Greece is the way I’m feeling

I will be co-leading a programme of workshops this year, which will help women set and achieve some goals, in a supportive and accountable context. I went to a BOLD Goals workshop in Oxford the year that my life imploded and it really helped me identify some important areas of my life that were just not right. Mostly it was work and location, and the workshop made me think about what I did want instead. Eight months later and I had jumped ship from my horrible, toxic job and moved north to the house I bought. During the session itself, I hadn’t see a way forward. But I was readier to seize the opportunity that came along because I’d already put some effort in to visualise what I did want.

So kick off for the workshops is Monday, and I’m looking forward to it. However, I did realise that I probs need some goals of my own to take to the party.

First up has to be getting through my Greek GCSE in May/June this year. I started Greek in October with a self-imposed stretch target of hitting GCSE within the year, because I just can’t see how it could possibly take two years. I’m on track but it’s going to take some effort. So that’s my top priority and Wednesday evenings are sacrosanct to my hour with my tutor.

Next up is the perennial ‘what am I going to do to get my arse off the sofa?’ Heavy sigh. To counter my own laziness, I’ve registered for a MacMillan 26 mile sponsored walk in the Peak District in July. This means I’ll have to get out to the Peaks for training walks, because (a) I can’t walk 26 miles without training and (b) there’s no point training not in the Peaks or the topography will break me on the day. And, of course, registering and having to get sponsorship money means I can’t back out, so I have neatly trapped myself with that one. I’m a genius. I hate me.

That seems like quite enough for the first half of the year, given that the thought of regularly losing entire weekend days to not being in the house provokes slight panic. But what of the second half?

I have a half-formed thought about a structured reading programme. I’ve read a bit of and about Greek philosophy recently, and I’ve also just started listening to the Philosophize This podcast. So far, it’s scampered from the Pre-Socratics to Aristotle, and really, it’s beyond time I read Plato and made sense of it. I’ve joined the Hellenic Society, which gets me a library card for UCL’s Classics Library and access to JSTOR. Even better, it’s a lending library (up yours, Bodleian).

All the pieces of the puzzle are there. Usually, it’s the self-discipline that’s lacking. Maybe I can channel a bit of Aristotle and add some purpose to my life?

 

 

 

New year, same me

Since this was just Other Christmas and I couldn’t be bothered, it was a straight week off work. I didn’t really speak to anyone and I minimised all that leaving the house nonsense. I read a bunch of books and watched all the Indiana Jones movies and drank pots of coffee and slept. The cats were around a lot. It was great and I was very calm and relaxed by the end of it.

Christmas reading roundup (which was not hugely successful because there wasn’t much that I loved amid all this.)

Where the Crawdads Sing – Delia Owens.  Meh. Thought this was going to be more of a detective novel but it was just a romance. I think the setting was supposed to make it really unusual but it didn’t really gel for me.

Lake Success – Gary Shteyngart. Meh. Ramblings of a middle aged fuck up who has just left his wife and severely autistic son in pursuit of a fantasy about his college girlfriend. Mildly amusing but difficult to get over the fact that the main character is such a complete, self-centred dick. Thank goodness his wife doesn’t take him back but does take him for a lot of money. A lot. And then goes on to have a very nice life.

The Name of the Rose – Umberto Eco. Because, I watched about 20 minutes of the TV adaptation and then gave up.

The Ingenious Language: Nine Epic Reason to Love Greek – Andrea Marcolongo. You are so right, Andrea! And I do love Greek! This was the best of my Daunt’s haul, and something I’ll get back to when my Greek has advanced further along from basic.

The Glass Woman – Caroline Lea. 17th century Iceland, woman marries comparatively wealthy stranger so that her mother gets food and fuel. But what really happened to his previous wife? And why won’t her husband let her in the loft? This was billed as a thriller, but I never had any sense of suspense and I didn’t really care what happened to the characters. The setting and the time period was really interesting, though.

Happiness, As Such – Natalia Ginzburg. A nice, epistolary novel, with everyone worried about the prodigal son who has been allowed to grow up being completely self-centred and aimless. The relationships are beautifully drawn.

Sadly, I was back at work on 30th, although working from home so I didn’t have to get up the full 2 hours earlier than I had been. Shudder. Still, when midway through the morning Charlie came in and ate the robin he’d caught, it was a pretty clear sign that the festive period was over. When I did make it into the office, everyone at work was in much the same state of whatthefuckment and sidled off on New Year’s Eve anywhere from lunchtime onwards.

