December 13, 2013 by judyfairbairns

Island Blog 115 Primary Three

Thirty Three years ago this morning, a child was born. A boy. The Third Boy – 3 being the first prime number, the lucky prime, the only prime triangular, the triad, the noblest of all digits, and the only one of five to be born on the island; the only one to spend his first night on this earth in matron’s bottom drawer.

Let me paint the picture……….It was a wild and stormy night (which it was) and I was determined to miss the last ferry. I knew a-plenty about birthing by then, had already had 3 labours (one being the Only Girl) and did not want to be inside a hospital. The first two had been home births and the process is straightforward enough anyway – I mean, there’s only one direction to go down, and all I have to do is swear a lot, push when told to and trust in the doctor and nurse, both of whom I knew well. So, in the middle of this gale, and in the darkness and in the crankitty old landrover with its binder twine door hinges and sheep food in the back, we rattled to the old folks home and Mrs MacFlorrie’s bed. Not that she was sharing with me, you understand, but was, instead, shunted down the corridor to bunk up, temporarily, with another ‘old folk’. That is how it was in the olden days, for we had no island hospital back then.

He was small and stayed that way for a while. They suggested a growth hormone, but we said..

‘Leave him be. When you have this many children, it’s handy to have one you can just pop in your pocket. Whilst other boys are growing and talking about how big they are, Rhua squeezes through the gaps. he is as wiry and as fast as Spiderman, and just as fond of heights. Look at me! he shouts, aged two and half, from half-way up a cliff face, or from the top of the massive old oak tree, and we all do look, just to keep him quiet, and we keep looking, although I must have looked away at least once, as there is another baby on the way.’ (Island Wife Chap 17)

When he came home to Tapselteerie, he spent any sleep times, never longer than 20 minutes, day or night, in the tea towel drawer, whilst I worked in the kitchen. Because the house was so huge, I could never have left him upstairs, just below cloud level, for goodness knows what he might have got up to. He was the one who tipped all liquids and powders from all bedrooms into the loo and mixed up a cauldron of seething bubbles and curious smells. He is the one who left home aged six in the dark of a wild night, with only his toys as luggage. He is the ‘chef’ who signed up for trial of a deep fat fryer, one that arrived in the back of a big lorry. The delivery man did not believe me when I tried to send him away, saying it was a mistake. He would not countenance that he had driven all the way from the depot in Glasgow to this isolated place, with moon rocks and pitfalls and nothing but sheep and heather for days. I had to show him the 6 year old chef, before he would even consider returning to base camp.

It was this third boy who rose from his short sleeps with a head full of ideas, and a deep sense of purpose. I found him once frying bacon on the aga, start naked, aged 2. For our breakfast, he said. He had already laid the table, with brandy, bread, salad cream and red sauce, tonic water and chocolate. It was hard to be cross. How he managed to lift the heavy aga lid, without nipping his manhood in the bud, still amazes me.

I took to sleeping outside his bedroom door, lying across the narrow landing on the servants floor (no servants to be seen) in order to save us all from this boy’s nocturnal ideas and sense of purpose.

When he finally grew into a young man, he hit the world with a force it might not have been ready for. Wherever he went, wherever he worked, he was enthusiastically bonkers, and very successful. And now, as a father and husband, and broker in the flatlands, he still is, but it is not the outward success that matters, but the man he has become. A man I respect, admire and adore. One who makes me laugh, whose heart is huge and strong, who can blag and wind up, who can reach too far, fall down, and get up again in a nanosecond. Although he is born of me, he is himself as are all my kids, and each one of them delights and surprises me.

I remember the illnesses, and the times of trouble. I remember the nights of worry, the fears and hopes, the dreams dying, the prayers a-plenty, but when I look at them, at any of them, I am so very proud. All we ever wanted for our children, was that they find their own way into a fulfilled life. I know this is not a thing that comes gift-wrapped – indeed no,t for it is a process, and a long one, but to see young people on what appears to be the right track, is indeed a blessing for any mother, or father. We couldn’t give them life on a plate, or expensive tuition or finishing school in Switzerland, but we gave them Tapselteerie and we gave them adventures and memories.

