oh dear, how sad, never mind

Darn it. Social gaffes abound round here. The coolest kid in class has decreed, and I’ve been doing it wrong. Not for the first time.

I’m horrified. Distraught. Wondering if I can take to the blog with a revisionist red pen. I’m never going to be cool at this rate.

Lena Dunham, writing in the New Yorker, said

I … realize that writing about dogs is a very tricky business. It’s nearly  impossible to do without some simpering sentimentality. In a dream world, you write about your dog and you’re J. R. Ackerley. Or perhaps your words will have  the droopy intelligence of a Thurber dog. Jo Ann Beard’s essay “The Fourth State  of Matter,” a stunning account of a mass shooting in an academic community and  its surreal aftermath, describes a dying dog with such eloquent precision that  you can see every heartbreaking curve of his body, feel every labored breath, and you reflect on how we all fit together as a mesh of messy creation. But, more often, you’re writing “Beethoven.” “Marley and Me” if you’re lucky.

The same caveats apply to conversation about dogs. Just discussing your dog  can be as tiresome and offensive as talking about the weather, your own dreams,  or the newest wrinkle in your married sex life. At least when people talk about  their children, there is a chance that the kid will grow up to be President.

Well, eek. What am I to do now? Jake is family. This is a personal blog. Never mind the cool kids, I’m writing what I want (Jake is scared of the snowman) and Lena can’t stop me. What else did she say that I can complain about?

I read on.

A-ha! Lena is a doggie person after all. She tells of her attempt to rescue pit bull puppies as a teenager, the subsequent family pet, the dog free years, and now, life with Lamby the mutt. Hundreds of words about her dogs.

I climb down from my high horse.

This is the perfect moment to make sure you haven’t been missing out on The Oatmeal. You may be gone some time. Enjoy.

the day before

We didn’t even make it to the hotel without some minor crises: Ditzy D spilled coffee all over herself before we got on the train, Treasurer nearly lost a leg when the taxi pulled off as she was getting in, and Chairperson was so heavily laden with posters, leaflets and tshirts that we feared she may drop some of the sparkly stuff.

Probably because Chairperson and I had been supremely annoying in the build up to the conference, our offers of help for the afternoon set up were politely declined. This provided an excellent opportunity for window shopping or a pre party bath and snooze. (I’d hoped for the former, but enjoyed the latter.)

We had our charity first birthday party- cake, sparkles and giggling- a happy half hour of silliness before we went downstairs for grown up mingling.

Downstairs, it felt a bit like being at a family wedding- I knew some people but wanted to get to know the others; we have the same issues and concerns and will maybe know each other for years after this.

I met Jamie, featured in this video, who lives with Ehlers- Danlos Syndrome. The film is informative, but I learned much more about him, his world, and the impact of his condition, as we blathered in the bar for a bit.

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Doesn’t the valuable stuff often happen round the edges? Away from the pomp and formality, where we’re relaxed and informal.

Luckily, unlike some weddings, nobody lost the run of themselves and all went to bed at a reasonable hour.

We volunteers are professional after all.

our Billy

Andra’s recent titles have had me singing along…

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Today we bury Billy. Eighty six years of a full, active, loved life. Nearly sixty of those years have been spent with Eileen. Now deceptively frail, she spent all those years by his side, and took up residence in an uncomfortable hospital chair for his last few days. She didn’t leave him, knowing that he was about to leave her. Strength, love and togetherness- that elusive something special that we hear about, that we all hope for: they had it in spades.

See that cherubic curly haired chap? That’s Billy in about 1929- can’t you tell he’s full of mischief? While his sisters are scared of the photographers toys, and his parents and elder brother are posing, Billy is enjoying the moment.

That’s the only picture of Billy with a full head of hair I’ve ever seen. By the time the family expanded and a picture of all the boys was taken, Billy (on the left) was his adult self.

Many years later, a crowd of happy brothers and sisters at a wedding (Herself on the right, Billy second from right at the back).

Billy was with both of his parents when they died. He lost a daughter, and six siblings. He raised seven children and had the love of many grandchildren. When he died, he was with Eileen, his children, some grandchildren and some of his brothers and sisters.

When we were little, we’d look forward to seeing Billy, the way people look forward to roller coasters or the dodgems. He’d come into the family home and chase all the nephews and nieces for kisses or tickles, for the sheer fun of us all squealing in delight. Last week at the hospital, we were queuing up to kiss him, and tease him that we were taking advantage now, getting our revenge in, 40 years later.

He’d find the fun anywhere and he knew everyone. Like so many of his siblings, he enjoyed a good arguement. Black was white, if he so decreed. When he and Nora (anxious with a bear in the top picture, on the left in the bottom one) got together to argue opposing positions, nobody else got a word in, and they had a great time.

Billy was the boss. Our patriarch. Gentle and determined. Modelling all that is good in people.

Bye, Billy.

out to lunch

My neighbours probably know when I get up. Everybody else could be up and about on a Sunday morning, and all will be quietish. Girly giggles, a fluffy woof or two, but generally quiet. Once I get up the radio goes on, and stays on. I potter through my days with the background burbling of Lauren, Mark and Simon. At the weekend it’s Cerys, Graham and Jarvis. At times I have to put my book down stop the vital work I’m doing, and investigate further- what was that person’s name? Oh, I like that- I wonder what else they’ve done?

I would love to be musical myself, but I haven’t a note. A family full of singers, dancers and musicians, but I got none of it. (I have two left feet, the primary school choir didn’t want me, and everyone was glad when I stopped murdering a violin.) There’s nothing I can do about it, except enjoy everyone else’s skill.

The dark days of January are brightened round these parts by the Out to Lunch Festival- there are evening performances too, but lunchtime is perfect for me. This year I went to see young local folky type Niamh McGlinchey, always fun singer songwriter Kieran Goss, and the rather awesome Arlo Guthrie. Like the performers they are, each left me wanting more.

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Chat, music, laughter, tears, outrage. Lunch included in the price.

Oddly, I’ve done more music shopping since.