Puddled at the Proms

  

 

‘It won’t rain,’ declare the optimistic few amongst our party as we head towards the magnificent palace of Castle Howard on a typical blustery August afternoon.  ‘And even if it does, it won’t last.’

           

             OK.  Let’s go with that.  Who takes notice of the iPhone or BBC weather app anyway? 

 

            This iconic stately home, nestled within 1000 acres of exquisite parkland, is rightly conveyed as a haven of peace and tranquillity, offering extensive woodland walks, impressive 18^th century temples and elaborate fountains creating spectacle and theatre amid the serenity of the great lakes. 

   

But today, it is humming with the buzz of hundreds of excited Prommers, tramping across the grounds in search of the perfect pitch.  Armed with camping chairs, picnic tables, cool boxes, brollies and a lorry load of alcohol, we join the throng heading towards the stage.  It’s not difficult to spot those seasoned festival goers, whose extensive, ready for anything kit, is wheeled effortlessly along in custom-made trolleys.  Some mark the boundaries of their home for the next five hours by planting lines of union jacks whilst others construct their outdoor room within a circle of fairy lights.   We Scarborough lot are content to find a spot of hill offering a reasonable view of of the stage and big screen, with the house providing an elegant backdrop for the photos to be later posted on Facebook.  

We set about making ready for the concert with anticipatory zeal.   Folding chairs unfolded, picnic tables erected, booze extracted from boxes.  ‘Never been to the Proms, before.’  ‘I’m really looking forward to the main event.’  ‘Lovely place this isn’t it?’  ‘Wonder who the first act will be?’  ‘Prosecco anyone?’  ‘Do you think they’ll play Nessun dorma?’  ‘Bound to.’  ‘Red or white?’  ‘Always makes me cry, that.’  ‘Me too.’  ‘Can’t wait.’

Then, Satan stubs his toe.  

Joviality vanishes.   Gloom descends.  As one, we look back at the house.  ‘My God,’ somebody says.  ‘Shit,’ says another.   As menacing as scenes from The Day After Tomorrow, the blackening sky looms above the glorious building like a sinister phantom, plunging all below into darkness.

‘Quick, get the lid on the box!’  ‘Cover the salad!’  ‘Watch the wine!’

Fay, our party’s Fairy Godmother, has just enough time to issue each one of us with a bright yellow emergency poncho, before the skies unleash a deluge that would worry Noah.  We scramble inside these flimsy sheaths with a great deal of haste and varying degrees of efficiency.  Becky, fiddling to secure the poncho hood neatly over her cap, forgets the plastic wine glass gripped between her teeth and succeeds in tipping pinot right in her eyes.   Daz delays plonking himself into his unfolded chair by two seconds and is consequently obliged to sit in a puddle.  I fail again and again, as I sip my wine, to prevent torrents of rainwater gushing up my sleeve.  

So, as sodden as having swum two laps of the lake, with water dripping from the tips of our noses and splashing unchecked from our lashes, the concert begins.  Well, once the orchestra has warmed up and the river has been swept from the stage.  Then it begins.

Our host welcomes us to this brolly fest.  Indeed, despite the website stating no golf umbrellas, a sea of these offending objects floods the grounds.  Becky and I clutch our wholly inadequate pieces of kit, a mere step up from parasols, close to our drenched backs and long for the massive brollies we dutifully left at home.

            Ah well.  Make the best of it.  Pour another wine.

            Two lads from Leeds, The Forever Tenors, open the concert.  As a virgin to the Proms, I am no expert on this type of music, but the guys interact easily with the audience and fusing classical with an Elvis number is impressive.  When they do a similar fusion with Wet Wet Wet, I can’t help wondering if they’re taking the piss.

            Victoria Joyce, soprano, is next to weave her magic, and as the rain turns to drizzle, we manage to stuff a sandwich and a pork pie in our faces.   Food requiring a plate remains untouched – my dainty picnic of salad, coleslaw, potato salad, selection of meats and cheeses confined to the box - any attempt to free them would be simply stupid. 

