Letters to a Sister :38

Dustbins and psychopaths…

Hi R,

Remind me to never go to a sushi restaurant with you. I think you are meant to put the food in whole, definitely no knives and forks allowed. I did take Mum once, to one of those bars where the dishes go round and round on a conveyor belt and you have to pick off the ones you want. It didn’t work very well as a mother/daughter bonding experience. She found perching on a high stool to be uncomfortable. And she doesn’t eat raw fish (which I didn’t know when I took her.)

My trip up North was okay thanks. Mainly I was just really proud of myself for driving that far! We went to Nottingham first. My SatNav did well in getting us to Nottingham, not so well at finding the right road (it is a really rubbish SatNav. It only takes the first four digits of a postcode, so directs you to almost the right place and then abandons you. You drive into a large industrial estate full of mass murderers and it helpfully chants, “You have reached your destination.“)

Son 2 had to take over and direct me to his road. I then used his loo – much to Son 1’s disgust (it only had single ply paper. Shocking) before we set off to Leeds.

Leeds was stressful. Son 1 was very good and kept me calm. Our conversation went along the lines of:
Me: “The road is splitting and I don’t know which lane we want. Aaargh, we’re going onto a motorway. We’re heading for York. York! I don’t know what to do.”
Son: “It’s okay Mum, Leeds and York are the same place really, they’re just different bits of the same town. Just keep going and I’ll tell you where to go.
And try to breathe.
And don’t clench the wheel so tightly, you’ll get cramp.”

Anyhow, we made it unscathed. (York is about 25 miles from Leeds, in case you didn’t know.) I managed the journey home on my own. The boys are good to me actually. As long as I don’t ask anything too unreasonable of them – like not leaving socks in the lounge, then they are very kind to me.

They are tougher on Husband (must be a male thing.) When they were home they commented on his car, which I do not think has ever been washed. Ever. We are surrounded by lanes full of mud, most of which now covers his car. One of them remarked, “Hey, like what you’ve done with the car Dad.” The other one asked why he had spent quite so long choosing the colour when he bought it, as all you can see is mud.

I think you are right about the fears of publishing a book. It is all so scary. I keep being reassured by hearing that books like The Martian and John Grisham’s first book were initially self-published because no one wanted to take a risk on them. Counting Stars is all ready now, so I am going to put that on Kindle as soon as it’s been edited. My book, Hidden Faces, should be published later this year. I am now busy researching for my next novel.

As I’ve mentioned previously, it will be called Joanna and is about a serial killer (well, it’s a bit more complicated than that, is more about making choices in life.) Anyway, I have been reading lots of studies about psychopathy. Did you know that most psychopaths are NOT killers? That actually the traits of psychopathy (being focussed, unemotional, charming, risk takers) enable them to often be successful politicians, CEOs of major companies, work in the media. It sort of makes sense when you think about it. If you are in the army and have to send boys off to fight, it wouldn’t do if you broke down in tears every time they were killed.

There was one really interesting study. A neuro scientist was studying MRIs of convicted killers, trying to find a physical trait of psychopathy (which he did.) The following week, he was doing research on Alzheimers, looking at MRIs to see if there was a link that could be used for early detection. He needed a control, so was comparing them to MRIs of his family. They were all anonymous. He noticed that one MRI strongly showed the same things that the psychopath’s had, so he checked the code, in case it had got muddled up with his previous work. He found that it was his own MRI. When he mentioned it to colleagues, they told him that he did display many of the traits of a psychopath!

Psychopathy is a spectrum, a bit like autism (though that seems to be the only similarity.) There is a list of traits, devised by someone called Hare. I have been busy checking people. Am pretty sure the dustbin men in Surrey are all psychopaths (they never move their truck to let people pass.) And the women in a nearby post-office show clear psychopathic traits (are always delighted to send you away because you’ve brought the wrong forms.) Will let you know if I discover any in the family……

Take care,
Love, Anne x

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My sister’s letter can be found at :
http://ruthdalyauthor.blogspot.co.uk/2016/01/writer-problems-sushi-and-rats.html

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Letters to a Sister : 37

Posted by anneethompson

This is a reply to my sister’s letter, which you can read at:
http://ruthdalyauthor.blogspot.ca/2016/01/star-wars-handbags-and-my-word-of-year.html

Dear Ruth,

Thanks for your letter. It’s funny but I was thinking much the same things this week. I don’t think I could choose one word for the year though, for me it would be two : Nothing Lasts.

The same conclusions as you really, it is something I realise more and more as I get older. Nothing lasts. This can be sad, when it refers to friendships, when people I love move or die, when a job I enjoy finishes or a stage of life (like having toddlers. I loved parenting tiny children.) It can be good too, when something’s awful, or we’re ill, or we look at the world and it just seems black and hopeless. Nothing lasts.

I had a terrible night on Wednesday, I just couldn’t sleep. I think I spent the whole night awake and worrying. Usually I’m an excellent sleeper – 10:30 to 7am, straight through with no wake ups. If I can’t sleep I put on a story in Chinese and it distracts me enough that I sleep almost instantly. (Husband gave me headphones for Christmas. I am thinking it might not be the same for him.) But Wednesday I started worrying and then couldn’t sleep. All night.

