It has been a busy week in the Holme Valley, and quite a nasty one, actually. The weather remains the dominant feature, being a) wet, and b) rainy. This week has marked the passing of Midsummer, always a sad time for me, because winter depresses me, and punishes me, and I look forward to my summers, because they redeem me and reward me. And if I don’t get a summer, then I feel that all of my sufferings through the long cold dreary dark months have been in vain, and the thought of the nights now getting longer again, and all the horrible cold and darkness and God knows what perils lying ahead, has been the single most depressing note this week. A monotonous, depressing note, underscored by the rhythm section of the rain drumming on the conservatory roof, day after day. Mytholmroyd has been flooded, Marsden has been flooded, everywhere has been bloody flooded. It’s at times like this that I’m glad we live 250 feet up the slope of a valley.
As well as a depressing week of weather, it has been difficult in other ways. The 19 volt transformer for my laptop blew a fuse (well, actually, it more sort of blew up, a fuse would have been fixable) on Tuesday, which meant that I was without the computer all day Wednesday until Deb went and got me another one on her way back from teaching. I think I’m now on the third charger for this particular machine and I am seriously considering ordering in a spare so that next time it goes bang, I won’t lose a whole day’s production.
The accounts pile grows ever higher, in inverse proportion to my willingness to do anything about it, but I am going to have to, and soon, because the deadlines for Corporation Tax and Companies House filing will be here before I know it. And the blasted Annual Return is due on 13th August.
In the middle of all this rain (probably on the day when a month’s rain fell in 24 hours, according to the weather forecast, anyway) the door decided to stick so badly in the hole, against the jamb, that it was impossible to move. Indeed, it was jammed (or even jambed?) in so tightly, that I thought we’d need to call out a locksmith, figuring (erroneously) that the lock had broken. I was reminded of the saying that “love laughs at locksmiths” but I didn’t get the opportunity to test it out, because Debbie decided that “amor vincit omnia” and yanked the bloody handle so hard it nearly came off in her hand; she did, however, manage to free the door, so once again I was able to come and go as I pleased.
By far the worst bit of the week, though, was Kitty being ill on Thursday. I hadn’t realised how unguarded, how dependent, I had become on that little cat. If you’d asked me, I would have said well, in truth, she’s an old cat, and I’ve hardened my heart to the inevitable. And I would have been lying, because on Thursday morning, when she threw up twice then staggered to the doorway between ours and Colin's, then just crouched there, so I couldn’t get through in my wheelchair and I had to scoop her up and bring her back, I suddenly realised how desperately unprepared for anything like this I actually was.
All that morning, I worked away on the dratted VAT return, affording it even less attention than I usually do, while Kitty was semi-wrapped in a towel in Zak’s armchair in the conservatory, with a hot water bottle alongside her. By early afternoon, I’d resolved that somehow, I was going to have to get her to the vet, or get the vet to her, one way or another. By then, she’d got out of the chair, and was sitting/lying on the rubber mat just inside the conservatory door. A couple of times, I trundled over and actually opened the door, thinking she might want to go out. It was of course, absolutely pissing it down, and she showed no interest in moving whatsoever, in fact she barely acknowledged my presence.
I prayed, of course; it would never have occurred to me not to, because whatever else, I do believe in the power of the mind to influence what we perceive as reality, and there’s no harm in asking, even if you’re never quite sure whether anyone’s listening or not. I prayed to God, Jesus, St Francis of Assissi, St Padre Pio (because having a scary Italian monk with the gift of bi-location on your team is never a bad thing) St Gertrude of Nivelles (patron saint of cats) and I also rang the vets and fixed an appointment for her (the cat, not St Gertrude) not knowing at that stage how she was going to get there. I posted on Facebook asking people to send her vibes and good wishes, and just for good measure I put the statuette of Bast, the Egyptian cat god, (which came originally from Granny’s house) nearby, in a position where it could “watch over” her. I was taking no chances, covering all bases.
By the time 4.30pm came, loads of kind people, several other “cats” and a tortoise had all posted on Facebook wishing her well. Granny arrived, with the bedraggled dogs, to dry off, after dodging the showers on their daily “walkies”. And, amazingly, Kitty was sitting up, taking notice, and looking out of the door. Whatever it was seemed to have left her, let her be. Granny opened the door, and the cat walked out onto the decking, squatted down and started drinking rainwater which had accumulated in one of the empty plastic planters. Then she came back in and went to her food bowl. It was literally as if she had woken from a trance, and I wondered afterwards whether she’d had some kind of neurological “episode” or something, lasting several hours.
