Catherine's Page

IT TAKES TWO. 

'Why would you need two?' 

A while ago, I was challenged about why I would want two of something in particular. It puzzled me and I didn't really have the answer at my fingertips. Even after pondering the question for some months, I concluded that I must either be permanently dissatisfied or just plain greedy. 

But today, the answer came to me while I was out walking in the countryside. The sun was elbowing its sullen way through some stubborn, threatening clouds as I was walking along a path by the edge of a field. In the distance I could hear the toll of a funeral bell and then about a hundred yards ahead of me I saw a single magpie. 

Where yesterday there had been a pair, now there was just one for sorrow. I thought I could make out the outline of its partner in the undergrowth of the hedgerow, but was I imagining it through my rose-tinted spectacles? I did want to see two for joy. My walk had already been disrupted by the misfortune of wondering for whom the bell tolled, now I didn't want to have the prospect of some kind of sorrow of my own with which to contend, just because I couldn't spot the second magpie. Fortunately, my feathered friend appeared and made itself plain in the middle of the path, before flying off into the woods with its mate to get on with Springtime activities. 

So why would you want two of anything? Well, two magpies are certainly better than one from a superstitious point of view. Then look at ourselves. We have two of a lot of things, two eyes, two ears, two arms, two hands, two legs, two feet, two lungs, two... Well, I think I've made my point without losing my decorum, so I'll leave you to complete the anatomical list of naturally occurring doubles yourselves. If the good Lord had meant us to be limited to having just one of anything in this world, then why did he give us two of so many body bits? 

In the human body, these pairs balance each other, as do the conscious and sub-conscious mind. They work together to produce a whole being that functions in harmony with itself. 

It is this quest for balance and harmony that rules our lives. And so it is understandable that some people would prefer to have two of other things too. 

For instance: two pairs of boots. You have your everyday boots, for kicking around the shops, or gardening, or getting muddy on a long walk. You know you can depend on them and your feet are completely comfortable in them. You could wear them till the cows come home and they wouldn't give you even the slightest blister. You've had them for years and you wouldn't dream of living without them. They've been through many sad and happy times with you and you value and trust them implicitly. 

Then you see a shiny pair of black patent leather ones. Of course you need them too. However, this is where the difference arises. These are your 'special occasion' boots. When you're going out somewhere that requires a charming, witty, debonair accompaniment it's these alternatives that are simply indispensable. They lend an air of sophistication, culture and je ne sais quoi! You can really take these boots on a different type of adventure, one that your old boots just aren't up to any more. You can discover new places and have new experiences in your new footwear, your horizons have been widened. 

A change is as good as a rest. Therefore we would all become very weary if we stuck to the same old things and just had one pair of boots. We need to be refreshed and invigorated, inspired and kept alive by novelty. An injection of something new, a new way of looking at the world, a new way of thinking about the old things you've always taken for granted. This brings harmony and balance to your life. 

So that's why we need two. One is no better than the other, they are both good for different things, like mustard and custard. You love them both and need them both to make your mouth water. So it is with boots, birds and anything else you might care to mention.

ONLY TIME WILL TELL

A hundred geese haunt overhead,
History repeating itself,
Inevitable, uncomfortable, lamentable.
Cruel presage of winter approaching,
Cold reminder of her own mother’s passing,
Hit by a tram,
Leaving her a motherless child.
Now they share the same anniversary.
A sign of that they are together.
Irish cousins understand the supernatural nature of Nature.
They confess to goose bumps and the geese are gone.

We enter the chapel.
Already some are weeping.
I brace myself.
I recoil in shock at my mother’s new face:
Perfectly still, strangely radiant, someone else’s smile.

This rosary was my idea!
A special intercession,
A reflection of a lifetime’s devotion.
Her favourite litany starts to lull me:

‘Hail Mary, full of grace,
The Lord is with Thee.
Blessed art thou among women
And blessed is the fruit of Thy womb, Jesus.
Holy Mary,
Mother of God,
Pray for us, sinners,
Now, and at the hour of our death. Amen’

How many times has she told me to say that?
A million, but none in recent years.
The repetition is an intricate, protective blanket,
Skilfully woven by one after another
Familiar, feminine, emerald tones,
Each leading a new decade,
Taking me back decades,
Covering me in timeless, spiritual warmth.

Prayers end, beads disappear.
Faithful and faithless turn to leave as one.
Tomorrow won’t be as difficult now.
Only time will tell…

Part 2: The Preparation

Three months should be ample time to get my limbs in gear for the onslaught. I am very optimistic. I am sure that if I give up a couple of bad habits and do lots of exercise, I will be equal to the task. Louis and I decide to do a walk from the house. It will be a precursor to future training together. We set off from Thrupp and go hell for leather along the levels of the canal tow paths and by the Thames all the way to The Perch, where we revel in a delicious lunch. Louis looks up facts about Kilimanjaro on his iphone while we wait for our meal:

‘Oh, mum. You know I said it gets down to zero degrees, well that’s zero degrees Farenheit!’ The two of us realise we are out of our depth. There’s no turning back, it’s booked.

