Greater than the Sum of its Parts...

US drama at its best!

I have been captivated by ‘This is Us’, a US drama, hidden away on Channel 4. It tells the story of a family and how their present is impacted on by events in the past. But ‘family’ is the thread that runs through it, making me laugh and cry, feel uplifted or sad.

It got me thinking about how our experiences as children directly affect us as adults. 

My parents lost their first child to leukaemia two years to the day before I was born. She was ten, and my parents never got over the loss of their much loved daughter.But their answer was to draw my sister, myself and my two brothers close to them, to protect us and make sure that we had the best possible childhood. We didn't have much money, never had a car or expensive holidays but we had time with our parents and created memories that have sustained us over the years. 

Glorious family memories

Both my parents came from big families, so we had any number of aunts, uncles and cousins within our extended family. Some were, naturally, closer than others but the family parties were legendary and we still talk about them today. We all grew up feeling valued, loved and believing that we were capable of anything. My parent’s legacy was four strong, independently thinking individuals, a direct result of our upbringing. Through good times and bad, we know we can always turn to one another when we need to.

Families today can sometimes be highly complicated, with divorce and separation much more common, and families joined together in different ways. My grand-daughter (or more accurately, my step-grand-daughter) has taken all of her five years to get her head around the different combinations of grandparents at her disposal, and hopefully will take on the burden of explaining it all to her little brother when he starts to ask about it!

When I thought about writing this post, my starting point was that families are akin to a jigsaw puzzle, a myriad of small pieces that fit together to make a singular image. But as I considered it further I realised that, if that were the case, families would never interlink and overlap, and these days they clearly do. I really feel that families are much more like a patchwork - individual pieces of fabric that are joined together, each dependent on one another, touching each other at different points and capable of growing exponentially. 

A never ending patchwork!

When I met my now husband our patchworks were separate and had grown independently of one another. Over time we worked to stitch them together into a whole. It wasn't easy, and we have had to do some unpicking and restitching over the years, but now we each love our step children as our own, and appreciate the richness and colour they each bring to the patchwork of our family lives. I like to think that they feel the same way about us.

My lovely, loony patchwork family!

Textiles need conservation and care - pieces of patchwork may fade and begin to disintegrate without efforts to preserve them. Although my parents are no longer with us, by talking about them and continuing with family traditions and rituals, by looking at photos and remembering their values, we keep them alive to us, and their fabric pieces shine bright - my mum’s would be a rose print, and my dad’s the serge of a St John’s Ambulance uniform. 

Some materials undoubtedly clash, needing careful positioning, and similarly, families can be hard work. However, in these changing times, their value should not be underestimated. It’s so important to work on keeping the connections of our families strong by constantly paying them attention, renewing the thread if needs be. 

Whether its a patchwork, a jigsaw or a family, the whole will always be greater than the sum of its parts, and its important to remember that a neglected or misused quilt will very quickly become a pile of useless rags.

Woman's Rights are Human Rights!

So, women’s rights. Not a light hearted topic for a blog post, but many things have conspired to make me feel the need to write this. 

Being retired has given me considerably more time to contemplate personal and world events. Now that I don't need to stress about work I find myself reacting more vehemently to things that I read or see on tv. At the end of last week I started a new book - The Letter by Kathryn Hughes. Whilst it’s never going to pull up any trees in the literary world, or challenge for a Booker prize, the plight of its protagonists affected me in a primal way. One, living in the early seventies, was trapped in a marriage with a violent, manipulative and abusive man, whilst the other, in thirties Britain, had her life outcomes controlled and altered irrevocably by her equally controlling father. As I read, I became increasingly incensed and angry, but also anxious as I imagined how these characters were feeling - no doubt as the author intended. 

Then I watched Call the Midwife…On one level this is Sunday night tosh, but it also serves as a reminder of what life was like for some communities in the late fifties, early sixties. Again the storyline revolved around a woman in an abusive marriage who was effectively trapped because men had all the power, both socially and legally. In the way of Sunday night, pre-watershed dramas, an escape was found for her, although, in reality, the first women’s refuge did not open until the early seventies. Sometimes though, even they didn't help. If you can bear it, read this article about how the system continues to fail some women. 

Women's March, Chicago 

My reading of the book and my watching of the tv programme coincided with the inauguration of Donald Trump as President of the United States of America. It will never cease to amaze me that this misogynistic and reactionary man was elected to the most powerful position in the Western world. His treatment of, and language around women has been abhorrent, and now he has the power to impact on their lives in a very real and scary way. I feel it especially keenly as my step son and his wife live in Chicago and will be directly affected by any chipping away of rights for individuals. 

