The Queen and I

The Queen and I went to hear my friend Carla play her clarinet the other day. In a muddy field. In the Middle of Nowhere, Wales.

I arrived five hours early, in an ancient and none-too-clean Volvo, and was turned away from the main entrance by a policewoman with an incredibly musical voice. This despite the fact that we had the proper pass, correctly displayed on the dashboard, and were delivering six chairs and one clarinetist to the marquee in which the Brecon Town Concert Band was tuning up. Apparently a bus load of children were walking down the lane and “Health and Safety” would not allow a dirty Volvo and a gaggle of schoolchildren to occupy vaguely the same space at roughly the same time. Instead, we, our clarinetist and the six chairs were directed around to the back gate.

This, being a very large field, was easier said than done and a mere 30 minutes or so later we discovered that there was no way to get to where we wanted to go from where we were, what with those two tractors, large farm cart and fleet of helicopters being in the way as they were. And so, we parked the car and trudged, through ankle-deep mud, for miles, carrying chairs. Six of them. In the rain.

By the time we made our way past the venison burger vans, through the rustic woodworking exhibitions and around the military bomb disposal display unit, the band was beginning to panic a bit. Well, not all of them. Just the six still standing, and the entire front row, who were just starting to realise that the marquee was a tad too small and that someone was going to be out in the rain.

Still, heedless of the weather, they were there to celebrate the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee and nothing was going to dampen their enthusiasm, not even the damp. And so, finally seated, they valiantly launched into their repertoire. Perhaps not surprisingly, this involved a lot of diamonds. We not only heard that diamonds are forever, but we also found out that they were both a girl’s best friend and in the sky, with Lucy. During a rather strange interlude in which the band played Irish jigs amid dark mutterings about ‘political statements’, some 500 school children, and their insanely energetic choirmaster, suddenly appeared on the adjacent hill.

This was more than a little bit odd because, despite the fact that there was an overwhelmingly large number of supposedly-singing youngsters, you could hardly hear them. Perhaps they just couldn’t compete with the enthusiastic tuba player, or maybe the torrential rain didn’t make for good acoustical conditions or it might just have been that they were a tiny bit confused. After all, they were singing something called ‘Here We Are Again’ when it was blindingly obvious that most of them had no idea where they were, and that none of them had ever been there before.

At least, I don’t think they had. They were certainly looking around as if they were lost, and were definitely murmuring the word “where” fairly frequently. That, and poking each other with the little Welsh dragon flags that had come out from under their raincoats.

But, come to think of it, so were their parents. Except for the poking with flags part. Of course.

Before too long, all of that head swivelling, fidgeting and murmuring was rewarded, for soon a fleet of gleaming Range Rovers drove over the bridge, under the archway and into sight. Excitement levels soared. The music grew louder. The flags went wild. The choirmaster almost fell off her chair. And suddenly, there she was.

The Queen, and a little bit of Prince Philip

She may not have arrived in a dirty Volvo or been asked to carry chairs through the mud, but as she stepped out of her car and took in the scene, I could tell that we had something in common. For as the Queen looked across to my friend Carla, her band and all those children, I could tell she was thinking:

“Oh Lord, I am never going to get that tune out of my head”.

If you don’t know what I am talking about, click on the above link or on the picture. Either will do it. But, be warned.

Faced with the prospect of having to hum that song to yourself for the rest of your life, you or I would probably have dove right back into the car. But, no, being the experienced trooper that she is, the Queen simply stood her ground, smiled sweetly, chatted politely and eventually made her way over to a waiting helicopter. 

Whereas I slowly trudged the several miles back to the car. Carrying chairs. Squelching in the mud. And pondering. About many things.

Such as:

1.  The Queen looks just like my sister-in-law. Well, not my sister-in-law as she is now, of course, but as she will be when she hits 85. Pretty, petite and poised. Not to mention very well groomed. I know, I was surprised too. Although not, I suspect, nearly as surprised as Jane will be when she reads this.

2. The Queen is much too old to have to do this sort of thing on an almost daily basis. Seriously, it’s asking a lot from someone who should be wearing her slippers and watching Judge Judy on daytime TV.

3.   It wasn’t really the person everyone was anxious to get a glimpse of, it was the title. And the person holding the title takes her job seriously, very seriously. As a result, she matters to the people who were willing to wait in the mud for hours just to see her. Not being British, I can’t really explain it. Or understand it. But, I certainly can recognise it when I see it. The Queen won’t long remember a rainy day in Brecon, but everyone else in that field will. Forever. As inexplicable as that is.