On the way out I tell the waitress that we are in training for Kilimanjaro and she laughs at us. ‘But it’s so flat round here!’

Ha ha! Of course we had taken that into account and had been walking as fast as our legs could carry us. We knew that at sea level it would be easier to walk, so if we walked extremely quickly we would somehow get near the effect of higher altitude. Even after our massive lunch we whip ourselves into shape and retrace our route home. Louis goes back to London, so doesn’t see that I am nigh on incapacitated for the rest of the evening. I am very worried after that 12 mile walk. My limbs are heavy and my joints are loose. That was one day. The route is 8 days. Lord knows what a heap I will be. Louis was carrying the rucksack too and I remember from The Camino how much easier it was when the backpack was lighter. Louis did say we could have a porter to carry our day sacks but we’d have to book it separately.

I continue with my swimming training for Buttermere and tell Charlie, the lifeguard, that I’m now going to be climbing Kilimanjaro in July. He says that swimming underwater is good for altitude training. I pay no heed. That night in bed, before I fall asleep, I imagine trying to breathe without so much oxygen. I hold my breath. Then I am relieved to take as many deep, luxurious breaths full of Oxfordshire oxygen as I can possibly muster, before falling into a deep dream. Air - who would have thought it so special? This process is repeated most nights between March and July.

A friend of Louis’ (who has done it) tells him that if he is climbing Kilimanjaro, he should prepare to feel dirty for a week. You only have a bowl of water for washing, morning and evening. Now, I treasure every drop of water too. I relish the chance to bathe. I luxuriate in the process of washing my hands with soap and water. I wash and dry my hair each day with a new awareness of how fortunate I am. I worry I will not be comfortable being filthy on the mountain. Water, now, is a luxury too.

I swim like crazy and take some walks round the countryside. I’m confused about my targets and priorities. Friends who have dogs are handy at this stage. I am not a dog person, but am introduced to three dogs who become part of my training team. The dogs are sometimes much more eager walkers than their owners, I find. Perhaps it is my conversation or lack of it? Perhaps I should have a dog myself?  Dog or no dog, I have to plough on. Sometimes I find myself running my walking route, dogless and breathless, only needing a sip of water to keep me going.

The medical preparation for the trip takes a number of visits to the GP’s nurse. She turns out to be only a few weeks younger than me. She knows where I’m coming from. She prepares the myriad of jabs with no ceremony, only jocular conversation about how she’s celebrating her big birthday with her family too: Istanbul and Las Vegas for her. You wouldn’t catch her up Kilimanjaro. No, it’s luxury you need at our age. Right arm and left arm are pierced periodically with potions to preclude the onset of African maladies. It fills me with wonder that I have a free pass through a continent of disease. I can have a few jabs to side-step it all. Is that fair? Air, water, dogs and now medicine are what I value.

In April, my dentist tells me that I should undergo surgery which will mean that I need to give up alcohol for 4 weeks. This happens to coincide well with my training, as alcohol consumption has a link with Acute Mountain Sickness. I’ll be killing 2 birds with one stone. I love that! I get my teeth done, feel great and it’s all helping to get me to the summit. Add abstinence to my preparation list, please. Uhuru Peak, here I come!

Documentation will be sorted by Louis. I have to send him my passport and have extra photos taken so he can get the visa from the Tanzanian embassy in London. The photos are duff, but no matter. As my mother would say, ‘Who’ll be looking at you, anyway?’

Next stop: Equipment shop. I go to buy the bits and pieces on the list that I thought I already had, but can’t find in the boxes in the loft: walking poles, trekking trousers, inflatable sleeping mat, etc. I get into conversation with the geeky assistant at the Outdoor Shop and all of a sudden my head torch belongs in a museum, I should get a mosquito killing gizmo for the tent, with refills, a massive trekking towel, a new pair of boots, a silk sleeping bag liner, the highest tech socks available to man, jazzy gloves, buff (scarf to you), and a Shewee. I think I have my head screwed on, but I come away with all sorts that I might just need, but don’t. I am exhausted. I struggle to get all this stuff to the boot of my car. Someone will have to carry this for 8 days over Kilimanjaro and it’s not going to be me. I have to go back for the trekking trousers and inflatable sleeping mat another day. I wonder if I do need a Shewee?

I am advised to take a small first aid kit. Normally I would not be so worried about these things, but, just in case of emergency the Dulcolax, Imodium, Compeed blister plasters (various shapes and sizes), factor 50 sunscreen for lips, pain relief spray, paracetamol and a host of other travel products find their way into my basket at the chemist shop. Buy one get one half price? Oh, go on then.

By mid June I have swum round Buttermere, so I need to concentrate my training efforts on the walking muscles now. Two weeks left: Oh, the advice says rest in the week before you go. Just a couple of brisk walks, then, before I pack and that’s my training complete. Cool. That wasn’t as bad as I thought.