 

            Despite the weather preventing the planned Spitfire flyover, our patriotic spirits are lifted as thousands of people wave their union jack flags to the RAF March and Dam Busters.    By the time the orchestra has us jiggling about to Trumpeter’s Holiday, the crowd is divided into three groups:  those with soggy bottoms; those with dry bottoms and those universally hated by all – snug and dry in full waterproof suit complete with golf brolly.    

       

            Tenor Wynne Evans has us laughing as he sings the Go Compare song, then reduces us to tears performing the duet Time to Say Goodbye, with Victoria Joyce.   Tears are never far from spilling as the rousing music from Swan Lake – or, if you don’t know your classical ballet – that bit at the end of the film, Billy Elliot, stirs the soul.  When the heart wrenching Nessun dorma is performed, you can no longer feel the water pouring down your neck.  Once the fireworks start, 7000 sopping revellers wave their soggy flags in time to Land of Hope and Glory.  If you haven’t got a flag – you just wave.   The concert surges to its glorious crescendo with the theme from Superman, and I swear, having been profoundly moved by the music, you fully expect Superman himself to burst through the fireworks and  soar over the entire Castle Howard estate.

That doesn’t happen.  Obviously.  Perhaps that’s the wine talking.  As soaked now inside as I am out.  

Oh, did I mention the rain?  

            

 

 

 

 

 

Any Sunday Morning after 21 June 2021

Four Miniature Schnauzers: Milo, Bodger, Silva, Chilli, roaming about the house, somewhat neglected.

Bodger:

Do you think they’re dead?

Chilli:

Dunno. Might be. They’re not moving. They look a lot like Pepper did when she actually died. All slack mouth and stuff. Eyes rolled back in their heads.

Silva:

Should we go and kiss them?

Bodger:

I don’t do kissing.

Milo:

Well, just pant dog breath in their faces then.

Silva:

I heard one of ours grunt, so maybe they’re only nearly dead.

Chilli:

How much longer do you reckon?

Milo:

Could be ages. Ours have at least three coffees before we get to go on a walk.

Chilli:

Bit worried about an accident. I mean, I can hold it a bit longer, but ...

Bodger:

I’ll sit at the door. That always works. I just need to look through the glass. Stare. It will open.

Silva:

I’m starving. Did they forget to feed us last night? I can’t remember having any tea. 

Chilli:

Try some of that curry. There’s a bit left.

Bodger:

What? Some left after you’ve been at it?

Chilli:

Yes, well it’s horrible.

Silva:

Where is it?

Chilli:

Under the table next to that puddle of beer.

Milo:

I’ve got an idea. Let’s bark at the window.

Bodger:

The blinds are down. Can’t see out.

Milo:

So?

Bodger:

Ok then, let’s try. Let’s all go bark.

Lots of barking.

Chilli:

That plan went well.

Silva:

Shut yer gob, Chilli.

Chilli:

Just saying.

Bodger:

I’m going back to the door.

Milo:

What the bloody hell for?

Bodger:

For when it opens. It always does. Always. Especially when I tap it like this. Or sometimes, I just gently stroke it. Then, magic. It opens.

Chilli:

Yeah, right.

Lots of gentle stroking.

Silva:

Any sign of them yet?

Bodger:

No.

Milo:

Silva, can I lick your face?

Silva:

Have you been at the beer?

Milo:

No.

Silva:

OK then.

Lots of face licking.

Chilli:

Er...

Bodger:

What’s up?

Chilli:

I’ve had an accident.

Bodger:

Oh no! What’ve you done that for?

Chilli:

I couldn’t help it. It was that curry.

Milo:

Idiot.

Chilli:

Well, what was I supposed to do? Wait for the door-opening fairy to show up?

Silva:

I’ll get the blame. I always do.

Bodger:

It will open. It will! So long as I sit here and don’t move. And maybe tap again.

Lots of tapping.

Silva:

Someone’s coming!

