpKyrxcL9ChUl1gIae7kBNEtG4YSM0yRIyk7J-jWOhTQBTCYJdgC-Y7T-0Qmp59Yo4-9wwMr4GZbCQBQM8ys49Ju-tvRMjd3RLQdf6cSQQw0Y4dVLvyCToXX/s320/IMG_7608.jpeg" width="164" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thank you, ladies for supporting Pancreatic Cancer UK</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><b>Before I can get too morose</b>, someone taps me on the shoulder; it’s my good running friend, Liz who really shouldn’t be in this pen because she’s Mrs Speedy. However I’m delighted she’s here to keep me company. There’s a particularly special moment when the first notes of the anthem sound out from the speakers, a hush descends and suddenly everyone is singing ‘Hen Wlad fy Nhadau’. As far as I can remember, this is a first at this event, and it’s truly spine-tingling and makes me so proud to be here.<div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpTuXxxge3KRC_CHQvw0Zq-3gcw4i48e659bO69j6xJyw-PNgQZN_-aoTp7yEqJVaC59N5FWNxz_4wG1UgRscsUxneW6vxbYDlDtTUceMlfmyuaKC0w0lRt-rYNNGGDRnhLuJseTqqF7_KBednygrEsyPO_KdYPCGenZgD6qyt7sU_PolnYQDna-YtI1HW/s3088/IMG_7610.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2316" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpTuXxxge3KRC_CHQvw0Zq-3gcw4i48e659bO69j6xJyw-PNgQZN_-aoTp7yEqJVaC59N5FWNxz_4wG1UgRscsUxneW6vxbYDlDtTUceMlfmyuaKC0w0lRt-rYNNGGDRnhLuJseTqqF7_KBednygrEsyPO_KdYPCGenZgD6qyt7sU_PolnYQDna-YtI1HW/s320/IMG_7610.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Worried and tearful at the start!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><b>We set off</b>, and I instinctively know that for all the many hours of training I’ve put in, this is not going to be my day. It’s incredibly humid, I feel as if I’m running with a warm, damp flannel on my face, and the course is so congested at times that it’s hard to find my rhythm. But today is about finish line not finish time; I’m running in aid of The Royal Marsden Cancer Charity and I’m deeply aware of their message to me wishing me good luck and expressing their gratitude, and of the many kind supporters whose generous donations to my <a href="https://www.justgiving.com/page/christine-stovell-1692804953832">Just Giving Page</a> have raised a fantastic sum of £486. There’s no way I’m going to let anyone down now! <br /><div><br /></div><div><b>As if by magic,</b> friends appear along the course just when I need them. From the crowd, I get lovely hugs from my daughter’s friend, Jen, who I’ve known since she was a little girl. Another of her friends, Rachel, gives me a shout, a huge smile and a big cwtch. Then, a little further along, I see parkrun stalwarts Jen and Ken. I collapse into Jen’s arms and receive a big squeeze before being told to get going again! I mean, what are the chances of seeing so many friends in such a huge crowd? Many thanks to all of you for keeping me<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"> </span>going and apologies for being such a sweaty mess all over you. And I’m so sorry, <a href="http://welshhillsagain.blogspot.com">Welsh Hills Again</a>, that I didn’t hear you when you called my name.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>I reach Roath Park </b>and see a familiar yellow cap; it’s my running buddy, Helen who’s hit a rough patch. We commiserate with each other then push on separately towards the finish. I’m really having to grit my teeth now, but my goodness, the kindness of strangers knows no bounds. For every difficult step, someone calls my name, shouts encouragement or, in one case, tells me quietly, ‘You’ve got this, Chris.'</div><p style="text-align: left;"><b>And I have.</b> It’s there, the finish line’s in sight and all I have to do is keep going. Closer, closer and then I’m through. 2:31:53, my slowest time (still 30/93 in my age group, mind) but so rich in memories. I collect my medal, my T-shirt, start to feel tearful again then look up and see my fellow runner and good Twitter/X friend, Dr Toby Driver (latest book, ‘The Hillforts of Iron Age Wales’ out <a href="https://logastonpress.co.uk/product/hillforts-of-iron-age-wales-the/">NOW</a>), who’s run a stonking race and puts a big smile back on my face, because, again, what are the odds?</p><div><p style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"> <br /></p><p style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhmmSwtNYyRNkuCXsQnVfa8MV3lA0qnbYeO0wkT7UcHp-GHVt09zpqHVvy_eHSoqP5zKRfDNaQ47Bl1T8mw1CUOc6b-q8ewYhgsIFNoatWZPf1eQg2lMyv6E-EPaqmtvTJr0gT4E4rud2oLnh8n0bmy8370edCvrkJe6lhygXK_ZzTUOUK7yfRo5YAEeif/s3280/PXL_20231001_120145552.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2464" data-original-width="3280" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhmmSwtNYyRNkuCXsQnVfa8MV3lA0qnbYeO0wkT7UcHp-GHVt09zpqHVvy_eHSoqP5zKRfDNaQ47Bl1T8mw1CUOc6b-q8ewYhgsIFNoatWZPf1eQg2lMyv6E-EPaqmtvTJr0gT4E4rud2oLnh8n0bmy8370edCvrkJe6lhygXK_ZzTUOUK7yfRo5YAEeif/s320/PXL_20231001_120145552.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">They came, they saw, they conquered The 'Diff.<br />Photo courtesy of Dr Toby Driver<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Wearing my medal with pride</b>, I wind slowly back through the crowd to meet Tom, then it’s back to my daughter’s in Cardiff for a bubble bath and a glass of fizz. My granddaughters look up and Bee asks her usual, hopeful question, ‘Nana? Did you win?’. No Bee, I didn’t win the race, but I’ve been so very lucky in so many ways. It’s been a memorable day.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGM2y8RdaXgC5TPdy1x1Rpb9dYwxAVSZ2NrzLNJJuitrNAlwTWxR53daU31gxzIIjHUtjh76hpqxrLEirR7PoPT-KPk-4DsUDI669_AKA3hsmv5Vc5DrHkuNROLoV0xZdnwOOVntEEmC0_6lmTHgDTliO5OVDsTFbMyWt120YYIpOIcqAjHkLV51W8dmls/s4032/IMG_7620.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGM2y8RdaXgC5TPdy1x1Rpb9dYwxAVSZ2NrzLNJJuitrNAlwTWxR53daU31gxzIIjHUtjh76hpqxrLEirR7PoPT-KPk-4DsUDI669_AKA3hsmv5Vc5DrHkuNROLoV0xZdnwOOVntEEmC0_6lmTHgDTliO5OVDsTFbMyWt120YYIpOIcqAjHkLV51W8dmls/s320/IMG_7620.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><br /></td></tr></tbody></table></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8666908446822278106.post-89058201673291938462023-09-18T05:19:00.001-07:002023-09-18T05:19:13.507-07:00Everything Will Be Okay In The End<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBR0Locz0K7eJdSbWTPxfiB9KRSpiUxENui6G6QvsZSoWvOfuoCT4-pMd9hD7Z6FFEajjCKuUsF77qpB_oZnwVeC0l8tRJPJPoA_Mh55CemkYDOBmPUSLCIcGS9VUu7Nd45qxych00y-uCeYkbyzkAi9TLfAueeyArK7Wn570bFpSkBDGLQ1aFFV26oddN/s4032/IMG_7455.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBR0Locz0K7eJdSbWTPxfiB9KRSpiUxENui6G6QvsZSoWvOfuoCT4-pMd9hD7Z6FFEajjCKuUsF77qpB_oZnwVeC0l8tRJPJPoA_Mh55CemkYDOBmPUSLCIcGS9VUu7Nd45qxych00y-uCeYkbyzkAi9TLfAueeyArK7Wn570bFpSkBDGLQ1aFFV26oddN/s320/IMG_7455.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><b>The early autumn sky </b>has been filled with the movement and sound of house martins swooping over the house, resting on the roof and sitting on the wires, chattering and clicking to each other. And now silence. Suddenly they’ve left, on their way back to sunnier climes.<p></p><p>We, however, are not on our way. We reduce the asking price of our house which piques a smattering of interest, but not the deluge we’re hoping for. It’s even more soul-destroying than I expected when we started this process. ‘Everything will be okay in the end,’ I keep telling myself and even though I know there is no point in getting worked up about something that’s completely beyond my control, it’s hard to find acceptance.</p><p><b>Sailing opportunities</b> have been few and far between this year, but with an ideal combination of weather and tide, Tom and I set off to the boat with the aim of dropping anchor in the Pembroke River for an overnight stay. There’s just one problem; the engine won’t start and resists every effort to coax it into life. After swallowing our disappointment we decide we’ll stay on the boat anyway and make the most of our visit. Our berth is on the edge of the <a href="https://www.welshwildlife.org/nature-reserves/westfield-pill" target="_blank">Westfield Pill</a> nature reserve, an old railway line surrounded by woodland and lagoons, and today offers the perfect opportunity to explore it. It’s a real treat, especially in this beautiful weather; there are bright pops of wild flowers, swans gliding across the water, ducklings scurrying along under the supervision of their mother and suddenly - gloriously - there is a vivid, neon flash of electric blue. It’s a kingfisher! I haven’t seen a kingfisher since I was a little girl on holiday in Devon and this sighting makes my day and I can’t help but reflect that if the outboard engine had started I would have missed a moment that will live in my mind’s eye forever.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY6O57T8hGvzlZ59Cxle66ErOz3SLyfLolpCg9jYMJ9xVBfTJItefansMwD-7subHJN5UPu9bkLszXsB8gSQx8Gi6twYd5yDy5tK-po9Cqp9cpmOYp7toGXUvwZf9KhgRkzbIDjIVZtL8wjxL7pk1CyWNnc4Q0BBPcptIKof1QwKr6GbP8MOIPxM44owaS/s4032/IMG_7475.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY6O57T8hGvzlZ59Cxle66ErOz3SLyfLolpCg9jYMJ9xVBfTJItefansMwD-7subHJN5UPu9bkLszXsB8gSQx8Gi6twYd5yDy5tK-po9Cqp9cpmOYp7toGXUvwZf9KhgRkzbIDjIVZtL8wjxL7pk1CyWNnc4Q0BBPcptIKof1QwKr6GbP8MOIPxM44owaS/s320/IMG_7475.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><b>The Cardiff Half Marathon’s </b>approaching fast and I know I’ve put it a lot of hard work and many miles to be ready on the day. It’s ironic then, that I almost derail all that effort altering my charity vest! It’s too loose a fit for my liking and I know it’ll annoy me if it flaps about when I’m running so I dig out my sewing machine, unfold my trestle table… and feel a sudden pain in a hamstring. Wargh! Ever one for catastrophising, I have visions of my race being over before it’s begun. To my huge, huge relief - and with a great deal of care and caution - I’m back on track. Now, all I have to do is tick over until race day on 1 October.<div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilZTC6SDLeHkETN2_6tECyyH7FRfvyROCqbn5q-QA0UpKifia-CGjBdQim2U8Q5nkvdeJvGzbTA67DV9R1gK2MeakO1cEAfpIYB6FgDxDmnMO3ikVKZ6v_7_olBL7CIB-WBg14u25b7VQMT-5Jfs-GQ-P6uk5qSLrfgJKO13bobUbe8UZ2JxJY3kTGYs6-/s4032/IMG_7504.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilZTC6SDLeHkETN2_6tECyyH7FRfvyROCqbn5q-QA0UpKifia-CGjBdQim2U8Q5nkvdeJvGzbTA67DV9R1gK2MeakO1cEAfpIYB6FgDxDmnMO3ikVKZ6v_7_olBL7CIB-WBg14u25b7VQMT-5Jfs-GQ-P6uk5qSLrfgJKO13bobUbe8UZ2JxJY3kTGYs6-/s320/IMG_7504.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><p style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12px;"><br /></span></span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><b> Ma receives good news</b>, her treatment at The Royal Marsden Hospital has been successful; she’s been discharged from their care and will continue to have regular checkups with her dermatologist. As a small thank you, I set up a <a href="https://www.justgiving.com/page/christine-stovell-1692804953832">Just Giving page</a> in support of The Royal Marsden Cancer Charity, so that this brilliant hospital which is at the forefront of cancer research can continue to be there for everyone who needs it. I’m truly grateful to everyone who has so kindly and generously donated and raised £295 so far… and if anyone feels like chipping in with a small sum to meet my target, it would be very much appreciated too. Thank you.</div><p style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgODJ8T5ZEDSdrevRVEeFaTPl10L2akXzYj3dCes0U6hTZ2CrWMxjO9gk3-LgBsSwG5ohv_DQ3Bn55NjfrA3EtpIdE0hPNprp-3e8k3EtHtXDNnz_NlFdPvd4SLSSgCQpihe5V57u2A7RzQvJhkOdfZ-Ep0Q9EZHMBcZ0EcWUQQCyUtutF3XhRe9y-ZdBc0/s1080/Cardiff%20half%20marathon%202023.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgODJ8T5ZEDSdrevRVEeFaTPl10L2akXzYj3dCes0U6hTZ2CrWMxjO9gk3-LgBsSwG5ohv_DQ3Bn55NjfrA3EtpIdE0hPNprp-3e8k3EtHtXDNnz_NlFdPvd4SLSSgCQpihe5V57u2A7RzQvJhkOdfZ-Ep0Q9EZHMBcZ0EcWUQQCyUtutF3XhRe9y-ZdBc0/s320/Cardiff%20half%20marathon%202023.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8666908446822278106.post-21192903286446916262023-07-31T06:23:00.000-07:002023-07-31T06:23:12.731-07:00Black Holes and Bright Lights<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhscmkgWHMYZniV89rnkFh4w-WtpKixoUTIHILu_aQH9k3U0pvfPKk4WlHiNJ3b7wY5wMfJYNimTpidbEJeQDlpmyNnVyc1Va5eA6eHlG8a2qybJrrxBt1msiBP7aSiFWo5J8gbqy8MPpfzpfyH1w37W7BSoDAb1hka0keLu533Lj2DRJcjQWaBpFIUUmQ6/s3849/IMG_7118.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3849" data-original-width="2675" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhscmkgWHMYZniV89rnkFh4w-WtpKixoUTIHILu_aQH9k3U0pvfPKk4WlHiNJ3b7wY5wMfJYNimTpidbEJeQDlpmyNnVyc1Va5eA6eHlG8a2qybJrrxBt1msiBP7aSiFWo5J8gbqy8MPpfzpfyH1w37W7BSoDAb1hka0keLu533Lj2DRJcjQWaBpFIUUmQ6/s320/IMG_7118.jpeg" width="222" /></a></div><p></p><b>Our plans to move</b> closer to family have fallen flat, along with the market. Despite what feels like an endless round of cleaning, tidying and leaving the place in showroom condition every time we go away, there are no takers for our lovely house looking out across Cardigan Bay. We’ll have to be patient.