It's Friday morning, eight o'clock and I'm still in bed, propped up by a pile of plumped up pillows. Most mornings I'm up and out before Philip's even conscious, but on a Friday I work from home, so I'm the one who gets to stay tucked up in the duvet, with the cup of tea he made before he left.
I don't always live easily in the present. My mind's default setting is to think about the future, to mull over things, worry about and plan for what will, or might, or ought, to happen. Today though, there's something about the light outside that leads me to just sit.
The sky's a pale blue, cut in quarters by the white trailing clouds from two passing planes, like a washed out Scottish flag. From where I sit I can see the tops of the trees; they're still skeletal at this time of year. Though I know their leaf buds are forming, I can't see them from here. One old tree must have been there for hundreds of years. It stands in the back garden of a small cottage along the valley and it's been pruned a number of times to stop it blocking the light from the buckled leaded windows. It seems to have been hacked at without much thought for its shape so it now has a permanent one-sided lean, as though it's straining to get away from the cottage. For the last couple of years it's been the last tree to get leaves, like a recalcitrant old man who finds fewer reasons to get up and dressed every morning.
Where the tree's been cut back, I can see the upstairs of the house. The windows peep out from an old, uneven red-tiled roof, blinking in the light like eyes from under a fringe. I wonder if there's someone sitting in their bed thinking about the trees and the sky, looking out at me.
It's very quiet now that Philip's left for work. It's not just that he likes to leave the radio on in every room, more that there's a sound to his presence. When he's here, I sense his breathing. I can tell by the pace and depth of it, what mood he's in, how hard he's concentrating, whether he's tense or relaxed. When I first knew him, we worked in an office together. One day he spent a whole day coughing, trying to clear his chest. By the end of the day I felt the need to clear my own throat in sympathy every time he gasped for breath. Sometimes now, without even realising it, I find my breath slowing down or speeding up to keep pace with his.
Before he left, I listened to him moving around, heard him downstairs talking to the cat; waited for his step on the stairs, on the creaking floor-board in the bedroom. I noticed the click that his tin of hair-pomade made when he set it down on the wooden box by the bed, I heard his keys jangle as he picked them up and dropped them into his trouser pocket.
I sit for a while, but thoughts of the work I need to do today start pushing into the empty quietness. I know it's time to get up. When I do, the news is all of a terrible earthquake and tsunami in Japan. I switch on the TV and see film after film of buildings shaking, people screaming, rolling tidal waves of water washing over fields and through car parks.
It doesn't seem possible, that while I sat looking out at the peace of the valley, halfway across the world, people's lives were literally being turned upside down. I know there is no rhyme or reason. It simply isn't fair that some people will never again hear the turn of the key in the lock as their loved ones return at the end of the day. I am enormously grateful that I will.
Showing posts with label listening to the radio. Show all posts
Showing posts with label listening to the radio. Show all posts
Friday, 11 March 2011
Saturday, 26 February 2011
A cottage in the woods
In fifty years, I've never lived on my own, never even been on holiday by myself. Half a century of sharing and adjusting, carefully negotiating space and sound, decor and temperature.
At nineteen I moved straight from the shared bedroom of childhood to the double bed of marriage. I'd quickly closed down any conversations about going away to university; that had seemed no more real than the notion of finding a room in a shared house, renting a bedsit in the city, travelling around the world. Other people did those things, people I read about, not people I knew.
It might have been that I was rushing into being with someone, trying to get back to the family life that I'd known before my parents' divorce. Or it might have been that young love had convinced me that being half of something was better than being less than someone. Either way, for a long while it was a good place to be, especially while there were children arriving and growing, when sharing space meant snuggling up on the sofa to read a book, budging up in bed to make room for a sleepy kid in the early morning. When eventually, perhaps inevitably, we realised that there wasn't enough space in being married, the children and I moved to another house. Though I'd never been more lonely, I still wasn't alone.