I partied hard by listening to the Backlisted podcast episode about Venetia, and then going to bed and re-reading Venetia. I was just checking, but yes, Damerel is still my favourite.

My main plan for 2020 is to sit my Greek GCSE in May/June. To which end, I need a proper chat with my tutor about how we spend my one hour of tutorial time a week most effectively. I’m thinking it’s time to start reading the set texts, which are Herodotus (yay!) and Euripides’ Electra (double yay!), while I work through the rest of the grammar in my own time. I had a quick look at Electra and it’s bloody hard, but take a language with no set word order and play around with it for metrical effect and ta da! That’s what you get. Anyway, as it’s only GCSE there are copious notes on every line so you barely have to translate anything yourself really.

For now, I’m re-reading Dracula because I got 14 minutes through the new Gatiss/Moffatt adaptation and gave up. On audio, I’m just finishing up Three Women by Lisa Taddeo, which I’ve found sort of compellingly tedious and occasionally identifiable. Really, I’m just in a holding pattern, waiting for the new Hilary Mantel to land in March and Blue Moon to hit pb in April. Should I read, Ducks, Newburyport?

Forest Christmas

I’ve had Christmas already this year. I met up with my sister and her husband, my new nephew (Gus the Poodle) and my niece (Ruby the Golden Doodle), in a cabin in the Forest of Dean. And we had a jolly nice Christmas.

Now, I don’t know what that last sentence conveys to you, but fuck me, people are having a hard time getting their heads around this extremely simple concept. I’ll grant that there’s a more traditional date that was chosen arbitrarily a few years back, but there are also other festivals that shift. No one says ‘Easter in March isn’t really Easter, is it?’

Despite which, it seems that Christmas is so effectively tied to December 25 that people absolutely cannot fathom that it could happen at any other time. To the point that they are almost, almost affronted.  I’m now so fed up of explaining and justifying that I’m simply not going to bother.

Sample conversation #1

‘So did you have presents?’

‘Yes, it was Christmas.’

‘What about a tree?’

‘Yes, because it was Christmas.’

‘What about…’

‘Look, we had presents, and decorations, and Christmas music, and a roast dinner, and we watched Die Hard! Because it was Christmas!’

Blank look.

Sample conversation #2

‘When did you have Christmas?’

‘Last week.’

‘So more like Thanksgiving then.’

‘No, it was Christmas.’

‘What do you mean, you had Christmas?’

‘I mean, we did all the stuff you do for Christmas. Because it was Christmas.’

‘What are you going to do at Christmas?’

‘Nothing, because I already did Christmas.’

In some respects, it’s a fascinating insight, first into how difficult people can find it to break what they seem to regard as hard-coded rules. If Christmas is one, are there loads of others that I don’t know about as well?

Secondly, the more specific questions pinpoint what defines Christmas for one’s interrogator. Sprouts are a key signifier; Die Hard is definitely up there too. A couple of people mentioned the queen’s speech, which I have never watched anyway, or midnight carol services. Which I don’t attend.

I actually was thinking about sort of doing Christmas again, and then I thought, why? I had a lovely Christmas. I don’t need two of them. I still have to get some presents, and I’m going to see the stage show of White Christmas so that seems plenty. But there’s stuff that’s just for me, like a tree or fancy bits of food, that is simply unnecessary. So I gave the money to charity instead. As the Other Christmas build up really gets going, I’m finding myself relieved at the amount of tasks I don’t have to bother with and the volume of thinking that I don’t have to do.

We’re thinking of making Forest Christmas a regular thing. It’s an appealing thought, and not only because it involves dog walking and copious amounts of champagne being drunk in a hot tub. It’s  a ‘Get out of Christmas hysteria’ free card, while still allowing me to take a week off when the rest of the country does Other Christmas. Forest Christmas for the win!

What a difference a year makes

365 little days. Although, it’s actually been longer than a year that I’ve been in my little house now, and my second Christmas is coming up fast. I know, I know, it’s early for the C word. Even more bizarrely, I’m actually doing Christmas next week. But I’ll get to that.

So, let’s check in shall we? How y’all doin’? Is there flooding near you? I hope you’re dry and safe. The rain has seemed endless here and although I fortuitously chose a house on high enough ground not to be at risk, the weather has been ceaselessly vile for weeks. Ick.