‘From the mound of dogs and kit, they(the children) marvel at everything, and, in their marvelling, I can taste the freshness of seeing things for the first time, the elation and sparkle in that seeing, like having lemonade in your veins and butterflies in your head. There are no seat belts in the back of the Landrover, and no law to put them there, so the children bounce and whoop and flip like monkeys, free as air, as the car rocks like a boat in a storm.
Suddenly, my head is bursting. Enough! I roar, causing everyone to freeze mid-flip, and Alex to swerve. He is not pleased.
Why are you shouting? he asks with a frown across his face, deep as the Limpopo River.
I don’t bother to respond, enjoying the sudden silence. Instead, I turn to fluff up a very flat collie and to settle my sons the right way up.
What are you going to spend your money on? I beam at them.
Jake is buying a Lego set, one of those big ones with enough pieces to block the vacuum every week.
Rhua wants an Action man. Well, that figures.
And Solly? Well, Solly wants a gun and chorus.
A gun and chorus?
Yeah! Gun and chorus, like Duncan’s at crayboop.
He is getting upset, as he always does when we have no idea what language he speaks.
Okay, okay Sol, that’s grand. We’ll find one.
Cassie, seeing my predicament, pulls her finger from her mouth.
It’s a dinosaur with flashing eyes. Duncan’s got one and he brought it to playgroups. It’s called a Gunnacaurus.
She says all this in a monotone, staring straight ahead, like a code breaker in a spy movie. I wonder what we would all do without her translation skills.
I bend my head down to hers. Where do we get one? I ask.
She looks at me in puzzlement. A dinosaur shop, she says.
Of course! Silly me. (Island Wife Chap 21)

So, to the First Odd Prime Number I say…….Happy Birthday!

December 10, 2013 by judyfairbairns

Island Blog 114 Two Shadows

Well well well – here I sit to tell you that I have done all my Christmas shopping, wrapped it and posted or stored it under the skirts of my easy chairs. When Sula was alive, that would have been impossible for she would have joined them, cooried in to the crackly nest and torn the cheap skinny wrappings into a gorgeous cosy nest. I would have heard her, of course, but probably not in time. I would have grabbed her waggy tail and hauled her out, whence she, astonished and alarmed would have embedded her sharp claws into the soft winciette pajama bottoms or the fine weavings of an expensive cardy, exacerbating the situation skywards and threatening me with spontaneous combustion, for which, at this time of day, there is only one cure. The Chilean syrah.

I am mindful, as I wander into houses where most of the inmates wear very small pants, that their days were mine, once. The only large-panted members of the Tapselteerie clan, numbering one, (that’s me) were far too sensibly grown-up for such fun, hence the elevated size of pant. We, or, rather, I, would never have bothered tiptoeing around by torchlight to rustle, as quietly as possible, under any skirts in search of a label with my name written upon’t. Certainly not. I was the one, with the megaphone and steel toe-caps, who stalked the dark reaches of the baronial mansion house, in search of rustlers. Even the island husband could be caught snooping, although, to be honest, he could, quite easily, and did, lose a chainsaw under a sheet of A4, so he was never the leader in this shenanigan. It seemed to me that everyone worked in secret, as if they didn’t want to be caught by anyone, let alone Miss Trunchbull. I would find them, red-faced and jabbering with guilt, often in gumboots and hand-me-down jama bottoms, pretending to me, their Trunchbull of a mother, that they were looking for a book to read. Like I was going to believe THAT!

And yet, a wistful part of me longed to be them. Being sensible is deathly dull on a good day. As my pant size changed, it seemed I had to become my clothing. As a child, pulling on just something to get me down to my cornflakes was all I cared about. How I looked meant absolutely nothing. I didn’t consider what would happen if I was cold or if my shoes didn’t go with my outfit. I didn’t consider my outfit at all. I just yanked off my nightie and pulled on something a little more robust for my descent into the day. I don’t recall wondering what I might feel like if the milkman caught me without a good 2″ of slap across my face, or if my jumper might be too warm for the time of year. I just got dressed.