Wet but happy in Wales

As I watched her helicopter take off, and while attempting to beat down the envy I felt as I realised she would be home in Windsor long before I got rid of those blasted chairs, it also dawned on me that being monarch is not for wimps, something the present incumbent could never be accused of being. But, then again, very few people of her generation could. I’m not sure the rest of us can say the same thing about our own.

Although, come to think of it, that tuba player seemed to be made of fairly stern stuff.

Not Leo Tolstoy (aka Eileen Riley)

Around and Around We Go

Ok, that was misleading. We are, in theory, only going to go around once. But, between you and me, I have my doubts about whether or not I will make it that far.

For, you see, we are about to “Cycle the Wight“. I know, I thought it seemed like a good idea when I first heard about it too. But, as the time draws near, I am beginning to realise the error of my ways.

For one thing, the Isle of Wight is much bigger than in looks on the weather maps. There, it is just a tiny dot off the southern coast of England. In reality, it’s a much bigger dot. Really, much bigger.

Then there’s the weather. I haven’t actually looked at the forecast yet but how good can it be? It has, after all, been raining non-stop for weeks now. Is it all that likely to be sunny and warm, with a gentle breeze? I think we can safely say that the answer to that is…no.

And then there is the problem that the Isle of Wight is insanely hilly. Not gentle, rolling hills, but really horrible steep climbs that seem to go on forever. At least they always looked that way to me as I sat in the car wondering who in their right minds would want to cycle here.

And last, but certainly not least, is the fact that some creep stole my bicycle, again, several weeks ago and it was only yesterday that I could bring myself to buy another one. I toyed with the idea of asking the thief to pick it up himself, thereby cutting out that inconvenient middle part where I briefly owned it, but then I realised that I would actually be needing it myself this weekend and so he will just have to wait a few days.

And so, I am about to set off on a 60 mile jaunt around a hilly island, in bad weather, on a bike that I have never ridden before.

I can hardly wait.

But, I have not forgotten that I still owe you a post about the Queen, some chairs and a clarinet. I will, without a doubt, write it for next week.

If I can sit down at a computer by then.

Wish me luck.

Not Leo Tolstoy (aka Eileen Riley)

Wet in Wales

I am in the middle of Wales, trying to stop shivering for long enough to tell you all about the Queen, some chairs and a clarinet.

I am also wet, from having just ventured outside in a rainstorm of biblical proportions to check on new guttering and old ladies – all of whom are fine – and am, as we speak, just beginning to get ever-so-slightly worried about the wind that is battering the floor-to-ceiling window besides which I am sitting.

And so, not being insane, I am going to go downstairs now and sit by the roaring fire that is heating up everything within two feet of it.

I will write this week’s blog when I get back to tropical, balmy, sun-kissed England. Or, failing that, tomorrow.

Until then, I hope that those of you in the sunshine will take a moment or two to contemplate the fact that ultraviolet rays are very bad for you, whereas rain is good for the skin.  So, if you would like to change places for awhile, I will, out of the goodness of my heart, consider it.

Not Leo Tolstoy (aka Eileen Riley)

Houston, We Have a Problem

Well, it’s actually me who has the problem. A serious problem. Because it has suddenly dawned on me that I have no imagination. Absolutely none. At all. If it’s not there, I can’t picture it. Which just has to be a drawback for an aspiring writer. Like me.

Looking back on it, I have to admit that there have been signs over the years. Plenty of signs. Too many signs.

Take, for example, all those aptitude tests at school. I could never figure out what the shape would look like if it was flipped over and turned to a 45 degrees angle. Counterclockwise. I also couldn’t figure out why anyone would care enough to wonder about it. But that, I suppose, is another story altogether.

Or the time when Tom and I were house hunting. He came out talking about how perfect the house was, or would be once we had knocked down a few walls and raised the ceilings, while I emerged saying that there was no way we could buy it because the carpet in the sitting room was hideous.

Or when I went on holiday to Norway, northern Norway, without any sweaters, or coats, because it was warm while I was packing.

In fact, the more I think about it, the more I realise that I tend to buy whatever outfit the mannequin is wearing, and usually make the meals that are pictured in the cookbook, and like the items that are in the make-believe rooms at Ikea better than those that are on the shelves.