But every now and then I'd think about a cottage in the woods. In my head it was a place where I'd live all by myself. I'd sit and read, with only the creaking sounds of the trees to keep me company. Life was simple in my house made of logs. No electricity, no machinery, no conversations or relationships; nothing to break. I pictured myself revelling in my solitude, writing the book I'd never found time for, being at one with nature and myself. I sometimes wondered though, how long I'd last, how long it would be before I rushed to the nearest town, started a conversation with anyone who'd listen.
My children are all grown up now, but I'm still not on my own. With Philip I've learned a whole new set of adjustments. We live in a tiny house, so whatever one of us does, it's bound to have an impact on the other. I realise that I'll sometimes have to tolerate the freezing gales that blow through the open kitchen window because he gets too hot when he's cooking. I understand that I'll need to grin and bear the northern cadences of Radcliffe and Maconie, because he likes to listen to the radio while he does so. But that's ok, because I also know that I'll get to sit down with him and eat the meals he's so carefully made while he's been sweltering and I've been shivering.
In return, he's got quite adept at avoiding the shoes and bags I place around the house like booby traps, the laptop leads that I trail across the floor like poachers' wires; he knows I'll get around to moving them eventually, because I'm the one who hoovers. We've both learned that, even when we silently blame each other for leaving clothes around, for piling up books and papers, for failing to change the bed, replace a light-bulb, put the rubbish out, it doesn't really matter. We're both quite comfortable in our clutter and our shared space.
Even so, I still sometimes imagine going on holiday alone. I picture myself lying by the pool with a book, while the other holiday-makers whisper between themselves, wondering in hushed tones about the enigmatic lone-lady. And every now and then, when I've had a dreadful week at work, when I feel like the years are slipping away, when the things I ought to do are eating into the time for the things I want to do, then I still think about that cottage in the woods.
Except this time, there's a bearded, check-shirted lumberjack called Philip living there with me.
At nineteen I moved straight from the shared bedroom of childhood to the double bed of marriage. I'd quickly closed down any conversations about going away to university; that had seemed no more real than the notion of finding a room in a shared house, renting a bedsit in the city, travelling around the world. Other people did those things, people I read about, not people I knew.
It might have been that I was rushing into being with someone, trying to get back to the family life that I'd known before my parents' divorce. Or it might have been that young love had convinced me that being half of something was better than being less than someone. Either way, for a long while it was a good place to be, especially while there were children arriving and growing, when sharing space meant snuggling up on the sofa to read a book, budging up in bed to make room for a sleepy kid in the early morning. When eventually, perhaps inevitably, we realised that there wasn't enough space in being married, the children and I moved to another house. Though I'd never been more lonely, I still wasn't alone.
But every now and then I'd think about a cottage in the woods. In my head it was a place where I'd live all by myself. I'd sit and read, with only the creaking sounds of the trees to keep me company. Life was simple in my house made of logs. No electricity, no machinery, no conversations or relationships; nothing to break. I pictured myself revelling in my solitude, writing the book I'd never found time for, being at one with nature and myself. I sometimes wondered though, how long I'd last, how long it would be before I rushed to the nearest town, started a conversation with anyone who'd listen.
My children are all grown up now, but I'm still not on my own. With Philip I've learned a whole new set of adjustments. We live in a tiny house, so whatever one of us does, it's bound to have an impact on the other. I realise that I'll sometimes have to tolerate the freezing gales that blow through the open kitchen window because he gets too hot when he's cooking. I understand that I'll need to grin and bear the northern cadences of Radcliffe and Maconie, because he likes to listen to the radio while he does so. But that's ok, because I also know that I'll get to sit down with him and eat the meals he's so carefully made while he's been sweltering and I've been shivering.
In return, he's got quite adept at avoiding the shoes and bags I place around the house like booby traps, the laptop leads that I trail across the floor like poachers' wires; he knows I'll get around to moving them eventually, because I'm the one who hoovers. We've both learned that, even when we silently blame each other for leaving clothes around, for piling up books and papers, for failing to change the bed, replace a light-bulb, put the rubbish out, it doesn't really matter. We're both quite comfortable in our clutter and our shared space.