<br /> <br /><b> Ma’s needed a lengthy</b> round of radiotherapy for a treatable skin cancer. My sister and her family take care of her for the first half and Tom and I takeover for the remainder. The Royal Marsden Hospital holds difficult memories for all of us; Tom was successfully treated there, but it was already too late for Dad when his pancreatic cancer was discovered. But it’s the unlikeliest of sights which brings sudden tears to my eyes when, as we walk past the hospital shop, I remember buying papers and small treats there for Dad when he was having his chemotherapy. <br /><br /><div>Ma, however, whilst trepidatious about her treatment, puts on a brave face for the entire week; she looks fab, either matching her earrings to her top, or the colour of her shoes to the pattern on her trousers. People gravitate towards her. In the waiting room - a club no one wants to belong to - Ma receives an offer of marriage from one of her gaggle of admirers. When her name is called and it’s her turn to see the radiotherapists, gales of laughter and peals of warm conversation ring out down the corridor from the room. It’s Ma at her best; funny, vivacious, as if she was walking into a party rather than having cancer treatment. I feel so proud of her.<br /> <br /><b> Back home, </b>Tom and I try not to let the house gloom dominate our thoughts. I wouldn’t even need the fingers of one hand to count how many times we’ve been to the cinema, as Tom’s not a fan, but he reluctantly agrees to see Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny - which we both thoroughly enjoy - and, less reluctantly, to see Oppenheimer which, we both agree, is a tad too long. On both occasions our cinema experience is a little marred by the earsplitting volume of the soundtrack, and quite a lot spoilt by other people - yes you, the man who brazenly farted long and loud at us as we left the venue, and you, the elderly couple who scoffed sweets for the the entire three hours of Oppenheimer, rattling your bags of goodies and holding the contents up to the light for closer inspection.<br /> <br /><b> In happier news</b>, after a spell in the doldrums, I’ve rediscovered my running mojo and I’m really enjoying Parkrun again. The bonkers Poppit Sands race series is back (last week I managed to clock up a time faster than two of the times I set at my first series seventeen years ago - despite falling down a hole in the sand and rolling around on the beach) ...</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMFT4-u2WiKl1IVmfyLyJrc8locc6-eYa-V_LEubvLsBJPcsz9pl8XWDbzze1mPvnLTCia_vI_hWzd3qfY-C1m8kqlbqNFrt87i52U0xtCck4uRzAkCYzsxquRjqp9NyAiTvmXJgLisUlPfnnDPn57yJYCPNry1Jy9ANy3zvC1u9WHdlxpAa_wTQFyIhTD/s4032/FullSizeRender.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2268" data-original-width="4032" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMFT4-u2WiKl1IVmfyLyJrc8locc6-eYa-V_LEubvLsBJPcsz9pl8XWDbzze1mPvnLTCia_vI_hWzd3qfY-C1m8kqlbqNFrt87i52U0xtCck4uRzAkCYzsxquRjqp9NyAiTvmXJgLisUlPfnnDPn57yJYCPNry1Jy9ANy3zvC1u9WHdlxpAa_wTQFyIhTD/w400-h225/FullSizeRender.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>...and I’m currently training for the Cardiff Half Marathon which marks its twentieth anniversary this year. I wasn’t planning to run this event for charity, having raised a considerable sum for Pancreatic Cancer UK in the past, because I feel as if I’m always dipping from the same well of generous friends, but sitting waiting for Ma at The Royal Marsden changed my mind. I’d like to give a bit back to the hospital which has done so much for my immediate family. Closer to the event, I’ll be setting up my Just Giving page and rattling my collection tin again, but for now it’s on with the training.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXaz03q4swZT06GA_Nafh0TdwuG1ESQjmiRIJIK41D02v7q4fuZ2MrJ3etDZPE8fb4DUgQYag33FUXRaXSs6xgl_tuLJTvQFMeqmWXKM9Vn9R9m1LLFHioUS6CaIkGODgS9h0hjBTBBrYc5DGbbOMGXGd5qBE1MxKV0KZEDpsZE7F71NYIxgM3voegA4vj/s1134/IMG_7147.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1134" data-original-width="638" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXaz03q4swZT06GA_Nafh0TdwuG1ESQjmiRIJIK41D02v7q4fuZ2MrJ3etDZPE8fb4DUgQYag33FUXRaXSs6xgl_tuLJTvQFMeqmWXKM9Vn9R9m1LLFHioUS6CaIkGODgS9h0hjBTBBrYc5DGbbOMGXGd5qBE1MxKV0KZEDpsZE7F71NYIxgM3voegA4vj/s320/IMG_7147.jpeg" width="180" /></a></div><br /><div><br /><br /><p> </p></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8666908446822278106.post-38207176124763964992023-05-11T06:36:00.000-07:002023-05-11T06:36:47.983-07:00Reconnecting<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO1jPxfz5Npr6M-euCjh5wZOJxihFdTt1fDYZnY5UQuUEL4UhCYOITCoST810guj3FUt3WVw_7mCUCcArahipyrvVTmIt6dNT3wwM7uVhxP5_kuv6hRFWwXCXjQ7f8o7XYTguJmT0dRqwrQ1lsO0ejVlP4l0BXl_4jfmIuSvVGbEMVK5K9RaQiKJXQEg/s4032/F3C207FF-61D4-4E95-B38D-D8587DCDC5C9_1_201_a.heic" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO1jPxfz5Npr6M-euCjh5wZOJxihFdTt1fDYZnY5UQuUEL4UhCYOITCoST810guj3FUt3WVw_7mCUCcArahipyrvVTmIt6dNT3wwM7uVhxP5_kuv6hRFWwXCXjQ7f8o7XYTguJmT0dRqwrQ1lsO0ejVlP4l0BXl_4jfmIuSvVGbEMVK5K9RaQiKJXQEg/s320/F3C207FF-61D4-4E95-B38D-D8587DCDC5C9_1_201_a.heic" width="240" /></a></div><b>I hadn't realised it until now</b>, but it’s probably no coincidence that my last post was about our trip to Norwich, a city I’ve loved since studying at UEA. I wrote, then, that coming home was a hard landing, a feeling that took me completely by surprise as it’s been such a privilege to live in this beautiful, remote spot on the very edge of the west Wales coast.<br /><br />A trip to Skye at the end of October - Tom’s choice - with Ma, was a truly lovely holiday. The weather was kind, the colours of those breathtaking seascapes will stay with me, as will all the happy memories we made that week. And, because our small cottage had been so beautifully modernised and worked so well for the three of us, it was easy to imagine what it might be like to live somewhere different.<br /><p></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVI0urS3OZRRSzkZwt1itzA_-K8P-LnkGN2_XFofjOO_ltH4ASP4qm1kgBe6zAM3y-kAF0ZWFdGy33M21sz1foCgt9KgWeNgkA2e9luFy07tDHIfvPyc6sdMJO_yYeupLyNbH6QU65GPpGHdYebTN55Lm2yQ08kgZ-6sOuqemFpeBL953iCNaNrI9UhQ/s1080/Untitled%20design-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVI0urS3OZRRSzkZwt1itzA_-K8P-LnkGN2_XFofjOO_ltH4ASP4qm1kgBe6zAM3y-kAF0ZWFdGy33M21sz1foCgt9KgWeNgkA2e9luFy07tDHIfvPyc6sdMJO_yYeupLyNbH6QU65GPpGHdYebTN55Lm2yQ08kgZ-6sOuqemFpeBL953iCNaNrI9UhQ/w400-h400/Untitled%20design-3.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br />If travel doesn’t broaden the mind, it certainly brings a new perspective. By the end of the year, Tom and I had decided that it was time for a change, time to move closer to a town (we are neither of us, as they say, getting any younger!) and, above all, time to be closer to our loved ones. At the end of February, we put our lovely house on the market and waited for it to be snapped up…<br /><br /><div>Perhaps it’s because it’s been 12 years since our last move that I’ve forgotten how painful the process is! The constant cleaning, the build-up to a viewing, the viewers who appear oblivious to the sales particulars which clearly state, for example, that the garden is just under a third of an acre and reject it on the ground that the garden is too big (!). It’s hard not take it personally but I have to take a step back or I’ll make myself ill - indeed, the worst migraine I’ve had in years took me out for a whole day this week and has served as a reminder not to let it get to me. Life goes on, each day is precious and sooner or later someone will walk through the door and fall in love with this house just as we did.<br /></div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS8dSfsyzL_EpoSAalXDGpxGgkwuqmoRcxXCimCWgpCSBAzj3iKVJjmDMG-SNZ_CgagV5YQzMFyrtzAAvdMUIS5uIcG-I5bdazacrU100Ao-gXM1gYj8m7yUYqhWOm1HiooA1aeEBj5g-0_AvRRtXy7HDUwy29eUOPFV6fRGo9J4nH2OJSfBjXO5VhLw/s1080/Untitled%20design-4jpg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS8dSfsyzL_EpoSAalXDGpxGgkwuqmoRcxXCimCWgpCSBAzj3iKVJjmDMG-SNZ_CgagV5YQzMFyrtzAAvdMUIS5uIcG-I5bdazacrU100Ao-gXM1gYj8m7yUYqhWOm1HiooA1aeEBj5g-0_AvRRtXy7HDUwy29eUOPFV6fRGo9J4nH2OJSfBjXO5VhLw/w400-h400/Untitled%20design-4jpg.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Here's to the next adventure...</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8666908446822278106.post-35895490242744403262022-09-26T05:18:00.001-07:002022-09-26T07:07:31.338-07:00Out and Back<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmDBYJTzi-eJahRPuotm280eJkfQDqiQsyRks_p1vQ6pP8WRE_JSFHj1O-4iLKvXFWVjqU3JckolQcB-9x53YoDldAPUqNu7QaXWExaCsSMm2RyNRoDIssnW33yFuCa8VrmvdxcMZLL-7Xk853x_8fO-AdT0v9FvicryI8ybYCH9bZx5Khv6WtvL1yZw/s4032/E2B6412C-D3D7-4198-9FFC-61F26DDDFF95.heic" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="2268" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmDBYJTzi-eJahRPuotm280eJkfQDqiQsyRks_p1vQ6pP8WRE_JSFHj1O-4iLKvXFWVjqU3JckolQcB-9x53YoDldAPUqNu7QaXWExaCsSMm2RyNRoDIssnW33yFuCa8VrmvdxcMZLL-7Xk853x_8fO-AdT0v9FvicryI8ybYCH9bZx5Khv6WtvL1yZw/s320/E2B6412C-D3D7-4198-9FFC-61F26DDDFF95.heic" width="180" /></a></div><p></p><b>2022 </b>has been an especially difficult and painful year for so many reasons and it won’t help to air them here. Besides, as my neighbour wisely says, ‘we are, all of us, in the shit, but some of us are in deeper than others.’ Still, the strain of the last nine months has been almost unbearable, so when - at last - we have some respite, we decide to take some proper time out and book not one, but two breaks. His and her choices, if you like.<br /> <br /> Our first trip is to Norwich, and UEA where I studied. It’s Freshers’ Week when we arrive and it’s a delight to see the campus filled with eager young faces - they all look so poised and confident to me. It’s a far cry from when I arrived in what I thought was a very cool fake fur coat and my one suitcase. I spent much of that first week in a state of constant anxiety or close to tears, but there seems to be far more help and support for these young people which must be a good thing! <br /> <br />We visit the <a href="https://www.sainsburycentre.ac.uk">Sainsbury Centre,</a> where I catch up on some favourite works (lots of Francis Bacon and Antonio Saura) then head in to town. We’ve treated ourselves to a short stay at the utterly lovely <a href="https://38stgiles.co.uk">38 St Giles Street,</a> boutique bed and breakfast in a beautiful Georgian building in the very heart of the city. I’ve printed off some ‘Norwich Nooks and Crannies’ walks which we use as a basis for our wanderings; I thought I knew the city well, but it’s joy to discover so many hidden corners that I’d never stumbled across as a student. After all the walking, we reward ourselves with memorable meals at <a href="https://benolirestaurant.com">Benoli </a>(parmesan croquettes - sublime) and <a href="https://farmyard.restaurant">Farmyard</a> (quite possibly the best creme brûlée I have ever tasted).<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDpv1OobqqZVGkQrwZAbOi0fg2wUcqYIYoGPVgzACugzwkO_8_SNYSsvwoGuye1SwvZZjjlikNwdwLoeideME-KfAVr3hJQPRsr35Gk6kS7uhrwXflViZn98F43Fz3w7UUWOvzDcxFlgx-7frpRNTpLUTeSy9oy_jAGwn_wPhiUITCTaduupV96pZVzA/s1200/Norwich%20.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="800" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDpv1OobqqZVGkQrwZAbOi0fg2wUcqYIYoGPVgzACugzwkO_8_SNYSsvwoGuye1SwvZZjjlikNwdwLoeideME-KfAVr3hJQPRsr35Gk6kS7uhrwXflViZn98F43Fz3w7UUWOvzDcxFlgx-7frpRNTpLUTeSy9oy_jAGwn_wPhiUITCTaduupV96pZVzA/s320/Norwich%20.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br /><b>After all too brief a visit</b>, it’s on to the Cotswolds and the <a href="https://www.thebelllangford.com">Bell Inn</a> at Langford where we’re breaking our journey before heading back to West Wales. For me, the evening meal is a little disappointing (we later find out the gas had run out which probably didn’t help), but our room is quiet, very comfortable and breakfast is first class which more than makes up for it. Soft, buttery morning light bathes golden stone buildings in gentle sunshine as we pack the car. We’re only a few miles from Kelmscott, so we make the most of the weather by taking a short walk in the grounds of <a href="https://www.sal.org.uk/kelmscott-manor/">Kelmscott Manor</a> - William Morris’s summer home, of course, and must-see for anyone with a passing interest in design, the pre-Raphaelites or social history.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-wQaSz-5aCvD62QfJ4v4wilNlGJyr9Xhqa8O2Oi5oX1iyIM7bOW_qgyWVkmSsP4zJ8PyXFkUBu2sNlLVeDXPgAFNNoU-3QiL-rtC26B1CdYucFr-oCkvdijwS5oPaSEXrRMVObhIwuqqFhHiGKpnTe6_uCIwRq-M09gPubuNRjEzUsrzqHZ4yERW2WA/s1200/Cotswolds.