25th July 2011

Our car has just failed its Mot and the mechanic at our local garage says he won't be able to repair it.
That's the trouble with these computerized Renault Meganes, he says, when it's a big job, only Renault garages can fix it....
And a big job it is. 
Apparently, the Turbo has gone. The clutch is not far behind and then there's the matter of the oil leak...  You see, they're all inter related. When one goes, the rest follows....  
        
My significant other researches online if it is going to be expensive to repair.
It is.
We deliberate about what to do next.
With the price of petrol continuing to go up it seems sensible to downsize to a little hatchback.
We also don't do as much driving as we used to. As the current Mot has only days left on it, we'll need to move quite quickly. This of course, is easier said than done but we manage to drive out to Seafield on the Wednesday, where scores of garages are located.

The first car showroom we stumble upon is Arnold Clark's.
Our very first car came from A C's, it was an ugly little mini Clubman estate but it did us well until it was stolen in Ferguslie Park in Paisley, and rammed deep into to the mud in a field nearby. That was the end of it, it never started again and could not be repaired.
Most of our second hand cars over the years have followed a similar fate. Either written off in minor accidents or breaking down irreparably at the side of a road somewhere, resigned to being picked up by a scrap merchants.

The salesman at AC's looks us up and down and asks what we're planning to spend on our next car.
About £3000? He doesn't think they'll have anything in that price range, maybe we should try GM motors down the road where they may be able to help us.
From the look on his face it is clear he thinks we are beyond help and certainly not worth entertaining for longer than is absolutely necessary.
By this time my dear husband is squirming uncomfortably.
It doesn't help that it is a very hot day. Ian hates change. He also hates making decisions. The time factor means pressure.
He suggests we go home and come back tomorrow. I point out we should use the time we have as we're here now.

So, minutes later, we drive into a large retail park. A veritable glut of garages here! Alas no parking. No parking at all. And no room to swing a cat.
Ian has to reverse the Megane several times. Looking out of the window I spy a large advert. No deposit and 0% interest over 5 years on all Vauxhalls....
Ian is having none of it. And due to the lack of parking we find ourselves back on the main road again. Remains GM moters. Ian is demoralized now. I can see he's rather do anything than search for a car but he agrees to have a quick look. There is parking, thank goodness.

How does one look for a second hand car? We saunter past rows of pristine looking vehicles. The prices and mileage are prominently displayed behind the front wind screens. There are plenty in our price range. Ian suggests we go for something that is quite old looking 'as we are not very good at keeping our cars clean..' Now it's my turn to get exasperated. I have never understood male reasoning.
A cheery salesman sidles up. Yes, he has plenty of nice little hatchbacks. Yes, he'll do part exchange and which is our car? Yes, he'll have a look and tell us what he'll give us for it. We like the Corsa? Why not have a little spin in it? No, no details needed, we have honest faces, ha ha. Yes, here's the key and he'll see us shortly. 
So we find ourselves turning back into the busy main road in the Corsa. It is a strange experience to be so low down in a car. It's almost like sitting on the road itself. A little scary after what we've become used to. We turn into a quieter road. I get a turn to drive. I stall the car. We swap seats again.
The cheery sales man greets us with the news that he'll give us £1500 for our old car if we decide to buy the Corsa. I suspect the Corsa must be worse than it seems if he is so keen to get rid of it. We promise we will be back once we decide.
As I suspected would happen, Ian is now racked with guilt at getting money in part exchange for what is, essentially, a pig in a poke. I try and convince him that the Corsa is so over priced in the first place, that the £1500 off brings it to its actual value. Ian is not convinced.
It takes two days of much deliberating and angsting before he is ready to go back to Seafield. Only, by this time, he's looked up what will happen to the Megane if we keep driving it.
Lawdy! This is serious.
There are pages of discussion dedicated to just this on the Internet.
It turns out, the car will first of all start to struggle with hills. Then it will suddenly speed up to 95 miles an hour and being computerized will not be stopped.
Ian assures me, getting technical, that it will then start taking its own oil for fuel. He reads out some of the postings online.
I couldn't get away at the traffic lights and all the cars tooted at me. Then all of a sudden, my Megane roared away and overtook all the others, I couldn't make it stop!
At this point, it sounds to me this guy's car has an anger problem rather than a Turbo problem. But no, he goes on to say that when he has the presence of mind to put the gear into neutral and bring the car to a halt, the revving goes on till, bang, the engine explodes.
Deary me, now I'm spooked.
Other people back up what he says and, the worst thing is, it is only a matter of time!
I decide to risk it and take the car on a couple of short journeys. I have, after all, just put £20 worth of diesel in it.
But we will need to do something. Only 2 days left now and we won't be legally allowed to drive the tank anymore...
The 0% interest offer seems more attractive to me by the minute.
I try and convince Ian that the £1500 we can expect for the tank will pay for more than a years payments and the £3000 we would spend on another old car full of hidden problems would pay for the next two.
Instead of being at square one again after 3 years and having to find another old car for about £3000, we'll have a good car with only £3120 left to pay off. He is perplexed by my logic and not impressed.