The day before I leave, the floors of two of our bedrooms are covered with piles of mountain equipment. One large ‘mule’ bag, one rucksack and hundreds of items, each one could mean the difference between reaching and not reaching the summit. Months of preparation and thousands of pounds could be wasted if one of these items proves indispensable but is not packed. I escape to the hairdresser’s. On my way home I receive a text message from my son saying he’s flying back from Mallorca this afternoon and has been suffering with a bad back and hip. Surely all will be cancelled? I have to wait for his flight to land before I can get the full details. He phones me from the baggage reclaim to say that he’s going to see his GP. It must be off?  I am starting to hope it is off.

‘At least we tried. We were ready to go, but at the last minute we had a hitch: Never mind!’ I could already hear myself repeating the explanation.

He rings me again at 6pm to say he’s been fixed by his sports therapist and is ‘Good to go’. I’d better ask Paul to ram all that gear into those two bags! Thank goodness one of us is good at packing.

Rummaging for things I haven’t used for years, I come across a miraculous medal at the bottom of a drawer. It was given to me by a friend, who had had it blessed by a priest friend of hers. I put it on for safety. As I lie down in bed I feel a strange warmth and nod straight off to sleep. If it could do that for me for the rest of the trip, I’ll be a very grateful woman.

 Jambo Kilimanjaro Part 1: The Decision
JAMBO KILIMANJARO!

Part 1: The decision.

‘Hi, Mum. I’m thinking of climbing Kilimanjaro. Would you like to come with me? It can be your birthday present.’

A phone call from my eldest son takes me by surprise one morning in early March. I am in the throes of consoling a friend who is recently bereaved and my mind is quite removed from mountains.

‘Let me give it some thought.’

‘OK, but you’ll have to let me know soon, I only have the first week in July free, so we’ll have to book it quickly.’

‘Yes, will do.’

Oh my God! Kilimanjaro! Where on earth is that? Tanzania? Where on earth is that? Google shows me that it’s the highest free standing mountain in the world and the highest mountain in Africa. I love mountains. I’ve trampled all over the fells of the Lake District and bagged a score or more of Munroes, five in one day a few years back. I’ve traipsed 300 kilometres in 10 days along the Camino in Spain. I have longed to go on those treks in the Alps, the type from which I’ve seen the ultra-fit descend- all haggard, hairy and mountained-out, while I have sipped a Napoleon brandy (without getting my lips wet) outside a café… in St Moritz, was it? I have dreamed of being a mountaineer, with full regalia, scaling dizzy heights: rubber necking in the clouds. I did have the ambition of climbing Everest by the age of 40, but I got over it.

I looked into the cost of the proposed trip. Horrendous! We could go on a cruise to the Galapagos, or charter a yacht round the Mediterranean for that price.

‘There is no cash alternative. I’m going to go anyway, whether you come with me or not. And don’t say you’ll do it next year, this is the only option. You can do it now or not at all.’

Mountains are my hobby. I can’t have Louis telling everyone he’s climbed Kilimanjaro and I didn’t want to go. I know I can climb mountains, but haven’t done so for ages.  I read some accounts of desk-bound journalists and high-kicking celebrities who have attempted the ascent. Generally, the outlook seems grim: a good deal of altitude sickness, filth and a few failures. Is it really worth the time, money and effort? It is a massive gamble. I’m already beside myself trying to train for the Buttermere 5km swim in June. I haven’t told Louis about this. I dared not. I wanted to keep it to myself in case I didn’t manage it. I have previous for ‘winning’ the Blenheim Half-Marathon last October without even tying up my shoelaces. I can’t afford any more tall tales of spurious achievement. If I say I’ll do it, I’ll have to do it this time, for real.

Is it too hackneyed, now, the idea of Kilimanjaro? The world and his wife have done it, it seems. Perhaps I would be better spending the time ticking off some more unpronounceable Scottish peaks. That would be equally challenging, less ‘fashionable’ and I could get back down and sleep in a bed each night.

‘How high is it? Doesn’t it get cold up there?’

‘20 000 feet. It gets down to zero degrees at night. It might be rainy, but July is a good bet.’

‘Oh, well, that’s not too bad, then. It’s only 5 Ben Nevises and I’ve got a warm sleeping bag.’

‘You’ll have to train up for it, Mum.’

The people I tell about the decision I have to take fall into two categories. The first are blatantly appalled by the idea of camping anywhere, let alone up a mountain in Africa, so far away from toilets. Then, there’s the disease: ‘They’re riddled with it, you know, over there.’ (The vaccines I need cover, amongst others, measles, tetanus, yellow fever, and rabies and there’s malaria tablets and the piece de resistance: Diamox, the anti-altitude sickness drug. It is quite a cocktail.) For this group there’s also the risk of being robbed, raped or kidnapped, butchered, burnt and buried without trace. Apart from all that, you could fall on the mountain, fall off the mountain, or freeze to death. They talk Swahili. It’s too hot. It’s too cold. It’s too hard. The radiation will ruin your complexion. One, when asked if she had any advice about climbing Kilimanjaro said, ‘Pour yourself a large gin and tonic and think about it’. None of this group would touch the idea with a barge pole.