I had all kinds of different worries bubbling around my head. Church has had lots of people move away and we can’t find enough people to fill all the gaps and I’m worried I wont cope with everything I have agreed to do. My book is on the way to being published but I’m worried that no one will buy it, that it’s not good enough, that friends will laugh at me. I hate self-promotion, I just can’t do it, so the thought of having to ask people to buy my book is terrifying. I also had agreed to drive the boys back to uni, which is a long drive, longer than I have driven since brain surgery. Worried I would get too tired, worried about staying in a motel (very scary), worried I would get lost in big Northern cities. Worry, worry, worry, buzzing round my brain.

The next morning I was reading Psalm 8 (you remember I am studying the Psalms at the moment?) Anyway, it just made me cross! It begins by talking about God, his glory, how he put the stars in place with his hands, how even tiny children praise him, etc. “That’s nice,” I thought, “but it doesn’t exactly fill up the Sunday School rota with names of willing volunteers. It doesn’t help me much.”

Then I realised that actually it did, actually it took all those worries away. If I believed in a God who placed the stars, then surely I believed that he could cope with a rota of names? Surely I could leave the problem with him? It just wasn’t MY problem, none of my worries were. They were his.

All I have to do is live each day as well as I can. To live in the present – which kind of comes back to what you were saying. I have to live each day as best as I can, which might mean editing my book or asking people to help with some job at church. But as long as I do that right, in the best way I can, then I am only answerable to God. The bigger problem is his and I can just dump it with him and get on with my day, with my ‘now’, my ‘present’.

Perhaps my word should be ‘Trust’. Except I’m not quite holy enough to do that very well, so I’ll leave it with ‘nothing lasts’.

Hope you have a good week. Hope woodpecker doesn’t destroy your house (your house is made of wood, right?)

Take care,
Anne xx

PS: News in brief:
The rats are back. More annoying than I can say. Have found new holes in the duck aviary. Have put down traps and discussed with cats.

We’ve had lots of rain. Loads of it. Makes walking dog each day very unpleasant. Squelching through sodden fields is grim. So is the amount of mud that seems to find its way into my kitchen. Hens are very cross and refuse to leave their perch some days.

I still have a Christmas tree up – the artificial one that I refuse to have anything to do with. The ornaments are gone but the tree remains. I think husband thinks I haven’t noticed. Am saving discussion for when I’ve done something wrong and need some leeway. Shouldn’t be long.

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Joanna

Posted by anneethompson

I have had an idea for my next book. It’s VERY different to my other books but I think will be lots of fun to write. It will take me about 9 months, so I thought I would try out the beginning on you first. Depending on how many people ‘like’ it will help me to decide whether or not to continue writing or change it completely.

I realise I should be posting this at the beginning of the week – always get the most responses on a Monday morning – but I am much too impatient to wait! Here is the first splurge of words. Oh, and Mum, you wont like it.

To save you asking (because my family did): No, it is not based on myself or anyone who I know and, no, I have never wanted to murder anyone at all ever – I could not even kill the rat I caught!

Joanna
by Anne E Thompson

I first saw them on the bus. They got on after me, the mother helping the toddler up the big step, holding the baby on her hip while she juggled change, paid the driver. I wondered why she hadn’t bought a card or paid by phone, something quick so we didn’t all have to wait.

I watched as she swung her way to a seat, leaning against the post for support, heaving the toddler onto the chair by his shoulder. Then they sat, a happy family unit, the boy chattering in his high pitched voice, the mother barely listening, watching the town speed past the window, smiling every so often so he knew he had her attention. Knew he was loved. Cared for. They had everything I didn’t have but I didn’t hate them. That would have involved feelings and I tended to not be bothered by those.

No, I just watched, knew that those children had all the things, all the mothering, that had passed me by. Knew that they were happy. Decided to change things a little. Even up the score, make society a little fairer, more equal.

Following them was easy. The mother made a great deal about collecting up their bags, warning the boy that theirs was the next stop. She grasped the baby in one hand, bus pole in the other and stood, swaying as we lurched from side to side. She let the boy press the bell button, his chubby fingers reaching up. Almost too high for him. Old ladies in the adjoining seats smiled. Such a cosy scene, a little family returning from a trip to the town.

They waited until the bus had swung into the stop, was stationary, before they made their way to the door. I was already standing, waiting behind them. The mother glanced behind and I twisted my mouth into a smile, showed my teeth to the boy who hid his face in his mothers jeans, pressing against her as if scared. That was rude. Nothing to be frightened of. Not yet.

The family jumped from the bus and I stepped down. As the bus left I turned away, walked the opposite direction from the family. In case someone was watching, noticing, would remember later. Not that that was a possibility but it didn’t do to take chances. I strode to the corner, turned it, then made as if I had forgotten something. Searched pockets, glanced at phone, then turned and hurried back.

The family were still in sight, further down the road but not too far. She had spent time unfolding the buggy, securing the baby, arranging her shopping. All the time in the world.

I walked behind, gazing into shop windows, keeping a distance between us. They left the main street and began to walk along a road lined with houses, smart semi-detached homes with neat square gardens. Some had extended, built ugly extra bedrooms that loomed above the house, changing the face, destroying the symmetry. There were some smaller houses stuffed by greedy builders into empty plots, a short terrace in red brick.

