Thursday 26th January

Not my words, I can assure you, but those of a friend.  I have both lived with a man and am now without one, and until the right one comes along I will remain without one – so imagining does not come into it. I have however never had a dog, so this particular attachment is not precious to me, though given the immediate choice, a dog does seem to hold more appeal.

My friend, who I will not embarrass by naming, has been married three times, and has had numerous liaisons in-between too.  So, she has probably rarely been without a man herself.  She has two dogs, and assures me that when one dies she replaces it with another with as little delay as possible.

One has to wonder though what value she really puts on the relationships she has with either.  Are the men as interchangeable as the dogs, even though the dogs may be easier to replace; maybe if one is not too discerning then the men may be easily replaceable too.

I find it far harder to strike up friendships which may lead to something else though.  Maybe just my natural reticence, maybe a fatal flaw in my personality, but I just do not strike up friendships with people.  I need to get to know them slowly, before committing myself.  And that may also explain why I have never had a dog, that instant affection which people experience when they see a little puppy face seems to be somewhat lacking in me, I am always that little bit too cautious, too much consideration and not enough impulse, and then the moment, or the possibility of a moment, is gone.

So I remain here without either a man or a dog, though little puddy-tat is probably thankful for the lack of both.

Wednesday 25th January

Of course, I look in the mirror every day; we all do I am sure, but I don’t really see myself.  Not the real me, I look only at my reflection and not at myself.  I am looking to see how well I may have applied my make-up, or if my teeth are clean, but I don’t look at me.  Besides one is so used to the reflection, that you don’t really look beyond those familiar features and into the face, do you?

But today, it really hit me, that I looked old.  I have had a bit of a cold since the New Year, not a real stinker, no runny nose, no ‘maybe it’s flu’ type of cold, just a really irritating sore throat that will not go away.  I have drunk I do not know how many bottles of cough medicine, and have sickened myself with lozenges and Strepsils so that I cannot even bear to look at the packets any more, and still the cough persists.  I almost wouldn’t mind if it actually developed into a full blown cold, because then I could understand where it was coming from.

But the worst of it is that I feel tired all the time.  I wake up tired, and it really doesn’t help going to bed early either.  I feel that I am tired of it all, my situation, the weather, London and most of all, of course, of myself.  I looked in the mirror this morning and thought “My God girl, you are beginning to look old.”  Not just my age, or tired, but old.

So I must try to buck myself up a bit.  I need a new project, and not just the book. Don’t even ask how that is going, because it isn’t going anywhere except maybe into the bin soon.  Perhaps I just need a holiday, but I have never been that sort of a person who can just go off on their own.  I did that once in Paris, and don’t want to do that again in a hurry.

So I am just going to huddle up under a blanket and watch stupid telly all night.  Old as I look or not.

Tuesday 24th January

Adrian used to go on and on about this song, and played it enough to make me slightly sick of it.  It was The Beatles, of course; or to be more specific John Lennon, one of his undoubted heroes.  It was from the album that came to define them in many ways, Sergeant Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band.  To be honest it had passed me by, well almost.  Even I in my self-imposed seclusion was not totally immune to the currents that swirled around me in the late sixties.  But I had never bought any Beatles records; maybe it had never occurred to me that they had anything particular to say to me.  I did like Yesterday, with its nice string quartet backing, but not much else caught my ear back in the sixties.  Adrian played them incessantly, especially ‘A day in the life’, which he insisted was the key to understanding their later music.

I had almost forgotten all about them, despite hardly a month passing without some reference to them in the news itself, which at one time was so full of them.  The press and the public they serve has largely moved on, and the pop-stars one reads of now I have never heard of at all.  It might as well be a foreign language.  And this is of course as it should be; the young push in and shout to be heard, and shove us oldies out of the way.  I wonder how many under thirties can even name the Beatles, let alone know their songs.

