Winter morning

 It's 7:15 am and I have just got back from a kettlebell class. 

I know.

See? You were right to worry about me - I have clearly lost my mind!

The classes are 3x a week and the Thursday class starts at 6:15. In the morning. I thought it was a misprint at first, but no, it really isn't. Yet, for several weeks now, I have set my alarm, got up, and gone to the class. The first morning, I stood in the bathroom for some time, wondering why everything looked so blurry, before I woke up enough to realise my glasses were still on my nightstand. 

The classes are tough, but good. My friend recommended them, as we were in the pub bemoaning the fact that we can't run anymore (the planter fasciitis has never properly gone away for me and running now leaves me limping with pain the next day. Even if I feel young, my heels know the truth.) In the pub, many things seem plausible. 

But you know? It's good. Even the early start. It's enough to keep even me out of the wine the night before, and I am feeling stronger. 

This morning, as I walked back home across the rec, the sun was coming up and the sky was alight - the stark winter trees resplendent against the orange sky, the frost on the grass glowing pink in the reflection. I stopped in my tracks - just stood for a bit, knowing that for a minute, right now, everything is OK - and truly believing, somehow, that it will continue to be so.

onwards!

 

Self-imposed

Four. 

Four upcoming Christmas gigs now have a dress code of "Christmas Jumper" and no, I do not mean a reindeer or an arctic fox. If only.

There is no escape. It is A Thing Which Is Not Going Away.

I did see several Christmas jumpers in charity shops last weekend. They were, in a word, horrific. More words: cheap, acrylic, pilling, garish, tasteless in the worst possible way (I'm all for tasteless in good ways). I mean maybe once you could wear such a garment. But four times? 

But - am I not a knitter? Why should I be reduced to such object depravity? I will knit something!

Voice of Reason (VoR): the first gig is in 31 days - that's not much time. 

Me: I'll use thick wool - it will be fine 

VoR: For a fair isle jumper?

Me: OK, DK wool. I'll make a vest. No sleeves. All good.

VoR: Um - 

Me: ooooh Jamieson's of Shetland have the perfect red

VoR: It could take a week to get here with the mail strikes

Me: ooooh I can design all my own motifs in a fair isle inspired vest and it will be fabulous!

VoR (subdued): Do you even know how much wool to order?

Me: I can guess - it will be fine!

VoR: whimpers

I mean, honestly, what could possibly go wrong?

  

Happy Howl-oween!

Faversham hosted its first Doggy Howl-oween parade on Saturday and it was everything you would hope for and more. I had forgotten about it completely but we happened to be in the market because I needed a chicken. Why are all these dogs in capes? I wondered. Then with a rush of joy I remembered.

The dogs, for their part, took to it all with good grace, considering.

Here, for your Halloween pleasure, I present The Dogs of Faversham, fancy-dress style:

 

what I meant to say

I take pictures, just for you, and then, before I post them, forget, and never think about them again. Months pass...I look at my phone gallery and think - why did I take 14 pictures of hay bales?

In an attempt to reverse this trend, here's some cool clouds from this evening:

The clouds were billowingly magnificent - I took the long way home and stopped on the railway bridge, and watched the starling murmerations as the sun slid down.

Autumn is here - no matter what the calendar might say. Spider webs adorn every hedge and this was the bike path to the sea last week: 

I have also started three knitting projects in less than a week - a sure sign.

Happy Autumn. May your cider be plentiful and your jumpers warm.

Safe as houses

I just looked back to see what I posted last time I wrote here and although it feels like it was in the last week or two, it was apparently April. Sorry. I write all the time in my head. Don't know why it doesn't show up here.

We did go back to Canada for just shy of four weeks and it was amazing even though I FREAKED OUT the week before we flew. "We can't come" I told my mom. "Don't be stupid" she replied. She knows me. I was caught between a rock and a hard place. Turned out I was more afraid of telling my mother we couldn't come than I was of the possibility of having to quarantine for two weeks in Neal's sister's spare bedroom. Close run thing though. As it turned out no one had to quarantine, no one got covid (or, much much worse, spread covid to all their family and friends), and we had a really lovely, well-needed visit in the homeland. 

For about a month after we got back we had one of those beautiful windows of calm, contented ticking over. In my experience, when these times happen, it pays to gird your loins - you know something's coming. And sure enough, in June, our beloved landlady (may she be forever blessed) decided she was finally selling the oast. She is selling it as a tenanted property, so we may be able to still live here, but market rent, as it turns out, is a very different thing than it was when we moved in 19 years ago. Well, I thought, once I'd picked myself up off the floor, if our rent is going to double, I might as well look at other options. 

So I pulled on my big girl pants and really looked into the whole housing thing, and boy oh boy they are not kidding around when they talk about the housing market crisis. I keep seeing the word "imbalanced". The word they are actually looking for (please excuse this momentary lapse into course language but there is really no alternative) is FUCKED.  The housing market is totally incomparably thoroughly entirely fucked. I am really lucky - even at my age I can get a mortgage - a big one - more money than I can even imagine. We have even saved enough to cover a (very small) deposit. Phew, I thought. That's all right then. HA HA HAH HA HA HAH HAH HAH. Prices in Faversham have skyrocketed, apparently our town is very attractive to DFL's (down from London's) who fancy getting out of the city when they sell their even more outrageously priced London flat, or buying a second home for those cheeky weekend getaways. We love our town. We don't want to move away. Not as far away as we would have to move to find a house we can afford (Inverness perhaps).