It was just after this that the family stopped. The mother scrabbled in her bag, retrieved her key. The boy had already skipped down the path, was standing by the door. The mother began to follow but I was already turning away.

I would remember the house, could come back later, when it was dark. I would only do it if it was easy, if there was no risk. If she was foolish enough to leave the back door unlocked. No point in going to any effort, it wasn’t as if they meant anything to me. There would be easier options if it didn’t work out. But I thought it probably would. There was something casual about her, about the way she looked so relaxed, unfussy. I thought locking the back door would be low on her priorities until she went to bed herself. People were so complacent, assumed the world was made up of clones of themselves. Which was convenient, often worked to my advantage. As I walked back, towards the bus stop, I realised I was smiling.

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Letters to a Sister : 36

Posted by anneethompson

You can read my sister’s letter at:

http://ruthdalyauthor.blogspot.ca/2015/12/swearing-soap-and-2-minute-meals.html

Here is my reply:

Dear R,

I miss you too at Christmas. I also can’t believe it has gone already, I love it, it makes me remember being little again.

When I was a little girl, I loved looking through people’s handbags – do you remember? If we had visitors, I would sometimes sneak out of the room with their bag, so I could search it in peace. It was possibly embarrassing for Mum, though I never took anything, I was just very curious (I refuse to use the ‘nosey’ word.) The bag I remember the most clearly was the midwife’s bag when she came after brother was born. It was black and VERY heavy and Mum shouted at me for hiding behind the sofa with it. I was misunderstood as a child.

Then we were given handbags by Great Aunt Nell one Christmas. Her presents were always slightly on the unexpected side weren’t they. I remember being given old Christmas cards one year. We loved her dearly (I’m sure not just because she gave us sixpences) but her gifts were somewhat random. So Mum (very naughtily) used to unwrap them before Christmas day, to check what was inside. I found this very exciting, especially as she always told me to not tell Dad (hence confirming it was completely against the rules. Mum has never really done rules.)

Anyway, that year it was handbags. Not sure if they had belonged to Aunty Nell or to one of her long deceased friends. I was very excited by the brown knobbly one with the snappy clip at the top but that was addressed to you (I did try to persuade Mum to switch the name labels but she didn’t break the rules that much.) I was given a basket. With no snappy top.

Mum has not, as far as I remember, ever used a handbag. Perhaps because I always searched it. Or maybe her lack of bag accounts for my fascination with them. Her pockets always have the same things in: a short pencil, an old shopping list, a tissue, some coins and now – which is my reason for writing this – those plastic coins from Waitrose.

Do you know what I mean? -Those plastic counter things that Waitrose have by the door, so you can vote for your favourite charity and then Waitrose will donate money to the one with the most votes? (Not sure if they have these the other side of the Atlantic but you may have noticed them when you were here.) I believe the aim is that every shopper has one vote, uses one counter with each load of shopping, dropped through the slot into the clear plastic container, watching the charity of their choice collect votes. I am sure the aim is NOT for old ladies, who happen to know that a charity of their choice is soon to be appearing, to hoard the plastic counters in their pockets. Nor to collect them from other stores and save them until they are next in their own one. I just hope she never finds a shop that sells the same kind of counter – even Waitrose staff might notice if two thousand extra counters suddenly appear. I have broached this subject with her but I feel it needs reinforcement – when are you next here?

Actually, Waitrose has been brilliant for Mum. She loves the free coffee that you get with their loyalty card and the free ‘samples’ of cakes that sometimes are left on the counter. (I wont mention the unfortunate incident when the baker left a tray of freshly baked muffins on the same counter and someone tucked in thinking they were free….)

I like our supermarkets. I like that they reduce food towards the end of the day. All the students learn what time this happens and loiter near the door waiting for the ‘Half Price Man’ to do his rounds so they can snaffle up the bargains. I like that they sell lots of ethnically diverse foods (the US supermarkets only really stocked US food) and that they donate left over food to charities for the homeless.

I am finding the 5p carrier bags bit of a challenge (they recently stopped providing free ones.) – I like the idea in principle but I do find it hard to remember to take a bag with me when I shop, too many years of being lazy/wasteful. My own bags are now stuffed with reuseable bags, just in case. Which with old receipts and pens that don’t work, just about fills my bag. Not very exciting should a child want to explore.

Take care,
Anne xxx

PS: I always show these to people who are mentioned before I post them, just in case they will be embarrassed/sue me. Mum assures me that it was Great Aunt Queenie, not Nell, who gave us the handbags. (I am not entirely sure if I have spelt Queenie correctly, or even if that was her real name or just what we called her. I have certainly never met another Queenie – have you? It wasn’t one of our name choices when we had daughter, though I quite like Nell as a name.)

Letters to a Sister

Posted by anneethompson

Thinking about new year resolutions…

Do you swear very often? I try not to but I swear more than Mum and Dad used to. I’m not sure I ever heard Dad swear in anger. I heard Mum about three times throughout our whole childhood, which is pretty impressive really. Each of those three times was at me for something I had done. I do remember one particular incident when she swore at me and Dad came into the hall behind her and I felt positively elated because I knew that he would tell her off. I still got sent to my room, I can’t even remember what I had said or done, but whatever it was, I felt that Mum had been worse because she had sworn. It was such a big deal.

