A Yule Blog

Catching up with Facebook I’m late to the party with my seasonal wishes. Sorry. While I’ve not had Covid (as far as I know), I have had writers block. It’s not great having a blocked blog. Anyway, here is my wish for 2022 - that however eventful or uneventful it is, we all manage to hang on to the ideals of peace, goodwill, health and love for all (and by all, I do mean All).

We’ve now slipped into the New Year, whether on ice, oil slick, banana skin or dog poo, and here we all are, still alive (I certainly hope you are, dear reader). Pandemic aside, with all of the divisions it’s brought with it, 2021 was an adventure. I think it’s fair to call it that, even if a lot of the time was spent skipping around trying not to catch something or infect each other (some of us anyway). Mask wearing became more casual and at the tail end of the year people were queuing up for vaccination boosters instead of amusement park rides. If this becomes a regular thing it might be good to involve Merlin Entertainments in ways to keep the socially distancing queue (contradiction in terms?) happily distracted while they wait. It is a British talent, though - queuing. Maybe we actually, deep down, enjoy it.

A year ago, at chez nous we added four spaniels to the world of dogs. It didn’t do their mother much good though and poor Pwdin has been on a series of medical treatments ever since for some strange, unidentifiable malaise. It’s hard to have much confidence in any diagnosis as the vets at our usual surgery get younger every time we attend, as do so many of the professionals we come into contact with these days. It’s a truism to say that we get older every year and I’d like to stop counting, but it’s always a disconcerting surprise to be met with a child doctor, vet, nurse, police-man or whatever. And then there are politicians, too…..let’s not go there.

Ha! Gareth just interjected by reading me comments from a dog-blog discussing the amount of hair shed by spaniels. Hmmm, I didn’t need it confirmed on-line, Gareth; I’d appreciate it if you’d just vacuum as often as I seem to! (As I write, he’s still reading the blog)

Dragging last year’s memories from the recycling bin in my brain, we had our summer time at the caravan and turned the house over to AirBnB. It was a good way to keep the place dog-hair free though Gareth was regularly commenting on the amount of hair people left in the shower. We were pleased, however, that most guests treated the place respectfully and when we moved ourselves back in in November we haven’t had to fully redecorate and refurnish. If we AirBnB again this summer, though, we may well have to redecorate and refurnish as the present incumbents (us) haven’t been quite as respectful.

As I sit, I occasionally look up for a glimpse of sunshine through my dirty window (argh! there are snot marks where the dogs sit with their noses to the glass pining for the great outdoors that they know exists somewhere beyond our little yard). Anyway, now that I’ve added window cleaning to my post-Christmas house-keeping list, I can go back to digging into that memory bin. Special memories, like my son’s weddings, are, of course, safely stored, though I must be sure to properly archive them with the family history archive that my mother bestowed on us. Actually, she intended that my younger sister inherited it, but it seems to have remained with me along with the enormous archive of writings from both our parents, currently stuffed into the under-stair cupboard, the attic and little bedroom. If we’re making New Year resolutions, one of mine is to make a new assault on those boxes, reducing the volume sufficiently that when I pop my own clogs, it’s manageable for the next generation. I’ll never know what they choose to do with it, of course, but the importance my parents placed on it has certainly weighed with me. I don’t place much value on stuff, but I do have enormous difficulty disposing of things people have written. Heck, my heart churns after each visit by the grandchildren as I have to decide what to do with their ‘artwork’ and little written messages. My mother had the same problem, which is why clearing my parents’ home was such a heart-rending (and back-breaking, time-consuming) chore.

Some of the greatest delights one has as a grand-parent, is time with grand-children, even when they like to point out, as they often do, that one is old and likely to die soon. I’m lucky in being able to see two of mine regularly but the pandemic threw down a huge obstacle course between me and my other two, who live in the Midlands. We did have them to stay with us at the caravan for a few days in August though, and it was very special. I am acutely aware, however, that both of my grandsons are rapidly approaching the point of knowing grandparents as just wrinkly, hard-of-hearing things that move slowly, make naff jokes, and are utterly stupid. Soon I’ll be watching them from afar instead of having them cuddle up to me in bed after a sleep over. As a struggling-to-keep-up-with-everything young mum, I looked forward to the days when my kids were more self-sufficient. As a grandmother, I grieve (as I also celebrate, of course) each new step that my grandchildren take towards maturity. Of course, I praise the blossoming that I’ve seen in my now-mature sons, but my grandchildren are to me precious buds that herald a new Spring; little flowers turning their heads to the sun, ready to burst into full growth, and I do so enjoy the early Spring! My own petals started dropping off a while ago. I’m shrinking, too - a fact noted with great delight by my older grandson who will very soon be taller than me. With each inch upwards that he acquires, I appear to lose one! 

These children are getting too smart, by far. The other evening we took an evening walk for Reuben and Ivy to see the Christmas lights on people’s houses. It was about 5.00 pm so maybe people weren’t at home or hadn’t switched on and I expressed my disappointment and dismay at the limited show. Reuben then pointed out that I don’t even have any Christmas lights adorning our house-front so can’t really complain. He got me there. 

Looking up again from this page, the snot marks on the patio door window have disappeared into the shatter of raindrops and the sky has turned grey. Gareth will soon complain about me being still in my dressing gown and the need for us to get out for exercise and air. The dogs have given up on me completely, and have gone back to their beds. The grey doesn’t quite call me out, I must admit. There’s been no white Christmas - just a mild and soggy one. We venture out each day knowing that we’ll have three soggy doggies needing major mud-removal before putting on our slippers, pouring a brew and sitting in front of our virtual fire (such a comforting illusion, this YouTube fireside!) COP26 happened (you know I’d have to bring it up at some point) and I’m waiting to see how much effect my meagre attempts to reverse climate change have had. Can’t see anything yet, I’m afraid. By the way, if you’ve not seen it, watch ‘Don’t Look Up’ on Netflix - entertaining as well as meaningful. 

Well, I’m just about blogged out, now, dear reader. The blog is backing up again and I’m wary about flushing it with any flow of new random thoughts from my Christmas-addled brain. Best just to wait and let it clear. Gareth is bustling about, making the point that he’s now ready to venture into the great known and the dogs have awoken, braced to pull his sled (as if). So, I’d best get myself dressed and in the meantime wish you all the very best and hope to see you in 2022.