I  just find things easier to picture, if there’s a… well, if there’s a picture. Or, at the very least, if they exist.

I’ve never really thought about this before. But, if I had, I would have assumed that everyone was like that.

Until today.

It all started innocently enough. My beloved daughter and I went shopping for a bed. Again. We have been doing this quite a bit lately. And, I have to say, we have pretty much seen every version of the pine bed, wrought iron bed, no headboard bed that there is. None of which was acceptable to her.

And so, this morning, after visiting yet more bed stores, we, in an act of total desperation, went into what looked suspiciously like a junk shop. You know the kind of place I mean. The shop that has a single dining room chair, with three legs, sitting next to an elephant foot umbrella stand. We walked around for a few minutes, breathing in dust, and I was just on the point of telling her that she was either going to have to stop being so blasted picky or else learn to love sleeping on the floor, when she found it.

The bed of her dreams

“You want to sleep in a bathtub?” I asked. Confused.

“No. The bed. Look at the bed. It’s perfect.” She replied. Ecstatic.

I looked. At her. And in the direction she was looking. And back at her. Bed? What bed? Seriously, what was she talking about? There was a headboard, and a footboard and some railings, and that was it. Unless you counted the bathtub. And the chair. How was that going to turn into a bed?

An hour later, and after some downright impressive haggling on her part, we had bought a bed. Well, a bed frame. A French Victorian bed frame, which seems to me like something they just made up but that’s what it said on the little label. Unless, of course, they were talking about the bathtub.

We had also purchased a mattress, from the shop across the road. A shop, I might add, where they sold beds. Proper beds. All put together. With mattresses. And duvet covers. And pillows. Not to mention bedside tables. With lamps.

And she had organised for someone to make the slats, for the mattress to rest on, inside the French Victorian bed frame. Once they removed the bathtub. And the chair. Naturally.

She’s thrilled.

I couldn’t picture it myself. Nor, I believed, could she.

Until we got home – late, thanks to all that running back and forth between mattress suppliers, frame sellers and slat makers. And so, she had an hour to get ready for her friend’s wedding. The first of her friends to get married. The friend whose ‘hold the date’ magnet has been on the fridge for almost a year.

Which, you would have thought, would have given her enough time to figure out what she was going to wear. But no, after discarding her entire wardrobe and with half an hour left to go, she still had no idea.

And then she shouted “I’ve got it.” And brought down a white dress that was too torn, and too white, to wear to a wedding, a green ankle-length dress that was too long and too see-through to wear, and a belt. 

“Are you joking?” I said. “Look at the time. What are you going to wear?”

And then she put them all together into this:

Which looks nice enough in the picture but, in the flesh, looks absolutely amazing.

And that’s when I realised that she probably did know what the bed was going to be like, and that it would, no doubt, be wonderful. Once it was all put together. Although I still can’t picture it.

Which brings me back to my problem. No imagination. But, after a nice cup of tea and a few dozen biscuits, I have decided that while I may not have one myself, I know plenty of people who do. All of whom can be written about. I imagine.

Not Leo Tolstoy (aka Eileen Riley)

Moving On

It’s not that I thought today would never happen. It’s more that I never realised it was a day that even existed. That it was out there, waiting.

Twenty years ago we brought Christopher home from the hospital to meet his big sister, and then we closed the door and settled down to being us, to being our little family. Over the years, of course, the door has opened and closed a billion times. Letting in friends and family, letting out toddlers and school children and university students and, most recently, gainfully employed adults.

And while Tom and I have just grown older, and wiser, and fatter, they have grown up. They have literally explored the world, had adventures, and triumphs and tragedies. They have discovered who they are and who they were meant to be and what they want out of life.

And, as their parents, we have been lucky enough to have been there, every step of the way, guiding them and watching them and marvelling at them. And, as it turns out, preparing them for today.

Unfortunately, however, I am beginning to suspect that we failed to prepare ourselves. But, then again, is any parent ever really prepared for the day when their family starts to change shape, to spread out, to move on?

For today is that day. The end of an era.

By this evening, Christopher will be on a train, heading back to university and into the exams that he swears he is ready for. And by the time he returns, in just a few weeks, Kimberly will be gone. Admittedly, not gone all that far. Just a few miles down the road. But gone is gone, just the same. Into her own flat. With her own door. A door that will let in family and friends and adventures. And whatever else life will bring her. Just as it should.

But the existence of that new door means that the days of just us, living together as a family, are over.