The YES group consists either of those who have already climbed the mountain or those who want to and would dearly love to be in my boots, saying I’d be mad not to take the opportunity. The ones who have already reached The Roof of Africa refer to the mountain as ‘Kili’. Their nonchalance is apparent, but they are too humble, though, to give me too much advice. I am desperate to pick their brains, I want to know all the practicalities: how to train, what I’ll need, what I’ll face, whether I’ll make it. Their answers are only partially satisfying. No-one will tell me if I’ll make it or not. Not one of them says they think I will. Equally, they wouldn’t put me off: Encouraging me that it would be a good experience anyway, no matter how far I climbed. I just want someone to say they know I’ll make it right to the top. Even my husband won’t say it. We all know it’s not guaranteed.

‘Louis?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Book it.’

A fish out of water

Sometimes I just wonder how did I get here?

The fancy dress outfit for this party consists of a wetsuit (with the optimists’ logo, ‘Speedo’ emblazoned across the front), 2 swimming hats (one silver, for insulation, the other, blue, for identification) and a pair of purple goggles. I am milling around in a lake surrounded by 150 others in similar attire, chatting nervously and scooping cold water inside the suit. The countdown begins, 3,2,1 and we’re off.

Well, they are.

A swarm of black neoprened limbs thrashes through the silver surface and within minutes I am left behind to the sedate rhythm of my breast stroke. I realise the truth of the matter: I am, indeed, one of a kind.

Before I had set off on my journey northwards, I searched the internet for quotations of encouragement. Winston Churchill was reliably inspirational:

‘When you’re going through Hell- just keep on going!’

I didn’t think for one moment that I would need his help so early on. I feel suddenly overwhelmed and want to turn back to the start. There is just one other swimmer behind me. She is doing a very slow front crawl. At least I’m not last - better see how I feel at the feeding station at the half-way point.

It was in the cold, distant, somewhat fuzzy midnight hours of January that the idea about this stunt first entered my head. I had been idling away my time, thinking positively about being fit, when I chanced on some comments on the Outdoor Swimming Society facebook page about an event in Buttermere in June.

This appealed to me for a number of reasons:

Although I had never attended an outdoor group swim before, it was 6 months away so I had plenty of time to train for it. I would be 50 by June. Surely, no other woman of my age would do this sort of thing? So they might even give me a medal.
I have a soft spot for Buttermere and could envisage the lake glistening in the brilliant midsummer sunshine, the clear waters beckoning me.

I now, here I am: Enjoying myself, so to speak.


In the middle of that wintry dream-state, I registered my intent, ticking the box there and then to say I complied with the conditions of entry. As the months passed, I planned to read the small-print as I practised in the heated pool. My life-guard, Charlie, cheerfully signed up for the same event. Eventually, when I got round to checking the regulations, it was revealed that I should have been able to swim 5km in a pool, have recent experience of open water swimming and be in possession of a wetsuit.

With 2 weeks to go I could tick none of the boxes. The pressure was piling on. People were asking how my training was going and I had to bluff. I was following the advice about resting in the week preceding the race, but I was extending that rest period, just in case of injury.

I had to bite the bullet. I needed a wetsuit and needed to get into cold water sharpish. As luck would have it, 10 days before the race, Charlie was able to point me in the right direction. It involved getting up at 5.30am on Sunday morning and driving down to Berinsfield, where I would meet a man called Alan, who would kit me out. I could then join the swimmers in the lake to practise multiples of the 1.25km laps. Perfect! 1 lap completed, 2 boxes ticked!

So, my place in this giant birdbath is not quite legitimate. I say, ‘birdbath’, as one of the elderly youth hostellers we met last night was outraged that during the nesting season 150 swimmers were allowed to disturb the goosanders and sandpipers going about their natural business. I was shown drawings of them from his observers’ book and said I’d keep a look out for them. Not a sign so far.

I’m not tired, I just keep plodding on. The woman behind me is like a comfort blanket. It’s good to know someone else is taking it as slowly as me. At times, I feel completely alone in the elements and forget all about her. The sun is strong and reflects on the surface of the water, making me screw up my eyes. Goggles are placed on forehead as they were making me claustrophobic, so the water splashes straight into my face and licks at my eyeballs. I don’t think I’ll ever go in for that sort of Japanese canoodling, given a choice.

I don’t feel cold. There are even warm patches where the sun has been to work. I ask the universe to give me the resources to get me round the lake. I know I only have to ask and it will be given. Then there is a man, wading into the water with a bucketful of Kendal mint cake. I have reached the half way point. This is the limit of the distance I know I can swim. After this, anything might happen. I reach into the bucket and take one of the small white discs of energy, like a host. Lord knows, I need it.

‘The only one with perfectly painted nails!’, he shouts to his colleague in the safety canoe. I can only answer with a giggle. Standards must be different up North these days. Or maybe I just have too much time on my hands now. I feel I can’t avoid being singled out as a fraud. It is while I am shooting the breeze with these two helpers that the lady behind me becomes the lady in front.