Chilli:

Oh no, we’re for it now.

Milo:

It’s OK. When they get here, all we have to do is look to the left.

Chilli:

What the ... ?

Milo:

Look to the left. Especially you because you did it. Looking left makes you invisible. They can’t see you.

Silva:

Alright you clever bugger, we know what invisible means.

Milo:

Oh, right. Sorry.

Silva:

So you should be. I’m older than you.

Bodger:

You having a laugh bro?

Milo:

No. Honest. It works. Come on, they’re here. Look left!

Door opens.

Bodger:

See. I bloody told you!

Milo:

Bollocks. We’re invisible! 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The year 2020 - as seen through the eyes of Bodger, my dog.

It’s turning out to be a funny year, don’t you think?  

I mean, it started off normal enough, with Mum putting all the sparkly decorations and cuddly Santas back in the garage.  I think it’s the garage.  It used to be.  But Mum’s started calling it the utility.  I don’t know why.  I like the Santas.  I like to rip their insides out.   She threw the Christmas tree away this year.  It was massive.  Nearly touched the ceiling.  Mum said it was driving her mad because there were bits missing and it stunk of damp from the garage.  Sorry, I mean utility.

Then she went on holiday to somewhere hot.  I didn’t mind because I got to stay at Paula and Tom’s.  Paula cooks me special dinners and always gives me treats.  They live upstairs, but Paula does the washing in our gar … utility … and she’s up and down a lot.   I always come downstairs with her just to check that Mum’s not hiding from me in our place.   I can still smell her, you see.

            Well, she came back, like she always does.  I don’t know why I worry so much.  Mum says I’ve got issues.  And then the weather started getting nicer and suddenly, everything got weird.  

            The tele was on all the time.  A man with fluffy white hair was telling everybody what to do.  He didn’t look very well.  

            Chilli stopped coming.  Ellie used to bring her every day and the three of us would go on our walk, while Ellie went to work.  Me and Chilli played all day until Danny came to collect her.   Apparently, Ellie has to work from home now.  So, I’ve nobody to play with.  I miss Chilli.   And I haven’t seen Milo – he’s my brother - and Silva for yonks because Becky and Daz are stuck somewhere and not allowed to come and visit.  I miss them too.  Craig used to come every day and talk to Mum while he had a cup of tea.  But we don’t see him much now and when he does call, he stays in the garden and won’t have a cup of tea because he says he doesn’t want to give Mum something horrible that will make her die.  He says a lot of people are dying.

            Mum’s been doing a lot of cleaning.  She’s even sorted out the doggy cupboard – washed all my harnesses and coats and put my treats into special plastic boxes.  And, believe it or not, I’ve got a new toy box.  I’m sure Mum will get me some toys to put in it soon.

            She started doing strange things on the floor every day.  Well, maybe not every day.  Stuff like lifting her legs up in the air and trying to sit up.  She was making scary noises and I tried to help her.  It didn’t work so I licked her face instead.  I think she was pleased.

Our walks have been much longer than they used to be.  Mum always used to say ‘good morning’ to people we met on our walks.  Especially if they had a dog too.  But people have started crossing the road when they see us coming.  Maybe they don’t like Mum’s smell.  It must be that.  I don’t care – I bark at them.  But not Joe.  I love Joe.  Joe’s a Labrador and Mum says I fell in love with him at first sight.  I’m not, like, well – you know – I’m not anything anymore.  Not since they had my bits taken off.  Since they had me, what’s the word?  Neutralised.

            I spend most of my time on the back of the settee, looking out of the window onto the square.  It’s my job to guard the house and bark at everybody and everything that walks past.  Us schnauzers are excellent guard dogs.  It’s been a bit boring this year though.  The square is usually full of kids playing.  Sometimes there’s a bouncy castle and families have barbecues and parties.  But nothing much at all has happened for ages.  One morning there was a lady doing something.  Yoga, Mum said.  I think the lady was trying to copy my morning stretch when I push my front legs forward and stick my bum in the air.  I do it better than she did.