There are more stories of exploding engines though and just to be safe he books a car to take him to the funeral he has to conduct on Saturday. Then we can go and take the Megane on its final journey to Seafield. Ian is adamant though, he'll have to tell whoever it is we'll buy our next car from, exactly what is wrong with it. I comfort myself with the thought that this a man of integrity and I'm lucky to have him.
He's lucky to have me too as he'll soon be driving a brand new Vauxhall which is going to save us money and hassle over the next five years.
Now let's just hope the engine doesn't actually blow up on the way there tomorrow.....

A week in the summer at IJm

Summer holidays seemed endless in the 60s. My mother would try and find all 6 of us a week's holiday with relatives so she and my dad could have a break together somewhere. This usually meant a week at my  mother's parents for me. They looked incredibly old to my eight year old eyes. My Oma dressed in black from head to toe, with her thin yellowing hair in bun above the nape of her head. Her black and gold rimmed glasses perched half way up her nose, so she'd either have to tilt her head back to see, or push her glasses up. She was a quiet, timid woman with pale blue eyes and thin lips, firmly pressed together. I can't remember her ever expressing an opinion on anything. She'd always say something general like' we'll have to wait and see' or 'just do your best.' No wonder she was so careful really, Opa was an authoritarian, opinionated man. He would tell you  he'd done well for himself, starting out as a boy labourer on a farm at age twelve, earning twenty five cents a week. Always aspiring to better himself he had become a delivery boy and eventually  a grocer, owning his own shop. All through hard work, mind you, not like the spineless work shy people now... He'd become an elder in the Church and a councillor in the local government. People gave him respect in the village. If his lack of formal education bothered him, he covered it up well, pronouncing on everything with authority and not allowing discussion. He relished being right and 'putting people in their place'. He lost his temper quickly and often. Oma, by contrast, spent her days trying to avoid conflict and confrontation.
They walked to the Reformed Church at the top of the village every Sunday. In winter granma would wear a little black hat on her head and a black wool overcoat tightly buttoned against the cold and in summer the same hat and a lighter black coat. I don't think my Oma ever wore a colour of any kind. My grandpa always had a suit on, with a waistcoat and a tie. He never went out without a hat. The photograph which in later years had pride of place on the mantel piece, was one of him meeting the queen. He was a great royalist.
They had an old, big house in the High Street in IJm. The steps to the front door were old and cracked, and so were the tiles leading to the gate. Colonies of ants lived behind these cracks and I often left a trail of tiny crumbs for them to find and carry off. The summers were warm then and the house was always dark and cool. My grand parents had lived in the house a long time and had raised their children there, most of the bedrooms now unused but treasure troves of the past. Piles of magazines and books lined the walls of the walk in cupboard which linked the parlour with the backroom, where Opa had his room. To their credit, they did not restrict my access to any part of the house and I was allowed to read anything I could find. They were not used to children anymore and possibly not that keen on my yearly visit but they tried to be welcoming. There were lots of boxes in the attic where I could spend hours sorting through scraps of cloth and old toys.
The best part of the holiday was always 'pancake' day, when Granma would ask two of my many cousins round and make the biggest pile of pancakes ever. The batter seemed to be magic, there was no end to it. There'd be raisin pancakes and plain and bacon ones and apple ones. My tiny Oma keeping three or four frying pans on the go at the same time and tossing the pancakes to general acclaim. Opa could eat seven or eight in one sitting, he was a large man. The cousins maybe three or four and I would disappoint myself with managing no more than two. The kitchen was small, at the back of the house, overlooking her large garden where flower beds and vegetable beds alternated in neat and tidy rows. There were steps from the long narrow hall up to the kitchen and steps from the back door down to the garden. Oma had lettuces, potatoes, kale and cabbages as well as plants and flowers. I can't remember her using cut flowers indoors. Only a few begonias and an aspidistra in yellowing pots. Opa was a smoker. He smoked cigars and judging by the number of wooden cigar boxes he gave me to use for craft projects, he smoked a lot. Opa  listened to the news on the radio but never to music. If there was no radio program worth listening to, the parlour was quiet, except for the ticking of the clock on the mantle piece. Pictures of the Canadian relatives in assorted frames, adorned the side board and Persian rugs covered the tables in time honoured Dutch fashion. A cup of tea was always served at three pm and coffee at five. The evening meal, good hearty Dutch food, was always ready at six, without variation. After evening coffee at eight, it was my bedtime. I have no idea how my grand parents spent their evenings. Possibly they read. Possibly they just went to bed early as well. I had a large twin bedded room with a porcelain wash bowl and jug on a stand. The woodwork was dark, the beds soft and comfy. Oma was not a demonstrative woman. If she loved me, she showed it in making food. We kissed politely on arrival and on departure. We didn't have great chats or shopping expeditions. No night time stories or  tucking in. There were so many grand children that I suspect she found these rotating yearly visits rather tiresome. Then one day, my grandmother asked my mother not to bring all her children when coming to see her on yearly visits. "There are so many of them." My mother was mortified. She didn't hold it against her mother and duly visited with only her youngest two. My holidays ceased however and my mother turned her attention to finding a sitter for family visits and holiday breaks. And that is when tante Diny entered our lives....