Admittedly, there were times, many of them, as my pants got bigger, when my mother might smirk at my bonkers assemblage of gold sequinned jumper over hotpants, but it was only her smirk that upset me, not the clothes upon my back. At Tapselteerie I fussed like a hen over my children’s casual attitude to clothing. Wear a warm jumper out there, I would say, trying to thaw out the collie dog currently frozen to the ground by her girly bits. She only sat down for a minute. But they ran out, wild and skimpily clad into the day, into every day, and there were times I hated my job. My Miss Trunchbull job. At the shore, they swam in the freezing sea any time of the year, emerging sapphire blue and making wonderful percussion with their teeth. I couldn’t even catch their jumping knees to rub them dry. There, I said, now NEXT TIME……….. but next time was just the same as the last and still they laughed at me. I think they probably still do, because I still do it. If they had listened to my fears, they would be locked up by now, terrified by the voices in their heads, portenting doom if they so much as open the fridge.

Now, at my big pant age, I think back and I wonder. What if I had just shut the hell up? Well, I will never know what the answer to that, and I cannot change the past, but I can make a new future for myself. I watch them with their own children, letting them fall, letting them burn a finger or two, warning quietly, then letting go. I watch other people, other nations, like today at Madiba’s memorial service in Jo’burg and I see the wild musical African women, bopping and singing and ululating, and all in very much bigger pants than mine, and I see a new freedom. I also see the stiff backed British sitting with stiff backs and not letting go at all. Well, it isn’t British, is it?

There are times, many times, as I find myself in a train station of grownups, or a shop or just walking down a street, when I have the intense desire to spin around, to begin a song and to sing it right through. Not for an audience to boo or applaud, but just for me. The other day I went out at dusk in Glasgow, to collect something from a shop. As I walked back among other grownups, intent on their mission, their Iphone, their deadline, I had this feeling and just spun around, my arms wide. There was a fingernail moon in a clear cold sky, and, as I walked back feeling very delighted withe myself, and smiling like a loon, I saw two shadows on the pavement.

They were both mine.

November 25, 2013 by judyfairbairns

Island Blog 113 Secrets and Mindfulness (plus donkey)

Inside us lies a world of secrets. Secrets we share with one or two trusted people, and secrets we never ever tell a soul. There are secrets we won’t even share with ourselves.

I am learning the wonders of Mindfulness. What it asks of me, this Mindfulness thingy is that I pause long enough to notice my responses to any stimulation, any event, any person, any words aimed at me, and so on. For instance, if you say to me something like ‘ I wish you wouldn’t always kick my donkey when you walk through his field’ I might respond angrily, especially if it wisnae me in the first place, but just some woman who bought the same red jacket last Autumn. If I did kick the donkey, then I might respond defensively, maintaining that the donkey is bad tempered and sly, watching out for me crossing his field and making sure he whaps my shin when you’re not looking.

In both these cases I am holding a secret. The first one will be that I think you are a stupid smug donkey-owner and I never liked, nor trusted you one tiny bit. You are a gossip and probably spreading no end of rumours about me down at the shop. I don’t tell you this, of course but hold this secret within my soft interior, a secret that rises like bile in my gut every time I have the misfortune to meet you in the road.

The second one could be that I do sneak about kicking donkeys, even if they do mind their own business and are astonished any time my boot makes contact.

I appreciate that the above example is a tad silly, and I would also like to state, for the record, that I have never kicked anyone’s donkey, even though anyone’s donkey most certainly has kicked me. But that’s another blog, another time.

My thoughts, my private thoughts are my secrets. I like them, but there are times when I must allow them to fly away because holding onto them will harm me.

Anger and resentment for example will make me ill, or, at the very least, bring me lower back pain and plooks. Oh I know, absolutely know that people who say anger is a bad thing have never been angry enough. Fear of anger, my own or just anger in general gives the powerful emotion very bad press, and quite wrongly so. Anger is an energy, creating adrenalin and heightened strength, and, mindfully employed, can achieve remarkable good things – lashing out with sharpened weaponry not being one of them. If I can accept and be thankful for this surge of anger and think about why I felt it so strongly when all you did was break my favourite coffee mug, I will eventually be able to understand the root of it all. In the current climate, someone will probably tell me it’s all my mother’s fault, but I must look beyond her. Although she is a convenient soft landing for the punch of blame, she won’t be the whole reason I can promise you that.