Even so, I still sometimes imagine going on holiday alone. I picture myself lying by the pool with a book, while the other holiday-makers whisper between themselves, wondering in hushed tones about the enigmatic lone-lady. And every now and then, when I've had a dreadful week at work, when I feel like the years are slipping away, when the things I ought to do are eating into the time for the things I want to do, then I still think about that cottage in the woods.
Except this time, there's a bearded, check-shirted lumberjack called Philip living there with me.
Monday, 25 October 2010
A golden oldie and a missing song
I realise that this post might elicit a response of despair and a shake of the head, so I'll admit upfront that I will be covering both my questionable taste in music and an over-emotional response to a tune on the radio. Then I'll leave it to you to decide whether to read on.
This morning while driving to work I listened, as I do most mornings, to Chris Evans' breakfast show on Radio 2. He has a daily feature, Golden Oldies, introduced by the marvellous Moira Stewart, for which listeners nominate a favourite song which evokes a special memory. Usually it's a tale of a song which sparked a long-ago romance or a tune that accompanied carefree dancing days. Today's was slightly different.
I didn't catch the name of the man who'd written in - for which I'm sorry - but his special memory was the tale of how, as a child, he'd been known by family and friends as the boy with the shining eyes. His mum told him this was due to his Spanish ancestry and so, whenever he was feeling sad and needed cheering up, she would sing him the Al Martino song Blue Spanish Eyes.
As I drove along, listening to the song I found myself crying. It wasn't Al Martino's fault. It couldn't even be blamed on my normal frustrations with the M25. It was just that I had a really clear image of a little dark-haired boy gazing up adoringly at his mother, a woman who could make things better for him just by singing.
I've often thought that the world would be a much better place if everyone would just sing a bit more. Just look at what it did for the Von Trapp children. I don't think it's a coincidence that almost all of the important events in our lives are accompanied by song.
I've written here before about our family love of musicals and our habit of over-loud singing in the car; this morning's Golden Oldie set me thinking, not about our recent song-book, but about the songs I grew up with.
My Dad had a fine repertoire of Music Hall songs, we all learned to sing along to 'Any Old Iron', 'If you were the only girl in the world', and, a real classic, 'Knock 'em in the Old Kent Road'. But there is one song, which so completely reminds me of him, that you'd only have to say the words and he'd be back in the room. It's not a love song, nor a cheery uplifting tune, but it would be my version of the song-that-always-makes-me-feel-better.
I won't be writing in to Chris Evans and Moira Stewart. I know I won't be driving along to work one day hearing it playing on the radio, but that's ok. I can play it on my own internal juke-box any time I like and it will still always make me feel better.
This morning while driving to work I listened, as I do most mornings, to Chris Evans' breakfast show on Radio 2. He has a daily feature, Golden Oldies, introduced by the marvellous Moira Stewart, for which listeners nominate a favourite song which evokes a special memory. Usually it's a tale of a song which sparked a long-ago romance or a tune that accompanied carefree dancing days. Today's was slightly different.
I didn't catch the name of the man who'd written in - for which I'm sorry - but his special memory was the tale of how, as a child, he'd been known by family and friends as the boy with the shining eyes. His mum told him this was due to his Spanish ancestry and so, whenever he was feeling sad and needed cheering up, she would sing him the Al Martino song Blue Spanish Eyes.
As I drove along, listening to the song I found myself crying. It wasn't Al Martino's fault. It couldn't even be blamed on my normal frustrations with the M25. It was just that I had a really clear image of a little dark-haired boy gazing up adoringly at his mother, a woman who could make things better for him just by singing.
I've often thought that the world would be a much better place if everyone would just sing a bit more. Just look at what it did for the Von Trapp children. I don't think it's a coincidence that almost all of the important events in our lives are accompanied by song.
I've written here before about our family love of musicals and our habit of over-loud singing in the car; this morning's Golden Oldie set me thinking, not about our recent song-book, but about the songs I grew up with.
