Across the road from the New House of Stories (or the House of Books and Bears, as I think it may become) lives a big black cat with green eyes. It is a very picture book cat of a cat. I don't know its name.
When we first moved in we saw it a lot, but then, when we first moved in Daughter was with us and I could swear that cats talk to her. They have an understanding, Daughter and cats. (Her grandfather is also a cat person. Her Aunt Helen is great with cats and has two, but Helen is happy with anything four-legged.) The day the removal men were hauling wardrobes out of the van, the black cat was arching its back under Daughter's hand and following her around.
Since she went home, nearly two months ago, we've hardly seen it. Then yesterday afternoon, when I was sitting working in the front room, Cat jumped on to the wall and from there to the top of the wheelie bin, where it curled up on sentry duty. (You can't fall asleep on a wheelie bin, they don't look comfortable. You'd slide off. This was a thinking cat.) It was there on the wall again today when I went out, and still there when I came back.
I say hello to it and tell it what a good cat it is, but it's a dignified cat, so I don't stroke it. I get the feeling it might turn around and walk away or scratch me if I did. Perhaps it doesn't feel that I know it well enough yet.
"You have not earned the right to touch me," thinks the cat. "Send me the Princess. She alone is worthy."
Tuesday, 1 October 2013
Sunday, 29 September 2013
Angels
Today is one of my favourite days in the year. Angel day, Michaelmas, the Festival of St Michael and All Angels. I am so glad of angels. My first book, 'A Friend for Rachel', later reissued as 'The Secret Mice', was a lot to do with angels. They are supportive friends, and we all need those. And because this year it fell on a Sunday and I'm going to a church that likes to keep the festivals, we had an angel themed morning service.
The church I used to go to in the Very Happy Village was called St Michael's. That's a bit strange, because usually churches called after the Archangel Michael are 'St Michael and All Angels'. Some years before we arrived there, a new vicar came to the village - James, who is one of our super-duper friends. James was surprised that this particular St Michael didn't have any angels. It didn't have a Toddler Group, either. He solved both problems at once by starting a Toddler Group and calling it 'Angels'.
I'm such a soft touch, I started off by helping with that playgroup and ended up running it. Does that make me an Honorary Angel?
The church I used to go to in the Very Happy Village was called St Michael's. That's a bit strange, because usually churches called after the Archangel Michael are 'St Michael and All Angels'. Some years before we arrived there, a new vicar came to the village - James, who is one of our super-duper friends. James was surprised that this particular St Michael didn't have any angels. It didn't have a Toddler Group, either. He solved both problems at once by starting a Toddler Group and calling it 'Angels'.
I'm such a soft touch, I started off by helping with that playgroup and ended up running it. Does that make me an Honorary Angel?
Friday, 27 September 2013
Lindisfarne
More than a thousand years ago, when Christianity was a flickering light in England and Scotland, Oswald returned from exile to claim his kingdom of Northumbria in battle. He had been raised by Christian monks in Scotland, and asked them to send someone to help him spread the gospel in Northumbria. Aidan came, and established his ministry on the lonely, quiet tidal island of Lindisfarne. When Aidan died, a shepherd boy called Cuthbert had a vision of angels carrying a holy soul to heaven.
Years later, Cuthbert was put in charge of the community on Lindisfarne. He lived a simple life of prayer, teaching (largely by example) and fasting, and died in 687. He was soon recognised as one of Northumbria's great saints, and a later abbot of Lindisfarne made a book of the gospels, so beautifully written and decorated that it is almost unbearably lovely to look at.
It is now thirteen hundred years old and lives in the British Library. I often go in to have a peek at it when I'm in London, but this year it came to Durham Cathedral where Cuthbert is buried. On Wednesday Claire, Tony and I met at Durham, said a prayer at Cuthbert's tomb, and went to the Lindisfarne Gospels exhibition. It was very well done, with pages of the gospels projected on to the walls, and contemporary gospel books around it, as well as St Cuthbert's ring and the cross he wore. The book itself, in its glass case, was open at the beginning of St Matthew.
But it's no good me telling you about it. Put The Lindisfarne Gospels into a search engine and look.
Years later, Cuthbert was put in charge of the community on Lindisfarne. He lived a simple life of prayer, teaching (largely by example) and fasting, and died in 687. He was soon recognised as one of Northumbria's great saints, and a later abbot of Lindisfarne made a book of the gospels, so beautifully written and decorated that it is almost unbearably lovely to look at.
