Just testing (and a different kind of bin man)

I've been having problems uploading photos/pictures onto my blog (computer too old, apparently. I need a new one, apparently. Nothing lasts. Sigh). So having been sorted out by wonderful Rob, who does this kind of magic, I thought I'd test it by uploading this photo of my youngest grandson. He throws anything he can lay his hands on into the bin in the kitchen, but as you can see, he knows it's not allowed....

Confession of a part-time hypochondriac

Yesterday, I posted a rather bad story, written in haste, and autobiographical (ish). Let me explain.

Two days ago, I noticed for the umpteenth time a lesion on my toe, and suddenly decided it was a malignant melanoma. I'm not given to hypochondria, but just occasionally I indulge, which is what I did this week.

Several terrifying Googlings later, I was probably going to be dead within five years. I would lose a leg first, though, so we would have to buy a bungalow. But wait. How would I go house hunting with only one leg? And how would John, who is fit but quite a bit older than I am, manage? And what about child no.4's wedding next year? Would I miss that? Could the Mother of the Bridegroom attend the wedding with only one leg (I wouldn't have had time to get used to my prosthetic one). And what about riding? I know an amazing woman with one leg, who rides, but I am not an amazing woman. I can't survive without riding. I just can't.

And then there are my kids, who've already lost one parent. While they're all grown up, I like to think they still need me. And the granddaughter who is " going to marry young, because I want you to be there, Granny" (aaaah). What about her, not to mention all the others?

But....the doctor was very kind and reassuring, so I haven't got a malignant melanoma after all (phew), and  I went cheerfully on my way, feeling grateful for all the things I ought to be grateful for, and really quite jolly.

But I did look both ways before I crossed the road.

Always look on the bright side

She found the lump late one evening. It looked and felt....well, lumpish. Unusual. And threatening. She Googled it, and after half an hour of frightening pictures and even more frightening statistics, she knew the news would be bad, and she panicked.

How would she tell her family? If she wasn't one of the 35% who survive for five years, how would she cope with the inevitable? She would miss births and marriages; holidays and family occasions. She hadn't finished that course she was planning, written that novel, painted that picture.

She discussed all this with her husband of thirty years, and despite his protests, she spent an hour discussing hymns for her funeral. The Lord is my Shepherd (her favourite) and All Things Bright and Beautiful (a glimmer of cheer for her grieving family). And there would be something noisy and triumphant on the organ, to go out to at the end, and lots of flowers. She loved flowers.

But when she saw the doctor, the news was good. There was nothing to worry about. It had all been a false alarm. Feeling light-hearted, ecstatic even, she almost danced out of the surgery and down the road. She would never again take anything for granted. She heard a blackbird singing, and it was the most beautiful sound in the world. She breathed in the fresh spring air. It tasted like champagne. She would write that book; paint that picture. From now on, she would always look on the bright side.

Afterwards, everyone wondered why she hadn't seen the juggernaut as she crossed the road; hadn't heard the warning cry of a passer-by. The shocked driver said that "the poor lady looked as though she was dancing", which seemed very strange.

But to look on the bright side (as she might have said), at least she had chosen her hymns. And there were certainly lots of flowers.

Questions, questions...

A while back, I posted about silly questions people ask. Well, now I have some of my own:

Where does spinach go when you cook it? I cooked a large bag of spinach this evening, and 99% of it just - disappeared.

Why do people almost invariably start up the engines of their cars before doing up their seatbelts?

How does a duvet cover always manage to eat all the acoompanying laundry in the washing machine? (And please don't tell me to do it up before washing it, because I just can't be bothered.)

Why do most of us grow out of liking sickly sweets, like those ones you can buy for a penny each? (I don't mean you, B. I know you like them, although it's probably high time you grew out of them.)

Why do children hate sprouts?

Why do women open their mouths when they put on eye make-up? (I do this, too.)

Where do colds and 'flu go in the summer?

How did the perfectly able-bodied, if decidedly odd man (he shouts a lot) at the top of our lane actually manage to persuade the authorities to let him have a disabled parking badge? (Parking round here is a nightmare, so w'ere all very indignant.)

Why is it impossible to account for all the money I have spent, within a day of going to the bank, although I've only bought boring things like washing powder and potatoes?


And why, why, why am I wasting time writing this, when it was NY Resolution no.5 not to?

And why (if you're still with me) are you reading it?

Penge, limericks, and something to do while husband on the phone

My sister and I were discussing Penge (don't ask), and I said that its the kind of word that should feature in a limerick. But when I tried, I found out why nobody else had bothered. For nothing (except perhaps henge; not exactly a limerick-friendly word) rhymes with Penge...


There was a young lady from Penge,
Who fell out with her very best frenge.
But the young lady knew
That good frengeships are few,
So decided on making amenge.


I know. Terrible. But it does prove my point.

Remembering the Holocaust

Tomorrow marks the 70th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz and is to be know as Holocaust Memorial Day. There have been several television programmes to mark the anniversary, and if you missed the programme about the indomitable 93-year-old Freddie Knoller on BBC 2 last week, do watch it if you can,  either on iPlayer or its repeat tomorrow evening. It's one of the most moving (and heartwarming) programmes I have ever seen.

Tomorrow, I shall think especially of my very dear friend M. M was born in England after her Jewish parents fled from the Nazis in Czechoslovakia, and while she was never there, she seems to have lived in the shadow of the  Holocaust all her life. Her parents - lovely, gentle people - always made me welcome when I lived near them as a student nurse, but there was a sadness about them that I've never forgotten. M told me that her father in particular suffered badly from survivors' guilt because of the family members who had died, and M seems to have taken it on herself, too. She is a lovely person, a gifted musician,  and has led a full and successful life. But it is there; that sadness that none of us non-Jews will ever really be able to understand.

So for some, the pain continues, and while I know we must all move on, just for tomorrow I shall think of M, and remember with love and affection her father* and mother, and all those like them, who live under that shadow.

*He was a jeweller, who made my first wedding ring. I still wear it on my right hand.

Reflections on hearing Hiawatha on Radio 4

Years ago, when just a schoolgirl,
For my homework, I learned poems
Off by heart. I would be tested
Standing up before my classmates,
Mocked and pilloried for errors.
Then one day, we all were given
Lines from Hiawatha's Childhood,
And I thought (though young and callow)
"Hiawatha" is a copout!
Not for Longfellow the problems
We all have with finding rhymes for
Words like 'oranges' and 'quietly'.
Not for Longfellow the challenge
Of the limerick or sonnet.
Longfellow has got off lightly!
On and on and on he rambles,
And I thought, there is no reason
Why this soporific poem
Should not ramble on for ever.
On and on and on and on and
On and on and on and
On and on and
On and on
And on.......