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="800" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-wQaSz-5aCvD62QfJ4v4wilNlGJyr9Xhqa8O2Oi5oX1iyIM7bOW_qgyWVkmSsP4zJ8PyXFkUBu2sNlLVeDXPgAFNNoU-3QiL-rtC26B1CdYucFr-oCkvdijwS5oPaSEXrRMVObhIwuqqFhHiGKpnTe6_uCIwRq-M09gPubuNRjEzUsrzqHZ4yERW2WA/s320/Cotswolds.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br /><b>Frankly, coming home</b>, is a bit of a hard landing after all that luxury, but we have another break (rather more rugged - his choice) later in the year. And, in the meantime, I’m being a bit kinder to myself so I’ve stepped away from anything with a deadline or extra pressure. I’m running for pleasure, not for a particular race, I’m gradually self-publishing my previously published novels and novellas (next up, ‘Moonbeams in a Jar) and, *whispers* I’m pleased to find that taking some time out - turning off the white noise of persistent worry - has made space for some new ideas. I’ll plant the seeds and see which ones grow.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8666908446822278106.post-87308433255732739812022-04-28T05:05:00.001-07:002022-04-28T05:05:09.824-07:00Chasing Lost Time<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigqgZpsmaPom0VjjRdfx-tYPkRRmmRyLW13v-xZQHLNfeVo2mADnLHwNMvshxxnGUDGc6GIc29esfIyNGx811IKCvAM0UbhI4f3TTc3CaDx3W3DWJ-cjMHsSn856dmf-Fihq7gG3uG0CEIqNMzeXT8PzjSqL32FDvxX3VpNkoLOFFN4pzdBzrFm6hqVA/s4032/BD9D52CC-3B1A-4054-9908-786E78416343.heic" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigqgZpsmaPom0VjjRdfx-tYPkRRmmRyLW13v-xZQHLNfeVo2mADnLHwNMvshxxnGUDGc6GIc29esfIyNGx811IKCvAM0UbhI4f3TTc3CaDx3W3DWJ-cjMHsSn856dmf-Fihq7gG3uG0CEIqNMzeXT8PzjSqL32FDvxX3VpNkoLOFFN4pzdBzrFm6hqVA/s320/BD9D52CC-3B1A-4054-9908-786E78416343.heic" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><b>Two years and more </b>have passed since Tom was awarded his PhD, so when his degree ceremony is finally able to take place, it’s a poignant reminder that during the months when our lives were on hold, time did not stand still. Besides me, Tom had chosen our surviving parents to be his guests, but his dad, Ken, is no longer with us, so my stepson - Tom’s younger son - is here in his place and to pick up the lost threads. <br /><br /><div>Lockdown wasn’t kind to either of our parents; it’s my 88-year-old Ma’s first outing in a large crowd and although she’s bursting with pride for Tom and relishing all the people-watching, she’s struggling with physical challenges. Ma, once a head-turning, tall, redhead is severely afflicted by osteoporosis and scoliosis; every step she takes is slow and careful and she’s now so small that whenever we have to move, I have to protect her from all the flying elbows and swinging handbags which threaten to knock her off her feet. Once seated, we can relax and enjoy the occasion. Graduates are presented in qualification order, and as the only PhD graduate, Tom’s first to be presented and - to our great delight - gets to join the great and good on stage for the entire ceremony. The three of us are beside ourselves with pride, although unlike Tom in his high profile and very visible position, we can afford to pace our applause for the rest of the afternoon!<br /><div><br /></div><div><b>Babies were born </b>during lockdown, toddlers graduated to nursery and children at nursery became schoolchildren. I’m saddened by what we’ve all missed but when Ma returns with us to Wales for a break, she has a chance to reconnect with three of her great-grandchildren.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPNqDItnA0fQY3XfFcCgH-15aFLysPbF5qmc_OU17Nz-Cp6Y0NNpmIdby-FOY2tkTnJtonewzPsgvVD-qQbizKeGLsILxVuxS_eJsuRmETASDXVHAHAAYn5zxupKohATlBPkuFynpiMjZ9to6qmZJSdVc4dybMjxZrJ0I389RQg9x6g7gUYqWgn4OrhQ/s4032/A1704AE5-6D8B-43EF-B601-2BB692FDB892_1_201_a.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPNqDItnA0fQY3XfFcCgH-15aFLysPbF5qmc_OU17Nz-Cp6Y0NNpmIdby-FOY2tkTnJtonewzPsgvVD-qQbizKeGLsILxVuxS_eJsuRmETASDXVHAHAAYn5zxupKohATlBPkuFynpiMjZ9to6qmZJSdVc4dybMjxZrJ0I389RQg9x6g7gUYqWgn4OrhQ/s320/A1704AE5-6D8B-43EF-B601-2BB692FDB892_1_201_a.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbcWZJelMSTiJCxfhHHEn1waAwk58KHwlhTEO5TdjC9HZe1_TS5DHccuRgV4qK21jz_6ikOFyuLj5_4YWatkGwY8993ABRf-rt5g2SsL0Y_DjEzfh_RK6ngwi-vKSHpFhuS-PuVI3qqUHWKC-2WHzHlMIVE_uT8jAo7f2j_cBEAqSoo6hC--MkEsCduA/s1560/B8711D4E-BB2C-4F28-B9F4-415A6AE2C57D.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1560" data-original-width="1170" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbcWZJelMSTiJCxfhHHEn1waAwk58KHwlhTEO5TdjC9HZe1_TS5DHccuRgV4qK21jz_6ikOFyuLj5_4YWatkGwY8993ABRf-rt5g2SsL0Y_DjEzfh_RK6ngwi-vKSHpFhuS-PuVI3qqUHWKC-2WHzHlMIVE_uT8jAo7f2j_cBEAqSoo6hC--MkEsCduA/s320/B8711D4E-BB2C-4F28-B9F4-415A6AE2C57D.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><b>Tom and I</b> are hoping to reconnect with sailing again this summer, but poor old <i>Blue Nun</i> is in a sorry state, mainly, again, thanks to the months when we simply couldn’t leave home. Tom’s made a great start on the remedial work but there’s a job that only I can do. ‘If you can just fit and hold the bolts on the inside,’ says Tom, ‘I can tighten the screws.’ Simple, you might agree. Except the task requires me to lower myself in a boat locker. I’m a small woman but it’s a tight fit, even for me, so there’s a real sense of triumph when we manage to complete the work. There’s a lot to do, but with a fair wind we hope it won’t be too long before we can get back out on the water</div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWgjHeNRaB5G7FZt6qWWqa6lRCZyxTkGfcqB-zDUjK-ReRG63xwCJOfhmwH9cWCImrKZ2MynnOX-JR0fGftvqCAVuZXqNJFeCF444FJhkAjnFfhdm-2RF29_O7MDO908_GUacIqHmXOcY0wDu4nlx-Tar8HfAYe1BCyIbbER2FY9SDpA7KI2Js4pdKBA/s1800/E2A9C62F-0FFD-407A-BD2A-F6AE63000878.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="1440" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWgjHeNRaB5G7FZt6qWWqa6lRCZyxTkGfcqB-zDUjK-ReRG63xwCJOfhmwH9cWCImrKZ2MynnOX-JR0fGftvqCAVuZXqNJFeCF444FJhkAjnFfhdm-2RF29_O7MDO908_GUacIqHmXOcY0wDu4nlx-Tar8HfAYe1BCyIbbER2FY9SDpA7KI2Js4pdKBA/s320/E2A9C62F-0FFD-407A-BD2A-F6AE63000878.jpeg" width="256" /></a></div><br /><b>In the meantime,</b> there are wide open spaces all around us and although we run and swim, we probably don’t do enough walking. Determined to put that right, we set off on the most beautiful April afternoon to walk at Foel Drygarn, an Iron Age hill fort with three Bronze Age burial cairns. It’s one of my favourite walks; there are stunning panoramic views, a vast, majestic skyline and, always, that strong sense of walking in the footsteps of the past. How, I wonder, as a gust of chilly wind catches me, did the people who lived here, in what would have been a densely populated hub, cope with the brutal elements and adversity in this exposed position? The answer suggests itself to me a little later on our descent, when Tom and I sit in the shelter of a rocky outcrop with the sun on our faces, springy turf beneath us and perfect peace all around us. I think of everyone who has ever sat in this same spot, people who have rested, loved or found respite from hardship and sorrows. Time’s river keeps flowing; we can’t swim against its current, but sometimes we can rest and recharge in the shallows.<div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVN6j9nLlfHph2Qw0K3VZJYL_zSpvAKLtDgQriY-IvZ0RD0zErGe4YQEI6NovjTrq6qPMGK8yHcjvTiaQUMNJwa_GwFLuJo_O0vd8Z4-PJWmLg2E7IBkMMoG2oeSv0JLQLWDp90UPlHs9t9BeHlo078-xfICBUmLON4VTaotZ2M7C8qIkF53BaqMiQ6g/s4032/B8FAE717-F58A-44A7-8FFA-8F043CBF47F1.heic" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVN6j9nLlfHph2Qw0K3VZJYL_zSpvAKLtDgQriY-IvZ0RD0zErGe4YQEI6NovjTrq6qPMGK8yHcjvTiaQUMNJwa_GwFLuJo_O0vd8Z4-PJWmLg2E7IBkMMoG2oeSv0JLQLWDp90UPlHs9t9BeHlo078-xfICBUmLON4VTaotZ2M7C8qIkF53BaqMiQ6g/s320/B8FAE717-F58A-44A7-8FFA-8F043CBF47F1.heic" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8666908446822278106.post-40047717583409521972022-03-30T08:24:00.003-07:002022-03-30T08:24:36.095-07:00Spring Forward<p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNrRPR_28Yf2ArBpCZCLviGV6zAWeXaqoBpR17uP2hDaToEvcogIbHUV_Bot1qIccJoLNpFXj0kmgPRQtya7bxf_sgodtSM1tmsB3blojresWzroVTRh61Ht0JIGVWuayqG7hCKyOOX4I0uOH84OCC026ggVjyRuXJ-rPel1M6e9J9GPsQ_aHdLMghiw/s1080/C57010C4-2C12-4514-88AC-45A4D87884CD.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNrRPR_28Yf2ArBpCZCLviGV6zAWeXaqoBpR17uP2hDaToEvcogIbHUV_Bot1qIccJoLNpFXj0kmgPRQtya7bxf_sgodtSM1tmsB3blojresWzroVTRh61Ht0JIGVWuayqG7hCKyOOX4I0uOH84OCC026ggVjyRuXJ-rPel1M6e9J9GPsQ_aHdLMghiw/s320/C57010C4-2C12-4514-88AC-45A4D87884CD.png" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p><b>Despite my firm belief</b> that running doesn’t have to hurt, I admit that there have been a couple of half marathons when I’ve emptied the tank to the point of feeling sick. I was forced to withdraw from my last Llanelli half marathon with a knee injury. And this year, illness - three weeks of vertigo and sinusitis, then a pulled back muscle - has thrown my training plans into disarray. So, as Tom drops me off for the return of Cardiff Half Marathon, deferred from 2020, I have one aim only; to enjoy every moment of this wonderful occasion. I’m not setting a pace, I don’t have a finish time in mind, I’d simply like to get round and soak up the wonderful atmosphere along the way.<div><br />It’s a bright but very chilly morning. I walk through the castle grounds and I’m delighted to catch up with the She Runs Cardiff runners and speak to friends there. I meet my dear running buddy Helen and we head to our starting pen where we are amused to be complimented by a young man for still running at our great ages. ‘If you don’t mind me asking, ladies,’ he says, clearly fascinated, ‘How old are you both?’.<br /><br /></div><div>There’s a long wait for the start, but then we’re off and I settle in at a nice, comfortable pace. Tom’s waiting for me just past the 5k mark, and I’m so delighted to spot him in the crowd that I stop to give him a kiss and get told to hurry up because Helen’s in front of me! Today, however, I’m not hurrying, or going silly. I stick to my plan, I stop for water and to refuel and most of all I enjoy hearing the support from the wonderful crowd lining every step of the route, and chatting to other runners along the way. It’s brilliant.<br /> <br /> The biggest and best surprise comes just as I need it most with a couple of miles to go. I hear my name being called and look up to find I’m right beside two dear friends, Ann - one of my Thursday Girls, (our very post-natal group) and her husband, Keith. They’ve travelled here from Surrey to cheer on their son, but it must be some sort of miracle that we’ve spotted each other in the vast crowds. Ann and Keith make me feel absolutely heroic so they both get a sweaty hug for thanks - poor things - and I feel a real spring in my step to get me to the finish line. <br /> <br /> I come home in 2 hours 18 minutes, which is well within my standard finish times and just goes to prove that I don’t have to bust a gut to get a good result. Hey, I even manage 36/138 in my age group. Helen absolutely smashes it and finishes 1/8 in hers. It’s just a shame there’s no finisher photo of her in the hall of fame afterwards, I joke to her that next time we’ll have to shed 30 years or run in our underwear to get noticed, but nobody wants to see that! Joking apart, it’s a been a lovely race, I’ve enjoyed every moment and it’s boosted my race confidence no end. My grateful thanks to the organisers, the sponsors and to the brilliant volunteers who so cheerfully give up their time and make the event possible.<br /><br /><b>And in other news...</b><br />As an author, it’s always so lovely when readers take the time and trouble to leave a review for one of my books so it’s great to see 5* reviews coming in for <i><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/SAILING-KIND-Adventures-small-wooden-ebook/dp/B09TRZB35C/ref=mp_s_a_1_8?crid=1OHOQEAQ1HY7N&keywords=christine+stovell&qid=1646335841&sprefix=christine+sto%2Caps%2C66&sr=8-8#" target="_blank">Sailing Kind</a>.</i> I’m also moved by readers’ comments about how my books have touched them in some way. I’ve had such lovely feedback for <i><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Running-Kind-Because-running-doesnt-ebook/dp/B07QS768JJ/ref=zg_bs_362868031_51?_encoding=UTF8&psc=1&refRID=5HK37BSKK0GYY59309KV">Running Kind</a></i> and it means so much when folks tell me they’ve been encouraged to run after reading it. Perhaps the happiest ending to one of my books, however, was when one very kind couple decide to give a loving home to a rescue greyhound after reading my novella, <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B09VYNTG5B/ref=dbs_a_def_awm_bibl_vppi_i0"><i>Only True in Fairy Tales</i>.