And while I am completely aware that the fact that we have raised healthy, happy, educated children who are capable of successfully making their own ways in the world, is a cause for celebration, it’s hard to feel 100% happy about it all. After all, I kind of liked the days of toddlers and school children and university students, and gainfully employed adults with fascinating jobs.

Still, I’m trying to look on the bright side. I’ve decided to view this as an example of ‘Successful Parenting’ in the hope that that attitude will prevent me from grabbing them both by the ankles and begging them not to go. I’m confident I can pull it off. Well, fairly confident.

Meanwhile, Christopher has already embraced the positives and has been not-so-secretly making plans for his new room. The one at the top of the house. The one that no one walks past. Ever.

And Tom? Well, he is not a man who sees a glass as half-filled, but rather one who sees the glass as so overflowing that you need waders to walk into the room. And so, while he hasn’t said it in so many words, I suspect he sees today as one that has to be gotten through if he is ever going to reach his ultimate goal – grandparenthood.

But…perhaps…just not too soon.

I am, after all, slowly beginning to realise – and I completely understand that this is a reference which only people from my own time and place will get – that it’s stopped hailing.  Guys are swimming. Guys are sailing.

So, while today is a place that I don’t actually want to be in, I have to say that things here in Camp Granada might just be starting to look a tiny bit brighter (if you are under 50 and/or not American, click here ).

And so, while that door is undoubtedly opening up to let her out, it may, just may, also be opening up to some new adventures of our own.

I’ll keep you posted.

Not Leo Tolstoy (aka Eileen Riley)

Pristine

Several years ago, the vicar of our local Anglican church was approaching retirement. His house in the country was bought. His farewell parties were held. His leaving present was wrapped.

And unwrapped.

He was ready to go. The only thing missing was his replacement. Which was a bit of a problem.

But, as luck would have it, a retired bishop happened to live in the neighbourhood, and was prevailed upon to step in and hold the proverbial fort. Being a widower pushing 80, he wasn’t particularly keen, but he eventually agreed. On one condition. In exchange for holding the weekly services, he wanted to be fed. A proper Sunday roast. With pudding.

The parish recognised a good thing when they saw it and jumped at the chance. Not only were they getting some breathing room in their search for a vicar, but they were getting Bishop Hugh, a well-known and highly respected theologian and intellectual. Not to mention a very nice man. And so, they quickly set up a rota. Anyone who was willing to have a bishop follow them home for lunch was asked to put their name down. Practically everyone did. Including, it turned out, us.

That came as a bit of a surprise since most of us aren’t Anglican, and only one goes to the church. But, Tom knew I wouldn’t mind. And, to be fair, I didn’t. Because I was certain that the parish would find a priest long before I had to find a recipe.

Which just goes to show how little I knew about the mysterious workings of the Anglican world, because several months later Tom came home and told me that Bishop Hugh would be joining us for lunch the following Sunday. Easter Sunday.

Now, that didn’t seem right. After all, Easter is a fairly important day in the Church year and we weren’t, how should I put this? Anglicans. Or even particularly religious. Surely he would prefer to go somewhere more…suitable.

No, apparently, not. He was coming and he let it be known that he liked lamb. And roast potatoes.

And so, I spent the week panicking. And yelling at Tom. It was, after all, his fault. I had agreed to lunch, no one had said anything about Easter Sunday lunch. What could we possibly talk to an elderly, eminent theologian about, over lunch, on the holiest day of the year?

As it turned out, we talked about how to roll Easter eggs.

The children couldn’t believe that he did not know this essential skill and could hardly wait to show him just how it was done. He listened, patiently, to the rules and picked up on the only truly essential detail – the last person with an intact egg won.

After lunch was eaten and cleared away, we carefully selected our coloured eggs and headed outside. I don’t know how you roll eggs but according to our system, it’s like bowls or, if you are from New York, bocci. But with eggs.

Bishop Hugh, being the guest, and a bishop, threw the jack egg. We all then followed suit, carefully. We listened for the ominous sound of cracking shells and looked for the telltale sign of crumbling egg whites. And then the children rushed to see who was closest, and to pick up Bishop Hugh’s egg for him. He was, after all, almost 80. They handed it to him, the bishop held it close to his face, he held it at arm’s length, he turned it over and over in his hand and he finally announced:

“Pristine”

And, so it continued, round after round after round. Each time, he examined his egg and declared it pristine. Others weren’t so lucky. Bits of coloured shell soon littered the grass. Flecks of egg white started appearing. The tension mounted. The rounds continued.