My Dad had a fine repertoire of Music Hall songs, we all learned to sing along to 'Any Old Iron', 'If you were the only girl in the world', and, a real classic, 'Knock 'em in the Old Kent Road'. But there is one song, which so completely reminds me of him, that you'd only have to say the words and he'd be back in the room. It's not a love song, nor a cheery uplifting tune, but it would be my version of the song-that-always-makes-me-feel-better.
Three lonely prisoners, in a lonely prison cell, the story of their lifetimes to each other they did tell...He sang it to us hundreds of times, he taught it to all of my children, but I've never, ever, heard anyone else sing it. I've tried googling the lyrics, in the hope that someone, with a passion for songs from the early twentieth century, might have stumbled across it and shared their knowledge - but nothing. I've sometimes wondered if it was a 'proper' song at all, or something that Dad had made up. The tune and lyrics never changed - so if he did make it up, he did a pretty good job of it.
I won't be writing in to Chris Evans and Moira Stewart. I know I won't be driving along to work one day hearing it playing on the radio, but that's ok. I can play it on my own internal juke-box any time I like and it will still always make me feel better.
Monday, 6 September 2010
Travelling to Manchester
My beloved and I went to Manchester at the weekend. He did all the planning; booked our hotel, purchased the wedding gift, sorted the social arrangements. He helped me to decide which shoes to take, confirmed that my necklace matched my dress and reassured me that my hair was fine. He did all this while suffering from a horrible dose of a cold, which had sent him home early from work.
Eventually I thought I should make some small contribution to the outcome of the weekend.
Me: "do you want to take the train, or shall we go by car?"
Him: "car would be easiest, if that's ok?"
Me (while silently thinking mean, uncharitable thoughts along the lines of - "well of course it's easier for you - you can't drive") : "Yep, that's fine."
Him: "shall I sort out some CDs for the journey?"
Me (while silently thinking mean uncharitable thoughts along the lines of - "what's the worst possible thing I can inflict on him for a journey of 250 miles?") : "I thought we might listen to my new Jack Johnson CD"
Him: (total silence)
The following morning, we packed our bags and set off, hoping we'd timed it right to miss the early morning joys of the M25.
After about half an hour..
Me: "do you want to put some music on?"
Him: "I thought you were bringing Jack Johnson"
Me (trying to pretend my evil meanness of the previous day had never really existed): "But that was only a joke, you know I wouldn't really have made you listen to Jack Johnson all the way to Manchester"
Him: (total silence)
After another half an hour...
Me: "what about the radio?"
Him (suddenly springing to life and with a slightly disturbing gleam in his eye) : "do you mind if I flick?"
Me (while thinking the exact opposite) " No,of course not, see what you can find".
So, for the next five hours, while we struggled past broken down lorries, crawled through the contra-flows of endless roadworks and generally cursed the decision to travel by car, my beloved 'flicked'.
And what gems of airwave magic did he find?
His first discovery, after all the London programmes had crackled away to a whisper, was Jack FM; a station that appeared to have no presenters, just some decidedly odd pre-recorded soundbites between the tracks. Luckily, it did not specialise in Mr Johnson's music, but we never got to find out why it was called Jack.
As we drove on and Jack FM faded out of range, Philip fast-forwarded; past the mind-numbing horrors of Heart, Magic, and Smooth. He kept flicking as we reached Warwickshire where he landed at Touch Radio, a station specialising in 'songs to sing along to'.
I was in my element. Although, strangely, my beloved seemed less than delighted that our car had become a mobile karaoke booth. He became even less amused, as in due course we drove on and out of the local radio's limited range...
Me (sniggering) : "Oh, I think we're losing Touch"
Him (silently shaking his head)
Me: "Don't you think we should keep in Touch"
Him (quietly sighing)
Me (admittedly scraping the barrel now) "Ohhh, I really wanted to stay in Touch"
And so it went on, him flicking, me shouting with glee or disdain as the miles and the radio stations slipped by.
I should have known better than to insist that we listen to the whole of Black Eyed Peas' 'I gotta feeling' . After that, it could only end badly.