Radio 2, not my first choice for listening, but often Radio 3 or 4 become a tad boring and I listen in to 2 for a change, and I heard that chilling plaintive and weary and sad voice calling out across the years. “I read the news today, oh boy” and it is that simple but so important “oh boy” that makes the sentence memorable.  The line “I read the news today” on its own means nothing, but the refrain “oh boy” tells us all about the mood of the singer, and that you the listener are being set up for something.  It took just the couple of seconds of those words to take me back to that little flat in Hackney, the drawings on the wall, the Biba wallpaper, the pine table and the sad but wonderful few months of my first love.  It was all there large as life as soon as John started singing those words.

And it will be whenever I next happen to hear them I am sure.  And they always catch you by surprise, these familiar but half forgotten memories, all it takes is those few words “I read the news today, oh boy” and you are caught again, unawares and unbidden, and taken back to the days of your youth.

Monday 23rd January

I read a poem out loud at the writing class today, and instantly wished I hadn’t.  Nobody, not even I the author, really understood it.  It was right at the end of the class, people were a bit tired and ready to leave and I was the last to read my piece.

I won’t bore you with the poem itself, it was called Permanence and Illusion and is I think another of my ‘the differences between the sexes’ things; where the man is all cold logic and precision and the woman a bit more vulnerable, with hints of sacrifice and suffering.  Anyway no-body really got it, so it couldn’t have been that successful could it?

Strangely I still love it, especially these two couplets :

I thought I knew all about you / could read you like a book / but turning around for a second I found / you’d changed in the time it took.

And the sharpest stone in your armory store / the one that cut me to the core / was soft at the edges, rounded and smooth / a net to hold and bathe my wounds.

Yes, I know a stone doesn’t have a net. And how can a net bathe and soothe my wounds?  I don’t know quite what I meant but for me, it works. For me the words just make sense and are beautiful.

Pity no-one else saw it.

I will read some prose out next time, and hopefully mine won’t be the last piece to be read next time.

Sunday 22nd January

One of the boring aspects of visiting friends is this modern habit of leaving the TV on when your guests arrive, or even worse – ignoring them and watching the wretched thing.  I am not sure if any etiquette book exists which deals with the TV/guest thing, but if it hasn’t been written yet, then here is a tip for the compilers. One should always switch off the television the moment your guests arrive.

I called in on my friend Joan, we were actually going out for dinner later, but she asked me to come round early for a catch-up..  I arrived even earlier than I had planned just before six and the television was on.  Worse still Joan was watching it avidly; she almost had no time for me.  No welcoming cup of tea, no friendly chat – in fact no chat at all; every time I spoke she barely heard me, she was so absorbed in the programme.  And honestly, I wouldn’t have minded if it had been something of worth, some serious documentary, or even a compelling wild-life film.  The news might be understandable had there been a tsunami, or a siege or some other absorbing subject.  But no, she was watching Total Wipeout of all things.  I know that early Saturday evening television is not renowned for its intellectual challenge, but one would have to search high and low to find anything more mindless, and on the BBC too!  I had never watched it, (I wonder why not?) but after a few seconds, almost certainly not a minute, I could see how awful it was.  A series of “contestants” try to complete a watery obstacle course, where the highlights are the slow-motion replays of people falling off large moving mechanical objects and into the water.  No skill required at all, just the ability to make a fool of one’s-self for the cameras.  I am not sure what was worse; the relentless enthusiasm of the young people who time and time again got knocked into the water, or the idiotic commentary, as if any of it had any consequence at all. They must be very well paid or extremely hard up to have allowed themselves to be persuaded to take part in this nonsense.

But no, the most irritating and unbelievable spectacle was Joan herself, who was laughing hysterically at every repeated and completely obvious pratfall, laughing just as loudly as the twelth contestant fell off a large red ball as she did when the first one fell.  And I had always assumed she was a reasonably intelligent woman, but she was highly amused and assured me that she never missed watching this inanity beyond belief.