</a> I’m delighted to say that <i>Only True in Fairy Tales</i> has now been re-edited, republished and given a beautiful new cover by talented young graphic designer, Isabelle Swan. Best of all, Isabelle has given centre stage to Gracie, the heroine, Eloise’s rescue greyhound. I love it and I hope you do too.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv9jpTf-F6FK-cuElcM6NJeRUP22zomhE6qqP7vRoj8EqRyU5xY2gh4ITlEvyCvtpuscFbiieRKr_Mak0CB6aw_74DYb6MEKD_E4cTFJPcyJLNP2lmI7E1M4nh2wOWzBxagL0PNRHoYUeWSg3apyif4ryArDejFRM2X1JnJ4Zg-UCNX7lW4fAF_qGv8A/s10000/OTiFT%20reduced%20pixels%20copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="10000" data-original-width="6250" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv9jpTf-F6FK-cuElcM6NJeRUP22zomhE6qqP7vRoj8EqRyU5xY2gh4ITlEvyCvtpuscFbiieRKr_Mak0CB6aw_74DYb6MEKD_E4cTFJPcyJLNP2lmI7E1M4nh2wOWzBxagL0PNRHoYUeWSg3apyif4ryArDejFRM2X1JnJ4Zg-UCNX7lW4fAF_qGv8A/s320/OTiFT%20reduced%20pixels%20copy.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /><div><br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8666908446822278106.post-14348424584572184312022-03-07T06:52:00.004-08:002022-03-07T10:01:41.884-08:00Sailing Kind<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjHFDkje0CH7HiE_e8A2muZuv7KbBbAOoXNiUcWrzBgEyHQunbHlfCvHTzVKKoskVxM-wycyF-qV9ED2oF2SsfOrqlUtsgsOyxFWQ1Kenwyc0LIUAlSVwefryBZMVkUTmyhYNVC96Xwq1qotKdFmDlAGoRKMiPopf86mdqfrIwzFHM93nthyYrzggv7xw=s2250" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2250" data-original-width="1410" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjHFDkje0CH7HiE_e8A2muZuv7KbBbAOoXNiUcWrzBgEyHQunbHlfCvHTzVKKoskVxM-wycyF-qV9ED2oF2SsfOrqlUtsgsOyxFWQ1Kenwyc0LIUAlSVwefryBZMVkUTmyhYNVC96Xwq1qotKdFmDlAGoRKMiPopf86mdqfrIwzFHM93nthyYrzggv7xw=s320" width="201" /></a></div><i><b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/SAILING-KIND-Adventures-small-wooden-ebook/dp/B09TRZB35C/ref=mp_s_a_1_8?crid=1OHOQEAQ1HY7N&keywords=christine+stovell&qid=1646335841&sprefix=christine+sto%2Caps%2C66&sr=8-8#" target="_blank">Sailing Kind,</a></b></i> my new book, has gone out into a different world to the one that was familiar when I last posted a blog. Nothing lasts forever, I wrote then, bad and good times alike. All we can do is find joy in the small moments and make the most of every hour. That’s also the thinking behind <i>Sailing Kind,</i> a book that was lying becalmed in a ‘work in progress’ file until I picked up a fresh breeze and sailed the manuscript into harbour.<br /><br /><div>The book’s about the adventures Tom and I - sometimes, with my daughters - had in our small wooden boat, <i>Veryan</i>. What surprises me is the sheer number of sea miles I’ve clocked up considering I’m horribly seasick - and I still continue to sail. Why? I feel a bit like Roy Batty delivering his ‘Tears in the Rain’ monologue at the end of <i>Blade Runner</i> writing this, but it’s the wonder, the beauty and - occasionally - the acute fear which being at sea in a small boat brings, the extraordinary sights and the sharp sense that life is for living. </div><div><br /></div><div>Some of the moments along the way...<br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjffobsRKQ2BFedfwkp_zg7fio48khG1W1JezXZTtJmV3sUboKCEP-qvFoHqq9MtWCIrJvxOhzCn4pqeYfrFTL__vC1PZzUxoRbetLLxIrFj0NrvFpZqnnBVZoVfbOqdiOctGi7XqWdHfftJfmh7QZBJjGcKDRHuaNuaH0z1idN5pkhI0uyN2If77hyjA=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjffobsRKQ2BFedfwkp_zg7fio48khG1W1JezXZTtJmV3sUboKCEP-qvFoHqq9MtWCIrJvxOhzCn4pqeYfrFTL__vC1PZzUxoRbetLLxIrFj0NrvFpZqnnBVZoVfbOqdiOctGi7XqWdHfftJfmh7QZBJjGcKDRHuaNuaH0z1idN5pkhI0uyN2If77hyjA=s320" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ramsgate: the calm...</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEis5tBMS9mMfxvjWqRX0IAAE6xPfCMIImuRJoT0kcML2jtBPywdYEDX9Kq2SSRKH6gRTB7TgzQ0vOTE3JW9ZZDtv41AmOzcgEFDGHHaaEVexpI232DV-wlx-RCGt6KGC9_sa32v1tsxavuYHouF1swEH_LmbzJeJglYyCAYHvlaTqzUiDhjrFIja7PaCQ=s3996" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2844" data-original-width="3996" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEis5tBMS9mMfxvjWqRX0IAAE6xPfCMIImuRJoT0kcML2jtBPywdYEDX9Kq2SSRKH6gRTB7TgzQ0vOTE3JW9ZZDtv41AmOzcgEFDGHHaaEVexpI232DV-wlx-RCGt6KGC9_sa32v1tsxavuYHouF1swEH_LmbzJeJglYyCAYHvlaTqzUiDhjrFIja7PaCQ=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">... and the storm.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhjsNMxdFqvdcxI6RX-atHeqfXogYtlJ4K5lcVCJk1TH6nXAORGxP2nnB1t51TTkbPZastjmGwJtkB5cQMMuACoqMuMEbPSCivKWludj_yirPGwa8S5m8MmFO5pLqp5cMC5BmVqnZ_A-2pz3KYTRV5e7Y5tuvdBcGrarpDOrk19wBn2omIO5el8476tuA=s4608" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhjsNMxdFqvdcxI6RX-atHeqfXogYtlJ4K5lcVCJk1TH6nXAORGxP2nnB1t51TTkbPZastjmGwJtkB5cQMMuACoqMuMEbPSCivKWludj_yirPGwa8S5m8MmFO5pLqp5cMC5BmVqnZ_A-2pz3KYTRV5e7Y5tuvdBcGrarpDOrk19wBn2omIO5el8476tuA=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Smuggled Budgie</td></tr></tbody></table></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgzqrlbvhseBenpUR_LCO5iVovBuT5w1tjehmWPaU3Tv0fxx9bqatdBXHX2yOyyebVH5t-8x2L1UwgshpnHIxujjLRTD7iuFWK-V1chWdOaGeWEvoOIaWt_Btgnpx72gV1PVlZPWp5pIAdjooF9wf1NPVM3pz3AIW7giTwBbEI8knaKDMA9c6SGHYNeaw=s3962" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2725" data-original-width="3962" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgzqrlbvhseBenpUR_LCO5iVovBuT5w1tjehmWPaU3Tv0fxx9bqatdBXHX2yOyyebVH5t-8x2L1UwgshpnHIxujjLRTD7iuFWK-V1chWdOaGeWEvoOIaWt_Btgnpx72gV1PVlZPWp5pIAdjooF9wf1NPVM3pz3AIW7giTwBbEI8knaKDMA9c6SGHYNeaw=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Calm seas at Portland Bill</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg8KI7TkG0qf5GzYS3MVg1cvfg8JoTnZ_D-980iDsiqen0zRYRXxxULaa1YWSTU0ztiWu-35u9mIP1-fu7lLtzf_LXlezNyE0lH6H1en1b91EO4UTEZGlvzzrifmAsEcfY60IQASD__EnJaHnAi3Wu1apVqn0sr2LcuTZf0a4-UyYXxusExByUgSi6Deg=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg8KI7TkG0qf5GzYS3MVg1cvfg8JoTnZ_D-980iDsiqen0zRYRXxxULaa1YWSTU0ztiWu-35u9mIP1-fu7lLtzf_LXlezNyE0lH6H1en1b91EO4UTEZGlvzzrifmAsEcfY60IQASD__EnJaHnAi3Wu1apVqn0sr2LcuTZf0a4-UyYXxusExByUgSi6Deg=s320" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lower Fishguard Town Harbour - and the troublesome yacht legs.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><b>Sailing Kind</b> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>“Funny, magical and poetic - and absolute joy” </i></div><div>After nearly drowning in Greece, Christine Stovell was determined never to get on a boat again. The sailing kind? Definitely not. Yet when she married a keen sailor and became joint owner of a vintage wooden yacht, she somehow managed to sail halfway round Britain, despite never finding her sea legs. </div><br />Insightful, funny and raw, Christine’s story captures the joy, terror and wonder of a novice, seasick sailor out on the waves in a small wooden boat. Her adventures have taken her through sleepy backwaters and high seas, from Essex to west Wales and across to France. Along the way, she’s experienced long, lonely passages under starry skies, met mysterious creatures, lost her dignity and faced her worst fears. Strangely, it’s the experience of being completely out of her element, sailing this beautiful and sometimes wild coast, that has made her feel most alive. </div><div><span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="text-align: center;">More than a sailing book, </span><i style="text-align: center;">Sailing Kind</i><span style="text-align: center;"> is also a story of family, love and self-discovery.</span></div></div><br /><br /><br />.</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><i><b><br /></b></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8666908446822278106.post-67063041534119730682021-11-21T06:59:00.003-08:002021-11-21T12:54:41.833-08:00System Not Responding<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrufuGumbVAMddwvTzaYoE67uIuU8ATW1lThqH9mwrPNOnKpdTpqeUm5OERmaeUb2la8N9plhRVTzDAPCzIWyfA6NVPcL7s2uLsHSwsngoW5BU4qNfinoty3T0vSIa7svG6DjzNud2knUC/s2048/E627DDFC-A3D3-4161-8530-D2CD88BDFB63.heic" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1152" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrufuGumbVAMddwvTzaYoE67uIuU8ATW1lThqH9mwrPNOnKpdTpqeUm5OERmaeUb2la8N9plhRVTzDAPCzIWyfA6NVPcL7s2uLsHSwsngoW5BU4qNfinoty3T0vSIa7svG6DjzNud2knUC/s320/E627DDFC-A3D3-4161-8530-D2CD88BDFB63.heic" width="180" /></a></div><p></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b>'It doesn’t owe us anything,’ </b>we told each other, when our teenaged tumble drier conked out earlier this year. We said the same about the very cheap and very old toaster which gave up the ghost after many years of faithful service, but we weren’t best pleased when a relatively youthful coffee machine ground to a roaring, spitting halt. <br /><br />When, one by one, the appliances we purchased when we moved here ten years ago - including a couple of big ticket items - mutinied and left us for good, it started to feel personal. But on a brighter note, we’re new best friends with the delivery men from <a href="http://ao.com">ao.com</a> as they’re such regular visitors here.<br /><br /></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b>Three weeks ago,</b> I was having the time of my life at my ninth Llanelli Half Marathon. I love this challenging course which which leads down to and follows along the scenic waterfront. It was cold, it was wet and a hail storm almost flattened me, but it’s always so exhilarating to be out there in such wild elements. The exceptionally windy conditions, with gusts of 50 mph, were, however, a bit like trying to push a steamroller backwards. I didn't realise the toll it was taking on me until just after the halfway point when I turned and tried to run downhill. Only to realise I couldn’t; my left knee simply wouldn’t work.<br /><br /></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">There’s a first time for everything, it seems. In over two decades of running, I’ve never had to retire from a race before, but I didn’t want to make my injury worse. It’s probably an iliotibial band flare up from overuse so I’ve rested, stretched and can now run on the flat again so hopefully I’m on the mend. Tom, over the same period, has been knocked flat by a hideous cold followed by a tooth/sinus infection. Last Friday, feeling the need for a change of scenery, we went on a very rare trip to a retail outlet… and naturally, our eleven-year-old car broke down in the middle of heavy traffic just as we were about to join the motorway.<br /><br /></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b>Heavy rain, lashing against the glass,</b> woke up me last night. For a while I lay there in the dark listening to the wind and feeling quite vulnerable in our house which sits on a hill above the sea. Dawn brought a bright, cold day. I went for a chilly swim, felt the sun on my face and counted my blessings. I am keenly aware that any problems we have are nothing compared to what so many people are suffering. Still, had we known all the expenses coming, we wouldn’t have bought our bargain swimming pool and I’m so grateful that we did. I’ve watched the leaves turn to gold, seen kites and buzzards hovering in the sky above and this week, I’ve been regularly serenaded by a robin which perches on next door’s apple tree and sings its winter song. Nothing lasts forever - bad and good times alike - all we can do is find the joy in small moments and make the most of every precious hour.</p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0IXIyyzIcTi6_LpXf8ERIUI2q7OE6Di-6QKEMQrNUsZ-zoeqPQEmziY3ylr-dZov11VzAI2gEerSBoWHSrUeiknp0e3WhQz4aI8k-HltBySN74fhY8DGsuDUrWRjdCvhPq5ocA3nrgLaV/s2048/72AD0066-3DAD-4955-B4B3-615D74583158.heic" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1152" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0IXIyyzIcTi6_LpXf8ERIUI2q7OE6Di-6QKEMQrNUsZ-zoeqPQEmziY3ylr-dZov11VzAI2gEerSBoWHSrUeiknp0e3WhQz4aI8k-HltBySN74fhY8DGsuDUrWRjdCvhPq5ocA3nrgLaV/s320/72AD0066-3DAD-4955-B4B3-615D74583158.heic" width="180" /></a></div><br /><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8666908446822278106.post-84374277775777367362021-09-19T07:30:00.001-07:002021-09-19T07:56:26.016-07:00The Thrill of the Chill<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp8m6KH5v2lg0MXCmwL_HcsHKxwv6cjRmpGvL8cKd3oON1Opa_Bgz4ATHVr42jdEbaKONUk9EK4e3yn2KhS_GZxvNlJ0_o3yyeWWy3BsTqj74PSD1nZnylPddd4HBlWxdOcageCyBXD2wx/s2048/B8D0FC9B-4061-4AAB-A11E-C2271504A0A1.heic" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1152" height="321" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp8m6KH5v2lg0MXCmwL_HcsHKxwv6cjRmpGvL8cKd3oON1Opa_Bgz4ATHVr42jdEbaKONUk9EK4e3yn2KhS_GZxvNlJ0_o3yyeWWy3BsTqj74PSD1nZnylPddd4HBlWxdOcageCyBXD2wx/w180-h321/B8D0FC9B-4061-4AAB-A11E-C2271504A0A1.heic" width="180" /></a></div><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b>‘Let’s buy a paddling pool </b>for the grandchildren this summer,’ we decide. And this is how it begins. <br /><br /></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Here, on this thinly populated edge of the west Wales coast, we are fortunate to have a large garden which wraps itself around the house so that even a large paddling pool doesn’t make much of an impact on the lawn. We set it up and rather than wait for the grandchildren, who do arrive, and a summer that lasts one week, we try the pool out just to see how it feels. </p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">The water’s unheated so my first few attempts are torture as I ease in millimetre by millimetre whilst Tom - who takes the short sharp plunge approach - shouts, ‘In! In! In!’