It is difficult to believe how things have changed for women within my lifetime, but it is a constant battle to maintain rights that were hard fought for and won in the seventies. Every time funding is threatened for health and fertility advice and support, women suffer though ignorance and lack of care. Whatever your personal feelings are about abortion v. the pro-life debate, I am old enough to remember that if women and girls are desperate enough, they will seek to terminate a pregnancy in whatever way they can. Making it difficult for them to receive advice and care will not change the outcome, just the woman’s safety. And, however much we continue to do so, it is never possible to judge an individual’s situation and why they make the choices that they do.

I have been lucky in my life - my parents treated me, my sister and two brothers equally. We all grew up believing anything was possible. When my first marriage broke down, laws were in place that enabled me to extract myself from it, relatively painlessly, and society did not shun me or my children. I worked in an environment that was predominantly populated with woman, and progressed in my career as far as I wanted to, with equal pay and no apparent glass ceiling. Nobody told me I needed to wear particular shoes, make up or clothing, as reported on the BBC website this morning, and I largely felt, and feel valued as a person. I am remarried to a lovely man, who is not above cooking, cleaning and ironing (as long as it’s not  bed linen). I don't know if these things are true for every woman of my generation.

Womens' March, Chicago

I marched for Women’s Rights in the seventies and I fully support what the thousands of women (and men) across the World who marched on Saturday were saying. It appals me that Trump implied that these people had not voted in the recent election, simply because they were objecting to him. Women are humans first, women second, and as my daughter-in-law’s banner said, “Women’s rights are human rights”, and these rights should not be threatened or eroded by anyone.

Cheap Thrill #14: A Walk on the Wild Side

Every year, during the months of November to February and about 15 miles north of where we live, Grey Seals use the beach to breed. It has became one of nature’s spectacles, drawing visitors in their hundreds, if not thousands. And that, dear reader, is probably why I’ve never been before…the only times available to me were weekends or the Christmas holidays. Not only did I jealously guard these free times, I also knew that everyone else went to see the seals then and, whilst I can just about bear queueing for a theme park ride, queueing to view a natural event seems a shade perverse. 

Glorious Norfolk skies - the best in the World!

However, lest it escaped your notice, I am now retired! So, having checked the weather forecast, this morning we ventured forth. Bear in mind that not only is this the tail end of the breeding season, but also the Norfolk coast has recently suffered a combination of a tidal surge and high winds, so we were not all that hopeful of seeing anything of note. Undeterred, we paid and displayed and set off to the first ‘Seal Viewpoint’, or more accurately ‘Sand and Sea Viewpoint’. Nothing, nada, zilch, not a hint of a fur coat, and the warden told us that many seals had disappeared during the tidal surge. 

Still, the sun was shining, the Norfolk sky was incredible and we were already togged up for the winter, so we decided to continue to the next viewing point, some 25 minutes further along the path. When we climbed to the top of the steps to reach the summit of the dunes, I saw a couple of lumps on the sand, which we eventually established were grey seals. However, so still were they that I convinced myself that they were dead, until hubby spotted the flick of a flipper. Even so, not exactly mind blowing.

Those rocks are moving!

We walked a bit further and realised that the ‘rocks’ behind the actual rocks were a heaving mass of grey seals, rolling around, hauling themselves in and out of the water and generally chilling in the sun! How exciting! The warden at the official viewing point was talking to another visitor and, as we approached, she indicated that we should be quiet and turn to look behind us. 

Sooo cute!

And there, in the grass, no more than 10 feet away was a baby seal. This evoked in me the sort of noises that I usual reserve for news items about baby pandas and marmosets. Not exactly David Attenborough’s style, but it was completely involuntary! The warden explained that this weaned pup had been up on the dunes since the weekend, and would only move once its hunger had reached the point of needing to go and fish. Interestingly, seal’s aren’t taught by their mothers to fish. Once they  are weaned, they are left to starve until their instinct to feed takes over. 

Waiting for the hunger to kick in...

As we stood taking photos and chatting, we noticed that the pup had started to move and we watched as he struggled to make his way across the dunes towards the beach and the sea. 

Nature at my fingertips!

We were so close, I just couldn't believe it. He even stopped to read all about himself on the noticeboard, which the warden and I found hilarious!

It says here that I'm a grey seal

As we walked back to the car, I was left reflecting how amazing nature is - those seals mate five weeks after they have given birth (I know!!!), but the fertilised eggs are not released into the womb until 12 weeks later, so the pregnancy of nine months coincides with their winter break on the Norfolk coast! Incredible. 

So today, I have enjoyed a lovely walk in the fresh air and sunshine, I have learned an awful lot more about grey seals than I knew before and I have had sufficient ‘sooo cute’ moments to last me at least until the lambs start leaping around the fields. Joy, pure joy!

If you're going to be a Loser...