Saturday 21st January

I was sitting minding my own business, as usual, when I caught a glimpse out of the corner of my eye. And like those subliminal messages which one suspects are planted in adverts, but which are strenuously denied by the advertisers, I thought I had seen something.  It was only there for a second and then gone, something incongruous and unexpected, but strangely familiar.  And after a second I put away the book I was reading (1Q84 – Haruki Mirukami) which was getting a little repetitive, and looked at my fellow tube travellers.  Nothing really unusual – the same motley crew as one always gets mid-afternoon on the Bakerloo line.  But there, over by the door and looking away from me so that I could only see the back of his head, a black man, well of course, the back of a black man’s head, became the focus of my attention. What was it about him; he was early twenties with short well cut hair, a light brown leather jacket with an eight ball design, blue jeans and sneakers.  But I had seen something, I was sure.

Suddenly he was sitting opposite me, as if by some synchronicity; some fortunate alignment of the stars had worked in my favour and my curiosity was satisfied.  He had one of those neat little goatee beards that so suit black men, and do nothing for the white male, and at first it looked a bit lop-sided, but then it suddenly became obvious, he had it shaved into a perfect Nike tick, or swatch I believe the correct term is, right in the centre of his chin.  And it suited him, even though it marred slightly the perfect symmetry of his features, it seemed to fit well and sit well on his face.  I had often seen swirls and intricate designs that had been razored into black men’s heads, where the design is a millimeter or two indented into the tight curls, but never in a beard before.

He smiled confidently as if he knew it would draw attention and admiring looks to him.  I wondered how he managed to shave, but suspect that he uses one of those tiny little electric shavers with small interchangeable heads.  (Edward was a brush and lather and cut-throat man, but he took a plug in Ronson on holidays, but could never achieve the close finish he got with a wet shave.)  It must take him ages every morning I thought, and actually did he ever regret it, like someone who has their tongue pierced or a neck tattoo, you can hardly hide it, though in his case, despite being a walking advert for footwear, he could shave it out in a moment.

Friday 20th January

As well as being a pop-song, (which was quite unlike a pop song – and a one hit wonder for some band I forget the name of – they were that memorable), this was also a film.  A wonderful film too, from that Golden Age of Cinema 1969.  It was made by Sydney Pollack and starred Jane Fonda and Michael Sarrazin.  It was a story of a killing, but more a mercy killing than one in any sort of anger. The two characters were drifters in 1930’s America who happened to enter a Marathon dance competition.  This was a particular sort of evil, thrown up by the desperation of the depression.  People would go to dance halls to watch couples dance and dance until there was only one couple standing.  A sort of exhaustive Britains got Talent of yesteryear.  Every so often a new twist would be added, such as having the exhausted couples race around the dance hall and the last couple getting eliminated.  These desperate kids and actually some older couples too, were so hard-up they would spend weeks getting nothing but their food and drink just to try to win a few bucks.

Our hero and heroine were not together at first but found themselves each without a partner and out of desperation became a new couple and were allowed to continue.

And Jane Fonda was magnificent in this, her self-loathing and misery on display for all to see. Michael as the bewildered and disillusioned kid is brilliant too.

I cannot quite remember how it ends, except that he shoots her – I think she asks him to too.  They lose the prize and both realise they have absolutely no future.  When he is apprehended and asked why he did it he replies “They shoot horses, don’t they?”

It made a big impression on me when I saw it in the late seventies on BBC2.  It is the kind of film they should show again and again so that the kids of today can learn from it, but like so many classics of only 40 years ago, they aren’t shown at all nowadays.  Thank heavens for DVDs.

Thursday 19th January

We all cut our toenails I am sure, though there may be some who do not, some tramps I suppose may simply wait for them to split and crack as they get too long for their shoes. As a child I can remember Grandma cutting my toenails, often after a bath ‘when they are nice and soft’ she used to say. At a certain age I took over this task myself.  And at another certain age I may have to surrender to another toenail cutter again.   Let’s hope that is a while off.

As I said we all cut our toenails, but what prompts us to do it.  I cannot imagine keeping a spreadsheet, or making a diary entry, a circled TN on the first of each month.  But I find that there is always an inescapable moment when my toenails are crying out to be cut.  It is invariably late at night, I may have been watching TV, barefoot, and as I am beginning to make my way to bed they start crying out to me, “Please cut me Catherine; it is time for those old nail scissors again.”   And I find I can never refuse their siren call – I simply have to go to my make-up bag and retrieve my dainty little nail scissors and no matter how tired I am I snip away.

