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Letter to a Sister : Brazil

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. Fri 19th June

Just got back from visiting the slums. We go to dinner in an hour and tomorrow we leave early, so forgive the errors in this. I’ll write you a more organized article when I’m home, I just want to give you a splurge of words so you understand something of the day’s experience.

We started off going to Instituto Solidare. This was on the edge of the city and was a concrete building with big gates that locked. We could see teenagers playing football in a large covered area. We were taken upstairs, shown into a classroom and joined by about six of the workers. We all introduced ourselves – I got to use my Portuguese, very exciting! We then learned a little of their work. They began by having different projects, run by the church but then realised that actually there was a disconnect between what they believed and what they were doing. They needed to be part of the community, not just doing the odd project, they wanted the projects to BE the church. They see their worship as what they are doing.

They began with working with children, this extended to teenagers, then whole families and then the community. There is a huge problem with prostitution, drugs and the violent crime that goes with it. They aim to remove the kids from the streets, to occupy their time with lessons, sports, a proper meal, then they go to school in the afternoon and spend the evening with their parents. They are then hopefully, too tired to get into trouble.

We looked around the institute, then walked around the community. The houses were small, unmade roads, lots of dogs. The river was where all the toilets empty. In the rainy season ( June and July) the river floods, taking the sewage into the houses. Many of the houses had moved all their furniture upstairs. It was hot, lots of flies, lots of dogs wandering around. We saw young men strutting, with hard faces, appraising eyes. There were children, cute, smiling, wanting to be in photgraphs. Then the other teenagers, the ones with thin faces, dead eyes, wasted bodies. As a mother, it broke my heart to see them. They have mothers, somewhere. They are feeding their lives into hungry addictions, dead before they have known what it is to live.

We went to another favela. This one seemed much poorer, it felt unsafe walking around ( we were told to leave all our bags and cameras in the car. We just took our phones for pictures.)The homes were made of cardboard, hardboard, odd bits of wood and scaffold. It smelt, litter was everywhere. I photographed beautiful children sharing bags of crisps, giggling. They lived in the equvilant of a shack. It felt hopeless.

Yet there was hope. Tearfund are working with their partners to educate the people, to teach them about flood control, clearing up litter. They are teaching them skills so they can find work, things like making jewelry from discarded stuff, metal work. They are lobbying the government, trying to get better housing, more respect for the people.

It wasn’t a horrid day, though I feel exhausted by all we have seen. We laughed with children who were playing a game with David. Some teenaged girls had done a play about clearing up litter, which they had performed to their neighbours in the flavella. They were so proud of it, wanted to take us to where they had done it, sang us some of the songs. We chatted a bit and they laughed when I told them I have chickens and ducks. I wanted to scoop them up, bring them out of the favella to somewhere safe, somewhere that they wont probably end up as sex workers. I cant. All I can do is pray, support the work that Tearfund is doing. And tell you about it.

Will do a proper article with photos etc when I’m home.

Take care,

Anne xx

Letter to a Sister :Brazil

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wednesday 17th June, continued

Swam, briefly, was cold. Then went in hot tub. I cannot see the point of hot tubs, its too much like having a bath with lots of other people. Then a man got in who I would definitely NOT want to have a    bath with. Left. Changed in a toilet. Not ideal.

Met Ken and Barbie for cocktails. Mine was perfect. Ken said he had checked tomorrow’s flight and it left at 7am, which was odd as he’d thought it left at midday. D checked on laptop. Turned out that TAM airlines had changed our flight times (5 hours earlier) but decided not to mention it. Interesting decision.

Waitress brought unusual looking snacks to eat with our cocktails. Barbie tucked in enthusiastically. D then told her they were dried donkey foreskins. Didn’t deter her.

Nice dinner in hotel restaurant. Then packed small bag to take to poorer area of Brazil and stored luggage with hote

Thursday 18th June

Got airport very early. This was lucky as check in on airport computer took a while. It printed out boarding cards which resembled the crunchy variety of toilet paper – lots ofs perforations. Ken’s machine had run out of paper, so he had to fetch someone to refill it. It then spat out all the last few boarding cards and half of his.