It is now thirteen hundred years old and lives in the British Library. I often go in to have a peek at it when I'm in London, but this year it came to Durham Cathedral where Cuthbert is buried. On Wednesday Claire, Tony and I met at Durham, said a prayer at Cuthbert's tomb, and went to the Lindisfarne Gospels exhibition. It was very well done, with pages of the gospels projected on to the walls, and contemporary gospel books around it, as well as St Cuthbert's ring and the cross he wore. The book itself, in its glass case, was open at the beginning of St Matthew.
But it's no good me telling you about it. Put The Lindisfarne Gospels into a search engine and look.
Tuesday, 24 September 2013
Grey or Gray
Big hugs and thank you to Tony who did the blog for me at the weekend when I was wretchedly ill. I think a migraine and a virus met in the middle. Tony truly is a Master, not only of Theology, but of putting furniture together and looking after his poor ailing wife at the same time.
The English spelling is 'grey'. In the US it's 'gray'. For me, they suggest quite different things. I read once about a writer who used 'grey' in the sense of dismal, boring, rainy day, can't wash the dirt out grey. 'Gray' was for anything filmy, gauzy, mysterious. A raincoat is grey. Mist rising in the early morning is gray. That works for me. Also, if it's just in-betweenish grey, it's grey. If it's very pale or has a bit of blue or purple in it, it's gray.
I was thinking about grey (let's stick with that one for now) because there's a lot of it in this house, left by the people here before us. We don't particularly like grey, but there's no point in taking up perfectly good carpets so we're working around it. Pretty curtains have been ordered, for a start, and in the bathroom there is a grey blind. We talked about that and, as Tony is a rather good artist, are thinking of painting it. So, what will we have on our blind?
Green trees and flowers?
The sky - day or night?
A fjord? A loch? A river? An Alpine village?
The sea? A beach?
A bubble bath? Towels? Yellow ducks?
fairies?
Boats?
What do you think?
The English spelling is 'grey'. In the US it's 'gray'. For me, they suggest quite different things. I read once about a writer who used 'grey' in the sense of dismal, boring, rainy day, can't wash the dirt out grey. 'Gray' was for anything filmy, gauzy, mysterious. A raincoat is grey. Mist rising in the early morning is gray. That works for me. Also, if it's just in-betweenish grey, it's grey. If it's very pale or has a bit of blue or purple in it, it's gray.
I was thinking about grey (let's stick with that one for now) because there's a lot of it in this house, left by the people here before us. We don't particularly like grey, but there's no point in taking up perfectly good carpets so we're working around it. Pretty curtains have been ordered, for a start, and in the bathroom there is a grey blind. We talked about that and, as Tony is a rather good artist, are thinking of painting it. So, what will we have on our blind?
Green trees and flowers?
The sky - day or night?
A fjord? A loch? A river? An Alpine village?
The sea? A beach?
A bubble bath? Towels? Yellow ducks?
fairies?
Boats?
What do you think?
Sunday, 22 September 2013
I have a screwdriver, and I know how to use it.
The new House of Stories is a lovely house. Especially on days like today, when the sun is shining, and the garden and conservatory are warm and bright, and we can sit in the sun with a good book and enjoy it. Today was a good day to sit in the sun, enjoy the garden, and try to ignore the things that still need sorting out. That's the only thing with moving into a new house: it's new, and things are still in boxes, and there are piles of books stacked in different rooms waiting for somewhere to live. So we've been shopping for furniture, especially bookcases, and the Hairy Bloke has been busy putting them all together. There have been bookshelves for the study, and cabinets for the kitchen, and they've all come in bits packed in boxes, with instructions on how to put them all together.
Instructions. Sometimes it's like trying to understand a recipe for Apple's cordial. Or the mysteries of the Threadings, written in Chinese. There is a drawing, showing the bits (here is a long shelf, and here is a not so long shelf) and the bits required for putting them together (here are three screws and a funny-shaped thingy to go in that hole and fit those two bits together). Never mind - the Hairy Bloke was ready for the challenge (all those years building model aeroplanes were not wasted!). All the bits were spread out on the floor, the screwdrivers and hammer (just in case!) were placed ready, and the booklet of instructions was opened. There was a moment when it looked as if all those bits would never fit together to become that bookcase or kitchen cabinet, and the suspicion that the little plastic bag of screws and things would either not have enough screws or would be missing the one vital thingumajig, and it would all end in tears. But somehow, it all came together, step by step, stage by stage, and gradually the pieces of furniture took shape. Success!