Drinking Mars Bars.

I have bags under my eyes, my chin is losing its contours and am beginning  to look my age. I am also beginning to lose my shape, maybe not surprising as each glass of wine has the same calories as a mars bar.
Since this thought occurred to me, I have enjoyed pouring my nightly chilled Pinot Grigio less.
Fortunately the drinking of it is still a real joy.
As we were.
Just a little older.

Life is what happens when you're busy diong other things.

It has been a while since my last blog. What to say? I had a life changing experience in the jungle and then decided to study. You know how it is...
The first year of study is now at an end, give or take a few essays. Have I learnt much? Undoubtedly.
The most useful thing I learnt is that anyone can do it and it's got everything to do with attitude.

A. and I were walking  into the refectory one Tuesday lunchtime between classes. Passing the cash line machine, A. spied a note sticking out of it. "Somehow I am always lucky", she declared. She was too. It was a £20 note. "I'll treat you to lunch sometime", A. laughed.   She told me that she had stepped on an envelope in the M&S restaurant a few days before going home for a holiday a few months before. "I just picked it up and it was stuffed with Euros. It paid for my holiday.."  There were other examples and I told A. she should try the lottery...

During this Access to University year there were many little trials and successes. Being in the same class brought a comraderie and a closeness there would not have been in other circumstances. A. and I were sitting close to each other in Maths and both volunteered to be weighed for a body mass calculation. A. was a little lighter but not much. Why is this random memory so poignant now?
Even then A. complained she was losing weight. She wasn't feeling like lunch, toyed with it, often she felt sick.
Her boyfriend left her, she was distraught at the betrayel.
She started wearing baggier clothes. She kept losing weight. Then started to miss classes.

The Easter holidays were long this year. We were away from College for nearly a month.
I had a wedding to help plan and was quite pre occupied. A. changed her phone and I somehow didn't get her new number. I asked L. and C. what happened, then interpreted their evasive answers as A. being depressed about her ex.
I wish now I'd told her to see a doctor.


How strange life is. We had that lunch last week. We talked mostly about the diagnosis.
I'm starting literature studies in September.
A. is starting chemo therapy this month.

Pincode

I woke up with a start at 5 am. I knew I'd forgotten my pincode for my current account.
The first two digits came swimming back into my conciousness, but the last two were completely gone.
I tossed and turned for a while and wished I'd made all my pin numbers memorable.
Then I drifted back into a dreamfilled sleep.

When Ma went into a care home during the last few years of her life, she'd already entered the confused and often terror filled world of dementia.
All floors of the home had automatically closing doors which could only be opened by entering a fourdigit pin code. The code was easy to remember for all the visitors who came in throughout the day; the current year.

I went to see Ma at the beginning of October. She was delighted to have a visitor. "You have such beautiful teeth", she complimented me, using the polite form of 'you'. She did not know me.
I showed her how to wash her hands after using the bathroom. "You all know so much", she said with genuine admiration.