. I quickly realise that the shock of the cold is almost instantly followed by pure bliss; there’s the silkiness of the water, the novelty of the frog’s eye view of the garden and the sheer silliness of lying in a giant paddling pool which makes us both laugh. I’m not known for my love of the cold - I have Raynaud’s, for a start - so Tom is a bit surprised when I’m first up for a daily cold plunge, but the fact is, it makes me feel better. Better equipped to face the day. Happier, stronger, reinvigorated. </p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">As our addiction ramps up, Tom eyes a largely redundant stretch of lawn which sits awkwardly and unevenly behind our utility room. ‘We could put a big pool there next year,’ he suggests, and starts the hard work of levelling the ground in preparation. Then, he spots an eBay bargain - a half price upright pool from a garden centre - and we decide to go for it. If nothing else, my recent health scare has been a powerful reminder that life is for living. But why, you might reasonably ask, when we live on the coast, would we bother with a pool? In fact, we used to swim in the sea quite regularly, but I’m still haunted by a bad experience many years ago, so chicken out if the sea is anything but flat calm. A pool means the luxury of no effort at all, just roll out of bed or return from a run, swim, then jump under a warm shower.<br /><br /></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">September 11th is a date that resonates with everyone, but this year we create positive memories; a return to our local parkrun at Llanerchaeron for the first time in some eighteen months followed by our first swim in our new pool. We’re both from working class backgrounds so keep having to pinch ourselves to believe we’re not dreaming. As luxuries go, our pool is modest and it’s certainly not beautiful to look at, but, my goodness, the joy it brings is beyond price.</p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">These chilly early morning swims have, rather strangely, triggered another memory of a distant summer between - in those days - the completion of O Levels and the beginning of A Level studies. My parents house-sat that year for some wealthy … friends is maybe not the right word… Dad did some carpentry work for them and Ma cleaned for them (Ma and I recently discussed all the grim temporary jobs we’d done to fit in around a young family but that’s another story!). Anyhow, for me it meant having their large, sunken family swimming pool - albeit unheated - all to myself. The meditative quality of those long, solitary swims seem to unlock something within me. I went back to school that September having lost my puppy fat and feeling freer and with a sense of optimism. <br /><br /></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">It’s a sense that fills me once again, even now, even with all that’s wrong with the world. Every swim is a new experience, offering different views of the changing garden, the sight of the meadow beyond our garden wreathed in morning mist, the sensation of rain on my face as I glide through the water, a kite soaring overhead. And soon, I hope, night swims under the full moon or beneath a canopy of stars. Whatever the future holds, this pool has brought such pleasure. I’m so very glad we took the plunge! <br /><br /></p><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8666908446822278106.post-5189637591204630722021-08-12T07:28:00.001-07:002021-08-12T07:28:42.434-07:00A Bump in the Night. And Beyond.<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIaFkHBKbs2NTbvn3Ybdl_qsP2Ofza4HBsuegoGkYlH6LdSyb_hSEbpumrTBts4w26Sduf5Ib-XXqv-q5lJH5ZXCoaTWJpALhaVfTZ3_iqymy5Fgd7LPFslKKjbIGROAUE6gBYhRhByfkS/s2048/9E4B05FD-BEF3-48B1-9525-6F4784A27E6B.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1710" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIaFkHBKbs2NTbvn3Ybdl_qsP2Ofza4HBsuegoGkYlH6LdSyb_hSEbpumrTBts4w26Sduf5Ib-XXqv-q5lJH5ZXCoaTWJpALhaVfTZ3_iqymy5Fgd7LPFslKKjbIGROAUE6gBYhRhByfkS/s320/9E4B05FD-BEF3-48B1-9525-6F4784A27E6B.jpeg" width="267" /></a></div><p></p><b>Bedtime.</b> I turn on my side to switch off my bedside light and the underside of my right forearm presses against something solid, something to do with my left breast. Something odd.<br /><p style="text-align: left;">I lie back and reluctantly prod at my breast. My fingers immediately find a large, solid mass. I explore the other breast, looking for its twin. Nothing. I return to the lump. Still there. Not true, surely? </p><p style="text-align: left;">Tom leans in for a goodnight kiss. Then he sees my face. ‘What’s up?’</p><p style="text-align: left;">‘Can you just,’ I ask, lightly, ‘see if you can feel a lump here?’</p><div><p style="text-align: left;">‘They’re different,’ he confirms.</p><div style="text-align: left;">We lie there in shocked silence. In my case, hoping that the next time I put my fingers to my breast, I won’t be able to find anything. Surely I would have noticed a solid lump sooner? Still there. I spend most of the night awake wondering something or nothing?</div><p style="text-align: left;">Typically, with Covid regulations beginning to ease, we’ve made arrangements to catch up with family, but my trip to the GP the next day means these plans will now have to be cancelled. I’d like to keep my worries to myself but instead I have to tell people I love that I’m waiting for an urgent referral to a specialist breast care unit. ‘I’ll be fine,’ I tell everyone blithely. ‘Mum, you’re allowed not to be,’ my elder daughter says and I almost lose it. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><b>I can’t pretend</b> that the next two weeks aren’t some of the darkest of my life. When my sliding door day arrives, we arrive at the hospital an hour early yet the car park is already full. Covid restrictions mean that Tom can’t come in with me, so he drops me off and faces a miserable wait whilst I’m inside. My bottom barely touches the seat before I’m called for my mammogram. Back in the waiting room I read until my eyes blur and I simply can’t take anything else in. I close my eyes and try not to think what will happen if I get bad news. When my name is called part of my mind closes down so I have to fight to be in the present and to pay attention. After a round of long, thorough examinations during which I’m treated with great kindness, the consultant gives me the news. ‘It’s a good lump,’ he announces, looking at the ultrasound screen. ‘It’s a cyst.’ </p><p style="text-align: left;">I’m almost too relieved and too closed in on myself to react, but the atmosphere in the room lightens considerably. One of the specialist nurses touches my arm in a kindly gesture whilst I slowly digest the news. After a small procedure, I’m on my way. I’m so dazed I get lost on the way out of the hospital but eventually manage to find the main entrance where I message Tom and the girls and ring Ma. Back home, Tom and I breathe huge sighs of relief. The last thirteen days have felt like thirteen years, but I’ve been lucky. I’m acutely aware that other women at the clinic that day might not have been as fortunate as me. It’s another reminder, I think, as Tom and I celebrate with champagne, to make the most of every precious moment.</p><p style="text-align: left;">Eight weeks on from my bump in the night, I still feel raw and vulnerable at times but I hope I’ve learned not to take my health for granted. If you don’t do it already, please check your breasts regularly - not the way I used to ie a quick, ‘oh, there they are. All good,’ - but really thoroughly.</p><p style="text-align: left;"><b>With travel restrictions easing,</b> we have had the joy of catching up with family at long last. It’s almost a year since we’ve seen Ma or Tom’s dad so there are changes, of course there are, but given how much they’ve both had to bear, how lonely they must have been, they’ve come out the other side. They’re remarkable, resilient people and we’re so proud of them.</p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnFNawOZi5h6vrtSzxxkw7aMtIvPlIjo27DEv5Mzzpa3ZcQfDTOoQe4dOhcN8s7i4ehBLrO3H9-LybnRTGeNI2A_9USDZFoB1XDPnF3jJOA0pNoIvQ0EY30TeGruO-Z2qTSSoNwCRbh-4k/s2048/35E5C26B-4771-4649-83FF-112F6BDB128F.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnFNawOZi5h6vrtSzxxkw7aMtIvPlIjo27DEv5Mzzpa3ZcQfDTOoQe4dOhcN8s7i4ehBLrO3H9-LybnRTGeNI2A_9USDZFoB1XDPnF3jJOA0pNoIvQ0EY30TeGruO-Z2qTSSoNwCRbh-4k/s320/35E5C26B-4771-4649-83FF-112F6BDB128F.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><b>As life slowly and tentatively</b> returns to a new normal, there’s a lot to look forward to. Bee, our granddaughter is coming for a sleepover later in the summer. We’re levelling a plot in the garden to erect a small swimming pool - having discovered the joys of a large paddling pool before any of the grandchildren have even set foot in it! After eighteen months of racing cancellations, actual races begin again so I’m training for a 10k and a half marathon in the autumn. And, on a personal note, I’m even more grateful for what I have. </div><div><br /><i>My profound and heartfelt thanks to my GP and to the wonderful staff at the Peony Breast Unit at Llanelli’s Prince Philip Hospital for taking such good care of me.<br /></i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8666908446822278106.post-45809194404836178612021-03-03T06:44:00.000-08:002021-05-31T23:43:53.763-07:00Fly Me to the Zoom Book Club<p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJHpXwa6XiDJf-z2yb74SH4_1oyGbIeGwZTVB8K6G1-Y-D8YZORKquM9xWQq1kaM_zN4SiMKdSPYv70zSFJzO3uYg463KcBP1YEt3lYkrOVBXL0HuorPQZuCB6nXsv2Xh8HsY2Q7a3-q5Z/s635/2FC184ED-3967-4E74-BAC8-752027620CB8.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="498" data-original-width="635" height="274" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJHpXwa6XiDJf-z2yb74SH4_1oyGbIeGwZTVB8K6G1-Y-D8YZORKquM9xWQq1kaM_zN4SiMKdSPYv70zSFJzO3uYg463KcBP1YEt3lYkrOVBXL0HuorPQZuCB6nXsv2Xh8HsY2Q7a3-q5Z/w320-h274/2FC184ED-3967-4E74-BAC8-752027620CB8.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"><b>I have to admit</b> to feeling a teeny bit nervous when I’m invited to join <a href="https://sherunscardiff.org">She Runs: Cardiff</a> for their Zoom book club to chat to them about my running memoir/guide, <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Running-Kind-Because-running-doesnt-ebook/dp/B07QS768JJ/ref=sr_1_1?crid=FIRR9517FMTO&dchild=1&keywords=christine+stovell&qid=1614246792&s=digital-text&sprefix=christine+stove%2Caps%2C184&sr=1-1">Running Kind.</a> This brilliantly supportive women-only social running group based in Cardiff deservedly won the <a href="https://irun.wales/news/the-annual-awards-winners-announced/">Run Wales Group of the Year</a> in December 2020 for their fantastic efforts to encourage and engage their 1.1k followers. Their lockdown activities, with a strong emphasis on health and well-being, have included virtual couch to 5k, themed runs, monthly challenges and a book club which has attracted great runners, popular authors and now, gulp, me.</p><p style="text-align: left;">Zoom’s new to me so my daughters break me in gently with a rousing game of family unicorn bingo. Tom and I wear our unicorn headbands and there are tantrums - bingo cards upturned, a sin-binning - laughter and tears, not least mine when it’s over because it’s both so lovely to see the family and so painful wondering when we’ll see them for real.</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQICnIsUIL589ViK-mbB9GAQnTtmbUwDQguZ3gqKCX-07ZsOL4A3KrU2riNklZMxkrcxt1yHOdMa1j3oAgehiF0iySHHyp_B7A6o8Efn3C7K8AUagtfcs57ZPUuWVJqgATHJjCgx4fnma_/s2048/9C44C9CB-8210-4F56-B895-86CAB05AFC8A.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1710" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQICnIsUIL589ViK-mbB9GAQnTtmbUwDQguZ3gqKCX-07ZsOL4A3KrU2riNklZMxkrcxt1yHOdMa1j3oAgehiF0iySHHyp_B7A6o8Efn3C7K8AUagtfcs57ZPUuWVJqgATHJjCgx4fnma_/s320/9C44C9CB-8210-4F56-B895-86CAB05AFC8A.jpeg" /></a></div><p style="text-align: left;">So I’ve Zoomed, I’ve prepared, I’m answering questions about my own book… yet, come book club day, everything I’ve ever got wrong - like drying up in front of large audience during my own speech many years ago - threatens to undo me. To bolster my confidence, I reread a wonderful chapter from Elizabeth Gilbert’s <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Big-Magic-Creative-Living-Beyond/dp/1408866757/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1614782328&sr=8-1">Big Magic </a>which I won’t spoil for you, but it’s a joyful and inspirational story about getting the theme of a fancy dress party horribly wrong and surviving. Don’t miss the party, is the message. Don’t come all this way to miss out at the last moment.