The candy man offers to swap places with the canoeist as I set off onto the second half of my everlasting lap, into the uncharted territory of success or failure. Surely I won’t have to be hauled out of the water a quivering wreck due to inexperience and lack of training? Be branded a fool and have to suffer a shivering walk back? No, my pride will not allow me that.

I only need to swim now as far as I already have. It can’t be too much too ask. Suddenly, though, every stroke seems harder. The wind has picked up and as I swim across the end of the lake it is buffeting me sideways. I grit my teeth and redouble my efforts until I reach the pink buoy which means I am to turn northwards, back up the lake.

Now the wind really is in my face and I feel a strong current against me. The safety canoeist is just beside me, marking my place at the back of all the 5k swimmers. The slow crawl girl is steadily disappearing ahead of me. The man with tattoos on his well developed biceps says, ‘She’s your pace setter now’, but this is disheartening as I know that I can only swim as fast as I am already going. If I try any harder I will wear myself out and might get cramp or completely disintegrate. I don’t have the heart to ask him if the wind and current are against me, as I know that if he confirms this, I’ll feel even worse. I should have known this at the start. I should have realised that the first half of the lap was the easiest bit.

I look around at the mountains and remember numerous walks with old friends, some I haven’t seen for years, some living on the other side of the world now. In those days I would never have dreamed that I would be here today taking part in this. I think of the people who attempted to swim from Alcatraz and others who swim from capsized boats for many miles to safety. I try to think how easy my challenge is compared to theirs, how easy it is for me. I can even see the finish point in the far distance as the crowd gathers on the shore. There looks to be just one more marker buoy to pass. I ask my man if that marks 1 kilometre to go. Silly question: The equivocal, diplomatic answer comes softly…

‘Well, I think you’re about 3 quarters of the way round’

I put my ailing brain capacity to the test and come up with the answer any CSE Maths candidate would be able to work out on their calculator. 75% of 5 kilometres is greater than 1 kilometre, true or false? True. Swim on, Kitty dearest!

A familiar voice rings from the shore to my left.

‘Come on, Kitty! Remember what Flora Scales taught you, girl!’

It is my old school friend, Chris, who promised to come and ‘hold my coat’ when I first told her I had entered this fiasco. Flora Scales had taught generations of youngsters to swim in the Victoria baths at Southport, starting, it seemed to us, when Queen Victoria herself was a lass. My performance is fitting testimony to the dogged perseverance of that old stick: Flora, I mean, not Victoria.

I screech back, ‘Meet me at the finish!’

I can’t muster the energy for any distractions from the rhythm of my stroke. Slow as it is, I am gaining a slight amount in my efforts, although it seems at times that I am simply treading water.

I pull together all my resources and make a valiant effort once I reach the buoy.

‘You’re nearly there now’ says my canoeist, as I am overtaken by the first 10k swimmer on his second lap. I can’t count them all but at least 10 others pass me.

‘It just shows you’re fitter than the others. You have more stamina because you’re swimming longer.’

‘Thanks. Well done for keeping me going.’ I know the psychology, but am toying with the idea that there might be a shred of truth in his spurious argument.

‘I’m going to make it, aren’t I?’

‘Yes. You are.’ Silence.

After another unfathomable amount of time and space, spent in agonisingly slow progress, we near the exit point.

‘You won’t be able to stand up, so don’t try to at first. They’ll help you out. Just cross the line.’

‘If I don’t see you again, thanks for everything you’ve done.’ I look into his face for the first time and see him smile. Bliss!

I swim until the water is too shallow to hold me up and then crawl out onto the pebbles. I try to stand, but am told not to. Two women come and support me, one on either side to help me up. My flip flops are on the finish line. I try to raise my foot to slip the first one on, but I can’t. My leg won’t move. I’m like an astronaut back from the moon.

The announcement on the loudspeaker says:

‘Come on, ladies and gentlemen, the last blue cap coming out of the water now. Let’s have a big round of applause from all of you on the bank. Let’s hear it for the last blue cap!’

A massive wall of cheering and clapping resounds around the rare birds’ nesting sites.

I laugh and say to my new helpers,

‘Easy way to stardom.’

I have another go at the first flip flop. Fail again.

‘You need to cross the line to get your time.’

‘What line?’

‘Just take a step forward.’

I shuffle forward and complete the timing requirements 3 or 4 minutes after leaving the water. I manage to put on my flip flops at the third attempt and am led to a rock where my friend congratulates me and takes my victory photo.

That’s all history now- and one shocking snap for the family album. Next stop Kilimanjaro.





“Good morning, Helen!”, chirruped the receptionist.

“Morning, Sarah!”, she returned the forced smile.

Nell pushed her way through the turnstile, took a towel and headed onto the changing room. Once inside the dimly lit inner sanctum, she began to undress.

“They’re supposed to be changing these benches, they’re far too narrow.”, complained the naked lady opposite, whose gaze Nell was trying to avoid.

“Yes, not before time!”. Nell said and thought to herself: ‘Ex-teacher. Probably ex-Dragon’

Her short, grey business-like hairstyle was so tidy compared to Nell’s unkempt mane.

