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be the food of love….

We had alot of music in the house this weekend, due to concerts and, well, maybe the sun, maybe Tilly’s death. Anyway, M on the violin, learning fourth finger position (don’t ask me, but it’s difficult) with impeccable (examiner’s word) tuning, and E returning to Chopin’s Raindrop Prelude, which he played in last autumn’s Kent Piano Festival. He’s brushing this piece up for a winner’s concert on 8 June at 3 pm, in St Peter’s Church in Canterbury, if anybody’s interested.

I simply love hearing my children play music. It has the same effect on me as reading poetry. More than that (of what I don’t know, but more of it) indeed. How often have I just stopped outside the closed sitting room doors, just to listen…

Here’s the Raindrop Prelude, played by someone else, but at a similar speed to E. I find it hugely powerful, always have.

The story of the fox cub is important in all this.

Last Friday, the day we took Tilly to hospital, the vet phoned through with blood results: dangerously anaemic, jaundiced. It could be, we decided, that her brother Schubert could save her life with a transfusion. R came home to help, and we made the decision, loaded S into the car. The car pulled away, and hidden underneath it was a tiny fox cub. No obvious sign of injury, eyes wide open, but unmoving. 

We wrapped it in a towel and took it in the car with us. So there we were: a critically ill kitten, another on the way to give blood, and a little fox cub wrapped up in a maroon towel on my lap. It dozed off. The sun was shining. 

At the vet’s, we left Schubert to be cross-matched. The fox was examined. Suffering from shock, no injury. About three weeks old. Advised to try, try to link it up with its mother. Just two nights before we’d seen them — mother and two babies, playing in the back garden by the stream.

We went back home with the fox, and laid him gently by the shed. 

Another phone call: Schubert is not a match. Tilly must try on her own, with oxyglobin to help ferry the oxygen around her system.

Eventually Schubert returns and E and M arrive home from school. Everyone is shaken. The baby fox is still in the back garden, has hardly moved. We decide he needs to go back to the vet’s to be re-homed. M and R carefully gather him up. This time he rides on M’s lap all the way; by the time he arrives his name is Robert.

E and I stay at home, playing cards and talking.

Later, R reports back: when I handed the fox over, I said we’ve got a very sick kitten here. So any good news you could tell us about Robert would be wonderful. Any good news.

Two hours later, the vet phones. The fox has died. Upon closer examination, they found an enlarged liver. Probably born with the condition that would kill him. The children seem to absorb this fairly matter-of-factly, although when she first hears, M covers her face with the sofa cushion.

By contrast, the fox dying simply does R and I in. In a world where little ones are dying, why can’t we save them?

***

We just can’t. Yesterday afternoon we had to put Tilly to sleep. She had taken another downturn, and for the first time seemed unhappy. She was slipping and struggling. Just could not round the corner.

We did what we could, but not too much. The right decision doesn’t mean it isn’t desperately sad. 

So. She was not a strong kitty, perhaps not even from birth. But she was petite, soft-natured, and very very beautiful. Liked to be treated with extreme gentleness. Would have been one year old tomorrow. We are missing her. Last night of all nights her brother wandered the house, yowling and scratching at doors. And first thing this morning, he didn’t want to go out.

The sun shines and shines. I wait for the intrigue of butterflies and warm spots to draw him out, and now, at 11 am, they do. A part of us stops, and a part of us continues.

Just to say that Tilly is still hanging in there. She’s better, then a little worse, then…we don’t know. The vet is not without hope. Still on IV in the hospital, she looks a bit battered, but pushes her head against my hand. We think of her welfare, a different kind of balance to be striking. 

And to say too that there are so many foxes out in broad daylight at the moment. Yesterday a cub paused in the sunshine by the side of the road as I drove by.

For many reasons, I’m thinking again about loss. In the last week, we’ve lost a good friend, a baby fox (another story I’ll tell in time), almost lost Tilly, and now this morning I hear of another loss, a family one.

We haven’t lost each other though. This morning E says at breakfast that Tilly being unwell has brought us even closer. Indeed.

I’d say the last few days have been difficult at best. Our tiny female kitten Tilly (here) was taken critically ill at the end of last week. She crashed on Saturday morning, spotted by an alert nurse. Two vets revived her.