Do you remember at Infant School when if you were heard swearing you had to go to the staff room and rinse out your mouth with soap and water? Tasted foul. (The reason that I know this was your fault – you had told me to put two fingers in my mouth and say “bucket” and I was showing other children on the playground when the teacher caught me!) Not sure you would be allowed to soap children’s mouths today, though I don’t think it hurt us. It also didn’t really stop us swearing, we just made sure that there weren’t any teachers around.

As I said, I can’t remember Dad swearing. I do remember him smoking though. He told me that it was good for his health when he was working late because it kept him warm but that I shouldn’t tell Mum. I was young enough to believe him. It wasn’t until later that I realised that what he was telling me was untrue, we always just accepted what we were told. I sometimes start to explain something to my own children (like that the moon is made of cheese) and I’ll suddenly think, “Oh no, that is rubbish actually.”

I did try to not swear when the children were small and I must have been fairly successful. Someone (stupidly) gave them magnetic letters to go on the fridge and the boys used to write swear words on there because they thought I didn’t know any so wouldn’t realise what they had written. Most of them were spelt wrong. Very disappointing as a teacher.

I don’t think swearing is a good trait, it shows a certain lack of control. I also think it reflects more who you are used to being with, we tend to assimilate speech patterns without noticing. I tell off my children for swearing but it’s not the worst thing they could do.

When we lived in the US, the swear words were different. I was shocked to hear the pastor ‘swearing’ from the pulpit. They were shocked when I ‘swore’ during Sunday School. My children tell me that a lot of the words I think are swear words are now acceptable. I tend to not believe them.

Actually, we did get told off quite a lot growing up, I think perhaps children did in those days. Not just by Mum and Dad either, I remember at the Girl’s Group we went to at church, being told off for giggling. Do you remember that quiz we made up, where we read a Psalm and then read it again with mistakes in it and people had to stand up if they heard a mistake? It was very long and repetitive and we started giggling and the leader told us off, said we should show more respect for God’s word. She was, I suppose, sort of right but now I’m older, I don’t think actually God would have minded two teenaged girls giggling over something that sounded strange. It was the strangeness of the words that made us giggle, nothing really about God.

That’s often the trouble with the Bible, the words sound very strange. It’s easy to forget that they were real conversations, real letters and poems and stories written for real people. Much of it was written by rough manual workers – I bet they swore sometimes.

I have been reading the Psalms again lately. We have just finished studying ‘Emotionally Healthy Spirituality’ at church – a study book written by someone whose name sounds like a fungal infection. Anyway, it had some interesting bits but isn’t really my sort of thing. I like to read the Bible alongside some kind of commentary, something that explains the weird phraseology and the context in which it was written. I am using a book by Michael Wilcock, who I don’t think I would like if I met him (a bit bossy and ‘preachy’) but his writing is interesting.

He begins with the first Psalm/poem/song (whatever you want to call it) and he explains the odd word ‘blessed’. When we say “bless” today we either mean it like a pat on the head – “Aw, bless” or because someone has sneezed – “Bless you!” – a throw back to when the plague in 1600’s started with a sneeze, a sort of quick blessing before the person dies. Though sneezing today is unlikely to lead to a quick death. However, Mr Wilcock, the preachy one, defines “Blessed” as : a ‘life of delight and fruitfulness, with a sense of worth’. I like that, I want that sort of life.

I hope your new year is blessed.

Take care,
Anne xxxx

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Thank you for reading.

This is a reply to my sister’s letter, which you can read at:
http://ruthdalyauthor.blogspot.ca/2015/12/next-year-im-going-to-hawaii-for.html

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Letters to a Sister : 34

Posted by anneethompson

This is a reply to my sister’s letter, which you can read at:
http://ruthdalyauthor.blogspot.ca/2015/12/next-year-im-going-to-hawaii-for.html

Glad you have noticed that it’s nearly Christmas (I never like to assume.) Though I’m not sure Christmas Eve is a great time to do all your shopping. I was relatively organised this year – not working helps a lot with that. Then I had a few days with a nasty cold, so was glad I had got ahead.

Colds are the worst illness I think, you become very aware of everything physical (like not being able to breathe or swallow.) I’m reading The Martian, which son gave me for my birthday. Have you read it? I will have to see the film now, the book is brilliant, though some of the science was a little beyond me. He (the main character, not son) also had trouble breathing (due to low oxygen on Mars) so I felt we had something in common. Good book – perhaps I’ll send you a copy.

It’s hard to be too sympathetic about your dog’s tail swooshing the tree. I am writing a photo-book entitled, “207 places a cat can hide up a tree.” Perhaps you can help with the sequel : “Symmetry is for Cowards”.

Buying gifts for everyone is always bit of a challenge – it’s the deciding bit that’s difficult isn’t it. Our relatives seem to fit into several categories. There are the ones who give you copious ‘hints’ about what they would like from about August onwards, love receiving gifts and would be happy with an old shoe box really as long as it was wrapped up. (That’s Mum.) Then there are the very organised ones who send a list, often with computer links to the shops that sell things. Makes gift buying very easy. (That’s daughter.) Then there are the people who mainly just want food and alcohol or money. They are harder to buy a ‘real’ gift for (that’s the boys.) Then there are the people who don’t really want anything. They are mostly men.