My over response to unkind words, or of being abandoned, rejected, accused or blamed will have its roots in childhood. Could be at home, at school, anywhere in the playround of youth. Often, the lineage of those roots is untraceable back to source. So what? Mindfully I can accept this and move on, but not move on and hold onto them. I must move on and let them go. I don’t need them, they weigh me down and make me secretly kick donkeys and over-react to broken mugs. I know I don’t like unkind words, but I also know that you may not have meant them they way I heard them. I know I don’t like the accusing gossip in you, but you very probably don’t like much in me either and, as we don’t have to meet, let’s not. I don’t want to be rejected or dissed or ignored or abandoned, but life is going to throw all of them my way at some point. If I am mindful of my response to any of these as they cross my path, I am going to hear my own secrets. Instead of pretending that it is all ok and that I don’t hurt at all, I will be able to honestly allow anger to rise against the pain and deal with it all by myself. I won’t need to snap at anyone, or kick a donkey. Then, when you break my replacement, replacement, replacement coffee cup I will be able to say (and mean it) that it doesn’t matter one jot because it’s only a cup, and can be replaced (providing there are any left), whereas you are irreplaceable.

November 20, 2013 by judyfairbairns

Island Blog 112 Chrispepsia

Still on the subject of Love, I find myself in a wee panic as I suddenly realise how close we have come to Christmas. In the olden days when all my chicks lived under the same roof, it was comparatively simple in that I knew exactly what they wanted and did my best to find it. Christmas lists were read and laid to one side as they usually contained expensive new toys, noticed in other’s homes or found in television adverts, and quite out of the pocket-question for us. Now they are grown and gone, parents most of them, and I have no idea what they want. Even buying for their little ones throws me. I know them, in that I would indentify them in in a crowd, but what little ones want and like and, most importantly, what their parents will accept or allow leaves me standing quite still and staring out the window, my mind a scummy blank.

Clothes. They all have a zillion clothes, from chic inter-familial hand-me-downs to outfits bought by a parent who knows that this one can’t wear nylon mix, another goes red in the face above a tight polo neck, yet another adores Peppa Pig, Lightning McQueen or Angry Birds and that’s three different little ones. And which has just lengthened by a few inches, or grown larger feet? Toys, from my recent check online at either incredibly expensive six times over or offering total rubbish that needs batteries they don’t even bother to supply.

What I find now, as I have always found, is that strange arisal of guilt inside me. It is called Chrispepsia, a word sandwich merging Christmas and Dyspepsia. I want to give…….. no, to show by my gift, that nobody is more important than another. I have never succeeded, not once. Somebody is always disappointed.

When I buy a gift, I buy what I think they would absolutely adore and am surprised when they don’t adore it at all, never mind absolutely. Hence, a list. But there is a part of me that doesn’t want to be given a list, but who wants to surprise. When I overhear an adult asking a child ‘So what is Santa bringing you this Christmas’, I inwardly tut, especially when the answer is An X Box, or a Mountain Bike. Don’t they know there is only one Santa and a vast world-full of children? We surely don’t expect the old chap to set off multiple times because he cannot fit onto his sleigh more than one or two bikes at a time, do we? And how does a mother explain to her child who only got a few trinkets, some nuts and a tangerine in his stocking, that Santa doesn’t have favourites, when one schoolmate got an X Box and another, a Mountain Bike?

I have said, until the room falls asleep yawning, that Christmas is a time for giving, not getting, but it is clear to me that nobody paid the slightest attention. So, back to Chrispepsia. I’m right in the thick of it now and as lost as ever I was. In the past I have made things, things that undoubtedly fell apart by February, but nobody said. This year I haven’t made a thing, other than an impact on a lot of readers of Island Wife which doesn’t get me out of Chrispepsia.

There are forward looking folk who will already have wrapped and labelled all their gifts, planned their festive dinner, and may well be considering erecting their Christmas Tree. These goodly people have a clear head, strong decision-making powers. They don’t fanny about with the ditherers, whereas I am right in their midst. And, even when I have decided, bought and labelled each gift, I still feel unsure. On the day, as they begin to open it, I want a big hole to swallow me up. I don’t think they feel any concerns at all. It is just me and my Chrispepsia.

I have worked out, after a bunch of hours staring through windows, that I must measure my love in a material gift. The fact that I give in so many other ways during the year before, and after this great day, disappears like smoke in a westerly gale. And yet, my chicks and their chicks know how I show my love. I show it in actions, in written words at times of trouble, in spontaneous acts of random kindness, in patience, understanding, acceptance. I walk it. Any distance, any time. And I always always will.