Her body is destroying her own red blood cells. We don’t know why yet, and can’t find out until she is stronger. It’s either long-term curable — or not. She’s on IV steroids, antibiotics, and fluids. She was sitting up and eating yesterday, though the vets have decided not to take bloods and risk the stress crashing her again. 

So we wait. Today we will bring her prawns.

Her brother wanders around looking confused, crying for attention. He licks us when we stroke him. 

E asks questions, and we answer them. He’s sad at night. M’s eyes fill with tears, and roll down her face, dripping onto her book — which she is never without at the moment. 

We moved through the weekend as a unit, doing almost everything together, not even wanting to be in separate rooms. When we visited Tilly though, it was clear she is getting the very best care possible: swaddled in a blanket, with a little teddy tucked up next to her. The whiteboard there reads: Tilly, anaemic ++++, jaundiced. Very nice cat. And on the notes, at the end of Saturday, written by one of the nurses: love her.

Sounds New week is underway — and what a week! Contemporary music from dawn til dusk. With some of the best, the VERY best players of contemporary music in the country. Right here in (River City) Canterbury. It really, really is such a top-drawer week. Check it out.

No, it doesn’t all sound like someone moving furniture around, as my mother used to say. Much of it is very, very beautiful. And intriguing. And makes you think. And moves you (not the furniture).

So check it out.

(nb: the Sounds New website is under construction, so doesn’t seem to have delineated pages I can point you to for info and programming — BUT if you go to the site, it’s all there nevertheless. Poke around.)

What this means for us is: R and E out every night (sniff!); M babysat three nights (lighter purse, gulp); me out for those three nights — tonight to Gulbenkian to hear LOTS of cellos and a piece by R, tomorrow night to Ensemble Intercontemporain (fabulous!) at the Cathedral, and Friday night…one of the best string quartets in the country. So there.

All a bit hectic.

More to the point, I have to go all shaggy-haired tonight, then show up tomorrow night with probably the very same people in attendance freshly shorn…gawd. That’s what I get for not thinking very far ahead. What do you wear to distract people from your hair? And don’t say a BAG.

Even more to the point — none of R’s cooking! Bereft already! And the bright kitchen so newly in. I could weep. Forced to snack on Toblerone.

Despite freezing temperatures and occasional impressive hail storms, the sun shone. And shone. We walked. And walked. And cycled. And pedalled. And played Monopoly. And Scrabble. For hours.

Pedometer: over 10,000 steps per day, even when cycling! (Tells you something about the number of hills I had to walk up rather than ride, but never mind…)

We got the Saturday Guardian and The Observer. Dig it. We read them. Mostly. E read them. Mostly. M did the activity page. Mostly.

*

Some eye candy. I wish I could do justice to the place. But I always have to try, try to capture some element of something.

The ‘Purple Walk’ above Coniston Water. The wood about which I wrote the poem ‘Bluebell Wood’ in How to Be a Dragonfly. Only it’s not quite bluebell time. Obviously.

Taken by E along the flat walk from Skelwith Bridge to Elterwater.

Another taken by E: R and M on the way back to Skelwith Bridge in sudden snow.

From the top of Silver How, near Grasmere. After a rather winding, windy and steep way up, met with fast travelling clouds and a 360 view.

The staggeringly beautiful Buttermere, revisited after several years. A long, sunny relaxed walk around with lots of stone skipping and the odd nap.

Nearing the end of the day on Buttermere. The children scratched their names on stones and propped them against tree trunks. We longed for cans of warm gin & tonic!

Oh my goodness. What a week! Rarely so fried… You know how I like lists…. So I’ll do one and try not to use ellipses to the point of ridiculous…. (sorry).

1) Monday: M’s first solo violin concert. Plus three other group pieces. Did beautifully, despite meltdown over the previous weekend. Too much! Was supposed to do a maths challenge and a cross country run the same day. Hmm. We pulled her out of the run. Her violin teacher fetched and carried: playing the instrument, playing with dogs, a snack. That evening, she soared.

Oh, and we forgot E was off to London, to the Barbican to hear a concert. Oops. Got text: am on the bus to London. Have no money or lunch. Double oops. He begged, borrowed and stole. Apparently.

Beautiful food.

2) Tuesday: can’t remember a thing about it. Teaching.