Now, I would like to tell you that the Bishop won, but he didn’t. This is, after all, a true story and there was that rock in the garden that the rest of us knew about. What can I say? We take our egg rolling seriously in this house. Still, I suspect that when Disney gets hold of the story it will have a different ending.

But what I can tell you is that by the time the last eggs were rolled and the victor declared, we had a new friend. And a new family tradition.

And so, years after the Bishop has left us, and the children have grown and the replacement vicar has, in his turn, been replaced we still hold the annual Bishop Hugh Montefiore Memorial Easter Egg Roll. The rules are simple: the person who gets to say “Pristine” the longest, wins.

As this year’s event gets ready to unfold, it just leaves me time to wish you all a very Happy Easter. May your day be the stuff of wonderful memories and may your eggs be pristine for as long as possible.

Not Leo Tolstoy (aka Eileen Riley)

Zen and the Art of Skiing

I have met the Dalai Lama. His name is Giles.

Ok, perhaps he wasn’t THE Dalai Lama but he was definitely a lama of some sort. The sort that winds up being a French ski instructor in Meribel.

Kimberly and I had finally realised that skiing is not an intuitive thing, and that you actually have to be taught how not to kill yourself while hurtling down a mountain on slippery pieces of whatever skis are made of these days. And so, despite the eye-watering cost, we booked a private lesson. We told the trendy young woman behind the desk that we were of two very different standards and asked if an instructor would be able to handle us both at the same time. After all, Kimberly’s goal was to conquer black runs, while I would be perfectly happy to not cry at any point while going down a red one.

Most definitely, she said. She had just the man for the job.

Kimberly, having seen some fairly amazing ski instructors, asked if he was good looking. The woman, obviously stunned by such a suggestion, blurted out ‘NO’ before recovering herself and adding lamely ‘…that is, he’s not my type’.

Well, that was a bit odd. We looked at each other, shrugged, and went outside to meet Giles.

He was older than I am.

We hadn’t seen that coming, but smiled, introduced ourselves and told him about our different levels of skiing. He answered in something that may have been English, and skied off. We didn’t have anything else to do, so we followed and eventually wound up sitting next to him on a ski lift.

Where he said nothing.

Kimberly and I, getting a bit unnerved by his silence, started babbling a bit, as one does, while looking at him from time to time to see what he was doing.

He wasn’t doing anything. Just sitting.

At the top of the lift, we got off, gathered ourselves together and prepared to learn how to ski better.

Giles started by teaching us how to breathe. Apparently you do it in through the nose and out through the mouth.

Kimberly, breathing

Kimberly, who was paying a week’s salary for this, stared at him in total disbelief and announced that she knew how to breathe. That she had, in fact, known how to do it for as long as she could remember. And that she was there to learn how to ski down black runs.

Giles might have heard. It was hard to tell.

He proceeded to ski across the mountain. Well, not completely across, there must have been some slight downhill element to it or we would still be there. I suppose.

Half way down he stopped. And stared off into the distance. And pointed, at the eagle that was riding some air wave. I thought it was amazing. Kimberly looked as if she was going to spear him with her pole.

Since we were already stopped, he decided to give us a little talk, vaguely about skiing. Basically he told us that everyone had to make their own way down the mountain and that the important thing wasn’t how long it took or how it looked, but what you saw and felt along the way.

Eureka, I thought. That’s me done.

Giles did not agree. While we may all be finding our own paths down, there are, apparently, some things we should all be doing, and not doing, along the way. He had a list of things I needed to work on, and another one for Kimberly.

How could he possibly have picked all that up while skiing sideways and watching out for eagles?

I have no idea. Perhaps it had something to do with the breathing.

Anyway, we finished the run, and did a few more, each working on the things that needed working on. Finally, I announced that I was going to sit down and perfect my breathing for awhile, and they peeled off.

As they went, I could hear Kimberly ask Giles what he did in the off-season.

“Do?” he said. “I don’t do. I am.”

“So that would be nothing then”, I heard her say as they passed out of sight.

I fear she has a lot to learn about being Zen.

But, slightly less to learn about skiing. Because, however it happened and whatever he did, by the end of the weekend she was happily going down black runs. And I could do reds, while stopping every now and then to look at the scenery.

Which was spectacular.

Not Leo Tolstoy (aka Eileen Riley)