Flight okay. Landed in Recife. Raining hard. Lots of aggressive people in airport offering taxis, which you just knew would turn out to be an expensive ‘limo’ service. Found official taxi rank. By the time the taxi arrived at hotel it had stopped raining but was so humid my glasses steamed up!

Area is very mixed. We saw some expensive cars and very nice housing. Also saw a family sharing a bike, small roadside stalls selling fruit, lots of concrete. When we stopped at red lights, people walked amongst the cars selling stuff ( like steering wheel covers)  and there was a man juggling in the road.

Staying at Cult Hotel. Has some interesting art – mainly phalic in style. It’s clean but basic. No mirror in room but a massive tele.

Met the other people on our trip and had dinner in nice restaurant next to sea.

Better go now, have to meet everyone in lobby. We’re going to Instituto Solidare. Main info we’ve been given isa the high murder rate. Super.

Sorry for any mistakes, writing in a rush on D’s ipad in a dark humid corner of room.

Take care

Anne xx

Letter to a Sister : Brazil

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Arrived in Rio after long flight. Really really long flight. We (David and I plus friends:Barbie and Ken) were met at airport by hotel driver. Bit of a squash fitting cases into boot due to two large gas cannisters. I thought he had brought along his scuba diving gear (silly man) then learned that they were full of natural gas, it was a gas powered car (silly me).
His ticket didn’t open the exit barrier, so he went and parked in deserted car park. He did NOT then draw a gun and ask for all our valuables, he just apologized and went to pay for parking. Clearly has watched different films about Rio to me.

Checked in at Sheraton Hotel. Nice. Discovered I had forgotten to turn off ‘data roaming’ on my phone and had already been charged £26:04 for excess internet. Good old Three Mobile. (Not nice.)
Was surprisingly difficult to get into a lift going in the right direction to find our room. Must’ve been more tired than I realised.

Hotel nice. Our room overlooks beach and has a little balcony. D complained sea was too noisy (such a romantic.)
Showered, ate a burger, slept really well. Until 4am.

Wednesday 17th June
Opened curtains and watched dawn break over the sea. Beautiful. D explained what several of the viewpoints were. There are two lumpy hills called ‘The Two Brothers’, Ipanema beach, Leblon, etc. He told me the small beach by the hotel is called Viagra beach. Pretty sure he was lying.

Met Ken and Barbie for breakfast. Friendly staff, good buffet, ate overlooking sea. Tried some pretty tasteless papya and some very nice melon. Coffee average.

Walked to Ipanema beach. Saw Corcovada Hill with big Jesus statue on it. Saw a ‘muscle beach’ with people working out, doing pull-ups, etc. Lots of muscle. Barbie joined in (went on a swing.) I paddled in the sea (cold).
Saw people playing volleyball. Beach not too crowded. Sun gradually burnt of cloud and it warmed up, though didn’t get too hot. Saw coconuts for sale and some growing in trees. You can buy fresh coconut milk at beach stalls.

David and Ken discussed birds on beach (feathered variety.) Interesting shape, big and black and white. Tried to look them up in guide book but it concentrates mainly on nightclubs. Surprising really.

Lunch by pool. Barbie had coconut milk, served in the shell. Looked really cool but she said was a bit tasteless. I used my best Portuguese (first time I have used it) and ordered a mineral water, still, no ice. I received a water, sparkling, with ice. Considered it a success (they understood the water bit.)

Sun disappeared behind hill disappointingly fast. By 3pm we were sitting in the shade. Tomorrow we go to Recife, then off to see some Tearfund projects.

Am writing this on D’s computer, keep hitting wrong key and losing everything. Also not yet figured our how to add photos. Will aim to improve by end of trip.