3) Wednesday: M picked up by gorgeous Nancy, who took her for a picnic and brought her to Dance Warehouse, where I met them for an open lesson. E with me, and we both pas de basque-ed at some point…heavens knows when or how. Sandwiches in the car. E whisked into his concert — in two choirs — R showed up 10 mins beforehand from meeting. I went to Sainsbury’s to get something to take to writing group (hello Andrew, Nancy, Craig, Jeremy and Mark!). Ran into M’s drama teacher, who enthused about her and informed me that M had (once again) come home with Distinctions for top effort points in her form. Heavens! Forevermore. Lights under barrels and all that.

Writing group — a new combination — fantastic.

4) Thursday: admin, both kids home. Facing the chronic disaster of the house. Ikea building.

5) Friday: another concert, E on piano this time. Tear-bringing good. Again. Debussy and jazz. Not at the same time. A buzzy couple of hours, particularly seeing so many teenage boys in their element, being respectful, enjoying the music. Hurray Sam Bailey!

Ikea building.

Beautiful food.

6) Saturday: MY BIRTHDAY! Chocolate cake made by all, tulips for present still blooming. And beautiful food.

Laundry and Ikea building.

7) Sunday: Chocolate. Lamb, flagelet beans, mashed carrot & swede, potatoes dauphinoise, roasted parsnips.

Lordy. More laundry and vague Ikea building.

8) Today: end of laundry and end of Ikea building. Unpacking into it all! Trip to dump and a silly play a the swimming pool. Absolutely glorious chicken risotto.

25,000 words reading for next week. Hello students, hello world.

*

Don’t really want to do that again. Hoping to stop by here in two days rather than seven…! Thanks for listening.

p.s. if you come back later, you may find some rightful links added…I…just…can’t…do…them…now…

I am still in doppleganger land. I feel I’ve been here before. Or never. I may have even titled a post this before. Or not.

My head is pounding. One of the questions I have about life today is why I leave it until I need king codeine before I take something. Another is why can’t I just do what I want to do. Only. Nothing else.

Don’t answer either of them because I know all the answers. It’s a real bugger, being more introspective than is really good for you/me.

*

This is much better.

Yesterday was E’s birthday. 12 years old. Have I mentioned that I remember crying on my twelfth birthday, because I would never be 11 again? I did. I remember walking up to the bus stop, standing there waiting, watching the yellow and black thing round the corner, the particular hollow roar of it. And the rubberised deep brown steps to get up. Sniffing all the while, and actually answering someone’s question: why are you crying? And actually telling that someone. If I weren’t already somewhere near the ‘weird’ end of the spectrum in deepest darkest southwestern Virginia, I’m guessing that with that answer I went there.

Answering questions are sometimes not in our best interests.

However. Yesterday E did not cry. He celebrated in his quiet way, despite a heavy cold. He smiled, he appreciated the food his father cooked for him (baked salmon on leeks and capers, baked potato, roast carrots, no stovetop yet!) and the twelve rather skewed candles I’d pressed through the chocolate shell of his cake. He blew all the candles out at once, but had forgotten to make a wish. Later, he blew the table candles out, wish made.

He’s making a fine 12 year old. Handsome, talented, funny, thoughtful — and as precious as the day he was born. More, really.

I’m allowed to say that, even if he reads this and is mortified. So there!

1) Been thinking about twins. Somehow, and for no clear reason. Except that weeks ago I saw what appeared to be twins (women) both running (separately, one behind the other) for a train in Charing Cross Station. And that day before yesterday I thought I walked past two shopping twins (women again), one with a young child, looking at face creams. And today I maybe saw the same two maybe women twins on Canterbury High Street, walking briskly. Maybe not. You’d think I’d know for sure. But I don’t. I’m wondering if it’s not unusual for me to be in an almost constant state of double take.

2) The number of people working on the house today all at once: 6

3) The number of posé turns I did across the floor in ballet: at least 50. No wonder I’m seeing twins.

4) Hauled a chest of drawers up three steps on my own. Last time I did something like that was 15 years ago, when I carried a different set up an entire flight single-handedly. Nevertheless, proud of myself. Even if R, E, and M might not like it in the sitting room.

5) One of the six men in my house today fixed the tumble dryer. He’d been round to fix the oven last year, and the washing machine several years before that. You’d think therefore that we had a relationship of sorts. Well, no. Despite five others being in the house — in the same open space indeed, talking and joking — I couldn’t entice him to a single off the cuff remark. He did inform me though that the thermostat had gone, in his opinion, because the filter was bunged up. He lifted it up to show me: should be able to see through there. Oops. I tried to tell him, my voice no doubt trailing off, that I did sometimes carry it up to the shower…I did, um, try. He remained unmoved.