So, you big twit, what’s the problem? You can just turn up, bring wine and cake, plasters and patience, fun and nonsense, ideas and iodine. Bring your hands for holding, for easing pain, for cooking supper. Bring your voice to encourage, sing, talk things through; your imagination for games or to develop a conversation; your skills to help, to share a burden, to celebrate another, to lift spirits.

Ok so I’m the gift for Christmas then?

Yes you are……..we all are…….plus the odd trinket of course.

November 12, 2013 by judyfairbairns

Island Blog 111 Love Defiant

‘Love is giving someone the power to break your heart, and trusting them not to’. Some wise soul said that, and I pinched it.

When we fall in love, we fall into infatuation at first. We can think of nobody else all day. Their face and voice lift us up to heights we never knew before. Every time.

When I looked up Love on the interweb as my old ma calls it, every link on the first page and beyond guided me towards young love. Now, young love is not just for the young. The ‘young’ adjective describes Love, not the people feeling it. We can fall in love at any age, and thankfully, we do or the world would be chock full of lonely old people, who have loved and lost and find they can love again. But love is not just a feeling. It’s a verb. In order to maintain a love between two people, both have to work, sometimes, very hard and over long periods of time.

So what is love, the verb?

Well, after the first overwhelment of love, hitting us right in the heart like a meteor has landed there, things slowly change. Is this, we ask ourselves, the death of love? Did I make a huge mistake? Is the ‘honeymoon’ period over? Hopefully, yes. Now we are getting real.

You may have made a mistake in your choice of lover, but you also may not, for at this point comes commitment, a cementing of a love, a choice to grow it into something long term, something that will sustain both people for the rest of their lives. Ok, so we ‘commit’ whatever shape that takes and on we go. At first we can allow things to irritate, because we are still floating on cloud nine and, as we know Love is blind. But, when those things that irritate don’t disappear, we begin to wonder, because our initial plan to make the other person into a carbon copy of ourselves, isn’t working.

This is the uncomfortable bit.

‘Vive la Difference!’ is something we can laugh about and nod our heads to, but can we actually live with it?

There is another saying, that ‘Love means never having to say you’re sorry’. Well bin that one. I believe that saying sorry and taking appropriate action thereafter is precisely what Love is. Otherwise we can just go on with our irritating habits, expecting the other person to get over themselves without considering their feelings and that is not ‘love’.

‘Don’t sweat the small stuff’ is another. However, the small stuff grows into big stuff if left unattended and, by the way, the small stuff is in the way every hour of every day is it not? Dropping socks on the floor, nagging about who does what, harping on about slamming the car door, not helping with the shopping/kids/accounts etc.

So how do we un-sweat it?

Honestly, I can’t answer any of it, for this subject is one discussed to death all over the world in many languages. What I can say is that Love is a journey, not just a feeling. Beyond the chemstry, the longing to get home to a loved one, the daily joy, is a great depth of other things, essential things that, if applied with patience, will grow into a lifetime love.

But what about all that small stuff? Does he/she get away with it all? Hmmmm. Jury is out on that. I have made all the mistakes, harping, nagging, moaning about my lot, and you already know that, if you’ve read Island Wife. But, what I have learned, thankfully, is that love is not about getting my own way in everything. It is not about a clear stage, just for me, with himself prancing about like a dancer in tights, to lift me up every time I feel like a pirouette.

No, love is about Compassion. Kindness. Loyalty. Friendship. Affection. And each one of these is a choice, NOT a feeling. In fact, feeling them is unlikely at first, given the small stuff sweats. These depths of love are something to do, to work on, to write down as reminders. It’s like going back to school.

Goodness…… that sounds old and boring, even to me who knows all this first hand. But, as nobody can explain the truest, deepest meaning of Love, its high price and its long term rewards, then we just have to believe in it, even though, as a rule, we really only believe in that which we can explain through logic.

Love is not just about those first fiery weeks/months or even years. It’s not about agreeing on everything (which is fortunate as we hardly agree on anything)……nor is it something to be taken lightly, thrown away without deep consideration and every effort made to find it again should it appear lost. It’s not real in movies or romance novels. It’s not just for Christmas or for days when I feel good about myself. You won’t find it winning the lottery, or being promoted or writing a bestseller. You find it by making daily commitment to it’s development and growth.