Take care
Anne xx

Letters to a sister 9

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Cassie (black labrador) died last week. I couldn’t write about it at the time, was too busy crying. She was old for a lab – 14 – and she was losing the feeling in her back legs, pooped without knowing it and her sight and hearing were pretty much gone. I didn’t mind clearing up after her, I owed her that much, she has given the family so much joy over the years. And until recently she has seemed happy enough. She mainly slept but so did the old cat and they snuggled together in her bed, so she had company, she still got excited at meal times and once a day she would go for a plod around the garden. But then she stopped wagging her tail and began to seem frightened by things, so it seemed kinder to let her go. Horrible decision. I had so hoped I would just find her dead one morning but in the end we felt it was time to take her to the vets, to put her to sleep before her life became a torment of fear at not seeing and unhappiness if I didn’t clean up her bed fast enough.

Although I knew she was ready to go, that it was the kindest thing to do, it was still hard, I still cried most of the weekend. It also makes me look harshly at life when someone/something I cherish dies. What is the point of it all? Life is so short, such a brief time of healthy happiness before we all decline, what is it that keeps us going? Why do we strive so hard to stay alive? And how will I cope when/if I lose those closest to me?

I look at the elderly people we cook for on Fridays. Most of them were married, had children, jobs, hobbies. Yet now, for the most part, they live alone, they cope with everything by themselves as their bodies deteriorate and everything gets harder. It seems to them like yesterday that they were vibrant, powerful in their own life, now they are becoming more and more dependent on others. How does that feel? How will I cope when that happens to me?

Maybe we are not meant to look ahead too far. If we trust in God (and deep down I do, I just have blips every so often, times when it all seems a bit scary ahead) then perhaps trusting him is all that matters. We do not know when or how our life will end, only that it will and that was always part of the plan, an intended consequence of having lived. Perhaps it is the now that matters, rather than the past or the future.

I know that what is in my past is finished, that those things I am proud of are not important anymore, that the things I did wrong have been forgiven. The future is a void, I cannot even predict what will happen this afternoon, in the next hour, I can only make a good guess and plan accordingly. But now, this actual moment in time, is mine. I can decide what I will do, how I will act, think, behave. And because I do not know what will happen in the next hour, what phone calls I might receive, accidents or happy surprises, then the most sensible thing would be to rely on God.

We are on a timeline, we can see the past, live in the present but the future is invisible.
(As an aside, did you know that the chinese language actually shows this in the words it uses. So the future is ‘behind’ you, because you cannot see it. It is like sitting on a train looking backwards. All the words relating to past are in front, before, you and all the words relating to future are behind you. I love that language!)
However, God is outside of time, above the line if you like. He can see my past and future and present all at the same time. So surely it makes sense to ask him for help when I live my present, to ask for his guidance as I stumble through this bit of life, doing the best that I can.

I guess if I am honest, I don’t really know what ‘the point of life’ is, especially when I get to the really tough, lonely bits of it. But God does, I really do think he has a plan and so I will just trust him on this one. I will cry for my dog, because I miss her, but I will know that her life (and mine) are not futile. There is a point, I just don’t know it yet.

Take care,
Anne xx

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Letters to a Sister 8

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Last week Mags cooked at the lunch club. She always makes huge lemon meringue pies. After they had eaten, one old lady came into the kitchen and said she kept meaning to ask for the recipe, was it a family secret or could Mags bring it for her? Mags said she would. After she had gone, Mags admitted she wouldn’t really know what to write on said recipe as the pies are packet mixes from Morrisons!

It’s the end of Spring. England does Spring so well, not like some seasons when you can’t be sure where you are in the year. I remember when we lived in the US, Spring came and went in a flash, if you blinked you missed it. Here we’ve had bulbs everywhere, bluebells in the woods, so much life. Not sure if I usually don’t notice because I’m too busy or if writing helps me to see better. I just walked Kia. There was a cuckoo calling, a deer in the field next to the house, baby rabbits hiding in the hedgerow. We saw a baby thrush perched on the bottom rung of a fence, looking all lost with its spotty tummy and baby fluff round its head. No idea where its mother was, probably having a heart attack in a nearby bush when she saw a monster german shepherd sniffing her offspring!

