Every house I knew had a light on, curtains drawn . Mrs Trellis the only exception, as she was playing her piano at the window, her tongue out of the side of her mouth in concentration .
The Randa’s cottage had flowers in the windows as always and the Hoose’s, Smith’s, Richard’s, Ackroyds, ,Velvet voiced Linda’s cottages were little pools of colour and light in the dark and the cold .
I saw no living person , not one apart from Trellis
But I felt their lives behind glowing windows and solar light in the garden.
Even the pub looked quiet and closing and no one except me and Mary ( Roger typically missed it) saw a large vixen totter up High Street , her head held high
We walked home and the Turpin house and Margaret’s bungalow on London Road looked cheerful, and welcoming as did the the little semicircle of houses on Rhodfa Arthur.
Someone has hung solar fairy lights around the lytchgate of the Church
( Islwyn?)
And the walk home was gently illuminated by Christmas lights
King Filipe and Queen Letizia were pelted with mud by some of the frustrated and angry residents of Valencia today. I was saddened by the footage today, saddened for the people and saddened for the royal family, whose intentions were sincere.
As a nurse, and now a trainee therapist, I’ve always known that anger, is the easiest emotion to mobilise when things goes tits up
It’s the most irrational emotional and hardest to deal with, and from what I could tell Filipe and Letizia did their very best against incredible odds.
I remember as a staff nurse on intensive care being wing man to a consultant who was giving bad news to a family. I remember so clearly the Blind fury of the father as he raised his fist to strike the doctor as I stood between them and “ shushed” him as a mother would do to crying child.
The shushing worked, it diffused the anger, but not the pain
Thank goodness
I’m still feeling rough, and I write this in bed, with the kittens purring like aircraft
I’ve got that virus that comes back with a vengeance . Several of the older members of the hospice have it and this morning we were comparing health notes like old ladies do at a bus stop.
If you are a singleton and poorly, you only have your dogs to lick your feet better. Ok Diane the support worker I worked with last night, who has a heart the size of a fridge, gave me her curry supper to eat as well as furnishing me with copious amounts of sweet tea, but generally kid , you’re on your own.
Hence the lucozade.
Now when I was a child, Lucozade was classed as a medical drink. A gloriously golden sweet fizzy drink wrapped up in yellow selophane, that could only be bought at the chemists.
It was expensive
It was wonderful and it was a treat.
Your mother really loved you when she bought you a bottle, and you had to drink it quick sticks before anyone well got there nasty little mits on it.
It was the ambrosia of the 1970s
So I bought myself a bottle today
From Tescos
There was a whole section filled with lucozade
Lucozade light, lucozade sport, lucozade high energy
Typically lush and heavy with its colours andwith a heavy orchestral score this quiet melodrama about euthanasia on the surface is more Almodòvar than Almodòvar .
I went to Chester Picturehouse to see it. With its plush seats and warm interiors, I sat my coffee down on my little armrest, and took,in the first arty meeting between old friends Tilda Swindon and Julianne Moore before falling fast asleep with , what I was presuming to be a snore that could out do the average warthog
.
I knew nothing except Tilda was found dead in full battle makeup and Moore was being all soft spoken to the police.
The credits- the end.
I was mortified
Not for me but for the half dozen other patrons who would have had to coped with an hours plus of my night noises.
At the end of the credits. I apologised to a couple two seats behind, who gallantly waved me away with a smile
Perhaps it was the seats, perhaps I need that blood test to check just why I’m so tired, or perhaps my psychi just doesn’t want to deal with another story of preparation for death and a story of the dying
Ok, here goes….French director Jacques Audiard has directed a Spanish language Almodóvar-esque musical about the violent drug cartel in urban Mexico.
Violent killer drug Barron Manitas has to disappear, so stages his own death and pays a bright lawyer Rita ( Zoe Saldana ) to spirit his trashy wife Jessi (Selina Gomez) and his children to Switzerland. In the meantime Manitas is transformed into Emilia at a Swiss clinic and after years transforming re enters Mexican society as Manitas sister ( The extraordinary Karla Sofia Gascon)
Are you still with me?