And my last word, learned through experience, is this.

Forgive, even if nobody says sorry.

November 7, 2013 by judyfairbairns

Island Blog 110 Love and Syrup

The cake is dry. What do I do with a dry cake, a dry fruit cake even? It’s not really a question I expect answered as I know fine what to do with a dry fruit cake, after I have recovered from the mild tantrum (well, a couple of mild tantrums) the remorse at the waste of raisins that said they were sultanas on the packet and the sultanas that were sultanas…so a LOT of sultanas to feel remorse for. Add to that all the other bits that went in, the time it took and, worst of all that argument with my new whizzer which cackles like an old witch with loose bones so that I have to stand well back in case she breaks her moorings and takes me out.

I googled my question. It doesn’t matter how stupid my question is, somebody has asked it before, because the internet has an answer. This is both alarming – I fear the world is slowly losing any purchase on Common Sense – and, reassuring, at least momentarily.

Syrup, they told me, warmed and drizzled in small amounts over a period of time. Well, I rarely have one of them anymore so I poured over half a slightly warmed can and it sits there still, sticky enough to keep everyone away and even more unuseable than it was before. So, I put the lid back on, bash it down (as punishment) and shall ignore it until the storm abates and I get over myself.

But, it got me thinking. You see, the cake, through the oven doors and outside of them looked perfect. Lightly bronzed on top and decorated with a festoonery of almonds, it promised moist mouthfuls of yummy rich fruit captured and held in a sensitive cakely hug. We would all love it, because of how it looked.

Some people are one thing on the outside and dried up prunes on the inside. Some of us actually believe that if we look right, we will be right, but what is more frightening and always was to me, is that we can open doors by presenting an acceptable outside. We are believed, credible, trustworthy, one of the Right Sort of People.

I love to turn up in the wrong trousers, because I must challenge this worldly nonsense. People should look into eyes, not take a mental picture of clothing, one that tells them just who they think I am.

At 60 I can do what I like, wear what I like, but I still can find myself lost in the dark folds of various items of clothing, just to get it right for the occasion. In the past, I have gotten myself upset enough to stay at home, for fear of being judged, pidgeon-holed, typecast, rejected.

Nowadays, if I see someone, anywhere, who arrives in the wrong trousers, then I just know we are both the full fruit cake, with no need of any syrup at all, and, that I am going to love them.

November 3, 2013 by judyfairbairns

Island Blog 109 Beep and Battery

This morning, early, I come down to a beep.

It isn’t a consistent beep, but intermittent enough for me to wonder if I heard it at all. It is one of those beeps that turns my head every so often, for my ears to attempt location, and to fail. It’s irritating. Distant. The smooth whirr of the wind through the holes in the window frame is interrupted. The musical phrasing of birdsong is spiked with a false note, in the wrong key. The rise of kettle steam is not allowed it’s natural span without interruption and it doesn’t matter where I stand, I cannot pinpoint the sound. I narrow my eyes and sharpen my ears and stand quite still in each space, turning my head this way, and that to better establish it’s whereabouts.

Coffee tastes fine.

beep

Washing machine whirrs.

beep

I scuddle the ash from the fire and carry it carefully out to the garage.

beep

I feed the birds and chop the kindling.

beep

Ok now I am rising as Boudicca, with murder on my mind, but I must be a quiet Boudicca or I won’t hear this soft… intermittent…. infuriating…….

beep!

I stand quite still.

beep

Aha! It’s the washing machine.

beep

No, it isn’t the washing machine.

It’s the microwave, the fridge, the torch charger, although none of these have ever beeped before.

beep.

No it isn’t any of the above. In fact, it is coming from the big dresser, the one full of tea towels, materials, cloths and painting equipment.

beep

Now I am very intrigued. I might be the first Boudicca ever to have a beeping tea towel, although I do realise that in putting Boudicca and tea towels together, I make nonsense.

I rummage through a few things and hold my breath.

beep

Nearer and nearer, but not yet……

beep

Right at the very back-back is a box. The very back-back of this dresser has not seen light of day, nor felt the touch of human fingers, for a very long time, so I bring an element of surprise, which could be to my advantage.

beep

Found you!

It’s a fire alarm.