Do you remember how Dad used to tell us what he didn’t want each year? We clearly got it wrong too many times. I can hear him now saying,
“Not pear-drops or barley-sugars or extra strong mints. And I’ve got enough socks.” Not very helpful of him.

Do you remember that year when I collected all those different sized boxes to wrap his gift in? I think the actual present was socks (it usually was.) I wrapped them in paper, then put them into increasingly bigger boxes. The last box was a big box that I had filched from the back of the supermarket. I was so excited! I remember not sleeping the night before, imagining him opening the first box, only to find another box inside, then opening that one to find an even smaller one. He would have have been good at opening it too, would have made a big deal about being surprised that it was another box, being disappointed that the gift was getting smaller, sharing the joke until, surprise, he reached socks. However, I never saw him open it. I had left the big box next to the dustbin so he wouldn’t find it. The dustbin men did and took it away. Was a low point.

Husband is another difficult person to buy for. This year I wondered about buying him an air-rifle, so he could join the cats in exterminating the rats. So I went to a gun shop. I have never been to a gun shop before. It was very interesting and a lot like buying a magic wand in the Harry Potter films (so you would enjoy it.) The shop was in a nearby town, but it could have been in Diagon Alley, was very dark and foreboding with grills at the windows and a bell to ask for access. Inside were all kinds of guns displayed on the walls. And men. It was a very masculine shop, lots of hunter types. It even had a magic wardrobe – well, a very tall gun safe, but probably it could transport you to other places. The shopkeeper came to help. He didn’t actually look like a character from Harry Potter, disappointingly. To be honest, even if he had, I wouldn’t say, he owned a lot of lethal weapons. Apparently you have to hold a rifle, try it out for size to see if it suits you (like a magic wand.) You have to bond with it. Then I was given a safety talk, about how every gun, even an airgun, must be used properly or it can be dangerous, that there are limits to where and how you are allowed to use them (like magic wands.) I didn’t buy one. It was all too difficult. Plus am not too comfortable with the killing aspect (which I also didn’t mention in the shop. Felt they didn’t want to hear that.)

Any ideas for what I can buy him? Otherwise it will be socks and extra strong mints.

Take care,
Anne xx

PS. Your idea of going to Hawaii next year is tempting. However, I rather like being in England for Christmas, it feels right. I do though think my whole extended family would just love to join you. I will suggest it to them.

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Letters to a Sister 33

Posted by anneethompson

I took Mum Christmas shopping in Crawley. It started as expected with many laps of the car park looking for a space. We could, of course, have avoided this by following the signs that a dodgy bloke was holding up outside the car park, directing us to a £2 car parking place. I think he had written it on an old cardboard box. He looked like he eats small children for breakfast, wasn’t sure I entirely trusted that his ‘car park’ would be legal. Or near the shops. Or safe. But perhaps I’m just cynical.

Next adventure was trying to reach shop level. We were parked on level three. There was a lift but it didn’t seem to prioritise going to the top floor. So we would watch it leave ground floor, rise to level one, then level two, then pause (while we held our breath) then drop to level one. We joined two women who looked annoyed. They had been waiting four days already. I decided to go down the stairs. I left Mum, promising I would return by tea time with food and water (I could have done with those Jaffa cakes you took back to Canada) and walked down.

There were stairs down to level two. Then the staircase ended. Unexpected design flaw I felt, when designing a shopping centre one should assume the people parking want to access the shops. I had to go back into the car park and walk to the end to find stairs that took me to the shops. A sign would have been a kind thought. Then, on level two, there were escalators, which made me quite hopeful of reaching shops. Unfortunately, all the escalators from floor one to ground were broken, except for one in the far corner. Considered sliding down bannister, felt it would be undignified. Spotted Mum emerging from lift. Finally reached her. Felt maybe mass-murderer car park might have been good option.

There were decorations in the shopping centre. Somewhat naff ones, it looked like half were missing. I am guessing the person sent to find the box of decorations in the loft who was not a great lover of Christmas decorations, had told them, “this is the only box I could find.” I have the same problem in my own house. The decorations were silver shapes and were hung from the high ceilings. At an angle. At least, some were, some were straight. Hard to tell if there was a plan. Maybe they ran out of time, they are clearly not entering any shopping centre decoration competitions this year, if such things exist. Perhaps they had trouble getting from top floor. Am sympathetic.

The problem with shops (well, one of the problems – there are many actually) is that they are too hot. Especially Debenhams. I worked for Debenhams once, before I went to college. We were given blue and white spotty blouses to wear that tied in a bow at the neck and we had to wear navy skirts. I didn’t have a navy skirt so wore a vaguely blue one but no one seemed to mind. It was always too hot even then. I do not find being hot, especially when wearing a heavy winter coat, encourages me to shop. If Mr Debenham is reading this, he might like to take note and turn down the thermostat in his shops.

Anyway, despite being a shopping trip, it was relatively successful. I bought gifts for my nieces and even remembered that one has a birthday right before Christmas. Usually this catches me out and I have to rewrap her Christmas present in birthday paper and then buy something else.