Last year when I was walking Kia I saw a baby deer. She had seen the mother and gone off on a long chase (still doesn’t realise that she cannot leap over hedges like deer can.) I was standing there, shouting at her departing back (futile activity) when I saw something ‘hop’ in the corn. Thought it was a rabbit at first, then went nearer and saw it was a tiny fawn. So cute. Worried that it may be abandoned due to disobedient dog chasing away mother. Went home and told James that he needed to come with me tomorrow and if baby was still there, we (he) would be carrying it home.

Was unclear how I would explain to David we had a deer living in the shed. Also some concerns over ticks, but ignored them.

Anyway, next day we set off.James asked if deer should be moved or if it was the same as when you find baby birds and you should leave them where you find them. Told him I had no idea. He then used fancy phone to google it and find out info. (Oh to be young and to understand how fancy phones work! )
Anyhow, he informed me that deer are born and left by the mother, who returns regularly to feed them until they are big enough to leap over hedges. They have no scent, so are safe from predators as they lie very still in long grass and are rarely seen. Pretty clever.
We decided to therefore leave deer where it was and just took some photos. Though it would have been SO cool to have a pet deer!

We have agreed to go on a charity trip with Tearfund to Brazil. Will visit their projects in the slums (which apparently I am not meant to call the slums, but it makes it clear that we’re not going to posh hotels.) Slightly worried we might get shot (you will be on mother duty. Ha!) though have been assured we’ll be safe.
Is bit of a logistical nightmare arranging someone to live here and look after two dogs, six cats, six chickens (including two cockerels who definitely have an evil look in their eyes) and fourteen ducks. Seems to be pretty much sorted.

I have tried to learn Portuguese. Got the duolingo app for my phone. It is impossibly difficult. Everything changes depending on who says it and whether the thing is masculine or feminine. Even “thank you” changes if I say it or a man says it. Crazy. What makes an object masculine anyway? Who decides these things? Am hoping to meet only English speakers or Mandarin speakers. David assures me this is unlikely.
One of Mimi’s friends lived in Brazil for a while and she has given me a couple of lessons (think she is a bit surprised at how slow I am!) In an effort to look keen I bought some dvds from Amazon. Could not understand a single word, not even ‘Hello’ or ‘thank you’ (which I definitely sort of know.) Complained to friend who looked at dvds and told me they were Spanish. Ah. Felt rather stupid (but she laughed for ages!)

Take care,
Anne xxx

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Kittens still cute.
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Letters to a Sister 7

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I have just tried to book an appointment to have a Hep B vaccine ready for visiting the slums of Brazil. First of all, my surgery said they did not do this any longer, I had to go to the next town and gave me the number of the surgery. That surgery informed me that they were full, they only have one nurse, I will have to have it done privately in London.

I wont name the receptionist, but I would like to because she represents to me all the rude/bolshy/unhelpful doctor’s receptionists who I have had the misfortune to have to phone in the last twenty years. She did not apologise, she did not give a reason, she did not ask whether that was a viable alternative. There was no discussion whatsoever. She just spoke to me as though I was an annoying inconvenience who should have known better than to call and ask such a silly question.

I then phoned the vets. I needed to find out if it was safe to worm Milly and Molly while they were feeding kittens. She didn’t know (apologised) and went to find out. She came back with the information, I drove to the surgery, collected what I needed and it was not an unpleasant experience.
She did not treat me like an idiot. She explained more than I had asked so that I could make the correct decision and anything she didn’t know, she went and found out for me.

Now, both people work with the public (which can, I know, be stressful. I was a teacher remember, you often see the public at their worst then, because everyone’s been to school, so everyone knows how to best teach, right?) However, I hope I was never as rude to even the most obnoxious of parents as doctor receptionists have been to me.

