Today is Swan Day

Some days, it's difficult to get out of bed.  That's not strictly true.  Some days it's difficult to stay out of bed.  The temptation to go back and pull a sheet over your head, read a book, play an online game, or just think random thoughts is too much.

"Are you working today?" I sent a text to a friend.  If I arranged to meet her there would be a reason to get out and stay out.  I had promised myself that I would clean the patio and ring the National Trust about the cheque they had sent in my Dad's name but neither of those things felt like a good enough reason to stay out of bed.

We met and then I walked. Walking and breathing are wonderful things. Never quite sure what route I'm going to take, or how long it might take me to get home is very freeing.  It's nice to feel like nothing matters.  The sky is blue, the ground is under your feet, there are no elephants to battle and there are birds everywhere. 

I walked along the canal, noticing today's terrible golfers when I saw something ahead of me on the path.  It looked like a big pillow.  I kept walking and as I got closer I could see it was a swan.  A swan on the path. Now, a swan isn't a tiger and so there is no need to run away but I did feel my breathing quicken.  The little voice in my head said, "Swans are bolshy. It could break your arm."
I breathed.  Have I mentioned that breathing is good? I got close and the swan plucked a feather from behind its wing and chucked it at me.

"Excuse me," I said, "What did you do that for?"
"Well, you know, white feathers, angels, good luck and stuff."
"Don't be silly," I said, "You know I don't believe in all that and it's clearly not an angel's feather because I saw you pull it out of your back."
The swan pouted.  Yes, I know! I didn't know swans could pout either.
"Today is swan day, today is swan day, today is swan day, everybody's happy, well I should say," sang the swan.
"Really?" I asked, "I was hoping it was going to be something more exotic."
"More exotic that a swan?" the swan said, incredulous at the idea.
"I was hoping for a kingfisher," I told her.
She laughed.  "You'll never see a kingfisher, you can't sit still for long enough."
She had a point.
"Maybe down by the falls but I think you'll find it's swan day down there too."
I was disappointed. I didn't want it to be swan day.
"What does swan day even mean?" I asked.
"Well, you know what they say about swans don't you?"
"Break your arm as soon as look at you?" I replied
"No, not that," she said. "But I might if you don't think about it." She winked.
I shrugged.  There are loads of myths about swans.  There's the one about the eight sisters, the idea that they are shape shifters between human and swan form being common. They represent love and fidelity, mating for life and are a symbol of light.  The ancient Greeks thought the swan represented the muses.
"I'm not going to have to write poetry, am I?" I asked, thinking of the Greeks.
"Don't make me laugh," the swan honked, "You are terrible at rhyming. You're not going to get it are you?"
I confessed that I didn't think I was.
"You know, how we look all calm on top but underneath we're paddling like f..."
"Hey," I interrupted "Careful! I've been told off for swearing in the blog before.  People don't like it."
The swan stretched her neck, re-positioned it into a question mark and fixed me with a look of contempt that shot straight down her bill.
"paddling like fury underneath."
"Oh yes, I know that one."
"Well, it's a myth. We have big fat feet and we push and glide.  We don't go very far and we are just as laid back as we look.  You should try it."
"You mean you're not working hard all the time?"
"Of course not," she snapped, "You humans, always looking for an excuse to be busy. If you want to be a swan you need to glide and take a break."
I started to walk away, wondering if I might see a kingfisher by the falls.
"There once was an ugly duckling...." the swan sang.
I looked on the canal and saw her five babies.
"They're not ugly," I shouted back, "taking a break then are you?"
"Be more swan," she shouted in reply.

She was right, it was swan day by the falls too. Not a kingfisher in sight.  Just swans gliding and paddling up the slope, sucking tasty morsels out of the weed. I sat by the canal and thought what it might be like to be more swan but my legs were too restless to keep it up for long. Just as I was getting up the swan flew over the top of me.
"Ha! Knew it!" she called, "Far too human to be swan."

Barcelona Birds

It was my fault.

It's always my fault.

"I can't talk to anyone," I sobbed at the Long Suffering Husband, "I just want to run away."