I like Christmas presents actually. Maybe not so much the actual gift, but I love seeing them all wrapped up, lumpy and mysterious. My children still have a stocking, a heap of smaller gifts that they open Christmas eve. Every year now I suggest that they might be too old for this but they tell me it is the “funnest part of Christmas.” Clearly I should buy them some grammar books.

Last Christmas was especially good. I was just a few months post op, so had no idea what I had wrapped, it was an exciting surprise for me too to see them open their presents. It was nearly not so fun for daughter. A couple of days before Christmas, husband asked to check which gifts I had bought (he likes to help each year.) I proudly showed him the stack of wrapped gifts. He asked which one was for daughter, as it wasn’t there. I knew I had bought her a coat but couldn’t actually find it. He enquired if it was the coat I had bought and given her the year before, which would explain why I couldn’t find it – she was probably wearing it. We did a hasty trip to the shops and all was well.

Hope you haven’t frozen yet. Mainly rain here.

Take care,
Anne xxx

PS. I was somewhat perturbed by your postscript. I am assuming that the most precious ornaments go on the back of your tree to ensure they’re safe. I have this year NOT put the Angels you made for me on my tree (because people kept asking why I had ghosts hanging on my tree.) But they took pride of place for many years. Just saying.

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This letter is written in reply to one from my sister. You can read her reply (to an earlier letter, number 32) at :

http://ruthdalyauthor.blogspot.ca/2015/12/sisters-should-live-on-same-continent.html

Thank you for reading

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A Long Walk in London

Posted by anneethompson

I love London, it is my favourite city in the world. I love the mix of old and new, the history that’s hidden in every corner, the millions of lives that have been so intensely lived during such different circumstances.

I have always disliked the London Underground but it’s convenient and safe, so I often used it. Then, one day I caught a train from Monument to Bank, got lost in the tunnels trying to find the exit and came back up the steps at….. Monument. I realised that the stations were somewhat nearer than I had thought. In fact, central London is quite small, you can walk to most of it.

This is a walk that I do fairly regularly. It is long (I walk fast and it takes me two hours) but hugely interesting. Wear comfortable shoes, don’t carry anything heavy and leave teenaged boys at home (they walk very slowly and moan a lot.)

The walk starts at Victoria station, named after the road it’s on, which is in turn named after the Queen. When you leave via the main exit, you will see the Shakespeare pub. If you ever get a taxi to Victoria, ask them to drop you at The Shakespeare – it’s much quicker (and therefore cheaper) than being taken to the taxi rank at the station.

Walk along Buckingham Palace road. You will pass the wall that encloses the Queen’s house, then some entrances, including the entrance to her gallery. The gallery is nice if you like that sort of thing.

You’ll pass wonderfully touristy gift shops and the Buckingham Palace gift shop.

You then arrive at the junction with Birdcage walk and The Mall. My tip here is : use the pedestrian lights. Most of London has pedestrian lights but they are slow and if you know which direction the traffic is coming from, you can cross much quicker on your own. However, at this junction, the traffic moves very fast, from multiple directions. When you are half way across a multi-lane road, it is a bit scary to see a fast approaching car. Have a quick look at Buckingham Palace and St James’s Park, then walk along The Mall.

You could walk through the park, which is nice (it has ducks and a pelican that we once saw eat a pigeon. Yes, really.) But it is slower and The Mall is nice and wide and you can look at the posh houses on the other side of the road.

One of these is St James’s Palace, where Prince Charles lives some of the time. He seems to be having his roof fixed at the moment poor chap, never nice having the builders in.

If you look across the park, you can see the London Eye and Big Ben in Westminster (which reminds you again how small London actually is.)

You will then arrive at Admiralty Arch. I have told lots of tourist friends/relatives that this is Marble Arch. It isn’t, though it is an arch and it does appear to be made of marble. It used to house government buildings but has now been sold to be a hotel.

Through the arch, you will see Trafalgar Square with Nelson’s column and fountains and giant lions.

The lions are harder to climb than you might think.

Across the square is the National Gallery. This is a wonderful place, with free entrance and fantastic paintings (and toilets and coffee shops.) Walk diagonally across the square, heading for the large white church you can see on the right. This is St Martin’s. You will now be in Charing Cross Road.

Charing Cross Road is my favourite road. It has really interesting shops: old books, posh clothes that nobody wears and weird stuff. As you walk up the road, on the right is Covent Garden, on the left is China Town. I always think of Little Newport Street as the entrance to China Town (because they used to have a good Chinese bookshop there.) You will see lots of Chinese script as you walk up Charing Cross Road.

Turn right when you get to Shaftesbury Avenue, then cross High Holborn onto Bloomsbury Way. There are theatres here. There are less people and the buildings are a mix of offices and old churches. There are a few enticing lanes with nice cafes, the shop that always has bowls of fruit outside and some cheap grocery shops. There is also the hat stall (which always seems to be there.) Useful, one never knows when one might need a bowler hat.

You will pass Bloomsbury Square (good place for a sit down in the summer) which is just in front of the British Museum. You will then arrive at Southampton Row. Turn left and walk up about 300 yards, past just about every chain of coffee shop and a Pizza Express. You will then arrive at a little lane, Cosmo Place. Walk along here to Queen’s Square. This is a small garden full of benches dedicated to people who I assume were treated in the surrounding hospitals. You are now next to Great Ormond Street children’s hospital and the Neurological Hospital (should you wish to pop in for a quick MRI.)