There is one more to do. The cardboard box is lying downstairs, packed solid with bits. Some time in the next few days, the Hairy Bloke will take a deep breath, open the box, slide out all the parts, and think "There's far too many bits! How on earth will all that go together?" But there will be a book of instructions, and the diagrams will show the way. Bit by bit, step by step, it will all come together. One more set of bookshelves, so that some more of the boxes and heaps of books can be sorted and find their place.
That's important. This is the House of Stories, where the Lovely Lady writes her stories, but it's also a house full of books written by other people. Stories are for sharing, and reading again. Books are full of stories, to take you into other worlds, to make you laugh or help you to marvel and wonder. They are all very special - so it's worth a bit of time and work to make a few more bookshelves, so they can all come out of their boxes and find their places, and be ready to tell their tales all over again. So, where's that screwdriver...?
Instructions. Sometimes it's like trying to understand a recipe for Apple's cordial. Or the mysteries of the Threadings, written in Chinese. There is a drawing, showing the bits (here is a long shelf, and here is a not so long shelf) and the bits required for putting them together (here are three screws and a funny-shaped thingy to go in that hole and fit those two bits together). Never mind - the Hairy Bloke was ready for the challenge (all those years building model aeroplanes were not wasted!). All the bits were spread out on the floor, the screwdrivers and hammer (just in case!) were placed ready, and the booklet of instructions was opened. There was a moment when it looked as if all those bits would never fit together to become that bookcase or kitchen cabinet, and the suspicion that the little plastic bag of screws and things would either not have enough screws or would be missing the one vital thingumajig, and it would all end in tears. But somehow, it all came together, step by step, stage by stage, and gradually the pieces of furniture took shape. Success!
There is one more to do. The cardboard box is lying downstairs, packed solid with bits. Some time in the next few days, the Hairy Bloke will take a deep breath, open the box, slide out all the parts, and think "There's far too many bits! How on earth will all that go together?" But there will be a book of instructions, and the diagrams will show the way. Bit by bit, step by step, it will all come together. One more set of bookshelves, so that some more of the boxes and heaps of books can be sorted and find their place.
That's important. This is the House of Stories, where the Lovely Lady writes her stories, but it's also a house full of books written by other people. Stories are for sharing, and reading again. Books are full of stories, to take you into other worlds, to make you laugh or help you to marvel and wonder. They are all very special - so it's worth a bit of time and work to make a few more bookshelves, so they can all come out of their boxes and find their places, and be ready to tell their tales all over again. So, where's that screwdriver...?
Friday, 20 September 2013
Odd
What is it about socks, I asked myself? Before we moved house I gave up on the One Sock Club, which met on a storage box in our bedroom. I binned them, every last heel, sole and holey toe of them. And yet, within six weeks I had another lonely sock club. Everything else that goes through the wash comes out at the other end. Why not socks? I considered the theories. Maybe pairs of socks
a) part company as soon as they can because they hate each other, or
b) love each other so much that they blend into one sock during the final spin.
Neither idea sounded convincing to me. I asked Hamilton Bear about it and he said it's nothing to do with him, but he had that look as if he knows more than he's saying. Hamilton and I have no secrets from each other, so he must be keeping somebody else's secret. So who is he covering for? This is what I think.
We have two cuddly dogs here. There's Rowlff, who sits on Tony's desk, and I think was a present from Daughter long ago, and Wolfgang von Luddendorf, who used to belong to Uncle Gordon and now lives with us. He lives beside the television and sort of lies down to attention as if he's guarding us all. Everybody knows that dogs like socks. Our Daniel used to love them, especially the dirty smelly ones. Now, Rowlff and Wolfgang are very well behaved dogs and keep still when you're watching them, but we all know that toys get up to all sorts of things when your back is turned. And there's Dodger in the garden. I suspect he nips in when we're not looking, lies in wait for a sock, and grabs one trying to climb out of the laundry bin.
It has been too long since I told you about The Archers, and I know you're dying to find out, but really, it's all too much just now. The place is going to bits.