Anyway, since then, she’s continued to improve, and as I type this, is fast asleep on the sofa by the fire, in her usual default mode. I don’t deny it shook me, though, much more than I expected, and I hope against hope that it isn’t a case of the Almighty preparing me for something bad in little stages, the way the engineer just gives the metal a “kiss” to the grinder first, for positioning, before showering sparks everywhere.
There have been some vague moments of amusement and levity amidst the gloom of what has otherwise been a lousy week. Late on Sunday night, while watching the ashes of the fire go down and half-watching Dan Cruickshank on the TV, and trying to decide which was the more interesting, we were suddenly startled by a clatter from outside on the decking and Debbie jumped up and went to the door saying she'd just seen something with "big white wings" swoop down and across.
I can only assume it was a Barn Owl (ruling out the possibility of angelic visitation, via Occam's Razor) that had seen something scuttle across the decking and had thought, "Aye aye, I'll have that!"
On Monday morning I looked out of the conservatory door, and saw that the broom handle which Deb had left propped up at the end of her gardening labours the previous day has been knocked askew, which was probably the noise we heard, but - even more exciting, there were what looked like three round, hard, black objects on the table with the bird feeder! Owl pellets! Result!
So, I was busy logging on to the internet and frantically googling for pictures of owl crap when Debbie came back into the room and I said, "Darling, something very exciting has happened..." she let me tell her the whole story of the owl pellets and how we could boil them down to find the bones of little mousies contained therein, and then said...
"You don't mean those three black olives I chucked out for the birds this morning?"
Grrr. Next time she has tapenade, I am going to make it with owl pellets. Even if they're not vegan. Even if I have to send away for them.
Debbie has been much exercised by the antics of Isaiah and his mate, the other squirrel, who have taken to swinging off the bird feeder in an attempt to empty it of peanuts, sometimes both at the same time, from opposite sides. The usual gaggle (insert collective noun of your choice) of “ordinary” birds has been around as well, though I haven’t personally seen much sign of Brenda or of Freda lately. Maybe they’ll return in the autumn, when the nights are darker and the food scarcer.
Deb’s also been having trouble seeing the football on TV, complaining that we ought to get a bigger screen one. Apparently you should be sitting 1.5 times the screen size of the TV away, for the optimum effect. So if you have a 40-inch screen, you should be sitting 60 inches away from it, and so on. Debbie measured it backwards, working out the equation from where she normally sits and calculating how big the new screen would have to be: 11 feet across, so clearly a rethink is necessary. I suggested a visit to the opticians would be cheaper than installing a home cinema screen, or just turf Zak out of his chair when the football’s on, and got a funny look for my trouble. By this time I was tuning her out, and she announced that she was going to B & Q to look for “one which was bigger than 30 inches”.
“What? A TV?” I queried, only half listening.
“No, a Bow-Saw, of course.” Of course. Obviously I’d missed a few yards of dialogue while I was away with the budgies. Anyway, it’ll all be academic soon, as it’ll be over for another four years tonight, when England have lost to Italy.
Gardening has been much on our minds, although, again, the weather has prevented us actually doing much. But the week was brightened on Friday by the arrival of Bernard and his granddaughter Rachael, bearing four pre-planted tubs of herbs for me, including chives, parsley, thyme, mint and sage. A truly excellent and generous gesture, typical of the man. I am truly lucky to have friends such as Bernard and Owen who have helped me so much and usually appear like the fairy king in a pantomime, just at the point when I am at my lowest, and need rescuing, which seems to happen with increasing frequency these days.
I met him when he was in the next bed to me in hospital and we kept in touch. He's a great character, 89 and still going strong, he has a dog called Dave and an armoured car in his barn on the farm where he lives; it's a Ferret Scout Car that he's restoring.
He also once found a cache of explosive when diving on a wreck off Mull and they tried setting it off on the beach to see if it would still ignite! Disappointingly - from his point of view - it didn't, so they put it in an oil drum, under water, which apparently stabilises it, and he took it home. When he last moved house, he thinks he forgot to take it with him to the farm, so if you hear a big bang from West Yorkshire, it means that the new owners have found it!
Anyway, we’ve made it to Sunday, again, which feels like quite an achievement after a week like the one just gone. It’s been quite a productive day, as well, I’ve re-potted some Fennel and Deb’s strawberry plant, the one with real strawberries on it, and I’ve sorted out Granny’s bag of camera leads.