And they are so thankful, my little toesy-woesy, they simply glow with satisfaction.

I am also one of those finicky people who like to collect their clippings into a little pile.  I can’t miss even one, as they jump out across the rug, trying to bury themselves in the deep pile.  I line them up by size on the arm of the sofa, amazed at the tiny flexibility of the baby ones, and the incredible thickness of my big toenails.  Into the bin I scoop them and walk free and easy again.  At last my feet can breathe, and I flex my toes in their new-found freedom.  I couldn’t possibly have gone another minute with those long nails.  And I never see it coming; I have no itchy warning signs, no cramped feeling in my shoes; no clues at all.  One minute I am all contentment, and the next those nails are just crying out to be cut.

Wednesday 18th January

Sunsets everybody sees, not all the time, but enough for them to be considered commonplace.  But sunrises usually take place before we are awake, except in the winter, but even then you have to be in the right place and the right frame of mind, and of course to have the time; most of us are too busy scuttling to work to notice the beauty all around them.

I stayed over with my friend Barbara last night on the Isle of Dogs. (which of course is no island at all, though it probably was once) I was up before everyone, and partly to avoid the bathroom and breakfast chaos, I let myself out and went for a walk by the river.  You know on Eastenders, the map that slowly revolves. (actually I haven’t seen it in years, and assume it still does) That bulge in the river – that gloopy plum that hangs down into South London – that is where she lives towards the eastern side.  As you come out of her house onto the river you can just see the Excel centre in one corner and Greenwich Naval College in the other, and the sun comes up bang in the middle.  The south bank here is semi-industrialised with a  couple of cranes and chimneys and small hills of aggregate.  At first the sky was dark indigo with the crescent moon still hanging, fading to an almost white pale blue towards the land, black as coal and silhouetted, and the river a bible blue and blacky grey.  There were a few streaks of cloud, a bit like jet trails in straight and chaotic lines but mostly it was cloud free, and then it started.  The few strung out clouds turned from black to the palest of pinks imaginable, then slowly the sky lit up, getting pinker by the minute, as the blue lifted layer by layer becoming a richer fuller blue almost like Mediterranean skies.  Then the clouds seemed to thicken and widen and for a minute or two there were parallel bands of pink and blue fading at the edges and bleeding into each other.  Gradually the pink filled the entire horizon before in its turn turning a pale white shade of blue as all hint of darkness disappeared.

A truly spectacular sight.  And I am reminded that long before mankind first set foot on this precious planet, and long after we have gone, this sun will rise and fall every day creating its own wonderful display, totally oblivious of our desperate little scamperings.

Tuesday 17th January

Yesterday I was so nervous about the writing group, you know, irrational fears of meeting new people, which were, of course, totally unfounded.  And it was all right.  No, I really mean it.  There were three or four regulars who had been on the course before, and two others beside myself who were novices.

Rosie was very welcoming and put us all at ease by insisting that we didn’t have to read anything out at all, if we didn’t want to.  And she also told us that her job was not to criticize but to help us to write a bit better.  We had a couple of little exercises; to write a short piece on a suggested subject, not such a hard task, and fun in a way.  Then Rosie talked about getting started with writing, and then nearly everyone read something out.  I had prepared a short bit of a story which hadn’t gone anywhere, and a short poem.  I wish I had chosen the poem actually as the piece I read seemed flat as I heard the words out loud.  No worse than anyone else’s at any rate, so not such a bad start.

But why do I get so nervous of new things; is it because for so long I did everything with Edward?  Or have I always been this way?  I don’t think so, I was always a bit reserved, not one to push themselves forward, but quite prepared to join in once I knew the ground rules.  I think it is a product of ageing, where once you were the dominant generation, now you are so often ignored.  Where once you had no hesitation, now you are more careful. Where once you took life in your stride, now even the smallest steps appear to daunt you.  Where once you didn’t question yourself, now you question your place in the world, and life itself.

Anyway, the group has helped me a bit, it has given me some focus, which I feel I needed.   I am not alone any more, there are several idiots out there scribbling away like me.