“And all our lotions and potions will get caught in the buttons”

“Yes”

“I try to get my husband to moisturise. He was diagnosed with diabetes this week and the GP said: ‘You must keep your feet moisturised’ So maybe now he will, now the doctor has said so?”

With a practiced insouciance she dried her ample bosom, pushing the towel under each heavy bag of flesh and rubbing vigorously.

“I said, ‘Did you hear that, dear? Moisturise!’”

Her nipples pointed downwards, not like those of the other more nubile models floating in and out of focus as they collected their kit from the lockers.

As she strapped on her navy blue and white spotted, frilled Bravissimo bra, the unappealing figure seemed to be transformed into something which gave the impression of having been exceedingly attractive in the past. So attractive that she had managed to interest a man enough for him to want to marry her and then listen to her for the rest of his life.

As Nell slipped off her own underwear and deftly climbed into the chlorine faded swimsuit, she reflected on this.

All the women in that changing room were presumably there because they had an objective. Hers was to swim round Buttermere, but she fancied that many of the others were there to maintain their social standing. They walk around, flaunting their all over suntans and toned breasts, torsos, legs and buttocks. Their eyes sparkle, faces are shiny, teeth white. Blonde hair is scraped back into a pony tail. Their toe nails match their finger nails and they have no intention of allowing sagging to any part of the temple which is their body.

It is through a rigorous programme of Pilates, Zumba, Body Attack and buffing that they maintain the allure which ensures that their husbands will keep them on this leisure-driven hamster wheel. They are the WAGs of Oxfordshire’s intelligentsia, but they know their worth is not weighed in brain power. Eye candy and activity in the bedchamber is what is required of them. So these conscientious concubines plod on, keeping the treadmills turning while their husbands educate the country’s elite.

Someone has to do it.



Chapter 1 

Hello Hellish Nell

“Don’t cut me! No, please, don’t cut me!”

Snip, the scissors sliced through her young flesh.

“Noooo!”

A primal scream of agony and desperation echoed through the night air. It came from the very essence of the girl’s being, pierced the walls of the isolated mountain hut and headed straight for the highest point in the universe. The origin. The goddess.

“Mary, Mother of God, help me!”

“It’s nearly over, dear. Just pant for me now.”

The sweat oozed from every pore in her body. Her auburn curls were drenched, her face was twisted with the final pangs of labour. She tried to control her breathing: Blowing out, out, out, out.

“Slowly does it”

Her body was wracked with another earthquake of contractions. She thought she was as near death as she could ever be. She felt quite ready to give up.

“If”, she thought, “I die now, it will be so soothing.”

Just as she was about to succumb to the idea of a lull in the excruciating torture, she had the most intense urge to defecate.

“Help Me!”, came the pathetic, last-ditch cry to the universe.

She pushed through her whole body. The strength seemed super human. It came from outside her head and filled the whole of her chest and belly. She tightened her grip on the bars of the iron bed head. Every muscle, every sinew, every part of her soul was centred on expelling the mass which now started to emerge.

She felt the baby move down in her abdomen.

“I can see the head now. Small pants”

She tried to follow the midwife’s instruction, but then she was overcome by the urge to expel this thing once and for all. She strained again and all of a sudden she felt an immense relief.

The mucous-covered creation slipped out and into the hands of the midwife.

“Congratulations! You have a bonny baby girl!”

Hellish Nell had landed in this world once more.


CHRISTMAS BUILD UP

I’ve finally become a Christmas Humbug! My epiphany came to me last Saturday whilst trying to remember what was on the shopping list I had left at home on my ineffectual trip to the supermarket. Wracking my meagre brain cells down the vegetable aisle,  to recall if we needed more tomatoes and deciding whether I should opt for vine-ripened or slum it with half-price, half-flavour cherry tomatoes, I was suddenly taken aback. A chorus welled up: Above and all around me…

“Are you hanging up your stocking on the wall??”

“No, I’m bloody not, Noddy! Please desist in your premature enquiries into the whereabouts of my festive hosiery!”

It’s not even December yet and they’re pumping this out at me! Fancy the gall of it, assaulting my senses with their joviality, reminding me not only how disorganised I am that I don’t know whether we need more tomatoes, but, horror of horrors, IT IS DECEMBER!

I don’t have any Christmas food or presents. My house is going to be packed to overflowing with an assortment of offspring, partners, their cousins and boyfriends and a grandchild to boot. Not one present purchased thus far. Not one card bought, let alone written and posted. I have to negotiate a few more birthdays before I finally get to the Christmas finishing line. People are so inconsiderate having their birthday in December, it’s just so inconvenient. All December births should be ruled illegal and transferred to a more amenable month, like August, where you can send the birthday celebrant a postcard from a far flung holiday destination and apologise for not being there in person.

It’s been creeping up on me over the last few years, slowly but surely, I’m starting to flag in my enthusiasm for the romance and anticipation of the Feast of Christmas.