Debbie was in a glum mood because her chainsaw wasn't working, and by good fortune I happened to note that the chain was on the wrong way round, so once I'd pointed that out and we'd changed it round (me holding the chainsaw while she dismantled it enough to re-site the chain, then re-tension it again) it worked, and she was happily chainsawing up logs from the trees she's lopped in the garden, while I made her crumpets for breakfast. There's nothing like listening to the Archers Omnibus Edition with a chainsaw in bits on a spread-out newspaper in the middle of the rug. How different from the home life of our own dear Queen!
I’ve sort of lost my way in the Liturgical Year, however much I’ve suddenly been bothering Big G again this week. (Hi, remember me? Sorry I’ve not been in touch! Please save the life of my cat!) But I gather it’s the third Sunday after Pentecost, and also St Rumbold’s day. I don’t know much about St Rumbold, who was martyred by two men whom he had accused of “wickedness”, which may have been a good career move but in practical terms doesn’t strike me as entirely wise. I have, however, managed to find my way to the Lexicon for today, which includes, inter alia, the story of David and Goliath, and Job 38, 1-11.
I have felt a bit like Job myself this week, about the only thing I haven’t yet had is a plague of boils, and probably the only thing that’s prevented that particular indignity is the amount of garlic I’ve consumed! I was struck by the chosen passage though, because like all of the King James Bible, it’s full of poetry:
Then the LORD answered Job out of the whirlwind, and said, Who is this that darkeneth counsel by words without knowledge? Gird up now thy loins like a man; for I will demand of thee, and answer thou me. Where wast thou when I laid the foundations of the earth? declare, if thou hast understanding. Who hath laid the measures thereof, if thou knowest? or who hath stretched the line upon it? Whereupon are the foundations thereof fastened? or who laid the corner stone thereof; When the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy? Or who shut up the sea with doors, when it brake forth, as if it had issued out of the womb?
When I made the cloud the garment thereof, and thick darkness a swaddlingband for it, And brake up for it my decreed place, and set bars and doors, And said, Hitherto shalt thou come, but no further: and here shall thy proud waves be stayed?
Stirring stuff, indeed. Maybe Big G has been speaking to me out of the whirlwind, this week, and I haven’t really been listening. What was that, something about a bow saw? Oh, a bow of burning gold, I see. Well, the thing is, your Godship, much as I’m grateful for your help with Kitty, I’m still unsure what my part is in all this. Just tell me in words of one syllabub what it is you want me to do. And, of course, don’t forget, I’m stuck in a wheelchair. I do identify with Job, though, and I think he had a bit of a tough time of it.
But then we all are, at the moment. On TV this week they featured the poignant story of a former builder, himself now unemployed and homeless, attending a soup kitchen run by a Yorkshire homeless charity in a chapel building that he actually helped to build, back in the days when he was in employment, before he lost everything.
There is nothing new under the sun, of course. Back in 1904, Joseph Rowntree, the Quaker, was writing:
Much of current philanthropical effort is directed to remedying the more superficial manifestations of weakness and evil, while little thought or effort is directed to search out their underlying causes. The soup kitchen in York never has difficulty in obtaining financial aid, but an enquiry into the extent and causes of poverty would enlist little support.
Nevertheless, it is an enquiry much needed, much overdue. An enquiry that should turn its searching light onto every crevice of the crumbling edifice of our society, and see what can be saved, and what can be stripped out and made anew. Gird up now thy loins like a man; for I will demand of thee, and answer thou me. Why, in the year of our Lord Two Thousand and Twelve, are we allowing such evils to continue to flourish? Who hath laid the measures thereof, if thou knowest? or who hath stretched the line upon it? Whereupon are the foundations thereof fastened? or who laid the corner stone thereof?
When we know the answers to that, we can start fixing it. And maybe we can get the builders back to laying the corner stone, instead of queuing up for soup.
So, for my part, tomorrow I start another David and Goliath week, with various Goliaths, in the form of Barclays Bank and Virgin Media, to name but two, deserving of a well-aimed sharp slingshot between the eyes, but tonight, now, here and now in England, as T S Eliot might have said, I’m going to feed the household, then watch the football.
And give thanks to Big G that we’re all still here to partake. And though we’re now on the long road to Christmas, there’s still a bit of the summer wine left to sample, I hope, in the summer wine country.
A soft day, at last, thank God, as Winifred Letts and Charles Villiers Stanford might have said if they were here right now:
A soft day, thank God!
A wind from the south
With a honey'd mouth;
A scent of drenching leaves,
Briar and beech and lime,
White elderflower and thyme,
And the soaking grass smells sweet,
Crushed by my two bare feet,
While the rain drips,
Drips, drips, drips from the eaves.
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