Festive melancholia

So, what happened to November? How can it be December 5th already? I’ve inherited the worrying gene from my grandmothers (both sides) so I had that slight panic that it was only two and a half weeks till Christmas and I’d done nothing to prepare… But then I thought, there’s still two whole weeks and a half till Christmas. What are you worrying about? That’s loads of time - you’ve bought/ordered a few presents and some Christmas cards. Lots of time spreading ahead in a festive flurry of fun. Slow down and relax.

Then I was stopped suddenly when a friend messaged to say his mum had died this week. A newish friend through volunteer gardening, I’ve probably known him for three years. We both have/had elderly mothers and, while weeding/planting/lopping etc we’d chat about the latest developments in the later lives of our mums. The independence that sometimes turns into stubbornness. Vulnerability. Sadness. Frustration (on both sides). The moments of humour, in spite everything going on in their lives, that keeps us all going. But above all love and friendship. Mothers. They’ve known us all our lives. They’ve never not been there, bringing us up, or at the end of a phone.

His message drew me up sharp. Of course you know it’s going to happen at some point, especially when they’re in their nineties. In deep old age. But it’s still a shock and you find yourself dragging out the cliches - useless but well-meaning phrases. “She had a good innings” one of the daftest (unless she was a keen cricketer). And don’t get me started on that annoying euphemism - pass away. When did that become normal in the UK?

So (without thinking about the state of the world and the climate) it’s been a melancholy week, and more than ever I’ve needed music and poetry.

I listened to Poetry Extra on BBC Sounds, an archive programme from before the pandemic. One of the many poems chosen by poet, Wendy Cope was Eden Rock by Cornish poet, Charles Causley. A beautiful piece that focuses on childhood memories of his parents and a peaceful acceptance of the end of life. I love the way he uses half rhymes at the end of each line. Very subtle. Read by Causley himself, it’s an evocative and moving poem. My copy is in Staying Alive - real poems for unreal times. The anthology was published in 2002 and is still utterly relevant over twenty years later.

Poetry Extra

Eden Rock from Staying Alive, ed by Neil Astley, Bloodaxe Books

In other more jolly festive news, I’ve reached (and gone past) thirty thousand words in my new novel. Hoorah! Many thanks to author and poet, Polly Clark for setting up Hour Club on Substack for motivating me. Late afternoons and evenings are my most productive times for writing, so 7 - 8 on a Monday evening is perfect. New members are always welcome - you have to take out a subscription but it’s little more than the price of a coffee each month, and it’s so worth it.

The scarf I mentioned last week is slowly growing. I worked out I probably need another fifteen hours to finish it. With my new noise-cancelling headphones (thanks for recommending, Julie!) I’m listening to Dickens Little Dorrit, abridged and dramatised on BBC Sounds. A great activity to free up your mind to listen and be entertained. At last I know that Little Dorrit is not a place, but a young woman. Like finding out that Bleak House is a very funny novel! A revelation.

Little Dorrit

In December I’ve read a Dickens novel for the past six or seven years. I’m thinking Hard Times or The Old Curiosity Shop for this year. Or I could read Little Dorrit and compare it to the radio play. Not sure yet, so if you have any suggestions they’d be very welcome. I’m half way through Booker shortlisted, Held by Anne Michaels, which is delicately written and achingly sad, but poetic in a good way. No wonder I’ve been feeling melancholy. Must read more comedies!!

Thank you all my subscribers for reading my gloomy thoughts. Hope your festive season has started with lots of fun!