And eventually, just as we got to Manchester, and as I peered wearily at the Motorway signs looking for our exit, he tuned in to 106.1 FM - Rock Radio.
The Home of Classic Rock Favourites.
In no time at all, Led Zeppelin was blasting from the radio, succeeded by the dulcet tones of ACDC then Jimi Hendrix. He had finally found his revenge.
I won't try to describe the joy with which I spotted our final destination.
But was that vengeance enough for my mean uncharitable thoughts? Apparently not.
I'm sitting in bed as I type this and I'm feeling rubbish - it's nothing major, I'm just struggling to overcome the germs that my dearly beloved shared with me so generously in the car, all the way to Manchester.
And as they say - that really will teach me
Eventually I thought I should make some small contribution to the outcome of the weekend.
Me: "do you want to take the train, or shall we go by car?"
Him: "car would be easiest, if that's ok?"
Me (while silently thinking mean, uncharitable thoughts along the lines of - "well of course it's easier for you - you can't drive") : "Yep, that's fine."
Him: "shall I sort out some CDs for the journey?"
Me (while silently thinking mean uncharitable thoughts along the lines of - "what's the worst possible thing I can inflict on him for a journey of 250 miles?") : "I thought we might listen to my new Jack Johnson CD"
Him: (total silence)
The following morning, we packed our bags and set off, hoping we'd timed it right to miss the early morning joys of the M25.
After about half an hour..
Me: "do you want to put some music on?"
Him: "I thought you were bringing Jack Johnson"
Me (trying to pretend my evil meanness of the previous day had never really existed): "But that was only a joke, you know I wouldn't really have made you listen to Jack Johnson all the way to Manchester"
Him: (total silence)
After another half an hour...
Me: "what about the radio?"
Him (suddenly springing to life and with a slightly disturbing gleam in his eye) : "do you mind if I flick?"
Me (while thinking the exact opposite) " No,of course not, see what you can find".
So, for the next five hours, while we struggled past broken down lorries, crawled through the contra-flows of endless roadworks and generally cursed the decision to travel by car, my beloved 'flicked'.
And what gems of airwave magic did he find?
His first discovery, after all the London programmes had crackled away to a whisper, was Jack FM; a station that appeared to have no presenters, just some decidedly odd pre-recorded soundbites between the tracks. Luckily, it did not specialise in Mr Johnson's music, but we never got to find out why it was called Jack.
As we drove on and Jack FM faded out of range, Philip fast-forwarded; past the mind-numbing horrors of Heart, Magic, and Smooth. He kept flicking as we reached Warwickshire where he landed at Touch Radio, a station specialising in 'songs to sing along to'.
I was in my element. Although, strangely, my beloved seemed less than delighted that our car had become a mobile karaoke booth. He became even less amused, as in due course we drove on and out of the local radio's limited range...
Me (sniggering) : "Oh, I think we're losing Touch"
Him (silently shaking his head)
Me: "Don't you think we should keep in Touch"
Him (quietly sighing)
Me (admittedly scraping the barrel now) "Ohhh, I really wanted to stay in Touch"
And so it went on, him flicking, me shouting with glee or disdain as the miles and the radio stations slipped by.
I should have known better than to insist that we listen to the whole of Black Eyed Peas' 'I gotta feeling' . After that, it could only end badly.
And eventually, just as we got to Manchester, and as I peered wearily at the Motorway signs looking for our exit, he tuned in to 106.1 FM - Rock Radio.
The Home of Classic Rock Favourites.
In no time at all, Led Zeppelin was blasting from the radio, succeeded by the dulcet tones of ACDC then Jimi Hendrix. He had finally found his revenge.
I won't try to describe the joy with which I spotted our final destination.
But was that vengeance enough for my mean uncharitable thoughts? Apparently not.
I'm sitting in bed as I type this and I'm feeling rubbish - it's nothing major, I'm just struggling to overcome the germs that my dearly beloved shared with me so generously in the car, all the way to Manchester.
And as they say - that really will teach me
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