Walk down Old Gloucester to Theobald’s Road, then straight down Proctor Street to High Holborn. You are now in the legal part of the city. Turn left. As you walk along High Holborn you will pass lots of alleyways leading to the Inns. If you have read any of C J Sansom’s historical novels, you will love this place. My favourite is Lincoln’s Inn Fields. You can wander through the gardens, looking at the buildings, knowing they are pretty much unchanged since the days of Henry VIII. There are signs saying “No Public Right of Way” but I tell myself this refers to cars and just walk in and no one has ever stopped me.

As you continue along High Holborn, you get a real feel for London. Really old stuff next to really modern stuff with new stuff being built. The fingerprints of history. Holborn Viaduct is a tangle of old and new. It is also near to Smithfield Market (slightly North) and St Paul’s cathedral (slightly South) if you want to make detours.

You will pass a dragon boundary mark. These mark the original gates into the City of London, which is also called The Square Mile. It can be quite confusing for visitors – the City of London is a small area within London, not the sprawling mass of the whole city, which is also called London…..

You will pass the end of the Old Bailey, the Central Criminal Court built in 1673. Before they had gas lights, they used mirrors to reflect the light onto the faces of the accused so they could watch their expressions. They also placed sound boxes above them to amplify their voices. There is a viewing gallery where you can watch cases being tried (it is nothing like ‘Judge Judy’ on television. No laughing and very tense. Real people in real trouble.) It was built next to Newgate prison, which was demolished over a hundred years ago (but still appears in historical books and films.)

Turn left up King Edward’s Street to Gresham Street. You could nip up to London Wall. Here you will pass stretches of the original London wall, built by the Romans.

You will also pass Wood Street, where you can see Rapunzel’s tower. This is where she let down her hair so the handsome prince could climb up and rescue her. It has stood here since the days when this was covered in forest. (Actually, it is the remains of St Alban’s church, which was rebuilt after the great fire in 1666. It was designed by Sir Christopher Wren and then destroyed by a bomb during WW2.)

You will pass Guildhall, which is used for ceremonial rites. I went to a ceremony here once and the Lord Mayor of London came, escorted by Pikemen and Musketeers (which was somewhat unexpected but quite interesting.)

Turn right down Princes, past the bank of England (a lot of gold in there) and onto King William Street.

You will pass the Royal Exchange, which has posh shops and coffee places. I once went in there to try on expensive shoes (which I didn’t intend to buy) and I saw Brad Pitt when I came out. He held the door open for me. I expect it meant a lot to him. Opposite is Mansion House which is where the Lord Mayor of London lives (but I didn’t see any musketeers on guard. Perhaps they were in disguise.)

At the bottom of King William Street is Monument. This was designed by Sir Christopher Wren (busy chap) to commemorate the Great Fire of London. You can go up it, if you like heights, but you have to pay.

Walk across London Bridge and finish your walk at London Bridge Station. On the bridge you can look down the river to Tower Bridge, see HMS Belfast and the Tower of London.

So much history, all waiting to be explored. It’s a long walk, but there is so much to see you could easily add some cafes and take a whole day.

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This is the spike, just outside London Bridge Station,
used for catching parachutists in the last war.
(My children never believe me when I tell them that.)

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Letters to a Sister : 32

Posted by anneethompson

I’ve been reading through my old diaries. Found this entry from 1997. It’s during the time I looked after my nephew (aged 18 months) while his Mum worked, so everyone thought I had twins in the double buggy.

“A Day in November
Husband’s cousin is coming for the weekend. Hope he enjoys it. It’s always worrying having people to stay who don’t have children. They don’t really understand why we have shoes in the bathroom and towels in the hall.

J was awful Tues night and kept crying – every twenty minutes (ears or teeth or both.) I took him downstairs at 11:30, then husband took over at 3am. We were really tired the next day. Husband phoned from work to say he’d gone with no cuff-links or watch, not combed his hair and his flies had been down all morning.

Last week, J bit nephew’s finger (they were arguing over a toy.) Usually they play really well together, though they take off each other’s slippers a hundred times a day. They also both love watching Teletubies (I love them watching Teletubbies – it gives me 20 minutes peace.) I have had to unplug the television because they keep going in the lounge and turning it on to watch – they don’t believe me that it isn’t always on!

Today was ‘Dilip Day’ at R’s school – a fete thing full of smelly second-hand toys. M bought a plastic crocodile which he’s named ‘Tina’ (no idea why.) I’ve already confiscated it twice, once because it was being used as a bashing stick and once because it ‘ate’ all R’s felt-pen lids.

I gave everyone straws at tea-time. Bad idea, they all blew milk over each other.

J is being very naughty at the moment. Yesterday he splashed toilet water all over the bathroom, then took my best china plates out of the dishwasher and threw them on the floor (only one broke).
He also opened the fridge and left a trail of orange juice across the kitchen to where he poured it into two plastic saucepans. He can now climb/fall out of his cot, so I have put a big mattress on the floor.