Here at Musings Towers, first things first. The cats are spoilt, contented moggies. Charlie is depredating the local wildlife to an almost embarrassing extent. Belle sleeps and is fluffy. They continue to be excellent at being cats, bless their paws and whiskers.

I have been in my job for almost 8 months and I still like it, and it’s going well. I’m through the probationary period, about which my rational brain wasn’t worried and my anxiety brain most definitely was. Now that the mornings are dark, I really wish I didn’t have to get up so early, because I know I felt much better last year when I fell into my body’s natural sleep patterns. But, while I loved the flexibility and the rarely leaving the house aspects of being self-employed, I hated the hustle. Hello, regular pay check and hello 6am.

I’ve done a few bits around the house, most importantly the dressing room storage is in. I still need more space for, erm, shoes and I have a Lloyd Loom ottoman and matching chair to refurbish to contribute to the room. That will be my first foray into re-upholstering, and it’s entirely likely to end as a total fuck up that I have to pay someone to sort out. But hey, may as well give it a go.

The realities of home ownership are sinking in. There are tiles on the roof that need replacing, and apparently some of the rendering is cement not lime and so liable to absorbing water and then flaking away. Next spring I’ll need to do something about that. My fridge grows icebergs and I don’t know why. Storage heaters are absolutely fucking useless and yet cost a fortune to run. There doesn’t seem to be a grown up around to sort out any of this, so I think it’s going to have to be me. Huh.

Single life continues to be awesome. I really like living a life unseen. It is such a relief not to have to be considerate. The small joy of not having to plan, coordinate, organise with another person is so addictive that even when I could choose company, I mostly don’t.

Occasionally I think about dating but I am totally bemused by the thought. Put on nice clothes? Leave the house? Feign interest for quite possibly hours? I can’t see what I’d get in return, when what I actually want is someone to help with life admin (a PA), someone to do some driving so I don’t have to (a chauffeur) and good company for dinner (a book). On the whole, I’ll keep the status quo, which is going to be pretty easy unless Tom Hiddleston actually rocks up to my front door.

I’m (re)learning Ancient Greek! My own prioritisation somewhat amuses me. I’d have liked a cleaner, couldn’t justify the cost. Regular manicures? Nope, too expensive. Tutor for Greek? I’ll just eat less, cancel Netflix and never go to the cinema! I love Greek, though, I’m a couple of months in and targeting GCSE next year. It’s so absorbing that if anything I have to stop myself getting too far ahead and bombarding my tutor with work to mark. I’ve bought the compendium of set texts so I think I might start sneakily working through them if I can. Heh heh heh.

As for doing Christmas next week, I’ll be meeting up with my sister and her husband and their dogs at cabin in a forest. The last time we were all at a cabin in a forest, when we were in the hot tub and onto the second bottle of champagne, we somehow decided that Christmas in November would be A Good Thing. So that’s what we are doing. I will then have actual Christmas at home, with the cats. Win all round.

 

Where the gargoyles play

It is a dear friend’s 40th birthday celebrations this weekend. I know. 40. She’s barely out of short trousers. An evening of conviviality is planned, after which a group will be retiring to an Airbnb. I will be retiring to a one-woman tent, because there’s a limit to my appreciation of conviviality and it’s about four hours. Which I think will be stretched to six this evening but I already settled my get away plan because I shall drive. This seems a better idea than clip-clopping around Oxford on my own in search of a cab, and I don’t Uber because, well, that company is dodgy as fuck.

I did have my own Airbnb booked (see how Airbnb has become the brand name for B&Bs, like Bic used to be for pens?), in a nice little canal boat somewhere in Jericho. They suffered an arson attack so had to cancel my reservation, which is the least of the concerns in that scenario. Who sets fire to a boat? Bastards. Anyway, I don’t know if you have checked the price of accommodation in Oxford during the summer, but it’s ridiculous. I mean, the Malmaison, which I think we can agree you might go to £150 on for a special occasion and if it was a particularly nice Mal, charges £400. Pull the other one, mate, it’s got tourists on.

Hence, I am camping, for £20 a night. My friend’s horror at this prospect is matched only by my horror at the thought of sharing a 3-bed house with 9 people. We have tacitly agreed to disagree, each confirmed in their own conviction that the other is a bit nuts. But we love them anyway.

