rain, rain...

Well, it's raining again - though with so many people suffering from flooding, we really have nothing to complain about, other than wet clothes and feet and a muddy carpet.

As it is so wet today, I am going to spend some of my time struggling  again with coming to terms with some of the social networking sites. I say, 'struggling', because it's not just that it's all an alien world to me, but also that the task involves practicing extreme patience. Our broadband service is so slow - less that 0.5 mega- whatsits - that it can take half an hour to get onto the net and another fifteen or  twenty minutes just to move onto another page. We have just learned, too, that, although we were all promised Superfast Broadband in the next year or two in this area,  10% of the patch won't get it. Guess who?

Why is there so much official insistence on doing things on line? Not all of us have the facility, even if we have the will or inclination. Something needs to be done!

Christmas coming up...

It seems all right today, so I shall carry on here for the time being. I've been scurrying  round this morning, if you can scurry, that is,  when hobbling with a stick! To the surgery for monthly blood tests first, then to my beloved little library (Alresford's staff are wonderful and I am to have a book signing there in the New Year) and on to search for a few more Christmas presents. We shall be going up to London this time - it's only the second time in over 50 years that we have spent away from home. Our youngest grandchild is in the National Theatre's production of 'Emil and the Detectives' which we will be seeing on Boxing Day. Her parents are both actors, and both she and her older sister  are  set on following in their footsteps.

Well now, today's other task is to get a hot cushion and get down to doing at least  a bit more on my work-in-progress,  my next-but-one book, before de-thawing myself in the kitchen whilst preparing something for supper.  We are going out this evening to a carol singing fund-raiser for the village church, which should be lovely.

Hurray!

Happy today because my novel 'Someday, Maybe' is out!!! Do read it.

 

 

I may have to start a new blog somewhere. If I do, I'll post it here and on Twitter. When I click on 'next blog' it has started producing some inappropriate web pages that have nothing to do with me. 

Long time no blog!

And here we are - back to Winter!

I am really, really peculiar; I prefer the colder weather. Always have.

And particularly uplifted in spirit today...  My first published book, 'Someday Maybe' is to be released by Sunpenny Publishing in the next few days! You could have a look at my website at www.jennypiper.moonfruit.com if you have got a moment? Go on - do!

Rain at last!

Raining today! How lovely. We're so short of rain; the garden has been getting desperate. Is there such a thing as 'watering can elbow', because I think I've got it?

Discovered whilst I was out there that a toad has spawned in my big water barrel. We don't have guttering because, as you know,  the roof is thatched, so I have various containers planted hopefully about the garden. This one is just outside the back door. May have to move it - don't fancy hundreds of tiny toads hopping about the kitchen.

Too many plants

There are 41 Canterbury Bell plants sitting in my greenhouse. Over the last year or two I have lost many of the biennials planted out in the autumn, so this winter I decided to keep them back and plant them out in Spring. So, I have 41 Canterbury Bells sitting there amongst the spiders' webs, desperate to get out and plunge their roots into something roomier and a bit more encouraging. 41 Canterbury Bells - oh, and   38 Wallflowers, 15 Sweet Williams, 35 Foxgloves and  20 Antirrhinums, not to mention the Perennials - 3 Anthemis, 15 Delphiniums,  16 assorted Pinks, dozens  of Penstemons, a couple of Echinaceas, 14 Hollyhocks, 7 Lavender, 2 Rosemarys, 3 Sages, and a large number of cuttings the labels of which have either come out or been washed off.

There are also the dahlias waiting to be boxed up for sprouting, and all the annuals waiting to be sown. I've done the Sweetpeas, but everything else is still waiting. THERE IS NO ROOM in my little greenhouse and  in the garden, IT IS MUCH TOO COLD.

On living forever

I’m very glad that I missed being one of the ‘live forever’ generation. Why would you want to? Yes, of course, being alive is an amazing thing, a privilege  and all that, but surely, with any party, no matter how much you’ve been enjoying yourself, there comes a time, perhaps as the dawn begins to rise a little beyond the curtains and the milk flat rattles along the street (if the area is lucky enough to have one, of course; most of the few milk roundsmen left seem to use open backed lorries: not the same at all) , when you find yourself thinking, ‘Had enough of this now, really: time to go home.’

(Not that I think that there is actually a home to which to go; I doubt that very much. I’m not expecting anything. If it turns out to be the case that there is, well, that’ll be a nice bonus, won’t it? No, I imagine that it’s going to be much as it was before I was born – a whole lot of nothing without my being around to be aware of it. Difficult to get one’s head round the idea, but I find it strangely comforting, like looking at the myriad stars above my head on a clear night and trying to grasp that there are numberless  more universes out there beyond them somewhere. How small one feels, how insignificant one’s worries are in the whole scheme of things – whatever that is. I find it  extremely comforting, don’t you?) 

Not wanting to live forever is mostly to do with my not wanting to get really old. What’s the point in it? Eat the right things, don’t smoke, don’t drink too much, live a healthy life, take plenty of exercise, make yourself really uncomfortable, bored and righteous if you must, but unavoidably, you will at last find yourself papery thin, arthritic and ancient and, odds are, parked up in a smelly armchair against the walls of some old people’s home, toothless, drooling, incontinent, probably immobile, over-medicated, unable to feed yourself or recognise your relatives, doolally. As I say, what’s the point? Much better just have a nice time avoiding as many as possible of the  things you don’t like and allowing yourself to indulge in a little of what you do.

No, I’m not a masochist; I don’t fancy a lengthy, painful death either, thank you, but that’s a risk I’m prepared to take..  If there is a God, I’d much prefer to pass away in my sleep or, failing that, a nice clean heart attack, please; that’d do me nicely.

The rest of it, well, aches and pains and things like that, but I suppose that mostly it’s because I’m getting fed up to the back teeth with worrying about my family. Denis and I once went to visit a very dear and older friend who was in hospital and, chatting as you do, I asked about her three children, who were then, like us, middle aged and married with children and, in their cases, several grandchildren. She sighed and took my hand gently. “Oh, darling” she said quietly – and I think there were tears in her eyes - “When do you turn away from your children and cleave to your husband?” I’d no idea what she was talking about. I think I know now.