Went to the shops – always a struggle with the double buggy. It’s too wide for the aisles so I have to block the whole shop while I quickly grab what I need, pay and leave. Today the boys were swinging their legs and J realised he could kick off his red wellie. It sailed straight up and hit someone on the head, which sent him and nephew into peals of giggles. Embarrassing. I did apologize but it’s hard to sound sorry with two toddlers in fits of giggles behind you.

We went for a cycle ride after tea, with J strapped onto the seat on my bike. R went very slowly and carefully and screamed when she banged her shins. M went very fast, couldn’t work the brake, ran into me 50 times, fell off twice and thought it was wonderful. They are very different……

A Day in December
All the Christmas activities have started. R was an inn-keeper’s wife and M was a king in their respective Nativity plays.

R’s ballet show was hard work – lots of rehearsals at inconvenient times. I did try staying to watch one rehearsal but the boys moved two thousand times in the half hour, culminating with J’s chair folding up with him stuck inside it. Not sure we were suitably still and quiet enough to watch again.

R now busy reenacting the Nativity. She’s having a hard time. J wont wear his crown and M is objecting to wearing a pink dressing gown.

It snowed yesterday. M told J, ‘God opened his arms in the night and made snow as a surprise for us.’ They loved it. Every single pair of trousers is now soaked.

My birthday was nice. Husband let me have a lie in, then they all gave me gifts. A mug from M, a plate (to replace the one he smashed) from J and chocolates from R.
Husband invited the family round for tea. He bought a black spider cake, which was hideous.”

Reading the memories made me smile. It seems so weird that there was a day that was the last time I ever picked them up and I didn’t even realise. They are grown up now, but I still love them to bits. Am so glad they grew out of the biting phase.
Take care,
Anne xx

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Who do you trust?

Posted by anneethompson

What do you trust? As in, really trust, not the ‘wearing my lucky socks for an interview’ kind of trust but the kind of trust we had when we were tiny. I’ve been thinking about it recently.

When we were little, Mum and Dad always took us on those camping holidays didn’t they. We never had any input into where we went or what we did, we just trusted that we would be safe and have a nice time. I remember we used to load the car with all our stuff and sit on heaps of blankets, driving for hours through the country to a windy campsite where we would all help to put up the tent and unload the car. I think, when I was small, I looked forward to them. When I was bigger, I longed for a caravan. (I have now promised myself that I will never have to camp again. Ever.) But when we were tiny, we loved it. We also had complete, unquestioning trust in Mum and Dad. That’s the kind of trust I’m thinking about.

I started thinking about it because I was reading the bit in the Bible about Jesus in Gethsemane, just before he is arrested and then killed, the bit where he is praying. He prays, “….not as I will but as you will.” That is complete trust. He has told God that he does not want to die, to go through all the suffering. Then he says that what he wants more than anything is that God’s will be done. He knows that ultimately, that is for the best. Have you ever felt that? Ever had complete trust in God or someone else? Since we were tiny I mean (little children are good at trust. Perhaps because they don’t see the dangers or perhaps because they have no choice.)

The only time I’ve come even slightly close was just before I had brain surgery. I was sitting in the rocking chair on the landing, praying about it. All the doctors had talked to me about the possibility of dying or waking up disabled – not in a ‘worst case scenario, not likely to happen’ sort of way but in a ‘this is possible (but you’ll die if we don’t do it, so there is no option but to take the risk)’ sort of way. It was a real possibility and that REALLY helps you to focus on God and praying and asking for his help.

Anyway, there I was, praying, asking God to make sure I didn’t die and I felt him talking to me. That doesn’t happen very often, but I guess he knew this was important. He told me I needed to trust him. Not trust him that I wouldn’t die, but trust him that whatever his will was, it was for the best. I felt he was asking me what I would choose. If my dying meant that my children would be saved, would I choose that? Of course I would, any mother would. Then I realised that I don’t see the whole picture, only God does. Maybe my dying or being left paralysed would be what was best – not in the short term for me, but in the long term, in the eternal picture sort of way. I had to trust not that God would let me live but that God’s will, whatever that was, would be done.

Just as I was having these thoughts/prayers, the phone rang. It was a friend phoning to say he would be praying that I would have a successful operation. I told him that instead he should pray that God’s will should be done. I find that happens sometimes, God never forgets that we are human, physical beings, sometimes we need to say and do things to make them definite, real, so we don’t forget them.

As you know, I didn’t die. But I think the trust bit was important.

When we have a crisis of health, or someone we love dies or when awful things happen, like the terrorists actions in Paris, it makes us realise that trusting ourselves isn’t enough, we need someone bigger to rely on. It is important that we place our trust wisely. Bad things happen. Do we trust God to bring some good out of it? That his plan is bigger than all the nasty stuff that we see in life?

It was fairly recent, but I have already lost that ability to completely trust. I am thinking about my book, my hope to be an author. I am praying that God will help me get published. But what if that isn’t his will? Do I trust him that his way is better? That’s pretty hard in normal everyday life. Plus, how do we know what his will is? I guess sometimes (usually in my case) we don’t. I didn’t know what his will was when I had the operation, I had to take the advice of people who knew better than me about physical things (the surgeons) and trust that God would be in control of the outcome.

Sometimes we have to walk along the route that seems to be laid out and just trust and pray that God’s will be done.

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