6) Another of the men in my house today was the template person. Whenever I asked if something were possible, he replied with a resounding yes. I liked that. We should all be so lucky.

Okay, here’s the family take on the whole kaboodle…

1) my mother: Feh!

2) E: “all a bit pointless, isn’t it?”

3) R:

4) M:

5) Me? Too busy taking note of everyone else. Snuck up on the raft of men around the Sainsbury’s card section, who seemed to be rather adrift with good intentions, clutching coloured envelopes. Saw a girl with a huge bouquet stuffed in a plastic bag, about to cross the road. Boy next to her. Was it from him, or someone else?

How about you?

It’s the time of term when things naturally — or rather, normally — start to disintegrate. All of the best laid plans, the thought-through teaching objectives, the pastoral care (you really do care, after all) look distinctly frayed. And not just around the edges. Monday saw me very nearly just put my head down and ask for a nap — in the middle of class. Times like these students really are worth more than I can give them. Forgive me.

However. After a morning in heated discussion over Sharon Olds and Michael Laskey — lots of heat — and an afternoon rather revelling in student accomplishment in the form of MA portfolios, I am exhausted yes, but more than that, somewhat disoriented. I look to small things again to keep me focussed: the fine new threshold that Wonderful Builder put in the outer lobby today, the way that E set to his homework without being reminded, the way that M went for kitchen towel to clean up the milk the cats spilt — without being asked.

And now I remember with unadulterated pleasure the highlight of a short hour’s last minute wander around TK Maxx on Sunday:

Sometimes the shoe fits. Really fits. And so there’s a bit of a toehold.

Here’s the thing. A long discussion with a seven year old about point of view. I mentioned M’s new obsession with Nancy Drew mysteries last week or thereabouts… Now it emerges why she’s so taken with them: she feels she’s trying to solve everything along with Nancy. Ah yes. And how with Harry Potter she felt that she sometimes knew more than Harry did (because there were different scenes) and she was waiting for Harry to catch up…Ah yes again. So at the moment she loves Nancy Drew, because she’s right there with her.

I clearly remember having a similar discussion with E at about the same age, about what we know as narrative tension. This time it was over how the beginning of Brian Jacques’ Redwall didn’t grab him, didn’t make him ask questions like ‘what happens next’, whereas the first Harry Potter does. I remember him getting so excited that he took down both books and read the first paragraphs to me: see, see!

It’s remarkable how early on in their reading lives children — people — become aware of what works, and what doesn’t. For them, anyway. Which brings home with an awful crash how utterly vital it is to feed children the right books, to keep your eyes and ears open for where they are, what they might like, to keep broadening and opening out…And yet of course, my children are priviledged enough to have constant access to books of all sorts. So stupidly many aren’t.

***

Related to this, as part of my Canterbury Laureate brief I’m putting together a shortlist of children’s books — three categories I think, 5-8 years old, 8-12, then Young Adult. About three titles per category, to be used as ‘Summer Reads’ in the last term of 2008, put then to an online vote…Great stuff.

Any contributions or thoughts for unmissable children’s books would be gratefully received! I’ve got some ideas of course, and am spending some delicious time reliving the bookcases of my children…But I’d love to know others’ thoughts. Many thanks!

Have I ever mentioned Jolie Holland? Have I? Well I’ll mention her again if so.

E is busy searching out songs and albums for his snazzy xmas present iPod. Has started me surfing. Again.

Formerly of the Be Good Tanyas. If you don’t know her, go find her. This is one of my all-time favourite songs of hers…The first time I heard it, I wept all the way through. I mean, all the way through. Standing in my kitchen.

I’d say not the best ever version (instrumental too loud). But couldn’t resist just sticking this up.

I mustn’t worry about how I am a) not writing b) not cooking c) not able to remember where anything is in the chaos…d) not keeping up with paperwork and this e) not in close enough touch with friends. Nor how much I miss doing/knowing all of these things.