Many years ago, when I separated from from my first husband, I decided to do two things (well three, if you count limiting myself to crying into my pillow so the children didn't see me upset) and they were to start watching Norwich City again and to play tennis.

My Mum's old racquet - genuine vintage!

I have always loved tennis - both watching it and playing it. It’s in my blood - my parents used to play when they were courting, and I used my Mum’s racquet when I first started playing. It was kept in a racquet press which bore the legend, handwritten in pencil, ‘14th June 1937, Love from Arthur x’ Probably one of the first presents my Dad ever bought for my Mum.

14th June 1937, Love from Arthur x

I would spend hours hitting a ball against the back wall, driving my family mad with the repetitive thud and, when I went to High School I discovered a modicum of talent for the game. I was completely enamoured of the whole thing especially the silly white dresses. 

I was eleven years old, and also an avid Bunty reader, and loved the cut out dolls on the last page. Imagine my delight when ‘Bunty plays tennis’ appeared. I persuaded my Mum to make me one of the outfits - a natty shorts / dress combo that must have been really tricky to manufacture. I loved it, but there was one major drawback. Clearly Bunty never actually played tennis, because the minute I extended my body to serve, the shorts gave me an excruciating wedgie - not conducive to concentrating on the game! 

The World's most impractical tennis outfit!

I never could bring myself to tell my lovely Mum all those years ago, and just wore my PE kit to play in from then on. My claim to fame was that I was House Tennis Captain when my house shared the House Tennis Cup, and I can honestly still remember the shot I played that won the crucial match - even our PE teacher applauded!

Fast forward thirty years and on my own with two children, I decided it was time to get out there again. My local council was advertising a ‘ladies tennis group’ at the clifftop courts so I went along. The first week I didn't even get out of the car, I felt that anxious, but my love of tennis helped me overcome my fears and the second week I joined in. When the funding ended for the clifftop group, we moved to the local tennis club, where about eight of us continued to play regularly on Monday evenings and Thursday mornings. As my job became ever more demanding I got further and further out of the loop until…I retired! The very day after I finished work I rejoined the club and now play twice, sometimes three times week. 

Treated myself to more modern equipment!

There now four or five of us who play, all of a certain age and of varying strengths and abilities - one of us is brilliant at drop shots, one at lobbing opponents, one at running down every shot thrown at her and my return of serve is pretty good. We are all united by one thing, however - inconsistency! For every exquisite passing shot, at least ten are wide, for every searing overhead smash, I should think ninety percent find the wrong side of the net and for every perfect lob, the woman who never gives up will find a way to get them back running around the court like a demented terrier. 

We are undisputed queens of the unforced error! That being said, we have so much fun and are so hardy that we turn up unabashed each week, even if the courts are frozen or there’s a gale force wind, knowing that at least we will have something to blame for our poor performance - we do, however, eschew the little white dresses in favour of thermals these days! The other thing that unites us is our ridiculous British politeness. Whilst we might be rejoicing inside for the stunning drop shot we’ve just played, we always apologise for making the opposition run in vain! No fist pumping or high fives for us, just a discrete grin to our partner.

I know tennis isn't everyone’s idea of fun, but for me it is completely joyful - I don't even need to reward myself with a hot chocolate when I get home - a hot shower is all I need! And if you’re going to be a loser, you may as well do it in good company and the fresh air!

Cheap Thrill #13: A Winter Walk - lucky for us!

So Christmas is over, I feel fat and sluggish and kind of down. Even though I haven't had the ‘joy’ of going back to work, I’m still experiencing that post Christmas malaise that is unique to January. Time for a cheap thrill methinks.

Definitely made for walking!

On Thursday I should have played tennis, but for the second week running, the courts were frozen solid. In serious need of some fresh air, I dragged my husband on a winter walk. We are lucky enough to live in an amazing part of the world, where we have the choice of both countryside and coast. 

Dangerous sausage rolls nearby!

If we walk along the beach, we usually end up in a fine cafe, eating sausage rolls so, in the interest of our waistlines, we opted for a countryside walk.

Much safer option!

Burgh Castle is just a short drive away and has a lovely circular walk, with some glorious views. As my husband is a volunteer guide there, it also affords him many opportunities to display his extensive knowledge of the Romans and their engineering feats! Despite this, it really is an enjoyable way to spend an hour or so. 

I think the view across to the Berney Arms Mill is one of my all time favourites, and a marsh harrier swooped across as we were standing near the river - stunning.

Stunning view with important added life philosophy!

It wasn't a long or strenuous walk, just beautiful and calming. I felt so much better when we came home, especially as we rewarded ourselves with home made soup and hot drinks! 

Not any old reward, a hygge reward!

So, if you are feeling jaded, drag yourself out for a walk. Wrap up warm and go. It costs nothing, will blow the cobwebs away, and the thought of hot chocolate when you get home will make it all worth while!