            A big fat dog with a matching owner walk round the square twice a day.  I think that’s the only walk it gets.  Then there’s that horrible cat.  Marmalade, Mum calls it.  It has the nerve to come in our garden sometimes, but mostly, it wanders into the square like it owns the place.  Should be spread on a piece of toast if you ask me.

Dogs aren’t allowed in the square.  I think that’s why the cat looks at me so cockily. 

Anyway, Dad took me in there once.  He was always doing naughty stuff was Dad.  Mum called him a bugger.  He loved this square.  Somehow, he always knew which tree would be the first to get its leaves.  He would park his chair thing, that moved on its own, in the bay and let me sit on his knee.  If it was cold outside but the sun was shining through the window it was exactly like sun-bathing.   He always fell asleep.   But I looked after him.  Kept guard.  One day that bloody Marmalade turned up and I barked so much Dad nearly bounced out of his chair.  I didn’t get to sit on his knee after that.  I don’t know where he is now.  He’s been gone for a long time.

            I’ve been groomed!  First time in months, although it feels like years to me.  I’m glad, I thought I was going blind.  Mum’s had her hair cut too and she says things are starting to get back to normal.  Or, the new normal.  Whatever that means.    We’ve had gatherings.  Becky and Daz have been back home with Milo and Silva and we have met up for walks on the beach.  All the family has been together again at last.  We’ve had fun and been happy.   We’ve even been to the pub.

            But things are not quite like they used to be.   The man with the fluffy white hair says we still have to be careful.  Everybody has to wash their hands a lot, wear masks and stay away from each other.    ‘Hands, face, space,’ is how you remember it, says Mum.  Craig’s got a black mask with a big yellow smiley mouth on it.  He looks really odd, especially when his eyes are angry.  Mum’s got flowers on hers.  

            Mum won’t leave me outside a shop anymore in case some thieving bastard comes along and steals me, she says.  I’m precious, she says.  Not that Mum goes to the shop much.  A man usually brings everything to our house.

            Things have changed again.  The man has made a new rule.  Rule of Six.  Mum got really cross the other day. What’s the point of six when there’s around fourteen of us at Christmas time?   She says he might just as well cancel Christmas.  

‘Pan-fucking-demic!’ she said.

I’ve never heard that word before – demic.   

I wonder if she’ll bother getting a new Christmas tree?  Or if the Santas will come out of the utility?  I hope it isn’t cancelled, because it’s not just the cuddly Santas in the utility.  That’s where Mum keeps all the leftover food.  And all the beer and wine.  Somebody always gets drunk and forgets to close the door - and Chilli – she’s the brave one – sneaks in and grabs whatever she can.  Last year we had a whole gammon!  

            Oh, it’s got worse.   Nobody is allowed to go to anybody else’s house.  It’s banned.  But it’s OK for Paula to still come to ours, I heard Mum say, because we don’t live in a house.  We live in a bubble.  I didn’t know that.  But Mum can’t go to Craig, Ellie or Becky’s house and they can’t come to us.

            Mum’s on her own a lot now.  So am I.  Our bubble is very quiet.  She doesn’t have the television on anymore.  She says she can’t stand it.  She sits for hours at her lap top thing.  It’s not too bad because I have a nice bed behind her chair and she keeps talking to me.  I’m lucky, I’ve got three beds.  One behind her chair where we spend a lot of the day, one in the kitchen where Mum drinks wine in the evenings, and the big one in our new room - the room that used to be Dad’s.  I remember he spent almost all his time in that room. When he was poorly.  It’s ours now.  Sometimes I think I can still smell him.

            I think Mum can too.