The LSH is a very nice man, although, at times, rather literal and that is how I found myself on the way  to Barcelona for a long weekend.  If you are going to run, it might as well be to somewhere nice and sunny and if you can't talk to anyone, you might as well go to a country that speaks a language where you only know one word.* Spanish has always been a mystery to me and I'll never work out the phonics of the letter c.

There were challenges.  Travelling when you are anxious is tricky, as are crowds, noise and bizarrely, churches. However, as walking, while looking at my feet or the sky and noticing bird have been my saviours, my view of Barcelona was unique.

I can't tell you about the Segrada Familia (except that there are doves and a bassoonist carved on the outside), the cathedral, the beach or any of the bars but I if you want to know about the trees, pavements and birds of the Catalan capital then I'm your woman.

The birds were the first thing I noticed.  They sounded different. Noisier, faster in their chatter than British birds.  They were somewhere hidden in the trees lining the streets.  Trees that burst with loud colours. No muted pink and white blossom of English trees.  The trees in Barcelona were proud and loud. Bright orange flowers of the Tipu tree, with it's pea-like leaves competed with the regal purple of the Jacarandas.  The flowers fell and covered the pavement stone carved with child-like flowers.

There were the usual sparrows (but bigger and noisier) and pigeons (there are pigeons everywhere) but there were also Swallows  and the larger paler Alpine Swifts diving, gliding and swooping, even in the heat of the midday sun, shouting for everyone to admire their acrobatic feats.

"One swallow doesn't make a summer," I muttered.
The LSH thought that Summer wasn't in doubt.  "Swifts flying high, weather staying dry." I replied.
He seemed relieved, as we do normally get rain when we go away.
They were making a lot of noise.
"It can't all be coming from the swallows," I said to explain why I kept stopping and looking up at the trees. "All that noise."

Then we saw them.  Bright green, chattering parakeets, with white faces.  Once you have seen them they are everywhere and the longer you are in Barcelona the less bothered by you they are. It's a good job we were only there for a long weekend, or I would have had a Monk Parakeet riding on my shoulder, learning English. These birds are thriving.  The descendants of escaped pets from the 1970s there are now over 10,000 of them.
"Look, there's a falcon!" The LSH had spotted a Peregrine hovering, hoping for a small bright green bird for tea. The authorities had introduced them to keep the numbers of parakeets down.  I'm not sure it's working and I'm glad.  I became quite fond of those bright green birds. Much better than pigeons.  In a flock of pigeons, you should always choose to be a parakeet.

At Park Guell, (where Gaudi lived and played) even the pigeons are decorated.

"Is there anything you want to see?" The LSH thrust the guidebook at me, hoping I might want to follow the tourist trail.
"There is a statue called woman and bird, I think we should see that."

We looked at it from several angles.

"Is it me, or does that look like a penis?" I asked.

The LSH agreed that he couldn't see a woman or a bird.

Here are the rest of my holiday snaps.

*The only Spanish word I know is sacapuntas, which means pencil sharpener (not pencil case, as my daughter told me.)  It is a word I kept hearing while the LSH was watching football. Spanish people apparently shout "pencil sharpener!" when they get excited.

(Who said, my one word wouldn't come in handy?)

Seagull day

Yesterday morning the sky was grey and there was a feeling of storm in the air. I opened the door and the dog said, “I’m not sure about this. You know how much I hate rain. Can we stay close to home?”
I agreed. It was the kind of day where you can smell the seaweed. Mackerel Sky, mackerel sky, not long wet and not long dry. Fish scales in the clouds.

I wondered what day it was. There was no one at home so it couldn’t be a Saturday or Sunday but a weekend felt close. Keeping track of days has become tricky. If the day before had been blackbird day I wondered what bird day this would be. I didn’t have to wait long to find out.

Some days, when there’s a storm at sea and the air smells of fish the sky is filled with squawking and flapping grey wings. This doesn’t happen often. Our dawn chorus isn’t full of  the laughing, barking and cackling that you get at proper seaside towns. Gulls are loud at 3am.

Yesterday was seagull day.

They were everywhere; floating, like tissues tossed in the breeze. Warning of impending doom; the trapped souls of sailors, screaming and swooping.