What on earth is it doing in here, all batteried up and ready to scream FIRE? Did somebody think the tallboy might spontanously combust?

I remove the battery and consider. I have lived as a firefighter myself. Most women live that way. Reacting positively to each familial disturbance, coming up with bright positive alternatives, keeping everyone and everything safe, and sometimes to feel very much at the dark back-back of an Imposing Tallboy.

But, I can beep – out of key perhaps and intermittently, just enough to make it irritatingly clear that I need a new battery.

October 27, 2013 by judyfairbairns

Island Blog 108 Left Over Right

Last night we had Leftovers for supper. Actually, to be honest, we often do. I have never been that sort of a cook who follows recipes, noting down what I might need in order to cook a certain dish and then trotting off to buy it.

Is this, I wonder, because I am too lazy/impatient to don my prescription specs and follow a recipe?

Could be. I remember once thinking I was dutifully following one cake recipe when I was,in fact, following two. I did wonder at the imbalance and curio-factor of blending two unlikely bed mates into one cake, but the wild and colourful in me rose to the occasion with a skip of excitment. The cake, or cakes, arrived as one rather wonky lump, listing dangerously to one side and quite impossible to present on any level surface. I make up my own recipes now.

Back to last night. Well, first I must open the fridge. I creep up on the door and swoosh it open suddenly. This is an old tactic and can often prevent anything escaping.

Aha! I say with a cook’s gleam in my eye. Opportunity presents itself and I grab it quick and hold on tight.

Next, onions. I always need onions and garlic and I rarely run out of them because they lie artfully arranged in a nice basket from Portugal and in full view. Any old vegetables, chopped, julienned, grated, diced, depending on what lies floppily inside the salad drawers. Olive oil, infused with whatever I can more-or-less identify as herbs in the herb garden. I know I should know which is which, but the voles have shifted the labels around. Big pan, light on, favourite wooden spoon ( I never cook with metal weapons) and off we go, but to where is quite another thing.

As each ingredient is added, the house fills with tempting aromas that join together in a rising sound wave until I turn down the heat. As one animal now, it simmers and softens into a harmonious chorus. Now, what would lift this dish? I taste a little and let my instinct guide me.

What? Mint you say, and dark chocolate and fresh nutmeg?

Never doubt that voice. It’s not a left brain thing. This could be casserole or cake. Just don’t argue.

I comply and taste again. Delicious.

I notice 3 old bananas hanging on the banana hook, all in a big brown huff. What can I do with you I wonder? I check the fridge – a tub of elderly natural yoghourt, lemon juice, and in the drinks cupboard which is still called that even though it isn’t any more, I find a teaspoonful of banana liqueur.

I chop the bananas and fry them in butter, adding a spoonful of wild honey and the liquer. Whizzed up in the whizzer to a fine puree, I add three serving spoons of yoghourt. Meanwhile some almonds have been toasting in the oven. I pour the mixture into two glasses, top with toasted almonds and pop them in the fridge, which is empty again.

Or is it? One woman’s empty fridge is that same woman’s chance to shine. It’s all about self belief and no 24 hour shop down the road.

In that famous parting line from Fanny Cradock’s tv series, spoken with such confidence and encouragement into a thousand homes by her husband and assistant, Johnnie…..

May all your doughnuts look like Fanny’s.

October 25, 2013 by judyfairbairns

Island Blog 107 A Change in Time

Well here we are on a Friday again and it seems like yesterday is was last Friday.

I know that as we get older we find time passing more quickly, but even young and sprightly things tell me they find it’s the same for them. We have endless encouragement through the wise sayings of Deep Thinkers to make the very most of every minute, and we all nod, because we believe in such a truth and then carry on rushing past precious moments and precious people.

As a young mother I would decline all offers of a ‘quick cup of tea’ because I always had to be somewhere ten minutes ago, and calmly so. I left, rushed, arriving way too early in a bright pink fluster, having no doubt remonstrated with one, or a few, of my children at the top of my tension, parked badly and banged my knee as I cornered too fast.

Why did I do that? And worse, why did I keep doing it? To arrive anywhere with my chest calm, my heart softly beating, my blood moving steadily and freely was a very rare and tea-less occurrence.