I thought I’d get down early, get the tent set up and spend a few tranquil hours wandering the ole dreamin’ spires and hoping for a sighting of Peter Whimsey. Then I remembered. I don’t miss Oxford. Ms Just Turning 40 and I had this conversation, because both of us lived there for years and moved away, and really only remember the horrible inconveniences. The city is undoubtedly beautiful but only at dead of night or very early in the morning, when the gargoyles climb down to play and before all the bloody tourists wake the poor spires from their only-too-rare opportunities to dream. One day, they will set the gargoyles on the tourists and then we’ll see a proper Dr Who Christmas Special.

Now, I do have to go to Blackwells. Genuinely, because the new Mick Herron is out and he did a signing and I couldn’t make it and tweeted my sadness and Blackwells said they could get me a signed copy and keep it for me. And they did, because a bookseller’s word is his ‘Have you seen this new edition of Bond?’ Admittedly, that is only Baby Blackwells in Westgate but it’s also only a hop and skip to the mothership. And I have 6 inches of space on the TBR shelf (add own joke here about the most pleasure a woman can get from 6 inches), if we don’t count the three books that arrived from Blackwells yesterday, which we don’t. Because… we don’t want to.

So my plan is basically to yomp through town, collect books, retire to my tent with my preciouses, and NOT start reading the Herron or I’ll be late for dinner. At some point I have to squidge into a dress and heels and chuck mascara at my face, but that’s all of 10 minutes.

Right then. I’m off to pack the cafetière.

 

 

In which I’m going to see The Cure

And I can tell you that the last time I said that was sometime in the early 90s. A tale to thee I will unfold.

Glastonbury, 2019. No, I wasn’t there and I’d paid precisely zero attention to the line up as I assumed it was all people I’d never heard of. As was very much the case when I actually did attend Glastonbury, which was also sometime in the early 90s. But at some point during Glastonbury weekend it came to my attention that the The Cure were playing. Suddenly awash with nostalgia I decided a pleasant way to round off the weekend would be to tuck myself up in bed, with my laptop and a pot of tea, and watch their set.

In fact, I missed the first 20 minutes, but when I did start watching, Robert Smith sounded exactly the same. Exactly. Oh my god. I’m not very good with memories. My own memory is rubbish and I don’t connect at all with photos. Music can be the one thing that pulls me back in time, and that set worked a treat. I started searching for tour dates, and saw Glasgow in August. Hmm.

Then my phone told me I’d got a LinkedIn message, which was from an old school friend.  I would conservatively estimate that it’s been at least 10 years since we were last in touch. No one did anything wrong, we just didn’t maintain contact. The years slipped by, who knows if the contact info is even up to date? You know how it goes. But now she was watching The Cure play at Glastonbury, and asking me if I remembered seeing them way back when, and did I know they were playing in Glasgow in August, and did I want to go?

Hell, yes.

She bought tickets. I booked accommodation. We’re meeting in Glasgow in August.

In shock news to no one, we’re not 20 any more. We’re both nearer 50 than any other significant number and we may have nothing in common. I don’t know if nostalgia and an ongoing appreciation for Just Like Heaven is enough to get us through a weekend. I don’t know that it matters. Our moment could have been when we were both, separately, watching the BBC coverage of Glastonbury and feeling the years roll back.

And, we’re back

Hello? Hello? Is this thing on?

So, yeah. I thought I was done but maybe I’m not. That was a good break, but I kept thinking ‘I should write a blog post about that’, and then remembering that I don’t do that any more. Then I had a three month stint of being paid for my writing via a ton of articles I wrote for a project that in the end didn’t happen but whatevs, I got all the money anyway and some stuff got published on a corporate blog somewheres on the interwebs.

In the midst of that, I got a new, full time job that doesn’t require a shitty commute or stupid hours and lo! I’m home before 6pm on week nights. Oh, and it’s a good job paying a proper salary and the company seems really nice. Huh.

And I had all my hair cut off, and did some decorating and read some books and listened to some audiobooks, and Charlie has so far left three dead rabbits under the bed. I’m going to start storing stuff there just to stop him using it as a larder.

I made a sourdough starter and my sourdough isn’t the greatest but it’s ok. Loaves are rising as I type, and will continue to rise overnight until I bake them before I go to a yoga workshop in the morning.

I’m still single. It’s still fucking awesome. John Wick 3 was ok, better than 2, not as good as 1. I need to see Avengers Endgame again and I meant to see Rocketman this evening but then I painted my fence with teak oil, rewarded myself with wine and ordered a takeaway instead.

I’m reading a book about otters, and listening to Wakenhyrst by Michelle Paver and I simply cannot find the right pair of black shoes.

I think we’re up to date now. Did you miss me?