An Aperitif

Plus a mezze of this, that and the other!

It is somewhat alarming that we are a week into August already and although I know it’s still summer, because it’s still relentlessly hot and we are only half way through the long school holiday, I always think there is a sense of autumn looming around the corner once we get to August. The green lushness of early summer has long gone, especially with our current weather and lack of water, the harvest is already in and the evenings are getting noticeably darker. So I was thrilled when reading AlexTSmith and his Joy Parade last week to see he described August as An Aperitif to Autumn, which sums it up it perfectly. And if you don’t read Alex’s Substack get over there right now (actually no, on second thoughts finish reading this first) because it really is full of the most joyous stuff that never fails to make me smile. It’s not called ‘Joy Parade’ for nothing.

Autumn may not be very far away but I was horrified to spy a Christmas magazine in the supermarket shelves last week. What sort of craziness is that? IT IS WAY TOO EARLY!!!

We went to see The Odyssey which was an entertaining evening out. It is full of big themes such as homecoming, migration, memory, war, how we treat or welcome strangers etc and so many of them relevant to our lives today yet the film never really delves in more than at a superficial level. There are plenty of crashing waves, thunderstorms, violent deaths, monsters, burning buildings etc. as well as a totally impractical yet beautiful Trojan Horse, all relying on huge special effects that deliver an abundance of noise and visual impact but nothing deeper. The female characters are played down, all very one dimensional, although Circe managed to raise a smile. Even Penelope’s yearning for her husband’s return lacks passion and conviction. And the simplicity of the dialogue gives no sense of the complexity of the original poem – although who am I kidding – full transparency here I haven’t read the original but I’m trusting those who have. But I didn’t mind all that, nor the fact the actors all have American accents and that the rather gormless Telemachus played by Tom Holland, calls Penelope ‘Mom’. Because we went for an entertaining evening out and it delivered entertainment in spades. I never expected a Classics lesson and we all know that books are always better than the film. Not sure I would ever want to sit through it again though. On the plus side, apparently translations of The Odyssey are flying off the shelves which can only be a good thing.

I had another excellent shift in the bookshop. Not quite as busy as opening week but there was still a steady stream of accompanied little people choosing books and telling me stories of grazed knees as the result of a scooter accident; a rainbow coloured rabbit called Flumpfy, of course; how shuttlecocks go faster up Mount Fuji which led to a discussion on whether we thought this applied to all mountains or just Fuji in particular - it is all mountains because because high-altitude locations have thinner air with less air density, which reduces aerodynamic drag, and how sometimes there are monsters in dreams. In this latter case I did advise that possibly Spiderman wasn’t suitable bedtime reading for a five year old and Dad might opt for something a little gentler. Another Dad, after having chosen a very suitable board book for his toddler enquired whether we had a copy of Anne Fine’s book ‘Bill’s New Frock’ which was first published in 1989. Sadly we didn’t have one but I remembered my boys having a copy and we exchanged happy memories of the book. The story is about a young boy named Bill who wakes up one Monday morning to discover he is a girl and he is subsequently sent off to school in a frilly pink dress where one of the worst days of Bill’s young life is about to begin. Bill discovers that things are different for girls, that they are treated differently and are expected to behave differently to boys. Anne Fine, the second children’s laureate, wrote the book to address the gender inequality experienced by her own children when they started school in Britain in the 1980s. Funny and written with a light touch, it was a well-loved book in our household, hopefully teaching my own boys a valuable lesson.

It also reminded me of another anecdote. On the way to the shop I popped into one of the many charity shops that line the high street and witnessed a young boy, maybe ten or eleven years old at most, admiring his reflection in the mirror. He was trying on a fitted leopard print ladies jacket, a little long in the sleeves but otherwise a perfect fit. His mother was trying to dissuade him.

“But it’s a ladies’ jacket, look it has shoulder pads”

“Please?” as he did another twirl.