I can still say no to a cuppa and leave wondering why. If I have said yes, and sat my butt on a stranger’s chair, patted another person’s dog, looked around another’s room, I have come away, not necessarily with the best cup of tea ever slopping inside my belly, but with my heart and head completely changed. It was the encounter that mattered and the pleasure I gave and received by just saying yes, and giving myself to another soul.

The conversation can be wild, can be funny, can be informative and is sometimes astonishing. The things on the inside of us never see the light of day in a shopping queue. It is only when we sit and share something as ordinary as a cup of tea, that a person opens their heart.

‘Life is short’ is one of those immensely irritating cliches that makes me want to scream. The reason I want to, but don’t, of course, is that saying these well known throwaway words make absolutely no difference to either the person saying it, or the person hearing it, for all the smiling and nodding that goes on. However, it is the truth. Over one single day, I know of people fighting for their very lives, when last Friday they were full of healthy bounce. When they recover, they will truly know that Life is Short and both will change their lives, and the one area that will enjoy their total focus will be that of relationships.

All those terribly worldy concerns will melt away into a dirty puddle. Suddenly, and it is sudden, the choice of family over work is easy. Suddenly, it no longer matters if there is an immovable stain on the carpet, or the cooker stops working. It no longer matters that our mother/sister/neighbour/cousin said something or did something to let us down, either yesterday or when we were six. The familial baggage we lug through our healthy years, we can lay down and walk beyond. Just like that.

What matters is the happiness within the home, the smiles we can bring to the faces of our loved ones, by forgetting Things and putting Them first. There will never again be a chance that we would say yes to the boss, and call to cancel dinner out.

Nothing travels beyond the coffin, but the spirit of a person. All else becomes dust.

We, who are still bouncing this Friday and not fighting for a second chance at life.. we who can change everything right now……. might pause for thought.

October 20, 2013 by judyfairbairns

Island Blog 106 A Timely Light

First of all I want to say thank you to everyone who comments on my blogs. Your responses to my own thoughts, thrown out into the world, come back to me like a soft warm morning full of birdsong. I write as I feel, looking not for a Well Done, but to touch on another’s life, to connect a couple of dots perhaps, to feel I am not alone, not physically, but in my innermost self, that woman I am stuck with, as she is, with me.

It makes me consider these two women – the visible one and Her Indoors, and the oftentimes mismatch between the two of us.

In the early hours before dawn, I ask myself big questions, such as who are you? and what do you want of this life? and why do we get in the way of each other? and why is it we aren’t perfectly aligned in our thinking? I know it may be a tad late to be addressing these major issues, but I seem to be doing it now and, besides, time is an illusion, whatever that means.

When I meet someone, I observe her intently. I learn much about her from how she says what she says, her body language, her choice of dress, the pitch and volume of their voice. I can hear clearly what the inner person is saying, however much talk comes out of her mouth. Is she really herself or is she fitting in to the shape either she, or others, require of her? Is her confidence real or built only on the sand of her expectations? What drives her? The need to be thought of as a ‘good’ woman, or the need to be true to herself, or a bit of both? Does she feel she has done her very best in this life, or is there an ache of regret and loss, and how well has she managed to conceal it under bright merriment and high rise cheese souffles?

I often feel there is a wasp in between me and someone of whom I have just asked a personal question. One like….. Are You Happy? Oh, I will get a list of all those things she may quickly pull into the room like the success of her children, the fact that the Co-op now sells mixed peel outside of the Christmas period, the arrival of the Redwings to colour up an autumn scene, but she won’t answer me direct. After all, what she feels about her life is not important at all. What is important is how she can make others happy, and this the point when I am in danger of falling out with Her Indoors, because I understand it completely and it is surely a goodly way to live, isn’t it?

No, it is not enough, and becomes glaringly clear when the children fly the coop, and she is without purpose, unless she has been ‘selfish’ during the busy years, and taken time to develop and grow her own interest, one that can support her to the end of her days.

When I look back on my own life, I see how fortunate I have been in my choices. I found a man who has never understood for one second the shrieking sharp-toothed Her Indoors, but has loved her anyway, even if he did have to walk about in full armour-plating for many years, which was wise of him considering my deadly aim.

I think we don’t need to seek acceptance, nor understanding for the inner person, except from ourselves. The big mistake is to bury her, or him, for this applies to both species, and then to blame an outsider for our own refusal to let light in.

Without light, nothing grows but fungus.