As a child I used to get excited about Christmas and I remember the frisson of delight when Mum and Dad set up the artificial tree on top of the television in the 1960s and early 70s. We would make model cribs out of cardboard boxes cover them with cotton wool, lay a baby Jesus in the manger and write “Gloria in Excelsis Deo” over the entrance. And advent crowns with old coat hangers covered in tinsel, loosely following the instructions we tried to remember from Valerie Singleton, Peter Purves and John Noakes. My advent crown never quite seemed to stay in shape and we had no chance of attaching a candle to each corner, especially when they might be needed in the 1970s in case of a power cut.

I remember in primary school, the music teacher, Mrs Formby, a small, chubby, elderly lady who, when she tried to cross her arms failed each time. I couldn’t work out whether her arms were too short or her bosom too ample. Anyway, she taught us to sing “Oh Little Town of Bethlehem” and then tested us all individually on our renditions of this new tune. To my amazement, I was selected from said process to learn to play the violin. I should have tried to be less in key as this resulted in me having to carry the wretched instrument to school twice a week, scrape a terrible screech each time I touched it, but, worst of all, whenever I entered the sweet shop on the way home, the man would ask me if I had a machine gun in my violin case. It nearly put me off buying my lemon sherbet bonbons, pear drops or mint imperials by the 2oz, but not entirely.

One Christmas, I discovered the stash of presents Dad had hidden in the boot of his Jaguar. I was perhaps 7 at the time. I kept my discovery to myself and waited for my chance… I crept downstairs while all others were asleep, headed out to the drive in the moonlight and lifted the boot. (No need to lock cars in those days!) There was the guitar I had wanted so much! Stealthily, I took it out, closed the boot as quietly as I could and sat in the front leather passenger seat, strumming the illicit instrument to the rhythm of the tunes on the radio, the light from which illuminated the walnut dashboard. “You won’t get me I’m part of the Union” and “Lily the Pink, the pink, the pink”. “Sugar, you are my Candy Girl…and you got me wanting you!” Life couldn’t get any better than that sweet, forbidden, never disclosed (until now), foretaste of Christmas bliss.

On the build up to three later Christmases in this life, I have had the same feeling at the kindling stage of a relationship with the man of the moment.  But that’s a different chapter and I may keep them secret, cherished memories. I married two of them. The first true log fire burnt out prematurely but the second remains in the glowing ember stage. Then there was the one that got away, those sparks having disappeared into the ether many moons ago.

For 20 years as a teacher, I plagued my classes throughout December with a host of Christmas related nonsense: singing carols in French and Spanish, making Christmas cards, designing word searches, talking about Christmas life and customs in France and Spain, watching Christmas films in the target language with subtitles to keep them hooked. Anything and everything that would mean that we didn’t open a text book again till January. Not sure what OFSTED would have had to say about it all, fortunately they never dropped in. They were perhaps too busy Christmas shopping and organising OFSTED office parties, munching on mince pies and swigging mulled wine. On the last day of term I would crawl back home and dissolve into a heap of post-activity exhaustion. I loved it! Then I would spend a day doing all my shopping in the knowledge that I was using my time efficiently and enjoying living life on the edge. The tension of leaving it all to the last minute and still being able to pull it off was quite exhilarating.

This year, I’ll get online to order all the necessities and have them trundled to the door by an army of fatigued delivery men. It’s a clinical approach, but the best one, I think, now I’ve lost my gusto for the Christmas onslaught.

Maybe, in my own time, once I’ve been to choose the most perfect, verdant, fragrant Christmas tree ever, freshly cut from the Blenheim estate and sourced some mistletoe and taken the secateurs out on a long, frosty, country walk in search of my beloved holly and ivy and arranged it all in my little 17th century cottage, then I’ll start to reclaim the spirit of Christmas. That will be a relief, as I have to sustain some semblance of it. I owe it to my 4 year old, who will be hanging up his stocking very soon.

So, I do wish you all a very Happy Christmas and hope your stockings are bulging this Yuletide!


Beds 

1 My bed
Pre-continental quilt era, a 1973 purple Brentford nylon quilted bedspread would cover  another two lilac blankets which in turn covered the flowery purple sheets, top and fitted bottom, all brand new in turbulent, traumatic, house-move.
When (rarely) made, a heart shaped nightdress case crowned the whole, wherein I ensconced my page-a-day diary, witness to my nascent teenage passions and preoccupations.

2 My present bed
Brand-new millennium, brand-new husband, the present: brand-new big brass bed. Ecstasy!

Fast forward a dozen years, now midnight fumblings consist of 4 year old “bonus baby” squeezing in between parents, impeding all activity, even sleep, kicking back the duvet, exposing us all to the cold, passion free reality of the present.

3 My imaginary bed 
The enormity and comfort of this vast sea of plumped-up goose feathers, under me and over me and behind my weary head, encourage the onset of slumber. The veils of voile hanging from the frame of this four poster waft intermittently, lifted or falling as the balmy night breeze dictates.
 
4 Bed Word Mix
Intermittently brand new passions present to the parents of the brand new nylon era. Another ecstasy and my preoccupations impeding husband from onset of a millennium Brentford house move.  