We stayed close to home, walking along the sea wall, through the park, along the footpaths and into town. The dog hid behind a bollard as we passed the Emporium, “We can’t walk past,” he said, “They love me in there. They give me biscuits.” I refused his request because..well... people but if I had known the trauma he was about to suffer I would have capitulated.



We walked further up the high street, passed Costa and the independent boutiques that sell clothes I never buy and up to the charity shops. The cancer research shop has blue painted windows with a wide low sill, where toddlers sit waiting for their mums to finish chatting. Yesterday, there was a chip on the ledge that the dog didn’t spot but a seagull did. As we walked past the seagull dived, landed on the dog’s back, grabbed the chip and flew off. Yes, that’s right. A seagull landed on my dog. Actually put both talloned feet on his fury back. It happened very fast, not giving the dog time to bark or even give a warning growl but just to leave him shocked and shaking. When he recovered he said, “I can’t believe I missed that chip.”

Since I have been confessing my madness and my obsession, in grief, with birds, friends have been sending me photographs, paintings, poems, stories and songs that have been inspired by these feathered creatures. It’s like a condolence, a “I’m sad with you and here are the birds I’ve noticed.”
I have enormous faith that people really want to help when you are lost and grieving but often don’t know what to do. Sometimes the grief stricken can get cross and snappy with their feeble attempts wondering why they are being asked so many questions. There really is no answer to, “Are you alright?” So much better to get a photo of nesting swallows, a beautiful original song about magpies, or a gif of the Pope dressed as a flamingo.

On Seagull day, one of my friends sent me a message. She had a bird story. She is moving to run a guesthouse in a place with Seagulls the size of small dogs and as she was putting the last of the bread in the garden for the birds about sixty seagulls (a bird she, luckily, loves the sound of - wait until 3am   at the seaside and then tell me you still love them.) came to eat. She felt as though they were saying goodbye and wishing her luck on her journey. I’ve always thought that the symbolism of the seagull is about the journey. This idea probably comes from Richard Bach’s beautiful book, Jonathan Livingstone Seagull. “Why is it so hard for you to be one of the flock?” This story is a metaphor for taking one’s own journey and finding yourself. Grief will make you re-evaluate these things.

Blackbird

Yesterday was blackbird day. I have no idea of the actual date, or day of the week but I can tell you that it was blackbird day. Walking is still the thing I’m doing. I can see the appeal of a pilgrimage. I understand the strange people, who in grief decide to walk the whole of the UK coastal path: 6000 miles. They pretend they are raising money for charity but as Alex Ellis Roswell said on completing his 9,500 miles (he did Ireland too), “I didn’t realise it when I set off - not consciously- but I guess I was walking through my grief.” I think that’s what I’m doing but I have no intention of raising money or sleeping in a tent. Instead, I’m walking in ever decreasing circles and stopping when the dog gets to the, “That’s it! You’re going to have to drag me!” stage.

I take photos of clouds, pick wild flowers and listen for birds. Yesterday, on blackbird day, I walked 9 miles from home to Woodham Walter, Cocks Clark, Purleigh and back. I ran through wheat fields, scattering bunnies (see Theresa May, I can be naughty too, although I did stay on the footpath. I walked down country lanes that reminded me of my childhood and stopped at a pub for a fizzy water. I nosed in gardens and dodged people riding horses. During the whole walk, I was accompanied by blackbirds.

Blackbirds are underated. People forget about them because they are here all year but they are the best singers. A few years ago I had a blackbird in my garden that learnt the first bar of the Poulenc flute sonata.  The babies start with a ‘peep’ and gradually grow their range. The birds that followed me on my walk had a vast repertoire of song. One, even had a white tail.

In folklore the blackbird is an interesting creature. They symbolise reincarnation and Irish mythology they were thought to hold the souls of the recently deceased while they waited in purgatory to discover whether heaven or hell was to be their fate. Also, seeing two together or having one nest near your house is lucky.