Now Rita reenters the story by bringing the clueless Jessi and her boys to live with their aunt back in Mexico and the story complicates even more by Jessie’s new relationship ,Rita and Emilia’s new found work locating the remains of thousands of drug crime victims in Mexico and the tender new relationship between Emilia and poor housewife Epifania ( Adriana Paz)
Bloody Hell
gascon as Emilia
Audiard ( a non Spanish speaker ) adds to the melodrama by some wonderfully bonkers musical set pieces and trans actress Gascon totally steals the show as the throaty, suddenly big hearted and transformed Emilia, Statuesque, Broad shouldered, sexy and at times an incredibly vulnerable former killer she dominates every scene
With my bottle of water, box of strepsils, and pockets full of tissues I braved the journey to Liverpool again to see The Planet Suite.
It didn’t disappoint.
Jupiter the Bringer of Jollity, was so powerful that I noticed a couple of people dabbing their eyes.
I was a tad disappointed that great hunk of spunk Domingo Hindoyan was not conducting this time (Andrew Manze having the honour) but it was the music that counts and last night was a real treat.
I’m in bed now after walking the dogs and feeding the twins.
And feel rotten
I shall refrain from telling any jokes about my Uranus being a Magician
Lemsips and rest are the mantra for the day
Bun ( I think ) is sitting on the clothes horse watching the lane
I’m full of cold, a product of Mersey rail on Wednesday
Last night I went to The Crown for a meal with my family which was lovely but I slept badly so after dog walks this morning we’ve all gone back to bed .
The animals are playing cowboys and Indians with the Welsh playing the settlers laying safe between my legs and the twins playing the marauding injuns.
I’m just drinking coffee from my American 1940s diner mug and will fall again to sleep soon
Her nephew, Village Elder Islwyn and his brother had dug her grave themselves which I thought was intensely moving and another mark of respect as Rowena’s father was the village gravedigger at one time, Islwyn isn’t a young man, and I’m sure the hard work has taken its toll.
Kudos to the both of them
The service was held in Llanasa, who has a pretty Norman Church, and the church was full as Rowena’s family is large and spans every part of Trelawnyd and its environs .
Auntie Glad always warned me to be early for popular character’s funerals , so I was and still was beaten to the back pew by the ladies from the friendship group, Animal Helper Pat, Christine from Church, Pippa and Tom, the velvet voiced Linda, sailor John and Mandy and Mrs Trellis.
Trendy Vicar Gregor ( with his flowing cape and neat beard ) did his best with the Welsh parts of the service which was lovely and by the time the funeral cars returned to Trelawnyd I had collected the Welsh and was standing with Pat Mr Poznan and others a respectful distance away.
We watched as the family followed the coffin into the graveyard, and in the grey skys over Trelawnyd groups of seagulls took off in the breeze in the fields next to the riding stables , looping west towards the valley and the sea
My sister and I went to Liverpool last night to see a revival of Mary Skeaping’s 1971 version of Giselle
It was magical
The willi ghosts, as usual stole the show with their ensemble centre piece of synchronised hopping but this version had the spectres acting as attacking ghouls circling the huntsmen at terrifying speed and menace
I loved it The National Ballet is on great form
I think as a piece of pure theatre the entrance of the willi ghosts cannot be beaten
To change your mortgage you have to have an interview online now. I had a lovely chap called Nick today who talked me through the whole process. Because I can only get Wify in the front room I was joined on the couch by the dogs and one cat which amused Nick “ I’m selling to the muppets” he quipped not quite understanding he was including me in that comment.
My new mortgage is set and I can soak up the monthly increase …just.
it’s another job done
I used to take these big decisions in my stride
Now I worry
Another symptom of getting older .
