More snapshots

Looking through a pile of old photographs hidden away then unpacked when we moved house – gives me comfort, strangely. They are pictures from my childhood and before my birth, of my parents, sisters, grandmother, cousins and aunts, of my nieces and nephews and their spouses and children. The photos remind me of a loving upbringing, albeit a little unconventional and troubled at times. But I saw no real hardship or suffering, just internal struggles, the kind that many people had and still have, but learn to deal with in various ways. My mother was very discontented, my father distant. They made a strange pair but muddled along somehow with the three of us daughters caught in the crossfire, Margaret, the eldest, coming off worst. Sophie, the middle one, a happy and contented soul, and me, the youngest, forever searching and striving for a life of happiness and contentment. Perhaps I have found it at last.

Snapshots

My grandmother on my mother’s side had never heard the words ‘cholesterol’ or ‘body mass index’. She never went running or walking or cycling. She didn’t need to. She was strong as an ox and lived to 86. She tended her garden, despite arthritis, and grew her own vegetables, which she picked, peeled, scraped and chopped. She was a stout woman and every day she wore a blue housecoat because there was always work to be done. We feared her slightly, my sisters and I, when we stayed at her cottage in the summer. She wouldn’t tolerate arguments or squabbles, or ungratefulness. I heard her swearing once, when she found us in the woods near the cottage, playing with a gang of local boys. We were only climbing trees but she was furious. All we wanted after that episode was to go home to our carpeted bedrooms in Scotland. We’d had enough of bare floors in our English country prison. Our punishment was to peel the potatoes for dinner, shell the peas and chop the mint. Harsh indeed!

My favourite part of the day when we stayed at my grandmother’s was the afternoon, when the old deckchairs were brought out of hibernation into the heat of the sun. (It was always hot back then.) We flopped down in a sheltered corner and dozed to the sound of bees buzzing gently round the foxgloves. Then the sound of china cups and saucers being carried on a tray would bring us back to blissful consciousness and through half-closed eyes we would watch Granny pour the hot amber liquid from a silver teapot. Then she would cut us a slice of fruitcake, still warm from the oven.

On thundery days we would retreat to the shelter of the cottage, the roof so low that my father, not a particularly tall man, had to bend over to avoid the wooden beams. The adults dozed in armchairs while my sisters and I played or read dusty books.

Bus notes

First day back at work after two weeks of hibernation. It's dark, it's cold, and I want to be tucked up in bed. The bus pulls into the hospital terminal as usual. It's good to be back in a routine again, despite having a head full of cotton wool. The devil will find work for idle hands and all that. Not just idle hands but idle minds. I never realised until I reached middle age just how important work is. It is too easy to dream and fantasise about winning the lottery or marrying someone rich and having nothing to do but lie in bed and eat chocolate. But we must have a purpose in life, otherwise what is the point of existing? Is it purely to seek pleasure and happiness? Of what use is that? It is better to search for meaning, because happiness is only fleeting and cannot be sustained. Meaning, however, is the driver of our internal engines. It is what motivates us to go to work every day. Without meaningful work we are nothing but idlers and wasters.
We're here. I put my notebook away.