</p><p style="text-align: left;">I take a deep breath and in I go, and of course, everyone is very welcoming, very kind, interested and very willing to share their own stories. I’m so glad I didn’t miss the party! It’s a long time since I’ve been in the company of so many women and it makes me nostalgic for my days as a a beginner runner when I ran with <a href="https://epsomallsorts.org.uk">Epsom Allsorts</a>, another women-only running club. Thank you so much for having me as your guest, She Runs: Cardiff ladies, for buying my book and for so generously giving me so much of your time. I hope to join you for a social run when brighter, safer days are here again.</p> <br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNojBtwvDFrq_tN-L4GSzcC1vPrN8S8LabGFju2S82hcV0hRYH5QXJt7UPbsGT6tZRdMBUOlFmTTF_2WpSn2NsmE2Aojq0FeUzE908rzpCFpdurDprEAMoWAun9Hf7bnT8N1Epi51p-6ai/s2048/D8CBCE43-8952-47AB-8151-655E8A09E7FC.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNojBtwvDFrq_tN-L4GSzcC1vPrN8S8LabGFju2S82hcV0hRYH5QXJt7UPbsGT6tZRdMBUOlFmTTF_2WpSn2NsmE2Aojq0FeUzE908rzpCFpdurDprEAMoWAun9Hf7bnT8N1Epi51p-6ai/s320/D8CBCE43-8952-47AB-8151-655E8A09E7FC.jpeg" /></a></div><br /><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8666908446822278106.post-46045866293122354912021-01-31T08:08:00.007-08:002021-01-31T08:37:08.528-08:00Milestones and Moments<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8oJTqOd9kUUjDILf_KiHvhvwn0BUXRB026kUQLpxm9TqJ5jVXioSNdH6agFfrGcMG84_dinmqAlK_6_hMG7vFlriM_r3mXGxxcoLa0HjcgRHhMILtfgAcuNP6Lodo9jOM7ARTmP1Gp48O/s2048/68F24276-6881-4325-8BBE-F387D701A8D1_1_201_a.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8oJTqOd9kUUjDILf_KiHvhvwn0BUXRB026kUQLpxm9TqJ5jVXioSNdH6agFfrGcMG84_dinmqAlK_6_hMG7vFlriM_r3mXGxxcoLa0HjcgRHhMILtfgAcuNP6Lodo9jOM7ARTmP1Gp48O/s320/68F24276-6881-4325-8BBE-F387D701A8D1_1_201_a.jpeg" /></a></div><p></p><b>Snowflakes swirl around me</b> as I battle up the hill towards home at the end of a six mile run. I look up as shapes appear in my snow globe world. A young woman is leading her small daughter, who is seated on a pony. I stand aside to let them pass. ‘And that lady is also breathing oxygen,’ says the woman, with a smile. The little girl regards me solemnly. ‘Like my horse,’ she says. ‘Yes,’ the woman agrees, ‘like your horse. Now what else can you think of that breathes oxygen?’ It’s lockdown in a moment; permitted exercise, home schooling, a certain wariness of other people and - in the back of my mind - the appalling loss of life, of last breaths taken.<br /><br /><div><b>T</b>here have been days when I’ve physically ached with missing my family. January includes several birthdays; littlest grandson was one and we’re all very sad not to have seen more of him. It’s overwhelming at times, but I’m keenly aware that there’s nothing to be gained from wishing things were different - we just have to be patient. Life happens in the moment and I’m profoundly grateful for the life I have. </div><div><br /></div><div><b>T</b>his time last year I was recovering from my accident, now I am back up to full strength; same pace, same mileage… although some lingering dental trauma means I’ll choose the treadmill over the road when the weather’s treacherous.<br /><br /><b>C</b>ovid restrictions are making it harder for house shoots to take place, but I’m still writing house features; there are two in this month’s (February) edition of The English Home. And, in my spare time, <i>Sailing Kind</i>, my non-fiction project is slowly coming along.<br /> <br /><b>R</b>eading is always a great comfort - although this year, I’m trying to pace myself rather than hoovering through books in huge quantities. I’m especially looking forward to <i><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Night-Hawk-Ruth-Galloway-Mysteries/dp/1787477800/ref=sr_1_4?crid=27UC0ZZABCUEU&dchild=1&keywords=elly+griffiths+books+ruth+galloway+in+order&qid=1612105745&sprefix=Elly+griffith%2Caps%2C213&sr=8-4">The Night Hawks</a></i>, the latest of Elly Griffiths’ Dr Ruth Galloway novels which I love for their wonderful sense of place, archeological background and characters so real, I still think about them when I’ve finished the book. Another book that’s stayed with me since I read it in December is Susan Cooper’s magical, <i><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Dark-Rising-Modern-Classic-ebook/dp/B0045JKE08/ref=sr_1_1?crid=30VU2VI5VXBBE&keywords=the+dark+is+rising&qid=1612108776&quartzVehicle=842-813&replacementKeywords=the+dark+rising&sprefix=the+dark+%2Caps%2C158&sr=8-1">The Dark is Rising,</a></i> so when this wonderful and haunting print, by artist and illustrator, <a href="https://www.etsy.com/uk/shop/SarahCoomerShop">Sarah Coomer,</a> appeared in my Twitter stream last week I couldn’t resist it - now I’m impatient to see it framed and on my wall.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhptthpGZZPxqUgOt-Xt3by20yi2_80m79Avb6sp_4i9mkDmmSAqUuNS8XN3yfdTpVYjVUus2ZCRx7Ueg7Q_fIBJnNH0Bc_z6lHaZDOs3TMAB2uGLUEaKW2AGlvmNDwYnRQgly7eENO8Pqq/s2048/431A54E2-52F6-402A-AB65-90E49887C94E_1_201_a.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1619" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhptthpGZZPxqUgOt-Xt3by20yi2_80m79Avb6sp_4i9mkDmmSAqUuNS8XN3yfdTpVYjVUus2ZCRx7Ueg7Q_fIBJnNH0Bc_z6lHaZDOs3TMAB2uGLUEaKW2AGlvmNDwYnRQgly7eENO8Pqq/s320/431A54E2-52F6-402A-AB65-90E49887C94E_1_201_a.jpeg" /></a></div><br /><div><b>I</b> see that sales of candles have boomed during lockdown as we all try to keep the dark at bay. I didn’t realise I was tapping into this trend when we resumed use of a candelabra given to us as a wedding present (nearly 22 years ago!) by my dear friends, the Thursday Girls. There’s something about candlelight, music (a very long Spotify playlist) and simply talking together that has made evenings particularly special. It's been a long winter, but there are points of light along the way.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWIRPjx7TmuWkPoYrcIvhQFoK4mvG4Cr5RqFVWdO5MCvgkvazfVFSEFhGzIbr4s4NeLci5YwkruHhv0XDlsq1nPO83f6EBavwW7sZKA7jj7xF-Da9rBrCmee_dDdPEUcUnLJuapBpS2B5-/s2048/1E6950E3-35E3-4CB1-8036-E5CB4F17780C.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1710" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWIRPjx7TmuWkPoYrcIvhQFoK4mvG4Cr5RqFVWdO5MCvgkvazfVFSEFhGzIbr4s4NeLci5YwkruHhv0XDlsq1nPO83f6EBavwW7sZKA7jj7xF-Da9rBrCmee_dDdPEUcUnLJuapBpS2B5-/s320/1E6950E3-35E3-4CB1-8036-E5CB4F17780C.jpeg" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8666908446822278106.post-57798594521124902362020-09-04T06:37:00.000-07:002020-09-04T06:37:08.184-07:00Preserving Memories<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAYNfvEvkVL0eMx9u7AeYvPbINj5Iqi7ymx3UxJwNMOrZ5R4XkNdm5F3UviQPP0-UpxrZASEwyiyklVO8Ej-bomI-i623LtuDKiDmZma2djiyB5OMVm1xvpD7Gdq1hlsB7X5v4bOY23o3v/s2048/80117201-B85B-4F26-BF3D-F4441E585EFE_1_201_a.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAYNfvEvkVL0eMx9u7AeYvPbINj5Iqi7ymx3UxJwNMOrZ5R4XkNdm5F3UviQPP0-UpxrZASEwyiyklVO8Ej-bomI-i623LtuDKiDmZma2djiyB5OMVm1xvpD7Gdq1hlsB7X5v4bOY23o3v/s320/80117201-B85B-4F26-BF3D-F4441E585EFE_1_201_a.jpeg" /></a></div><p></p><b>‘But Nana,’ </b>five-year-old Bee says with some concern, ‘how did Father Christmas get to be so old?’. Never mind Father Christmas, I think, looking at the photo of my four-year-old self, where <i>did </i>all those years go? <div><br />Slowly - and very carefully - we’ve been catching up with our loved ones and as joyful as each of these reunions has been it’s incredibly painful to say goodbye again in these very uncertain times. Perhaps that’s what’s behind Bee’s request to ‘look at all your pictures, Nana?’ Perhaps Bee, like so many of us, is looking for patches of solid ground? Although seeing the change in me from the little girl I was to the great age I am now seems to have given her a bit of a wobble!</div><div><br /><div>‘<b>Who’s this then, Mum?’ </b>asks my daughter, Rose, a few weeks later, looking through my box of loose photographs, and it’s then that I realise I should probably do something with them. I’m not someone who often needs a rear view mirror, I’m much happier where I am now or looking ahead to what’s next. Nevertheless I spend a couple of days sticking photos in an album and adding names and dates and feel some sense of accomplishment when I’ve finished. </div><div><br /></div><div><b>In contrast, </b>capturing a small moment in time is one aspect of my home interior writing I particularly enjoy. I especially like telling the story of the owners’ relationships with their homes and I’ve been lucky this summer to have been invited to write about some fascinating houses. You can see the latest one in the October issue of The English Home and there are a couple more on the horizon, but after that, with Covid restrictions and social distancing - who knows?</div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoW3tKcvZa3GLEtA7dMGMffHIl0J2RTgSA5g6ZrRzBf7Fk2bPnXsa0lz738kbokpOGlRqpWMA-j1UJj3jSRIJvLC0HCxwTL0a9sQEo9oZ30fO6TjTjAlJhwZIo5T8BwI7zpnLHIx7Up6UW/s2048/CD96EE73-1879-4D38-894F-93070792A36C.heic" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoW3tKcvZa3GLEtA7dMGMffHIl0J2RTgSA5g6ZrRzBf7Fk2bPnXsa0lz738kbokpOGlRqpWMA-j1UJj3jSRIJvLC0HCxwTL0a9sQEo9oZ30fO6TjTjAlJhwZIo5T8BwI7zpnLHIx7Up6UW/s320/CD96EE73-1879-4D38-894F-93070792A36C.heic" /></a></div><br /></div><div><b>As autumn approaches,</b> I hope that it won’t be too long before I can hold my family close again, but until then I’ve preserved the memories of summer, of babies and baking, beach walks and fairy doors and my Ma’s impish, naughty smile. May autumn be kind to us all.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFnkLi575SL5zbdzHmmEYD1gTU_DpLYBCJOFUzvMEJQPffUBZqycqlx61ZJlvO3-fXMcJk5efeFn8vg7TJQ9Swzt5foGeV9V-l3nYVhBS-5phVcwtxl4MXANK30GjhvW6IjJBi1fJomWmb/s2048/D36A792B-873F-4034-8B24-9A614FDBD533.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1710" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFnkLi575SL5zbdzHmmEYD1gTU_DpLYBCJOFUzvMEJQPffUBZqycqlx61ZJlvO3-fXMcJk5efeFn8vg7TJQ9Swzt5foGeV9V-l3nYVhBS-5phVcwtxl4MXANK30GjhvW6IjJBi1fJomWmb/s320/D36A792B-873F-4034-8B24-9A614FDBD533.jpeg" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSXuFLBV5T_kuDVmKT7JL1Ufl8u6RMAWPYG4UqUYuWtGX5aD1OJwxoDRkYazQTpC4Gp9uK_zMwa9hAuPlsjIKmMhwcpt5Lb5cyHHZS-_8tcAA-JptzyW9oMplUIyH4MWa5sqyPEhlxOySP/s2048/9D23BDF1-5937-493B-80EA-A7DF54D2AA98.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1710" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSXuFLBV5T_kuDVmKT7JL1Ufl8u6RMAWPYG4UqUYuWtGX5aD1OJwxoDRkYazQTpC4Gp9uK_zMwa9hAuPlsjIKmMhwcpt5Lb5cyHHZS-_8tcAA-JptzyW9oMplUIyH4MWa5sqyPEhlxOySP/s320/9D23BDF1-5937-493B-80EA-A7DF54D2AA98.jpeg" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYBkoHjDWB6WvYrYiPj-uTa6Z5HF3caeuR9-fH8dLp0_o3cL7KR72q5HZxdKIjCc111lL-tpIIqfxp5iQIO7OM0Zp4v4teq1VY_sZlaLgrz7LGh7KJdJtqnjwYDKn4tQlQEgDzfWzcfOoP/s2048/DEB2BA54-0FA2-438F-A07F-CCAE8CBF2720.heic" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYBkoHjDWB6WvYrYiPj-uTa6Z5HF3caeuR9-fH8dLp0_o3cL7KR72q5HZxdKIjCc111lL-tpIIqfxp5iQIO7OM0Zp4v4teq1VY_sZlaLgrz7LGh7KJdJtqnjwYDKn4tQlQEgDzfWzcfOoP/s320/DEB2BA54-0FA2-438F-A07F-CCAE8CBF2720.heic" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8666908446822278106.post-28129665247621787072020-06-20T07:01:00.000-07:002020-06-20T07:01:15.367-07:00What Must We Do To Be Saved?<br />
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<b>My previous Home Thoughts </b>happened in another world; a world where enjoying a meal in a restaurant, taking part in a real half marathon or casually hugging a dear friend were all possible. The shadow of coronavirus was there, of course, but we clung to some semblance of what was normal, hoping against hope that the unthinkable wouldn’t happen. <br /><span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span><div>
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<span style="text-align: center;">Less than two weeks after I posted my blog, we were in lockdown.</span></div>