After nearly two hours on line, I sit in the living room
The cottage faces south and the front windows let the sun shine through on a sunny day like a baby Sagrada Familia.
I feel as though I’m transported into the 1940s
The animals start to flop into the squares of sunlight on the carpet to sleep
The windows need washing but I’m enjoying being present in the moment
The kitchen clock ticks
And the breeze makes the Honeysuckle tap the window as if a friend wants my attention
The cottage and my animals remains safe in my hands at the moment
I had two high maintenance patients. One who needed to be stabilised with medication before a peaceful death and another with a complicated spinal Injury which is my bread and butter.
I got home exhausted and spent, a few minutes before 9 pm , so I gave the dogs a snack and sat down in my coat to watch Call My Bluff.
Minutes later either Bun or Weaver galloped through the lounge with a chicken foot in her mouth.
She did a circuit of the living room before legging it up the stairs closely followed by Roger then Mary ( Roger growling like a proper dog) and finally with the second twin in close pursuit.
It was all rather dramatic .
Like a Tom & Jerry cartoon from the 40’s.
The chase carried on, above and below my double bed for a while, with accompanying barking and spitting, but I sat in my coat letting the shit fall as it would.
A while later Roger trotted through the living room rather victoriously with said chicken foot in his mouth
And the pecking order at Bwthyn y Llan was restored.
I kept my coat on and watched the hilarious Alma’s Not Normal as Roger paraded around the cottage with his head held high, chicken leg in mouth.
This week seems full
This afternoon I have my own counselling then
Mortgage appointment, clinical supervision tomorrow with Giselle in the evening. Counselling clients on Thursday followed by a much long overdue visit to the cinema . Friday it’s Rowenna’s funeral followed with a catch up with my family at The Crown and Saturday it’s The Planet at The Philharmonic.
My mortgage worries me , but I can’t change the world……..
I fell asleep last night and missed the Male Voice Choir Concert at the hall, which annoyed me. I left the tv off, missing this rather affecting dance from the blind comic Chris McCusland too!
One of the highlights of the Trelawnyd concert seems to be Owain William’s comic turn from Les Miserables ( see link) https://fb.watch/vkJmMweXRB/ ( Owain Is the youngest member of the choir)
The concert raised a cracking amount for the hall…..some1700 £) well done all.
I was pigsick to miss it.
Storm Ashley is on its way and although we are in bright sunshine , the wind has picked up drastically.
Bun and Weaver are sat next to the Queen’s cut out in their bedroom watching the trees whip their tops and I’m planning a quick visit to the shop to get cat litter
Pizza and soup for supper and an early night is planned
My nights have been steady and psychologically testing and so this post will be somewhat light and frivolous in nature.
An update on the twins
Bun remains the more outgoing girl.
Her interactions with the Welsh are now playful but distant. They remind me of primary school girls in their short shirts and oversized wellington boots galloping through the mud holes of the playground with a silly dim boy in tow. The boy being Roger.
Mary is almost at the touching stage, she lies pretending to rest in front of the fire knowing all too well that Bun is only a foot it so away, waiting to be approached.
That approach won’t be long now. Roger too is at touching distance but his gauche clumsiness only affords him a short hiss and a swing of the paw.
Both twins now sleep on my bed, Weaver towards my feet and Bun often perched on my shoulder or hip. Both like petting and both have eyes for the wet and windy world beyond the front door
I’ve gotten out of the habit of looking at myself in the mirror.
Has anyone else got out of this daily routine?
Perhaps I don’t want to see my grey beard, and my shiny grey hair my dad possessed before he died .
Perhaps I don’t want to see how tired I look after a day shift.
Perhaps I don’t like looking at myself at all.
I went to Supervision today , it’s been a miserably wet , grey day, and supervision gave me something to think of at the beach in Bluebell
So I’ve come home and had the longest of hot showers, a kick ass shave and lots of face moisturiser , and made ramen noodles with prawns for supper which I ate in front of the fire , watched by four pairs of eyes