It is actually dangerous. If you have been up for a couple of nights with an ill child and you know that when you phone the surgery, after being put on hold for five minutes, they will interrogate you as to whether the visit is really necessary, let you know that the doctor’s schedule is full and you really should have known last week that your child was going to be ill and made the appointment then. Well, you just cannot face it. You decide you will wait. Then when you finally do go, the doctor says you should have come earlier, the complaint is now much more serious.

How can you tell them that actually you are terrified of the Hitler on the reception desk, that last time your child was ill she actually made you cry and this time you would have missed the 8:30am appointment phoning time because after not sleeping all night again you fell asleep from 7 til 9am. Which makes the lack of appointments totally your own fault.

Even if you are not phoning with an ill child, why is it necessary for them to be rude? I had brain surgery last year, it was still not possible to see my own GP, the receptionist still treated me like I should not really be there (even with a three inch scar across a hole in my skull!)

I know that doctors are over stretched and the receptionists have to protect them. I know that some people have appointments when a trip to Boots for some throat lozenges would suffice. I know that sometimes ill people might be stressy and unreasonable when they call. But is it necessary to be rude? Really?

So what is the solution? The only difference, as far as I can see between the vet and the doctor is that I pay for the vet, I am a customer, if they are rude I will go elsewhere and take my money with me. Now, I do NOT want to see the health service privatised. I love that we can go to the doctors and not worry they might be recommending treatment in order to get the money (I lived in the US remember). I like that everyone, on any income, can go to the doctor.

However, there is no excuse for rudeness. Maybe the receptionists need to remember what their job is.

So, could we just privatise the receptionists? Could the National Health Service run as it is (maybe with a little more investment please Mr Prime Minister) but save the money in the budget that is paid to the receptionists. You could use it to pay for one extra doctor in every county (every little helps.) The receptionists would be paid by the patients.

Now personally, I favour a voluntary donation system, so they would have to be very nice or they would not get paid (like some waiters) but I can see that this might not work. So how about a small fee every time you visit the surgery? Maybe £2 a visit?

I am not poor now but I grew up poor (very very poor) and I still work with kids from an estate where many are on benefits. All of them can afford the occasional costa coffee, they use the bus instead of walking, they buy sweets (none of which I could have afforded as a teenager.) I think that £2 a visit is not too much for anyone to pay. It would also make some of the ‘time wasters’ think twice, to perhaps pop to Boots or wait a few days to see if the sore throat cleared up on its own, which it often does.

Most importantly, perhaps it would make those receptionists be nicer. It is possible. I had a very nice one once. When I phoned for an appointment, there were none available but she was polite and kind. She sympathised, asked if I was feeling very poorly, said she was sorry but all the appointments had gone. Then she asked if I thought I should definitely see someone that day, in which case she would fit me in as an emergency with another doctor, or could I manage to wait until tomorrow? Mostly she was just kind. If I knew her name I would include it. It is possible to do a difficult job well. Maybe they just need a little motivation. Maybe the surgery needs to fire the bad ones……

Take care,
Anne xx

PS. As promised, more kitten pictures. They are growing so fast!

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Letters to a sister are posted every Monday.

Letters to a Sister 6

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It was my turn to cook at Lunch Club. This is a major operation, beginning with a trip to supermarket at 8:30 the morning before. I then spent all day cooking beef casseroles and lemon crunch pies, which spend the night in my fridge and then get transported to church and reheated for the lunch. This week we had forty-two people. Lots of food.

It started fairly badly when I tried to open the condensed milk ready for the lemon crunch pies. We have a Jamie Oliver tin opener, which I am quite fond of as it is not immediately obvious how it works and leaves people looking confused and I can then show them and feel clever. In the past, it has always worked brilliantly. Anyway, my guess is that Jamie Oliver does not use much condensed milk in his recipes (do you still use his recipes? I am more of a Nigella cook -unfortunately am getting the waistline to match!)

This stupid opener would not open the tin, whichever way I held it. All it did was remove a hair sized slither of metal, which then splintered off into my hand. Hurt. And bled. Not a good start.