Tit

The problem being a bit doolally bonkers is that you can get obsessed.  At the moment, it's birds.
My sister is the same.  We are watching, feeding, videoing the birds.  We both had blue tits in our bird boxes just after mum died. Don't mention the dead baby birds if you want people to think you are sane.

Today was tit day.  My blue tit returned, looking very much worse for wear, so I walked into town to buy extra bird food.

When I was in town I made a tit of myself.  I missed my opportunity to avoid someone.  Mostly, I've been scouring the horizon and if I've seen anyone I know I turn or look down.  Mostly, people ignore me.  Today, a nice lady didn't.  "Hello, how are you? I was so sorry to hear..... Are you alright?"
The hot flush started, my chest got tight and I tried to run.  Yes, I actually tried to turn and run away from her but she put her arm around me.  The thing is that I can't say how I am because I am actually bonkers and I don't want to be.  I'm not sure how this encounter ended but I'm pretty sure I made a tit of myself.

It was a relief to get home and hang the fat balls up. I also bought some nigella seeds because I thought I heard a goldfinch and am curious to see if tomorrow's blog will be about finches.

It’s all about the birds (magpies and mental health)

It has been a busy few days. There was the funeral and my daughter moved the next day. We helped. The Long Suffering Husband hired a van and my Fitbit told me that I’d done 74 flights of stairs carrying everything out of her flat. I joked that I was postponing my mental breakdown for Monday.
“I was nearly one of those annoying people who said, ‘I bet this will make the blog,’” her boyfriend said.
I had to point out that he wasn’t funny enough and even his reference to central sluts probably wasn’t going to do it.

Leicestershire is a funny place, though. There are villages that sound like they are named after masters of the hunt: Ashby-de-la Zouch, Newton Burgoland, Kirkby Mallory,  Newbold Verdon, Stoney Stanton, Broughton Astley and Dunton Bassett to name a few. The birds sound different too.
I wish Shazam worked on birdsong. Google doesn't quite have it covered at 3am, when you can't sleep and you can hear what sound like large birds shouting, "Choff, Choff."

I wasn't entirely joking about the breakdown.  People talking about their mental health has become very fashionable but it's not easy and not something I ever thought would happen to me.  "I'll be fine. I'm strong," I said to myself. I thought I'd got all the strategies in place. I walk, do yoga, drink water, eat well. I'm a breathing master and being outside, reading psychology papers and counting are my idea of fun. However, even with all known CBT strategies I've been struggling.  Woah! I can't believe I just confessed to that.
*hot flush* *deep breaths*

As soon as mum was diagnosed I saw a single Magpie on my daily walk. "One for sorrow," I muttered to myself, desperately looking round to see if I could see another.  I heard the Magpie's song in my sleep.  From the day Mum died until the funeral I didn't see one Magpie. Today, on breakdown day they are all over the place.  It seems like it's Magpie sex day.  They are in hedgerows and bushes, flapping and trilling (normally they click). I walked most of the day and they didn't stop.  Eventually, the dog made me go home.  He had spent the weekend with my sister, finishing off the funeral salmon and he was tired of waddling in the sunshine. We sat in the garden. Normally, it is his job to protect me from flying things.  He parades the perimeter barking at flies, pigeons and low flying aircraft.  Not today, though.  Today, he sat under the chair, farting, too full to move.  All of a sudden a magpie flew into me.  It actually flew into me. It's wing clipped the side of my face. One for sorrow.

Birds and Singing

Birds and Singing

Yesterday was the day of my mum’s funeral. If a day like that can ever be, it was a nice day. We held it together, were supported by friends, family and birds.

I found that I was strangely comforted by the rhythm and pattern of the religion. The vicar gave a wonderful address about love and quoted the Bible and Larkin (Phillip not Pop) and even if he refused my offer to come back for a curled up sandwich, he is a very nice man.

In the last few months, the whole religion thing has been a bit of a challenge. At school I have quietly mumbled my own slightly sweary version of Amen at the end of prayers. It’s funny how, even when you think you might be an atheist, you still ask God to send a sign.  