 

 

            

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

21 September 2024 - A glimpse into the future

There were extraordinary scenes in the Commons today, when Prime Minister, Boris Johnson, swept aside the Despatch Box and dashed into the outstretched arms of Labour Party Leader, Sir Keir Starmer, where the two adversaries embraced in a massive bear hug.   Parliamentarians from all parties scrambled over benches in their haste to get to the front to shake the hands of colleagues and opposition members alike.  There was a great deal of back slapping and an astonishing degree of cheek kissing.  Ed Milliband had tears in his eyes as he grasped Boris’ hand in both of his in an energetic and heartfelt handshake.    The Speaker launched a flurry of MPs questions into the air as he gleefully jumped up and down on his chair, while Nicola Sturgeon danced the Highland Fling on the central table.  The hallowed Chamber resounded with joyful cries of ‘hurrah!’ ‘bravo!’ and ‘well done!’ The House, united in jubilant celebration of its unparalleled success.  

Covid 19 is dead!  Conquered!  Defeated!  Done!

Of course, triumph over the deadly coronavirus does indeed warrant expressions of jollification unprecedented in the House’s history but what, four years from the onset of the pandemic, has become of us.  

            Suicide rates have more than doubled.  From 11.2 people per 100,000 in 2019, the figure now stands at 24.  Average life expectancy has fallen from 81 to 69.  Only one in four people aged between 20 and 35 have a job.  Homelessness has quadrupled. Hordes of homeless people are crammed into deserted shopping centres with just a few ghostly mannequins for company.  They are fed once a day.  Wetherspoons, the only surviving pub chain, now granted charitable status, is expected to provide one free breakfast – so long as everybody obeys the rule of four, remains two metres apart, and eats outside.

            In 2021, the government introduced the rule of one.  This means that no family is allowed more than one child and no child is allowed more than one friend.  Parents are allowed to hug their children once a month, but only after testing negative for the virus, all must be wearing full PPE and must be outside.  Grandparents can see grandchildren every three months – wearing full PPE and behind a glass screen.  They must adhere to the rule of three – one grandchild to two grandparents or two grandchildren to one grandparent.  

Unless it’s for work, nobody is allowed to travel more than five miles from their home and can only do so on foot or bicycle and in accordance with the rule of two – no more than two people may be allowed to walk or cycle together.  Pets, with the exception of dogs, are banned.

            Children under the age of eleven attend school every seventh day and are taught in groups of five, according to the rule of five, unless a child has a twin, in which case the rule of five and a bit applies.  All secondary and further education is delivered remotely, and all homes must install a sterile bubble in which learning can take place.  No parent or teacher is permitted to enter.

            Schools and universities offer a limited curriculum specifically designed to support essential key sectors, the most essential, heading up the list:

·      Politics

·      Design and manufacture of face masks and PPE

·      Warehousing and Distribution

·      Science

·      Police and Security Services

·      Armed Forces

·      IT

·      Funeral Services

Tens of thousands of nurses have been made redundant and surgeons play poker in redundant operating theatres.  Airline pilots have ditched the skies in favour of the roads, where the average delivery driver earns more than the Prime Minister.   DPD is listed amongst the top ten companies in the UK.

            We have, as a nation, worked tirelessly in our determination to rid our shores of this dreadful disease.  And this determination has paid off.  All that’s left for us to do is address the catastrophic collapse in the economy and see if we can reverse our plunging fortunes over the next ten years.  Or possibly, fifteen.

Some of you, on reading this, may remain sceptical.  You may not believe everything written here.   You may decide it can’t all be true.  And you would be right.  

That bit about the jubilant scenes in the Commons – 

-       I made that bit up.

            

 

Lockdown Lunacy

There are worse places to be imprisoned than our homes.  

Like, prison.

Yet as we enter the fourth week of lockdown, it’s possible that some of us have started to go just a teeny bit mad, in spite of intense efforts to side step the insanity that, to be honest, we might just as well embrace until all this is over.

My decline started in week one, with cleaning.  

Maniacal cleaning.  

Every room.  Every corner.  Every cobweb.  Every cupboard.

My wardrobes have been cleared of clutter I haven’t worn for years.  Well, not completely cleared.  I retain some of the contents for when they fit me again, a proportion of garb yet to adorn me and all of those few but precious garments that I only ever wear.   I have left a few things hanging there simply to make the wardrobes feel useful and the rest now linger in bin bags until charity shops and tips reopen.