We had a cup of tea and a biscuit. "This is such a delicious biscuit", Ma looked at it carefully. "Really delicious."
I looked round the room. It was a large L shaped sitting room on the first floor.
A church tower with a large round clock was visible through  the window. How slow time must go when your mind and body are locked up.
The residents all presumably shadows of their former selves. Some mumbling to themselves, other sitting awkwardly in pvc covered armchairs. a large grey haired lady swearing at whoever tormented her thoughts and shouting randomly. "SSSHHH", scolded Ma severely, "Don't do that!"
I could not take my eyes off the caged canary near the door. It was grey, just like the people.

Over the previous years, Ma had become increasingly dependent and confused. Sometimes she realised what was beginning to happen to her and she would cry and worry.
She began to see things which weren't there and everyday tasks became insurmountable challenges.
Like operating the cooker or washing machine.
She lost keys, glasses, the evening meal...
She lost the ability to use the bathroom and dress herself.

Sometimes there would be a few lucid moments. But mostly she slipped into a fearful twilight world where everything was unpredictable and out of her control.
"Please let me go home?" she would plead sometimes. Then even language became a struggle, where sounds would come, but words remained hidden away in the part of her brain she could rarely access.

I dreamed I was back in the old manse in A.
L came into the livingroom. Somehow I knew she'd bumped her car three times in the previous days.
I was worried. L couldn't find her keys and was struggling to express her thoughts.
Ma offered her a biscuit." It's delicious", she smiled happily, " really delicious."

Today I will change all my pincodes to something I'll be able to remember.

Dutch Proverbs

The Dutch have the edge when it comes to 'Tell 'm like it is' sayings.
Let me dredge up a few and  compare the poverty of the English language by comparison.
How's this one for example, used to reassure : He won't walk into seven canals all AT THE SAME TIME.
Never mind that he may wonder into the first of said seven and drown!
Or: 'He likes to squeeze little cats in the dark', correct me if I'm wrong but I believe it means ; Lock up your daughters when he's about, he's after one thing only. (loosely interpreted.)
'Smiling like a farmer with a toothache', very descriptive of how we all occasionally feel in awkward social situations. More amusing when you observe others doing it.
Here is another great one: 'running around like a chicken without a head.'
Having actually witnessed a chicken running round without it's head I can assure you it's a messy business and not for the fainthearted. In the proverb however it means going nowhere fast.
If something is utterly delicious, you may turn to your host and exclaim: 'As if a little angel is peeing on my tongue', which in our family became a more acceptable ' as if a little angel is CYCLING on my tongue'.
If your host takes objection at your crude compliment, you will possibly 'find the dog in the pot' next time you visit and get nothing to eat.
I suspect some of these colourful sayings have had their century or so in the lime light, more's the pity...
And if you think I 'have heard the bell chime but I don't where the clapper hangs', you  suspect that I know a little of the subject but the essence eludes me. Probably right but please don't lay salt on every snail, after all, never shooting is always missing!

Last Tuesday I went to the cemetery.
Unusually, I was on my own.

I didn't remember some of the houses I walked past. Maybe they built more in the old style while I was away. I thought streets should be shorter than they are in your childhood memory.This one was longer than I remembered it.

The village is small and everyone who passed me in the street greeted me.
I wonder what life would have been like if I hadn't left?

The canals were frozen and the ducks were vying for the little spaces hacked in the ice.
A horse in a paddock lay down and rolled over on its back as I passed.
Joy the vivre or just a numptie?
I could barely feel my fingers and toes, and began to wish I had a warmer coat.

The cemetery was deserted.
Only one person had been there before me but their footprints had been half filled with new snow.
I turned left at the gate to go towards Ma's grave.
It seemed irreverent to spoil the silent paths with new footprints. But I walked on, my pointy toes and round heels digging deep into the crisp snow.
The footprints pointing to the graves I stopped to look at.

Beside Ma's grave, the grave of her neighbours in life, now passed on. Their last resting place adorned with garden ornaments just as their front lawn had been.
So many names familiar, so many faces clearly before me.

My headmaster, conflicting emotions there. Maybe I should forgive him, after all this time.
Parents of friends, neighbours. Kids I knew.

So many different markers, concluding lives in two lines. 'Here rests' and ' safe in the arms of Jesus'.

Granite, smooth and rough, Dark and light stone, marble and glass.

I made footprint patterns as I slowly moved through all the lanes. Round the outside first. Then through the middle. Right, then left. Pointy toes, round heels, dancing through the graveyard.

The sun was beginning to set when I left. H had cooked. L came round for drinks to celebrate her recent wedding.
'Did you do anything nice today?', L asked.
'Just dancing in the snow', I replied.
'you visited Ma', L smiled.
'No regrets?'.
'Very few.'
It's good to have friends who know you.