The whole vast continental diary blankets the enormity of fast forward falling, squeezing and hanging back.  Brand -new Heart shaped feathers ensconced behind purple veils encourage teenage passion weary midnight comfort.  

As rarely reality dictates, brand new activity lifted my cover. Years under the turbulent sea plumped up four flowery fumblings and a traumatic case of cold, purple, page-a-day slumber.  

The big pre 1973 goose fitted a poster frame which made all present sleep.  Now all year the free breeze turns within nightdress, bedspread and duvet, wherein I witness night.  When 4 dozen old sheets waft over the crowned head of this bonus baby, exposing balmy quilted lilac voile, all would bed the top brass.  

Or even quilt me in to two of this. In and in.    

Escape

(SPRINGTIME IN IRELAND, 1923)

I swallow hard, I am shivering but sweat drips from my every pore. It is pitch dark in this endless tunnel. I try to block out the fetid smell as it makes me want to retch, but all I can think of is freedom. Someone whispers, “Talk about Lough Dearg!” and a smirk creases my face, I feel a snigger welling up in my diaphragm as my thoughts shift from the stinking depths of this sewer to Saint Patrick and his vision of purgatory. I manage to suppress it. Your man’s humour goes unanswered.

I cling on to the bony ankle of the fellow in front of me, as the one behind tightens his desperate grip on my own and think of the chains of slavery that have brought us to this God-forsaken fate. Those fecking conniving Brits managed to hoodwink some of us and broker a deal that meant signing up to an allegiance with George V. How could any of us swear an oath to the bloody power that has wrenched away our land, our food, and our families from us for so long? We knew who our enemy was when we were all fighting the English and now here we are, fighting against our own Irishmen, who have betrayed and imprisoned us here in Kildare. We need to get out and fight for our true independence as a Republic.

As I crawl through this blind man’s challenge, I place my life and my trust in the hands of comrades who led others to freedom along the same route last night. They have used their ingenuity and risked their necks to burrow through to the sewers which link our internment barracks to the River Liffey.

I feel the sharp pain of something like broken glass piercing the skin of my hands and knees, but I suppress any outburst as it would be fatal if the guards above - in the prison yard - have any sense of our whereabouts.

I trawl on through what might be my own bodily products and certainly those of the thousand men with whom I have been imprisoned for the past months. The last time I was subjected to such a smell was in the hold of the ship Arvonia which brought us here from my first prison in Galway. That was a nightmare no man would want to repeat. The rocking and rolling of the ship at anchor outside Dun Laoghaire and the starvation and the filth was enough to make you wish you had never been born. If it wasn’t for the threat of an epidemic, they would have left every one of us poor bastards out at sea.

We are starting to go uphill now, still inside the tunnel, and someone whispers, ‘We’re about to reach The House.’

It is a disused building near the banks of the river. We are not out of danger yet, as there are guards on the nearby bridge armed with machine guns. We have been instructed to leave The House in complete silence then roll down the hill to the river and swim across.

The blood pumps through my brain and my ears are drumming to the rhythm of my raging pulse as I roll out of the door into the fresh, spring night air. It has been a long time since I have had the luxury of pure, fresh air and all at once it is a dizzying and exalting experience. I bless the beauty of the moon and the stars and my heart aches for the moment I return to my beautiful young wife, Nora and our precious son, Anthony. The outline of the bridge on my right is prickling with the silhouettes of my countrymen who might be my executioners. My next few moments will be key in my life, but if I survive them, I can set about reclaiming the minds of those who I feel have lost theirs in this struggle.

As silently as is humanly possible to tell, given the internal crescendo of percussion, gingerly, I roll down the dew laden grassy bank and reach the lapping, inky waters into which I must render myself. I am not a strong swimmer, but manage to keep afloat while the current takes me along and further away from the bridge. God knows how it happens, some may say it is my guardian angel, but I reach the opposite shore and as I clamber out, a ‘Glory Be’ slips its quivering way through my shivering lips.

Up and over a barbed wire fence I make my way onward to the West.

I spend the night under the shelter of a farm hedge and am roused from my snatched and broken dreams by the sweet symphony of the dawn chorus. I trudge on to the first village church I can find. To my utter disbelief I find the following notice in the church porch:

“The guerrilla warfare now being carried on by the Irregulars is without moral sanction and therefore the killing of National soldiers is murder before God, the seizing of public and private property is robbery, the breaking of roads, bridges and railways is criminal. All who in contravention of this teaching, participate in such crimes are guilty of grievous sins and may not be absolved in Confession or admitted to the Holy Communion if they persist in such evil courses.^”

^{Letter from the Bishops of Ireland}

^{10th October 1922 (The day I was captured and imprisoned)}

“Well, Pogue Mahone, the lot of ye!”

I have now not only to convince my family and my countrymen of our just cause, but also the Roman Catholic leaders. It will be done, as God is my witness.

Afterword:

My great uncle, Tom Beegan, then aged only 22, found his way back to his farm and his family. After the Irish Civil War he was elected as a county councillor for Fianna Fail and, as well as running the farm, served as such until his retirement. He had 10 children and lived in Ballinasloe for the rest of his life.

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