It's not looking good for our plucky heroes (that's us, naturally). We'll just have to wait and see how it all pans out. Perhaps our courage and derring-do will lead us to the mythical affordable shed of our dreams - who can tell? Stay tuned! 

Meanwhile there is a lot of waiting, and a lot of uncertainty. And - not to forget - (AHEM KARLY PAY ATTENTION) a lot to be grateful for. We have been so lucky in the oast for all these years - we love it and it loves us. We've had so much fun, so many delicious meals, so much laughter, so many good times with friends and family, so much music. Humphrey, our beloved greyhound, lived here. And before you ask - no, we can't buy it. It's too expensive, and it needs too much work. Expensive work. It's not for us. We are not investment buyers (!!). It's time to move on. But I really hope it finds someone who will love it as much as we do.

Wish us luck x

Twisted

It's twenty to twelve. Usually at this time I am sound asleep, for hours, but I had a big band gig with Orbi tonight and I am still coming off the adrenaline. Normally I'd be burning this off in the pub with the rest of the band but we are hoping - planning - to fly back to the mother country in just 12 short days - so PROJECT COVID AVOIDANCE is in full swing. The gig went well, I think - although I'm not much of a judge of these things. But one of the songs we played has led me down an interesting little rabbit hole which I feel compelled to share. Everyone else is sleeping. It's just you and me :) 

backstage

Our vocalist, Claire, sang a song called Twisted. She performed it with skill and panache, brilliantly. The original vocal is by Annie Ross, and this is Annie performing it with Count Basie (is it possible not to be at least a bit in love with Count Basie? I think not):

 who based it on a sax solo by Wardell Grey:

And that's just interesting, isn't it?

Here's the song we opened with (this is not us obv!:)

I don't find performing easy. I can do it now - just about - I still get anxious, and I tense up which is not great for playing. I have been trying to view the adrenaline as excitement not nerves which works to some extent. The last few gigs I've been able to relax enough to enjoy the second set which is something I suppose. I don't think I will ever be one of life's natural performers, and that's OK I think. At least I don't throw up anymore.

Neal is the opposite. He comes alive playing on a stage - he's a different person, almost - no - he's just absolutely himself there. He doesn't get why I can't do it, although he has seen enough evidence that he certainly accepts it. I don't get it either - I would if I could. Frankly, it's annoying seeing everyone around me thrilled with the excitement of gigging, "Isn't this great?" they beam at me and I try to nod, and not look too sick.

Ah well. I'm in good company. A quick search tells me that performers who suffer from stage fright include Barbra Streisand, Katy Perry, Rod Stewart, Pavarotti, Eddie Van Halen and Adele, so I guess loving the performance is not a pre-requisite to making music!

Fluidity

 

I walked in the late afternoon yesterday, catching the last of the sun on the creek before it disappeared behind the fields. I went the chestnut tree way, and loaded up my pockets with smooth edible pebbles. We've found that if you slice through the skins and boil them for a few minutes they are relatively easy to peel. Relatively. Ha ha. It also helps if you are not too picky about the papery skin under the peel. I know you are supposed to find this bitter and unpalatable and spend ages scraping it all off, but frankly, once they're chopped up in soup, who cares? I don't mind it. I'm a heathen. I know.

I was thinking, as I rounded the bend and caught sight of the sea, how much I love living near the coast in the northern hemisphere. Everything changes every day - today the sun sets a few minutes earlier, and the tide rises a few minutes later - this walk at exactly the same time tomorrow will be different - and that's just the topography! I can't imagine living in a static landscape - where it is always sunny and the days are always a similar length. Although a bit of me is aghast that it is already dark at 530 - and that after the clocks go back on Sunday it will be an hour earlier than that, I'm glad it shifts and changes. Maybe I can too then.  

Half a sock, part-way up

Last week I decided I needed to pull my socks up. Try harder. Be more disciplined. Little steps. Etcetera etcetera. 

You know where this is going, don't you?

I made a list. (of course I did. that's - like - practically doing it, right?). Not only did I write a list, I made a system where I can check things off ! How could this possibly fail? It's even got a theme (bonus points!). It's my 10 things list. It goes like this:

In a week I will aim to complete 4 trombone practices, 3 runs, 2 non-drinking days, 1 online course chapter.

Last week I scored 5. It was harder than it looked.

This week so far I've scored 2 and frankly, my friends, between you and me, unless all of my paid work requirements magically vanish tomorrow and the house finally figures out how to clean itself, I'll be lucky to match last week.

And this doesn't seem like that high a bar. Maybe I need to get up earlier.

On the other hand, I knit a pair of mittens, met a friend for a celebratory drink, cooked some mighty fine food, and generally had a lovely week. 

Ah balance - why is it so difficult? How far do you push? Where do you pull? How much is enough?

I saw this which seems to sum it up:

        I'm torn between two thoughts:

        1/ Eat the mac and cheese! Life is short!

        2/ Life will be bloody short if all you eat is mac and cheese!

Autumn

 Yesterday morning's run..... considerably extended by stopping every 30 seconds to take yet another foggy spiderweb picture, none of which turned out.

But this did - 

I love the marsh always but especially in Autumn. When I showed this to Neal, he just looked at me over his spectacles and said "..............werewolves."

And although I laughed, I feel that thought may resurface...