“I know you are a total bastard all-powerful being who could do something about human suffering but doesn’t,” I ranted when I was worried about a concert, “But the least you could do is send me a trumpet player.”  Two days later, a new member of the orchestra turned up without warning: a lovely little girl carrying a cornet in a big blue box. My sister, in a low moment walking the dog, also hoped for a sign. “A feather. No, not a feather, there are feathers everywhere. Feathers just mean dead birds. Live birds would be better.” And a robin appeared on the hedge, sang and followed her back down the lane, popping into the garden every day for peanuts and lemon drizzle cake.

After Mum died, the Robin disappeared for a while.  I looked for geese (as Mum loved geese) and my sister fretted about the baby blue tits (nature is a bitch).

As we were preparing for the funeral the robin came back. He sat with us and chatted. He had a lot to say. It’s just a shame we don’t speak Robin.

Mum was buried in the woodland area of the cemetery, everyone threw a flower in and the birds sang. 

We are a family that loves singing. Mum loved opera and Etta James, and we filled the church with music. We sang Jerusalem and Amazing Grace. 

After the service I bravely hugged and waited to accept condolences but all anyone could talk about was the organist.

“Please tell me that there’s going to be a blog about the organist?” They asked.

“Your Mum would have loved the organist.”

“I properly lost it about the organist”

I wasn’t as surprised as everyone else. The vicar had warned me, without actually warning me. 

The organ is a fiendishly difficult instrument to play and the church has a very good organist, who, according to the vicar was ‘unfortunately on holiday.’

The poor lady who had agreed to step in was clearly very nervous. There was a hesitancy to her playing that led us to be unsure of when to start singing but Jerusalem quietly passed without incident. Amazing Grace, however, was a different story. It was almost as though she had never heard the tune and found it impossible to pick the melody out from the ornamentation in the third line. People looked at each other, some laughed. The less determined gave up. I could hear my Dad’s brother helpfully belting it out. (You can take the boy out of the choir but the choirboy remains). Her timing was shocking too. At first we tried to follow her but by the last verse we finished first. 

By the end of the evening we were cheering up our Aunt with a singalong, properly channelling Mum, who taught us everything we know about singing confidently, loudly and hilariously out of tune. The robin, full of salted peanuts and Twiglets, joined us, singing his little heart out and as the last guests left the geese were going nuts in squawking song. 

“Listen to those geese.” I said to my sister. “And did you hear the robin? It’s been like a sign.”

“Yep, it’s all about the birds and the singing,” she confirmed.

It can’t be a ... without ....

Last week my daughter sent me a picture of a packet of Tunnocks Teacakes (other brands might be available but they are not relevant to this story) and asked if I could guess her plans. It was obvious.
In our house, it’s not a picnic without Tunnocks Teacakes. Why and how this happened is a mystery because although these chocolate coated marshmallows on a biscuit base are delicious they do tend to melt or get squashed.

I think this is like the NLP technique of anchoring, where you train your brain to associate an internal response with an external trigger. I trained my children to see those particular treats and think, “Picnic.”

My sister and I have been throwing all our efforts into organising the best party ever. We decided we didn’t like the term wake and the vicar’s suggestion of calling it ‘refreshments’ sounded too tame for our fun loving friends and family. “Why don’t you invite everyone back for one last party?” Mum’s neighbour suggested. We were hooked. My parents always threw the best parties. We have been shopping, gardening, cleaning, decorating the garden with fairy lights and my homemade knitted bunting. Obviously, this is all a brilliant distraction technique from thinking about The Great Elephant Wars of 2018 but as we are not mentioning the war this is a good thing. Before we had this distraction we were sitting in coffee shops making conversation with pensioners about mobility scooters and their 84 year old boyfriend. (Margaret we love you).

Yesterday, I wrote a blog about our trip to Costco and after my sister messaged me to say that we didn’t get a tent and that we forgot Twiglets (again, other brands might be available etc). I was relieved. I had been thinking that we needed those delicious marmity knobbly snacks because it’s not a party without Twiglets but my brain had the following internal dialogue:
“There aren’t any Twiglets in Costco. What are we going to do without Twiglets?”
“Well, there wouldn’t be, would there Stupid? Because giants don’t eat Twiglets.”
“That’s ok then we can get them from Tesco.”
“So, it’s all about you is it?”
“No it’s just not a party without Twiglets.”
“Says you! Don’t say anything!”
“Ok. You’re right.”