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<br /> Like so many of us, my first response was to try to organise my way out of the pandemic, to try to maintain some sort of sense of control in a world of uncertainty. I emptied and sorted drawers, cupboards, wardrobes and cleaned the house to within an inch of its life. And then, when - oh, how cruel! - the loveliest weather we’ve had in this part of Wales for years arrived, Tom and I began clearing and tidying the garden. (Fortunately, I had an epiphany one evening and realised the garden will always be a work in progress and that’s absolutely fine!).<br /><br />Quite early on, I also took down every book in my study to clean and dust and, goodness, how the memories unfurled as I held each one in my hand. Remembrances of times past, of places and people not just in the physical presence of every book, but in pencilled prices, dedications and the slips of paper and bookmarks that fell from the pages. <br /><br />I read European Studies with German at UEA, but managed to enrol in several social anthropology modules which sparked an ongoing fascination with ritual, borders, liminal spaces, and places on the edge. So many of the books I bought then seem to resonate with what’s happening today; the rules of purity and danger, of cleanliness and dirt. Who, amongst us is worthy? Who should be cast out? The age-old question every society asks itself; ‘what must we do to be saved?’<br /><br />Lockdown is easing, but the virus is still present and there are no easy solutions to keep us safe. I long - so deeply - to see my family again and wonder if I can bear not being able to put my arms around them when I do. Ma, who as a child evacuee was put on a train not knowing when or if she’d ever see her parents again, remains stoic. Her experience, her acceptance of what cannot be changed, is a reminder to me that both life and time are precious. I wish things were different, but I cannot wish the days away. We will, I guess, learn to live with calculated risks and take sensible precautions, like putting on a seat-belt when we get in a car. And one day, I’ll be able to hold my loved ones again.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8666908446822278106.post-56007728572536950022020-03-10T07:58:00.000-07:002020-03-10T07:58:12.163-07:00Slices of Life<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
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<b>There’s damp in the air </b>as the taxi deposits us outside<b> <a href="http://sliceswansea.co.uk/">Slice</a>,</b> a thin wedge of a building perched on a hillside in Sketty, but there’s no dampening our spirits as this is an occasion we’ve been looking forward to for weeks! It’s our wedding anniversary (twenty-one years) and we’ve managed to book a table at this tiny (just 16 seats) and impressively reviewed restaurant. We get a friendly welcome from one of the two chefs who own and run the business before being shown to our table upstairs by the equally friendly and knowledgeable waitress. We opt for the six course tasting menu and the accompanying wine flight so all we have to do is sit there, enjoy the relaxing atmosphere and wait to be served a series of delicious treats. Every course is clever, innovative and perfectly cooked, but the roast turbot and langoustine with burnt leeks, radish and langoustine beurre blanc is one of the most sublime dishes I’ve ever eaten. And who knew rhubarb could be so amazing? The vanilla cheesecake, poached rhubarb and rhubarb sorbet served with a pink Moscato is a revelation. It’s a wonderful evening and we walk back to our hotel on a night that sparkles with rain feeling happy, content and already planning our next visit</div>
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<b>We spend the next two days</b> catching up with Rose, Lily and their families. Time, as I always forget, flies by with small children so it’s early evening before I check my phone and see a message from my niece. Ma’s fallen over rushing to catch the post and is in A&E being stitched back together. After an initial panic, it seems that Ma has actually got off relatively lightly (discounting the 10 stitches in her elbow and three in her hand). ‘Everyone keeps telling me how lucky I am not to break any bones,’ Ma grumbles - quite rightly - ‘but if I was that lucky, I wouldn’t be in this state.’ After only two days, Ma walks to her local newsagent to buy her favourite magazine, ‘well, I can’t just sit around,’ she says. And not for the first time, I give silent thanks for the resilience and determination which make her such a strong, independent woman.</div>
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<b>Having been blown away once </b>by a named storm, and in spite of a few mutterings about coronavirus, the Llanelli Half Marathon is set to go ahead. Tom drops me and Helen near the start, but no sooner have we left the car when we’re hit by a deluge of freezing rain. </div>
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We struggle with our plastic ponchos as they flap in the wind and we’re both drenched through and have wet feet and cold hands before we’ve even begun. It turns out to be good preparation for what lies ahead; there are stretches of the course when I can barely stay upright, let alone run so being blasted with hailstones as well seems a particularly brutal touch. Helen and I run our own races but, finding ourselves neck and neck at the last mile, we decide to cross the line together. It’s a particularly joyful moment. I’m delighted with my official result (2:11:59 seconds - and no, I’m not rounding it up) and I’m very, very happy to have laid the ghost of my accident to rest. I’m up again. And running.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8666908446822278106.post-67503824848801200402020-02-09T05:47:00.000-08:002020-02-09T06:09:57.226-08:00The Winds of Change<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b>‘Good’, says my dear friend, Jill,</b> when I tell her that Storm Ciara means the Llanelli Half Marathon has been postponed. ‘My guardian angel is working overtime!’. Jill’s guardian angel has indeed been very busy looking after her and her loved ones lately, so I’m impressed that she’s squeezed in a few extra hours to whip up a storm which will give me another four weeks to recover from my accident before I race. Bit tough on everyone else being battered by strong winds, of course, but yes, part of me is relieved. Llanelli’s one of my favourite races so I was reluctant to pull out, but a bit daunted by the prospect of running 13.1 miles just at the moment. My ribs have stopped clicking at last, but I’m afraid to sneeze without holding tight to the damaged area. So far as getting back to normal goes, my chipped front tooth has been repaired and most of my traumatised teeth have survived a ‘vitality test’ with <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dental_pulp_test#2._Electric_Pulp_Testing_(EPT)">electric pulp testing</a>… which I have to say doesn’t half make you jump.<br />
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<b>In happier news,</b> we’ve been waiting with a mixture of excitement and apprehension for the arrival of our latest grandchild. My daughter, Rose, it’s fair to say, had a tough time of it the first time round so, when she went into hospital, the hours passed very slowly despite regular updates (thank you, Si). Although I convinced myself I wouldn’t sleep, when we finally took ourselves off to bed, I must have gone out like a light so had to snap to when the phone went off an hour later. I was hugely relieved to hear Si say that mum and baby were safe and well, but it took a couple of seconds for the real surprise to sink in. We have a grandson in Canada and a bevvy of five granddaughters here, so I was taken aback to hear that there was a new baby boy in the family. Many congratulations, Rose and Si, he is absolutely gorgeous and we are deeply smitten!</div>
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<b>And finally. </b><br />
My accident’s given me cause to think about second chances and what’s really important in life. I’m running for Team Velindre, the Hospital of Hope, in the Cardiff Bay 10k at the end of March. Any <a href="https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/Christine-Stovell3?utm_campaign=lc_frp_share_transaction_fundraiser_page_donation_received_-_nth_donation&utm_content=bdf84728-7164-4397-89d9-840bf45dd161&utm_medium=email&utm_source=postoffice&utm_term=1581187620571">donations,</a> however small, will go to a cancer centre which is doing so much for cancer patients and their families. Thank you.<br />
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Painting is 'Rain Setting In, Pembrokeshire Coast' by Tom Tomos.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8666908446822278106.post-91776465677379616862020-01-13T09:08:00.000-08:002020-01-13T09:08:43.164-08:00Six Weeks On...<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>New year, new x-ray.</i></td></tr>
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<b>‘You look fab, </b>you’re really proactive about your health - you’re my kind of girl,’ says the nurse practitioner sympathetically. ‘But, you’re not going to bounce back the way you used to and you’ve had a serious injury.’ I’m not vain and I’m not looking for the Elixir of Youth, but since I left A&E without a follow up appointment, I would like to know why, after all these weeks, my ribs are still making an audible clicking noise. <div>
It’s six weeks today since I found myself in the back of an ambulance feeling very scared and broken. The superficial damage to my face has healed. It took four weeks for the feeling in my upper teeth and the roof of my mouth to begin to return, although two of my front teeth still only have partial sensation. (The dental work starts this week.) There are patches of numbness in my face and top lip. My ribs are uncomfortable rather than painful (although sneezing is agony) and it seems that if I want an explanation for the clicking noise, I’ll have to keep chasing a very stretched health authority. </div>
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<b>As I sat in the ambulance,</b> I kept telling myself I was lucky; I didn’t have a life-threatening illness and my injuries could have been far worse. Nevertheless the last six weeks have made me very introspective, probably because I’ve never been this badly injured before, so I’m very grateful for all the messages I’ve received, the acts of kindness that arrive like shafts of sunlight and for bright spots of good news. <br /></div>
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<b>Ruth, the beautiful top and your instructions</b> to wrap myself in a gift of love made me sob like a baby when I’d been holding my emotions in!</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>'Love' sweatshirt by Black & Beech</i></td></tr>
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<br /><b>Just before Christmas,</b> when I was feeling particularly low and lost, I received the brilliant news that ‘Running Kind’ has been awarded a Bronze ‘Honourable Mention’ in the 2019 Author Shout Reader Ready Awards. (More about this to come!)</div>
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<b>Novelist, journalist and </b>teacher of creative writing, <a href="https://margaretjamesblog.blogspot.com/">Margaret James</a> kindly invited me to talk to her about what I wish I'd known at the beginning of my career for Writing Magazine. You can read about it in the February issue which is out now.</div>
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<b>And last week,</b> I sat in the Open University Library waiting anxiously whilst my husband Tom was being questioned about his thesis over in the Music Department. It’s been a long haul - as you can read <a href="http://www.open.ac.uk/blogs/music/?p=2409">here</a> - so when Tom found me afterwards and couldn’t speak, I was a bit worried about the outcome until he was able to indicate with a nod that he’d passed. Well done and many congratulations, Dr Tom, we’re so proud of you!<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Tom with his supervisor Robert Samuels</i></td></tr>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8666908446822278106.post-27786987729655035742019-12-10T09:30:00.000-08:002019-12-10T09:30:40.094-08:00An Accident Happens<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b>Monday 2 December</b><br /> It’s an especially beautiful morning when I set out for my seven-mile run, frost twinkles under the low sun in the Secret Valley creating an enchanted landscape. Once I leave the shelter of the valley behind, I realise that many of the lanes are glazed with treacherous black ice so pick my path very carefully. I love a good downhill sprint, however, so with home in sight and a clear road ahead I take the brakes off and fly. Only, somehow, my left foot snags in gravel. In the split-second before I hit the ground, I know that when I land it’s going to be bad.<br /><br /><div>