Woodwork has been washed, cornices cleared of cobwebs and light-fittings polished until they sparkle.  Admittedly I didn’t wash the bulbs.  But they did get a thorough bashing with a feather duster on a stick.

Whatever the disgusting concoction may be that lurks in the shower drain has been banished and tiles and grout bleached to the point where it’s difficult to breathe.

My disorderly kitchen cupboards have delighted in the attention they have received, with all items now having their own personal space.  I have even freed and binned the tin of golden syrup that has been welded to its particular shelf for many years.  I have filed my spices in alphabetical order.  I actually considered arranging my tinned food in the same way.  But I didn’t.  That would be weird.

So, onto week two …  

Shopping and food.

I was not part of the panic-buying brigade that bought all the pasta and loo rolls.

No, wine and hair dye were my obsessive purchases.  Thankfully I am a member of a wine club and excellent customers like me are being very well looked after thank you very much.

But food and all things foodie have suddenly become one of the most interesting aspects of all our lives. 

Daily conversations with family members run something along the lines of, 

‘What’re you having for tea?’ 

Along with a disproportionate interest in how the food for tea was actually acquired.  

‘How was the supermarket?  Busy?’  

Actually, the social distancing measures in supermarkets have improved the experience immeasurably.  The queue outside is now a source of interest and entertainment, many participants sporting the most imaginative homemade facemasks, with one or two actually wearing proper ones.  

People feel compelled, regardless of mask, to discuss the strangeness of these times with fellow queue members, and some just can’t stop themselves from spouting their ill-considered opinions for the rest of us to benefit from their perceived wisdom.

 ‘It’s all a plot, this virus.  A deliberate invention by the Chinese because we weren’t buying their phones!’ said one fella.

Once inside, you politely try to avoid other shoppers but end up buying whatever you can reach on the shelf, regardless of whether or not you want it, in order to maintain your two-metre distance.   It’ll come in, you think.  There’ll be a recipe for it somewhere.

And that’s the thing.  We are being much more adventurous in our cooking and spending so much more of our time doing it.

‘I managed to get some flour today,’ goes the conversation.  

‘So, I’m going to bake a cake.  Victoria sponge, I think.  Or, I might make scones.  Fruit or cheese?   Or, possibly both.  Or even bread.  Or … sod it … I’ll make everything.’

The flour mills are working twenty-four hours a day to try to keep up with the nation’s desire to bake and post pictures of their efforts on social media.   

I could murder a treacle tart.  If only I hadn’t freed that golden syrup.

But all this eating comes at a price.  Weight.   So, onto week three …

Exercise.

My poor little dog, Bodger, is exhausted.  

Not so long ago he would drag me out of the house bursting with excitement at the prospect of a little exploration.  A gentle meander to the beach and back, say hello to one or two dogs along the way.  Home.  Brekky.  Sleep.  Job done.

Not any more.  Now he cowers at the door as I get him ready for our morning marathon.   We march – and I do mean march - up, down, round and round again on every path and stairway leading to every spot of beach or garden that Scarborough has to offer.  

And it has many.  

I’ve tried to explain to him that our time out of the house must be valuable.  It’s precious now.  Important.  His walk has to count.  

I think he hates me.

My phone is complicit in this torture as it obligingly counts the steps we are taking and we are not allowed to return home until an acceptable number has been reached.

So does it end there?  A good walk, then get home and do normal stuff like read a book, watch television, bake everything you can think of?  

I wish.

Facebook is full of advertisements for exercise gadgets and programmes that promise to transform your entire body, with hardly any effort, in just thirty days.  Which of course will ensure that I emerge from this lockdown looking like a supermodel.

There are bits of kit that will flatten your stomach in just ten minutes a day!   (I’m unconvinced as to why I need to adopt such a speedy approach when all I have is time, however.)