Now, I have done my hygiene safety course (what a thrilling morning that was) so I knew that blood and catering is a bad combination. I should immediately cover the cut with a blue plaster (blue so that if it falls into the food – gross thought – it is easily spotted.) However, we do not have blue plasters in my house. We only have Postman Pat ones which I buy because I like to hear ‘important-city-worker’ and ‘international – businessman’ both muttering when they cut themselves (I clearly don’t get out enough.)

I therefore decide that I will opt for hygiene rule two and wear plastic gloves. Unfortunately, the only plastic gloves which are unopened (and therefore safe to use with food preparation) are extra large black marigolds, bought to use in the garden. So, there I am, wearing my outsized black gloves, looking at unopened condensed milk cans and thinking bad thoughts about Jamie Oliver.

What do you do when your tin opener does not open tins? I can assure you that a cork screw is both dangerous and does not work. Nor does bashing it very hard with sons penknife. Taking it in garden, wedging it between logs and hitting it with an axe does work, however leaves milk too dirty to use. The only option, as far as I know, is to drive very fast back to supermarket and buy a cheap but effective tin opener. One that actually opens tins. I will suggest to Jamie that really this should be the defining point for any implement he sells under the name ‘tin opener’. Radical thought.

The rest of my preparation went well, though I was completely worn out afterwards. Luckily, both David and Mimi were at work functions in the evening, so Mum had agreed to cook me dinner. I shoved the food in the fridge, fed the animals and drove to Mum’s. As I stood on her doorstep I had a horrible feeling that she might be going to serve me beef casserole/stew (you will understand.) But no, it was very nice scollaped potatoes with sausages and cheesecake for pudding. No tin openers necessary.

The actual Lunch Club was fine. The oldies all ate their beef casserole and vegetables and absolutely huge pieces of lemon crunch pie. All very tasty and hygienic. Some of them bring in plastic containers and take home the leftovers to eat in the week. It’s a nice feeling to cook for them. They have jugs of water on the table and a few of them have started to bring in fruit juice to add to it so it has a flavour. This week one table had a bottle of alcoholic fruit juice. The leader asked if they realised it was alcoholic and they just winked at her! That’s so how I want to be when I’m ninety-five!

Actually, we recently renamed the group. It’s now called Lunch Club (imaginative huh?) We did consider a few possibilities. My personal favourite was Fifty Shades of Grey (this was deemed to be misleading – they might arrive with the wrong expectations!)

 

We went to visit Noreen in hospital. She has just decided not to continue with chemo, so probably wont live much longer. I was really nervous about going. She’s a friend, so I really felt that we should go but I was worried about getting all emotional, which would be awful for her and upsetting for me. Prayed hard. Arrived at hospital – why are they so beige? Found her ward, which bizarrely is the maternity ward. Apparently ‘womens bits’ are all categorised the same, whether it’s the beginning or end of a life. Actually, maybe that’s better, maybe being on a ‘cancer ward’ would be rather depressing. Anyway, Noreen was still Noreen. She is clearly unwell, but still bright and sparky and fun to talk to. I didn’t get emotional at all. Find that happens a lot when I pray – makes me wonder why I don’t spend more time doing it.

Take care,
Anne xx

The next ‘Letters to a Sister’ will be posted next Monday.

Letters to a Sister 5

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Very excited, one of my poems was ‘spotted’ on Twitter and has been printed in Tear TimesIMG_2312You can order a copy (family heirloom) at : tearfund.org (they’re free)

 

For David’s birthday, his sisters gave him a voucher for a champagne cream tea at the races. Decided to use it on Saturday. Was fun. We arrived about two, having missed lunch due to eating big breakfast. Wondered how we would manage to drink a whole bottle of champagne mid afternoon. We managed surprisingly well.

The race course was nice. Not really used to race courses, so no idea what to expect. We had a table in a pavilion, which we could leave to watch the races and then come back to (for more champagne.) On way to the track passed a group of musicians who never seemed to be playing and a stand selling ‘Hand Pulled Pork’ which made me giggle. (I blame it on the champagne, but honestly, WHO thought that was a good name for something people would want to eat????)