After we came clean about our mutual need for Twiglets (it is possible to obsess over the strangest things when you are not mentioning the war) the offers to bring Twiglets flooded in. We had already brought enough to last until Christmas so no one needs to bring them.

While we were shopping, I bought a couple of packets of polo mints (again, other brands... etc) because it’s not a funeral without Polos. It does have to be a Polo. This is for the times you are waiting. Sitting in the church on the hard pews, getting to the cemetery, travelling back to the house are all waiting times where you could need a distraction. My mum would fill these moments with a Polo sucking competition. Everyone pops a mint in at the same time, sticking tongues out at regular intervals to see who can keep the perfect  circle of mintiness for the longest. I did only get enough for us, so, if you are coming to the funeral, you might want to bring your own packet.

My Nan would have loved Costco

Growing up, we had two nannies: Big Nanny and Little Nanny. Little Nan belonged to my mum and was short, slim, well groomed, Welsh, wore nice shoes, shouted at the wrestling on a Saturday, made milk jelly and sniffed in disgust at almost everything my grandad did. Big Nan was almost the opposite.

I was responsible for their names and I’ve often wondered how my Dad felt, explaining to his mum that I called her big. Although, thinking about it now I know that she would have just laughed, gathered me up in her enormous bosom for a hug and agreed that she was, indeed, big. To a little girl like me, that side of the family were like jolly giants, with my Dad only appearing normal because he was the runt of the litter.

Big Nan never recovered from the war. Some people suffered shell shock, were bombed out of their houses or lost husbands but my Nan never recovered from rationing. Even into the 1980s her larder was stacked with essentials, particularly sugar.

My mum’s wonderful neighbours have taken pity on my sister and I and are catering the funeral party. Yesterday, they took us to Costco to stock up. We were both Costco virgins and a little anxious about the trip as neither of us are enthusiastic shoppers. We were also going in the morning, which was a worry. We were probably right to be concerned. My sister wandered round saying things like, “They sell tents. Shall we get a tent?” and finding bits of chicken to eat.

“It’s a shop for giants,” I thought out loud, which earned me a look from a passing couple, who were larger than average. I wasn’t looking at them, though. The trollies were huge, there were olive trees for sale in the foyer that wouldn’t look out of place on a Greek hillside, food came in huge packets, birthday cakes serve 48 people and even the Belgian buns were the size of my head. I’m not sure how effective we were at shopping. We did fill two trollies and I don’t think we bought a tent.


At one point during the shop, I think I was possessed by Big Nanny. She saw the bags of sugar. “Go on,” she said, “You’ll need those if you are going to make cake. You can never have too much sugar and just look how cheap it is. You’d almost pay that for a small bag.”
I was powerless to resist. “I would have loved Costco,” her ghostly voice whispered in my ear.

Don’t Mention the War

I have been quiet lately. No blogging. No other writing. If you texted me then I probably replied with a heart emoji. If I saw you in the distance then I dropped my eyes to the ground and scuttled past. Obviously, I have been perfectly fine but then, as I reminded my son,  I only have two states of being: perfectly fine and bloody brilliant. The problem is that I’ve just returned from The Great Elephant Wars of 2018. War is never pleasant. People who return sometimes can’t talk. It takes time.

I read Wonder. It’s a brilliant book. The English teacher has a precept of the month and gets the children to think about it. Something like, “When given the choice between being right and being kind, choose kind.” I love these little mottos, aphorisms or rules for life. Everybody does. We add pictures to them and turn them into memes.

Anyway, in Wonder the teacher asks the children to send him their own rule for life on a postcard. His address is published in the book, so I sent him mine:

“Try to laugh a little every day, even when life is shit.”

Then I realised that I haven’t shared my laughter with anyone, which has become a precept of mine since I started this blog. I said to my sister, “It’s a shame I can’t do blogging at the moment because some of this is really funny.”

“Just start,” the writing books say. So I’ve started. Just don’t mention the war.