So, have I been gullible enough to fall prey to this advertising?

Of course I have.

My new possessions include a Yoga mat; a Pilates magic circle; a tension rope and a Pilates stick.

I have found individual workouts utilising each piece of my new kit on YouTube and made up a timetable based on variety, interest and level of skill.

And when the aches and pains in my lower back disappear, I’ll give them a go! 

But apart from the potential madness, for those of us who are lucky enough to have a home in which to be imprisoned, there are benefits to be had.

Once you’ve been to the shop and/or had your marathon dog walk, you can get your PJs back on.

You can grow Dennis Healey eyebrows and leave those whiskers on your chin unattended to for days.  You can even wait until you’re as grey as my schnauzer before you dye your hair.

You can get all those jobs done that you’ve been threatening to do for years.  By week five I reckon the leaves on the plants in the garden will all have been nicely washed and my new pieces of exercise kit will have joined the long since discarded kettle bells in the garage.

Most importantly, we can prevent that feeling of isolation by keeping in touch with family and friends on social media.  

We can admire images of all the exciting stuff that people are about to eat, watch videos of friends and family doing whatever it is they do to stop them going nuts.  Whether that’s singing, drumming, drawing, dancing, cooking, baking, engaging in on-line quizzes, planting carrot tops or watching your pot plants grow.

It’s the least we can do.   Those of us at home, or working from home, are the lucky ones.

By the end of this, in spite of the home exercise regime, most of us will have gained a little weight.  

For very few, weight might be the only thing they’ve lost.  

All of us, without exception, will have lost something.  

Many businesses will have gone bust.   Many will have lost money, income and customers, perhaps even jobs.  

Some of us will have lost a loved one.

But, many others, will have lost their lives.

Climb Every Mountain. And Leap off One or Two

I am not the kind of person who thinks it’s a good idea to leap off a mountain.  

So why am I about to?

I mean, what am I doing?  I’m not a thrill seeker.  In fact, I am sadly and often irritatingly deemed un-thrill-able. Not that my thrill tentacles have been stimulated by all the wonders the world has to offer as I am far less well travelled than I would like. 

But, I am not a natural gasper.  I rarely gape open-mouthed at anything.  Had I ventured into the Louvre when in Paris and gazed at the Mona Lisa with my dreadfully untrained eye, I would probably have remarked on how lacking she was in the bonny department.   Admittedly, Rome’s Coliseum provoked a bit of an ‘oo’, but I am generally more inclined to be underwhelmed than wowed.   Even as a kid at the fair you’d be more likely to find me hooking a duck than whizzing on a waltzer.  

Yet, here I am, harnessed and helmeted, myself looking anything but bonny, about to place my life in the hands of my allotted pilot, with nothing but the skill I seriously hope he possesses and a carabiner or two to prevent me from plunging to my very messy death. 

Why?  Why am I about to leap off Mount Teide to paraglide in the skies over Tenerife?  

Partly to blame is my brother Jez, who had been thrilled to bits when he performed this ridiculous feat the previous day.   Then my insane sister-in-law Tracey and her ‘let’s do it’ attitude must carry some of the responsibility.

But mostly, it’s the Pinot.

Much, too much of it. 

Consequently, having devoured my bottles of courage, there can be no bottling out.

Tracey, chattering away as usual, leaps off the mountain like she does it every day.

After two failed attempts, the fella I’m strapped to, Ramon, I believe is his name, says, 

‘Run to the edge and keep running when we leave the ground,’  

Now try and remove from my mind the image of a cartoon character’s little legs running like mad, suspended in mid air for a split second, the cliff behind him, nothing below him.  I hear his horrific scream as he falls, spinning faster and faster, becoming smaller and smaller until he’s no more than a tiny dot and then … splat! 

Great.  Just great.

So I run.  And keep running.  Just like that little cartoon.  And … 

I’m not falling!

Quite the opposite, in fact. 

The wind catches us and sweeps us alarmingly and swiftly upwards and I pray to the God in whom I do not believe that my pilot has neither murderous nor suicidal intentions.  