Liked watching everyone. All the women seemed to be dressed up in high heels and fancy dresses and fascinators. I do not get the point of fascinators – they are fascinating because they look very difficult to keep from falling off! I had my best trousers on but fear I may have looked like I had come straight from sorting out ducks and kittens (because I had.)

Anyway, I had reminded David that Great Grandad had been involved with building the race course at Huntingdon, we had Dick Francis and Josh Gifford on our family tree, etc, etc. First race, I picked a horse. Told David it had odds of 9:1.
He then pointed out that actually that was its weight. It came second. Next race chose with confidence, telling him the weight. It lost, of course. Then we texted lucky niece and asked her for her tip – that lost too. Was great fun watching though.

Tea was nice. We had a Romanian waiter. I asked him which part of Romania he came from, he told me Eastern Europe. Maybe I was slurring by this point.

I used the Ladies before we came home. David pointed me in the right direction and I managed the heavy double doors just fine. Room very crowded with lots of women touching up their make up and combing hair. Did not use elbows to reach the sink (would’ve been rude.) Wondered who thought ‘bubble gum’ was a good perfume for liquid soap.

Thanks for sending the pot pourri. I’ve put it in a pretty china dish in the downstairs bathroom. Not sure why the whole world now thinks that’s a good place to fling the empty toilet roll insert.

My animals are doing well. The silver call ducks have just hatched. Mother keeps sitting on them still (glad there is one good mother in my household) so getting a decent photo is near impossible. Milly and Molly continue to be terrible mothers and only really notice their babies when I go in and put them back together. All four kittens continue to thrive, I feel despite rather than because of their mothers.

Talking of mothers, I took our mother to the supermarket yesterday. She went to one of the ‘self check out’ tills before I could stop her. Immediately, an assistant came and stood next to her, helping her check out. Think that tells a story in itself.

Take care,
Anne x

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Letters to a Sister 4

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I can’t remember if you have the same holidays as us? Anyway, last Monday was a Bank Holiday in the UK. Mimi (amazingly) managed to sell her car. Think she was a bit sad to see it go. She rather liked having a big pile if cash though! She then, rather worryingly, asked, “Will banks be open today?” I told her there was a clue in the name! Also a bit surprising as she works in a bank. Clearly that Law degree was worth every penny.

Also, Molly had her kittens. Somewhat of a surprise, as I was just thinking about moving them inside ready for my guessed due date of end of May. I found her on a high shelf in the workshop with two almost dead kittens (which didn’t make it) and one feeding.

Milly has not yet produced but seems uncomfortable. She’s a bit smaller than Molly so am guessing a few days later. I moved them all into the garage. Molly is a pretty useless mother. She is fed up with the kitten and just wants to curl up on her own somewhere. Milly is very uncomfortable and just wants to hug Molly all the time, squashing the kitten in the process. She also keeps trying to steal the kitten – perhaps she thinks if she can steal that one she needn’t go through the whole birth thing herself. I tried putting Milly somewhere different but Molly got very upset so decided having them together was the lesser evil. Think these two missed the ante natal classes and the ‘instinct’ bit obviously missed a generation. Will be a miracle if that kitten survives.

It does bring back memories of having babies, not that I remember very much. I think we are designed to forget most details so that we have more than one baby and don’t warn our daughters never to have children. I can remember when I had my second one commenting, “Oh, I remember this pain now.” Can’t remember much else. Am pretty sure though that I remained calm and glamorous throughout.

I do recall David, busy husband, not having time to read any of the million books that I gave him in preparation. Then, when I was in labour he said he would start reading one. He chose a 1950s book and read out, “Only the ignorant woman feels pain during childbirth.” I think I politely asked him to stop reading, it wasn’t helping.