Instead I shall rejoice in what I am doing/thinking/knowing. Let me just think about this….okay:

a) thinking. Mainly about writing. Find this rewarding, and I only really do it when teaching. Like to ponder process, the finer workings of rhythm, the creative process itself.

b) dancing. Managing still to do this twice a week, at last too in a ‘real’ class, with proper music, proper combinations. Am learning to acknowledge that grand plies — and any sort of pivot in fondu — are just not on the menu. My knees are thanking me and rewarding me with another class the following week. An added bonus is that when I’m dancing, I’m not thinking about anything else.

c) teaching. Yes, I really do love this. Good to be back. Could do without the admin, without the way time becomes juddery, punctuated by panicky emails or dire jobs — but the actual time in classroom and tutorial: yes.

d) imagining. Life in a new ground floor, one where we can all sit together, cook together, and where the dishwasher and refrigerator are actually in the same room as everything else.

e) ignoring. The floor in the bathroom that didn’t go back down well, the persistant plaster dust, grey hairs, dry knuckles. Etc.

f) noticing. Daffodil and crocus tops coming through the pots, lighter afternoons, striking pink mornings on the way to school.

g) enjoying. E’s obsession with iTunes and gathering music (the urge to collect from his father!); M’s new fascination with Nancy Drew mysteries (more later).

h) lastly, re-discovering. Things we’d thought we’d forgotten or lost while packing up for the plasterer, like a single given to me by a student years ago, which we all used to bop around to (okay, not R). While I’m ambivalent about its musical longevity — it does help me feel better about where this post began. It’s not that I’m not writing, it’s that the rest is still unwritten. Oh yeah, that’s right…

Right. The house is now officially stripped back to its components, and it’s not a pretty sight: the electrician is complaining that the whole thing is constructed from ’spurs’ (what a mess, he says); Wonderful Builder has even taken up the tiles now, so adhesive and plaster dust are making their own pretty footprinted design around and about. His complaint (among many, good-humouredly) is that nothing is done properly. When I tell him two owners back were builders and actually did the extension themselves…he rolls his eyes. Not even pointed, he says (referring, I now know, to the brickwork. Not to treat you like idiots, but hey, I had no idea…).

The television is in the loo. The toilet paper is on top of the television. The sitting room floorboards are lodged at impossible angles with cables jutting out. The cats are locked in our bedroom and have lifted the carpet up across the door in an effort to dig their way out.

Hmm.

AND: poor E, never the giving in sort, is home today with a vile cold. While I taught up the hill, he had to endure several hours of plaster chiselling under his room. Insult to injury or what?!

So what makes it better? Watching him devour a chocolate muffin I brought back, then lie down and curl up around me sitting on the edge of his bed, just like he used to.

Another crisp frosty start, so rather looking forward to heading into town later to finish the shopping. Staving off panic. All a bit last minute this year. And no cards written yet. Again.

As usual, my lists are exhaustive, obsessive and nearly incomprehensible: E haircut (made), M haircut (make), cats’ claws, cat litter x 2, drycleaning 24 hours? (ask), travel medicine, night time cough medicine, shave, truffle ingredients? (R). Etc. And the list of presents not yet secured: E to M, M to E, E to R, M to R. Etc. And now that the children can read, all in a code only I understand: M C & H, E 2… Sigh. And as if one list isn’t enough, I’ve today started my usual list series, a day by day countdown. I don’t think that a poem out of all of this would be very entertaining to anyone but me. However, in all my spare time I might write it anyway.

As a kind of leavening (wandering lists), check this out. Sent by Deborah via via via via facebook, as ever. Enjoy!

As soon as we wake, we know it’s the sharpest frost yet this season. Just lying in bed, the air — or imagined air — feels like the holidays.

Of course, we have to struggle up and get E moving — a difficult job after many late nights of first play performances then yet another concert last night (samba band, choir, and wind band - heavens!). To his credit, by after breakfast he’s awake enough to notice the lightening sky, brushes his teeth looking out the new (lowered) windows, over the fields and out to Blean Wood. He stands at one, I stand at the other, and we don’t need to say much. Fine mist rises from the tops of hedges, and every branch and leaf, blade of grass, stands out in white relief. He’s out the door at twenty to eight, no doubt sliding first down, then up the hill to the bus stop.

Losing You launch tonight. Some long-standing friends will be there, some new ones, and doubtless others I’ve never clapped eyes on! Good. This morning I’m feeling thankful for all sorts of things.

(image from a British wildlife site)