Of course he hasn’t.

He does however, order me to smile at the selfie stick which photographs and records this flight, the idea being to capture my squeals of delight and the expression of joy on my face.    I’ve seen the video.  Is it possible to look terrified and slightly bored at the same time?

I sense his disappointment as he was doubtless expecting cries of ‘Whoop whoop!’  ‘Awesome!’  ‘Wow!’ ‘Fantastic!’    

But no.  

I gaze at the black, jagged, treacherous, rocky landscape below and fail to utter a single word.

Tenerife, of course, has charm and beauty in abundance, but as an island formed of volcanic rock, it could not be described, from the ground or air, as scenically stunning.   Well, some might describe it as such, but un-thrill-able me wouldn’t.

After a few minutes, even Ramon stops making happy noises.   Is it meant to be like this, I wonder, as the beach where we are due to land gets further away.  We aren’t actually moving forward.    The wind, which is incredibly noisy up here, holds us captive.   We are buffeted, up and back and down and up again.    Suspended, like a bird of prey, hovering.    

‘The conditions are not right,’ says Ramon, calm as you like, and proceeds to do all manner of stuff with what I assume are the controls.  ‘Get ready to land.’

I see Tracey in the distance, already on the ground.  The gritty wasteland upon which we clumsily plonk is hardly the resplendent sweep onto the beach that was supposed to happen, where Jez, camera at the ready, stands poised to seize the drama of the moment.

Ah well, all in all, sadly underwhelming.   But, hey, at least we’re alive.

At this point, face that I have, (shame on me, by the way) standing not quite at the foot of the mountain, I realise, sadly, that I have become a miserable old sod.   

What is wrong with me?

I have declared I’m not a thrill-seeker. That is, and always was, absolutely true.  

But when did I lose my joie de vivre?  

I dismiss the question instantly and forget about it.

But it won’t quite go away. 

Clearly, this isn’t an instant happening, like a flash where everything is illuminated and suddenly you can see clearly.  No, nothing like that.  

This is more of a gentle nudge, a nudge that becomes a persistent little prod at my consciousness.    

Ever so slowly, a new feeling of disquiet begins to creep into my perfectly comfortable life.

And my perfectly comfortable life, I realise, is part of the problem.

When you don’t have to do anything, it’s terribly easy to do nothing.  It’s easy to slip into a routine where your existence is neither challenged by the unexpected nor daunted by the unfamiliar.   You feel safe.  It’s nice.  It’s comfortable.  Easy.

Whatever happened to me?

Of course I know the answer. 

Nigel happened.  MND happened.  Nigel died.

Grief cloaks everyone in different ways.  I believe my cloak of grief has cocooned me so completely and comfortably that I don’t even know it’s there.  Like cashmere, it soothes.  I think I started working on my comfort blanket well before Nigel even died.  What may have been interpreted as resilience and strength was merely armour to paralyse the pain.  A barrier erected not only to keep pain out, but also to lock emotion in.    The trouble is, when you imprison sadness, happiness is not allowed anywhere near.  It simply does not belong.  Sentiment, passion and joy can be dangerous.  They can hurt.  

As Nigel and his favourite band Pink Floyd would say, I have become, comfortably numb. 

But, when your only job of the day is walking the dog; when you spend the rest of your day dusting the surfaces you dusted yesterday; when you can’t think of a single interesting thing to post on your blog; when the highlight of your day is a ginger biscuit with your coffee; when part of you is waiting for something to happen and the other part of you is actively ensuring it does not … and, 

And, I can’t believe it … 

You have reached level 877 on the Wordscapes App … 

It’s time for change!

I have spent too long in the safety of my base camp at the foot of my particular mountain.  It’s time for me to leave and explore the slopes. 

It’s time for me to remember how to live.  

And Nigel, in my heart, will come with me.  He will give me the strength to climb the mountains I will surely find.

And, I know he will hold my hand, when I leap off one or two.