Take care,
Anne xx

PS Milly had her kittens – three survived. She seems a much better mother than Molly who still regularly abandons her kitten for something more interesting. Amazingly it is still alive, though what being regularly sat on or ignored does for your self esteem remains to be seen. Perhaps it is ugly, some babies are. Do you remember Mum telling us the story of when Mark was born and Granny said, “Never mind, you can keep him covered in a shawl!”?

Having kittens is MUCH more traumatic than hatching ducklings. If a duckling gets stuck you can help and most of the time it is successful and if it’s not, well it is sad but there is no risk to the mother.
Have definitely given up on the idea of breeding puppies.
Am not sure that I want grandchildren any more either. All very stressful.

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Letters to a Sister 3

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Rats This week I have two problems, both rat related.

Now, as you know, if you live on farmland and keep poultry, you’ll have rats. Fact. We’ve always had a big brown rat around the pond. In fact, the first year we lived here, when we didn’t know what we were doing and the pond froze so the fox could walk to duck island and kill every single duck, James asked if he should still continue to feed the rat each morning. (He was young.)

However now, after two mild winters, they have become more of a problem. They get the eggs, they carry germs and will kill the young poultry when it first hatches.

So, last year we bought two farm cats, Milly and Molly, to live outside. Even if they don’t get the bigger rats, they’ll get the babies and that will keep the population under control. I didn’t spay them, figuring that a few cats outside would be fine, they can each have a litter and then I’ll get them all spayed.

Am pretty sure now that Milly & Molly are pregnant rather than greedy. Still no idea who the father is, but can definitely smell a Tom some mornings. Not pleasant.

Did some internet research to learn how I should be looking after them. Learned that sometimes cats can produce up to 8 kittens. Eight. Not really sure how I am going to mention this to David. Milly & Molly were perfect, the only two in the litter, born in a stable but handled regularly so not feral & used to a GSD. Perfect. I had assumed that as they were a pair, they would each produce a pair. Six kittens, living outside, helping to control the rats around the pond, ideal. I’ll have them all neutered after the first litter and we’ll all live happily ever after.

But eighteen? Oh dear. And whilst I can kill the odd cockerel ( especially after he has attacked me & is showing signs of aspiring to world domination) there is NO way I could dispose of a kitten. (I promise to send photos when they’re born – am guessing end of May.)

Can you advertise for good homes on fb? Have a feeling its against the fb rules, my account will be shut down by fb police. Oh the shame.

I will have to smuggle them into people’s homes. Perhaps I cd take them as thank you gifts when invited out for dinner. Can be gifts for all my nieces & nephews on their birthdays. House warming gifts? Could have a party & give them as leaving gifts/party favours. This clearly needs some thought.

My next problem is also rat related. Last Summer we had “Mr Rat” the exterminator, but then he was ill and stopped coming, leaving both a healthy rat population and some traps.

I, in my wisdom, decided to set some of the traps. They worked. I now have a rat. An alive one.

Now, it is one thing to employ a man to put down poison or to get some farm cats to kill the babies, it is quite another to be faced with a rat, perfectly healthy, looking through the bars of the trap at me. He has a little furry face and sweet little ears and cute pink paws.

He also screams the rat equivalent of death threats whenever I go near and tries to bite me through the cage. Clearly hates me. What to do?

Cannot bring myself to kill him, not face to face – plus not sure how. I can kill something quickly, before it feels fear, in an instant. But how do I even get it out of the trap without it biting me? Nor can I leave it to starve to death. Seems cruel.

So I am now feeding a rat and regularly topping up its water bowl. This is so not what I had planned.

When David gets home I will suggest he might like a drive into the countryside, away from other houses and farms and we can release it. I fear he will mutter. Will also be nervous that cage in car may not be as secure as I hope. Oh dear, big problem.

Maybe I can add it to the surprise kitten gifts…..Just be glad it’s not December or guess what you would be getting for Christmas……

Will write again next week.

Take care.
Anne xx

PS Mimi is trying to sell her car. She told me she has advertised on a car website but at the last minute she got worried about putting her mobile number on a public site. So she used a false number. Not sure she really thought that one through.