Caroline and Oliver went on holiday, and Oliver recommended a temporary manager for Grey Gables, the hotel, but he turned out to be a charlatan and did a runner. Ian the chef is now scraping Caroline off the ceiling with a spatula. Not only that, but Joe Grundy was celebrating his ninety-somethingth birthday at Grey Gables and had a nasty accident to do with too much Margarita and a badly fitted carpet. Helen Archer is having a whatnot with a married man, not just any married man, but Rob who is in charge of the evil mega-dairy. Ever the devoted single mother, she dumps little Henry with her mum and pretends she's going to a jewellery making class.
Kenton and Jolene are getting married. And some cows had babies. Moo.
a) part company as soon as they can because they hate each other, or
b) love each other so much that they blend into one sock during the final spin.
Neither idea sounded convincing to me. I asked Hamilton Bear about it and he said it's nothing to do with him, but he had that look as if he knows more than he's saying. Hamilton and I have no secrets from each other, so he must be keeping somebody else's secret. So who is he covering for? This is what I think.
We have two cuddly dogs here. There's Rowlff, who sits on Tony's desk, and I think was a present from Daughter long ago, and Wolfgang von Luddendorf, who used to belong to Uncle Gordon and now lives with us. He lives beside the television and sort of lies down to attention as if he's guarding us all. Everybody knows that dogs like socks. Our Daniel used to love them, especially the dirty smelly ones. Now, Rowlff and Wolfgang are very well behaved dogs and keep still when you're watching them, but we all know that toys get up to all sorts of things when your back is turned. And there's Dodger in the garden. I suspect he nips in when we're not looking, lies in wait for a sock, and grabs one trying to climb out of the laundry bin.
It has been too long since I told you about The Archers, and I know you're dying to find out, but really, it's all too much just now. The place is going to bits.
Caroline and Oliver went on holiday, and Oliver recommended a temporary manager for Grey Gables, the hotel, but he turned out to be a charlatan and did a runner. Ian the chef is now scraping Caroline off the ceiling with a spatula. Not only that, but Joe Grundy was celebrating his ninety-somethingth birthday at Grey Gables and had a nasty accident to do with too much Margarita and a badly fitted carpet. Helen Archer is having a whatnot with a married man, not just any married man, but Rob who is in charge of the evil mega-dairy. Ever the devoted single mother, she dumps little Henry with her mum and pretends she's going to a jewellery making class.
Kenton and Jolene are getting married. And some cows had babies. Moo.
Wednesday, 18 September 2013
Apple
Ooh, you should see my hat. We're having such a good year this year, with the wet spring and the hot summer, the fruit crops are coming on a treat. I got plums and brambles on me hat this year, elderberries, too, it looks a treat and I can always have a nibble if I'm peckish. I heard Mrs saying 'that apple's gone bad, throw it out or it'll set all the rest off,' I was ready to be proper affronted until I realised she were talking about a cooking apple, not me, ooh, I did have a laugh. Mind, I have to hang on to me hat on a windy day or that little dog, that Dodger, would be after it.
This year's cordial should be extra good, I got plenty of vinegar stored up, there's mint in the garden, I got some clove oil to give it a bite. Ooh, she says, there's a maggot in the blackberries, and I says, is it alive? Because if them blackberries ain't harmed the maggot, they won't harm us. And if we get a bit of time at the weekend we can go and pick bilberries. Do you know about bilberries? Bit like blackcurrants, but sweeter, ooh, they're not quite like anything else. When you've tasted bilberries you won't be bothered about blueberries every again, they ain't nearly as nice.
I sometimes used to suspect that when my Urchin were little he didn't always drink his cordial when he were supposed to. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?
This year's cordial should be extra good, I got plenty of vinegar stored up, there's mint in the garden, I got some clove oil to give it a bite. Ooh, she says, there's a maggot in the blackberries, and I says, is it alive? Because if them blackberries ain't harmed the maggot, they won't harm us. And if we get a bit of time at the weekend we can go and pick bilberries. Do you know about bilberries? Bit like blackcurrants, but sweeter, ooh, they're not quite like anything else. When you've tasted bilberries you won't be bothered about blueberries every again, they ain't nearly as nice.
I sometimes used to suspect that when my Urchin were little he didn't always drink his cordial when he were supposed to. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?
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