There’s a smack as my left cheekbone hits the ground and my teeth clash together as my head bounces. My mouth has gone numb, but when I touch my fingers to my face, I’m surprised to see blood on my hands. I fumble for my phone and try to call Tom, but there’s no answer. I know I’ll freeze if I sit still so I drag myself up wondering why it’s all such a struggle. When I try to walk, it feels as if the ribs on my left side have come undone and they’re clicking too - how I manage to get home, I don’t know. Tom’s mouth opens when he sees me and he calls an ambulance. After twenty minutes, a paramedic rings and hearing my moans and groans, gives the go ahead for me to have paracetamol. By the time the ambulance arrives, some forty minutes later, the pain is so agonising I simply don’t know what to do with myself. </div>
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From the moment Lyndon and Peter, the paramedics, walk through the door, I feel I’m in safe hands. I cannot thank them enough for their care; they make me feel like a little, broken fairy who they are going to fix. Lyndon keeps the pain and fear away and Peter drives very slowly and carefully. I’m so grateful to them.</div>
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<br /> We reach Glangwili hospital in Carmarthen (some 23 miles away) where Lyndon goes in to prepare the way. After a pause, he returns with a slight frown and says that unfortunately there is no facility for me to be admitted on a trolley and that I’ll have to wait in A&E reception. I thank them, we say our goodbyes, and that’s how Tom - who has had to change a car tyre on the way down - finds me; sitting in a wheelchair, dressed in running leggings, a sports bra and a blanket, waiting my turn along with everyone else.</div>
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‘Excuse me,’ says a passing nurse, ‘do you really need that wheelchair? We’re very short of them.’ I explain that I think my ribs are broken but my legs are so wobbly with shock and morphine that I don’t think I can stand. ‘Hmmn’ she replies, stomping off.</div>
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I’m finally triaged, sent for chest and facial x-rays and eventually see a junior doctor who tells me his name and wants to know my date of birth and what medication I’m on. ‘Just HRT', I tell him. 'What’s HRT?’ he asks, not exactly filling me with confidence. He notices my cut and bruised hands and tells me they’ll need to be x-rayed. I tell him I’ve just returned from having my chest and face x-rayed. He mutters something about having a look at the x-rays and returns shortly afterwards with a box of co-codamol. </div>
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‘Everything’s normal,’ he assures me, ‘you can go home.’ <br />Presumably he’s not worried about my hands now. ‘But my ribs are clicking and I can’t feel my top teeth at all!’ I insist, panicking.<br /> ‘No, it’s all normal. See a dentist if you’re worried about your teeth. Just take the painkillers and breathe deeply.’</div>
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Back in A&E reception, still in my wheelchair, sports bra and blanket. I sit in a state of shock waiting for Tom to get with the car and bring some clothes for me. An old man beside me offers me his coat. A woman opposite, gets up and wraps my blanket more securely round me. The wheelchair is whipped away as soon as I stand up.</div>
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<b>Tues 3 December.</b><br /> After a scary, sleepless night, Tom takes me back to a much quieter Glangwili, where I am triaged again and seen by another doctor with a trainee. Many rib fractures don’t show on x-rays, I’m told, but I’m apparently exhibiting all the classic signs (what with all the flapping and clicking of bones and general levels of agony). This time, I leave properly informed about how to care for the ribs in order to avoid pneumonia. ’But we don’t know anything about dentistry,’ the doctor says cheerfully, ‘so you should see an emergency dentist as soon as possible.’<br /></div>
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By great good fortune I manage to get an emergency appointment for - yes - 2.30 that same day. But that is a whole new story…<br /> <br /><b> Total Damage:</b> Extensive bruising to left cheekbone and mouth. Cuts to mouth, total loss of feeling in upper teeth, upper teeth misaligned by impact of fall, chipped front tooth. Extensive bruising to hands, gravel rash and cuts on both. Left rib fractures. Cuts and bruising to left thigh and left knee. Right leg hale and hearty!<br /> <br /> Has this put me off running? I have to admit it’s put me off falling, but one serious accident in twenty years of running isn’t bad. Besides, if that’s one thing I’ve learned from all the medics is that beneath the cuts, bruises and fractures I’m actually extremely fit!</div>
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<b>And finally, </b>I would like to my express my thanks to the Welsh Ambulance Service and the two amazing paramedics who looked after me with such great care.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8666908446822278106.post-56946475456370958092019-11-11T13:08:00.000-08:002019-11-12T10:00:24.054-08:00A Convenient Marriage. Blog Splash!<b>This week, I’m delighted to be involved in the blog splash</b> for Jeevani Charika’s novel, <b><i>A Convenient Marriage</i></b>. Chaya and Gimhana’s very convenient marriage pleases their parents, but what happens when the promise of personal happiness threatens their perfect arrangement?<br />
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<b>Jeev's question to me was, </b>'what's the strangest thing you've done because of your family?' which made me think of all the holiday, temporary and part-time jobs I’ve done to make ends meet. As soon as I was old enough, I took a Saturday job working in a restaurant doing a bit of food preparation and some waitressing. To discourage customers at the end of the day, I and another Saturday girl would stand at the window pulling faces at anyone who looked as if they might be about to enter. I can’t think why the manageress decided she didn’t need me after all.<br />
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I’ve worked at a swimming pool and in a make-up factory, I was nearly run over by the actor Patrick Macnee when I was working as a chambermaid (I was emptying a bucket and he was reversing his Rolls Royce), and the first year I delivered the Christmas post I got bitten by a dog. I’ve crunched numbers for Colman’s, earned a crust in a baker’s, cleaned houses that were already clean - and some that most definitely weren’t - and, when my children were small, I took in so much ironing I could tell a man’s shirt collar size at a glance. </div>
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There were many years of conventional office jobs too, but all I ever wanted to do was write. My two daughters were grown up when I fulfilled my dream of having a novel published and I’d lost my dad to pancreatic cancer by then, although I can imagine how pleased he would have been for me. As for all the strange and bizarre jobs which helped me to keep my head above water… well, no material’s ever wasted for a writer!</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Office job years. No, I wasn't actually working as a cowboy.</td></tr>
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<b>A CONVENIENT MARRIAGE by Jeevani Charika </b></div>
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It was the perfect marriage… until they fell in love.</div>
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Chaya is a young woman torn between her duty to family and her life in the UK. While her traditional Sri Lankan parents want her to settle down into marriage, what they don’t know is that Chaya has turned away the one true love of her life, Noah, terrified of their disapproval. <br />
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Gimhana is hiding his sexuality from his family. It’s easy enough to pretend he’s straight when he lives half a world away in the UK. But it’s getting harder and harder to turn down the potential brides his parents keep finding for him.<br />
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When Chaya and Gimhana meet, a marriage of convenience seems like the perfect solution to their problems. Together they have everything - friendship, stability and their parents’ approval. But when both Chaya and Gimhana find themselves falling in love outside of their marriage, they’re left with an impossible decision – risk everything they’ve built together, or finally follow their heart? </div>
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Buy link: <a href="https://books2read.com/AConvenientMarriage">HERE</a></b><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8666908446822278106.post-73062141369057234402019-11-03T07:32:00.000-08:002019-11-03T07:32:17.493-08:00Dystopia. And Margaret Atwood.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b>Shortly after leaving Aberystwyth</b>, a disembodied voice announces that our train, which is already moving very slowly, will be held between stations for 20 minutes until we can proceed. Around the same time, I receive messages from Lily, who is travelling from Cardiff, and Rose, who’s coming up from Keynsham, that their trains have been cancelled. Time is already ticking on our long-awaited trip to hear Margaret Atwood in conversation at Birmingham Symphony Hall. As Lily struggles to board an overcrowded train, the middle-class family behind her yell at her to ‘just get on the f*cking train!’. Rose’s train is similarly packed. She is heavily pregnant but no one blinks, let alone offers her seat, so she is forced to stand for an hour and a half. When we eventually meet up at Birmingham New Street, we’re all frazzled and half the afternoon has gone.<br /> <br /><b> A pre-theatre dinner</b> at Côte provides us with a calm interlude and the chance for a proper catch-up before we make the short walk to Birmingham Symphony Hall. We’re absolutely thrilled with our seats in the stalls just four rows away from the very chair where Margaret Atwood will be sitting. Unfortunately not everyone is happy; some very entitled folks try - unsuccessfully - to evict the couple sitting behind us on the grounds they are sitting in ‘their’ seats. The couple behind us point out to the other folks that their tickets have a ‘1’ before the C which means they are upstairs. The entitled folks are having none of it, but eventually retreat in a huff. It’s just the first of many squabbles breaking out around us about who should be sitting where… it’s not difficult, people, the trick is to match the numbers and letters on your tickets to the ones on the rows and chairs in the theatre. Simple.<br /><br /><div>
<b>The evening is formed of two parts;</b> during the first half the interviewer, novelist Irenson Iseghohi-Okojie, talks to Margaret Atwood about her work and career and, for the second half, the audience listen to answers to their pre-tweeted questions. Margaret Atwood is an absolute delight; warm, witty, generous and expansive, however, Lily, Rose and I think there’s a bit of a missed opportunity for deeper exploration. I have to admit to rolling my eyes at the question, ‘where do you get your ideas from?’, to which Margaret Atwood’s initial response - said with a mischievous smile, as she mimes taking a sheet of paper - is ‘from the Ideas Man standing behind me’. Scenes, voices and images rather than ideas, she says, are what come to her. World building has its foundation in historical research and first thoughts may take years, decades even, to come to fruition. I take heart from her advice to aspiring writers to write as if no one is watching, ‘write anything,’ she says, ‘no one will know!’<br /><b><br /></b></div>
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<b>About the bleak, dystopian futures </b>portrayed in her novels, Margaret Atwood simply points out that these are not blueprints; we have a choice about the society in which we wish to live. Nevertheless when, for our return journeys the next day, Rose, Lily and I arrive to find Birmingham New Street station in total chaos, it feels like a scene from an Atwood novel or, perhaps, one of Hieronymus Bosch’s more hellish visions. Trains are delayed, cancelled or stuck on platforms and there are armed police in all directions. Eventually the girls and I pile on the one train to Cardiff as it’s our best bet. Five and half hours later, I make it through my front door.</div>
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<br /><b> The next day,</b> I get a message from Lily to say that the parcel with a customised running medal I ordered for Bee to mark her first parkrun has been delivered…. Except some kind soul has removed the medal leaving only the ribbon. Three cheers then and many thanks to Trophy Store UK not only for sending out an immediate replacement but for helping to restore my faith in human nature.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2