I couldn’t resist and blurted out “You look fabulous!”

He was delighted and Mum relented “I suppose I’ve got to buy it for you now”

I really hope that she did because he did look amazing and he definitely had the confidence to carry it off.

Another young man displaying sartorial elegance, this one about eight years old, came into the bookshop wearing long shorts, polo shirt and a very smart straw trilby with a marvellous pheasant feather tucked onto the ribbon which he wore with great panache. He very politely enquired if I had the Pokémon book featuring Ash on the cover. No idea who Ash might be but I did know where the Pokémon books were shelved so led the way and we found what he wanted. He left with his grandma, a very happy young customer with a book in hand and feather in his cap.

Growing up one of the things I imagined I might do was become an illustrator, which of course never happened. But recently once again I have a hankering to try illustration, possibly a story for my grandchildren as I have no notions of it ever getting published. At the moment I’m playing with collage and coloured papers so I thought I would practise by illustrating some of my anecdotes here. Be kind, these are my first attempts!

This year really has not been a year for having an allotment. I don’t feel the need to talk about droughts and heatwaves as I’m certain you are all painfully aware of the impact, but the soil is parched and rock hard, not helped by the fact that we don’t even have water on site. All water has to be carried over in 5L bottles from the house. Because of this I always try to keep watering to a minimum. I water when I first put seeds or plants in the ground but once they are established they are left to fend for themselves. Mostly this works but this year things have struggled and yields are down. I have missed the usual abundance of raspberries and despite healthy looking plants with lots of flowers there have been virtually no runner beans. Apparently they don’t get pollinated in the extreme heat.

But there has been a constant supply of courgettes and cucumbers, my San Marzano tomatoes (seeds bought in Italy) are now starting to yield and there is an enormous pumpkin lurking under the leaves. This is the one plant I have consistently watered. But the bigger picture of loss of crops and smaller yields in farms across the UK and Europe due to the drought and extreme heat doesn’t make happy reading.

One of the books I am currently reading is ‘Somebody I Used to Know’ by Wendy Mitchell, a revelatory memoir about Wendy’s experiences of living with a diagnosis of dementia whilst still in her fifties. Not necessarily an easy read but insightful one that is also full of hope that such a diagnosis does not mean life is immediately over. I wish I had read it earlier on in my Mum’s journey with dementia when maybe some important conversations could have been had but sadly it’s too late for that now.

I was reminded that just four years ago I had taken Mum out for the day to visit the gardens at Capel Manor and see an art exhibition where my cousin had some paintings. We had lunch in the café, Mum walked around looking at the paintings and it was a happy day with very little evidence of the dementia to come. A little forgetful, occasionally confused but Mum was still living relatively independently. Yet today it’s such a different picture. She is rarely out of bed and is in constant pain where her only wish is to die, as she repeats a prayer to a God who is clearly not listening. She doesn’t understand why she is in pain and it frightens her. On the days when they seem to get the dose of morphine right she is either sleepy or as high as a kite. A week ago we were there and she was almost hysterical with laughter because her plate of dinner was on the floor, although she claimed to have no idea how it ended up there, and then she proceeded to talk utter nonsense non-stop for an hour. In these hallucinations she is visited by her Mum and Dad and other people long gone and is full of stories of how she was playing football in the morning or running up and down the stairs. But that is rare, usually she is sleepy, in pain and not fully aware we are there. Every single time we visit I have to go in search of a nurse to check whether she has had pain relief which has happed three times this week. Unfortunately the answer is usually no despite it being prescribed. It breaks my heart to see her like that and being unable to do very much to help, short of being with her twenty four hours a day.

Sorry, I didn’t mean to end on such a low note but that is life right now. On the plus side our nine year old grandson is coming later today to sleepover where he has great plans for a few days of arts and crafts and I’m back in the bookshop tomorrow, where he’s planning to visit with Grandpa. Good things to look forward to.

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