Seems fitting that Guy Fawkes night falls during Cop26. I’m inspired by women leading the way. Just hope that the men who try to crowd out their voices realise the violence yet in store if they don’t shut the fuck up and listen and act on their words.
Our family zoom started with a chicken. My sibling held them with kindness and let her speak. With eyes wide open she held the floor until she was too hot to handle and was gently taken back outside. What a metaphor, the personal and the political.
That was funny, as I wrote that before auto correct it looked more like mepore – a dressing used to dress wounds and that’s what we see, just a band aid as some might call it. A sticking plaster rather than meaningful change. Oh here I am writing into the dark once again.
I’ve got things to say that are yet to be said, funny that even I didn’t know I had them in me to say until I opened my eyes by the books that I read. The pile of books by my bed is backing up, the fatigue gets in the way. Yesterday, exhausted and on the sofa. But we watched Little. (See link if you want to know more https://www.imdb.com/title/tt8085790/ )
My sibling made a face when talking about the village bonfire so I questioned more. Too many bangers, a waste of money, too many fireworks. They enjoyed the bonfire and recollected indoor fireworks and open candles on a live tree despite the strict health and safety laws, when it comes to tradition all that out of the window it seems. We wondered about the poor horses in the field near the after party, made me think of someone who’d been kept awake.
There’d be indoor fireworks from Switzerland when I was a child, a bomb exploding chimney sweeps across the room. I was scared by the bang but wide eyed at the beautiful colours and fizz of the sparklers. Can’t imagine how she managed to bring them on the plane, a different world back then. Perhaps they were from when she came by boat? How they were seen as harmless fun, yet some tell us a different story. Reminiscent of deadly violence. Are there quiet ones without the pollution? Something else?
We talked about how we made a guy. Mum wouldn’t let them beg so wasn’t allowed to do “Penny for the Guy” unlike most of the children. The time distance from their childhood to mine so apparent, during my life time I’ve seen how we’ve left celebrating Guy Fawkes in favour of Halloween. They stuffed their Guy with leaves. I’d forgotten that, that and old newspaper. Only this week we laughed at how there was an assumption I should remember, despite not having been born!
The Autumn leaves are beautiful just now. They lay in piles on the new footpath. All their different colours.
Our corner shop, Ryman’s, sold fireworks. I reminisced at the joy of visiting for sweets. The highlight of any week. They rolled their eyes, don’t we know it. You don’t have to tell us.
They recounted how I’d only let them hold one finger if they took me to the sweetshop, such was the lack of trust. Because I didn’t know them, all except one left home before I was even born. How I used to tell them I’d had interesting conversations with Mrs Ryman but I don’t remember and I don’t know what they mean. The conversation moved along. But I do remember the dib dabs and the jamboree bags with little toys, little plastic bunkbeds were my favourite, you could stack them higher and higher until they toppled over, that and the too expensive coloured sugar mice. Jamaican rum chocolate for Dad and packets of crisps for 10p
They said how Grandad used to say to the children with their guy, knowing that some of them were just a child dressed up. “I’ll give you 6pence if I can hit him with a stick.” Sounds like “humour”, just like what is called “banter”. Such was the normalisation of violence in those days…these days…
We were talking this week on twitter about racism and also childhood violence. A friend who is Muslim reported a crime and was told she would be added to some database despite her being the victim. Violence upon violence and then again there’s football. I don’t understand why the football clubs don’t pack up and go home when their footballers face continuing violence. We’re shown our contempt of public health by those who say they lead the way. Perhaps football clubs will have the balls?
I remember with my eldest I was driving along and they some how kept pulling my seatbelt so I hit them on their hand. He was only little. At that stage when they know how to escape their seatbelt, when not having enough hands to force them into their car seat enough to fray anyone’s nerves. One of those kinds of days. The anguish felt by all. Just another reason to slow down, take stock. I thought I’d add a photo of our local bus here just because mine used to love a bus ride, so exciting. We’d sit at the top and pretend to be the driver.
I remember shutting myself in the bathroom when it all got too much. Can’t count how many times I shouted into a towel. “Oh just fuck off”. Amazing what that does, how it allows the empathy to flood back in. Reminds me how I taught that little one to bang his pillow, beat it up if their anger needed release. It’s hard being three.
I remember going to the supermarket, a full on tantrum about something, can’t remember what it was. Don’t remember ever having that with the other one. So embarrassing, worse when people stare, enough to get you hot and bothered.
This weeks has been more bull shit with Adult social care, at least there was a GP visit. A first covid vaccination, a thinking skills assessment done, a university graduation, a tune written, lots to be thankful for but I can’t help but wonder why the boy has taken his assessment in Karate but the girl who has been doing it for longer hasn’t. Why is that I wonder.
I marvel at the excellent level of concentration. We used to put it down to eating fish, I don’t know where that came from. I’d watch as each time they learnt something new they’d need to take a restorative nap, consolidate that learning. Or that’s how it was for mine when they were little.
Flowers to celebrate progress and hard work, a gardening magazine.
Mint sauce and soup made, another beetroot wellington that came out much better than expected even with wholemeal flour and yes the beetroot turned my wee red, not quite as dramatic as the food colouring from the black icing that gave grandma such a fright all those years ago, with the luminous poo, trees planted.
A cherry, a lemon, though the wallaby ate the leaves, three fig trees from an unpromising cutting, apricot, peach.
Apparently people here used to eat so many peaches on the beach that they’d throw their stones up into the cliffs and little peach trees would sprout. Guess they didn’t survive as I don’t remember any peach trees here and I don’t know what they do to them these days but every peach I’ve had here doesn’t taste anything like the peaches back then or when I’ve had them overseas. Same with mangoes. We laugh how the best place to eat a mango is in the bath!
Passion fruit is growing well we’re told. The first time I ever had it was at my siblings house. Where they used to live before climate change forced them to move.
Pear
The blue tongue lizard has tucked into the strawberries and they’re just waiting for the blueberries and kiwi to ripen.
That cold sore so slow to heal, cracking each time I smile. Nothing much working.