It’s not earth-shattering – it’s this: should I take my camper van to the country park, have a walk through the trees and a picnic? Should I go to B&Q, buy some compost and plants, come home and do some gardening? Should I do both, drive the camper van to B&Q en route to the country park and hope to find a parking place not too far from home when I get back, so it’s not too much of an effort to carry the compost etc home? Should I take the car (camper van too tricky to park) and go to the garden centre that’s en route to the country park (if I can remember where it is, I’ve only been a couple of times, and that was years ago), and if I do, does my parking season ticket for the country park cover the car as well?

Yesterday I bought rolls and individually wrapped flap jacks in preparation for this picnic that I was planning. But – isn’t the country park getting a bit boring? I don’t want to drive the other way, to the New Forest, because that is a full day out, and does mean driving along the M27, which can be stressful. And putting the van back into the garage is always stressful. It’s only a couple of weeks since I moved the van, so it shouldn’t have seized up yet – though I did leave the battery connected up in the expectation that I’d be taking it out again in the near future. I won’t be taking it out next week, though, because I’m going up to Bedford – on the train, because hopefully my daughter will be bringing me back to stay a few days and help with sorting out the study.

I was going to go to B&Q because I have a coupon, and Wednesday is Diamond Card day, but of course you can’t combine the offers, and anyway if you read the small print the coupon only applies if you spend £30 on full price items, so it’s not great if you want to combine lots of small things, when some of them are likely to be on multi-buys anyway, so I’d spend all my time trying to work out what to spend it on.

I like the idea of going to the garden centre, but from what I remember the parking is pretty awful, so as I said, I wouldn’t want to take the van.

I’m just trying to give examples here of what my mind is like all the time. I think I’ll give myself a treat, but it takes so long to think through all the options, implications, ramifications and potential consequences that I start to dread it, even when the object is something I know I would enjoy – unless, of course, I don’t enjoy it at all and end up wondering what on earth I’m doing there, wherever it is. Which is quite likely.

The wind is coming from the sea and right up my street, the way it wasn’t on Friday. More wind means more waves and that’s more usual than Friday’s calm. Even in the Rock Gardens, which always used to be a haven, I can still feel it, or at least hear it. A flock of pigeons skitters in the sky, crossing each other’s paths then dispersing in a shower of squawks. A ribbon of toilet paper flutters across the path, but later it seems miraculously to have been blown into a ball, wedged against a rock marking the edge of a flower bed.

Before I left home, the weather app promised me no rain for at least 60 minutes, so why can I feel splashes on my face, too far from the beach to be spray?

I glance at my watch: 8.25, half an hour till the cafes open, so I head for the shelter on the prom. Is it raining? I still can’t tell, the clouds are grey enough, and the gulls are flying high, circling against their dark backdrop. The flagpole outside the Lifeguard Station keeps up its tattoo of rope against metal as the waves continue to roar majestically, and the sun reappears, silvering the surface. I watch someone from the cafe pushing a sack-barrow, moving a plant pot to the edge of the seating area – it must have been moved to safety overnight to stop it being blown over.

When I step outside the shelter, the wind comes back again, full force. I walk back to the Rock Gardens, to the bench where I was before, still no rain, and I notice how close it is to the fish pond, which I had my back to before, so didn’t consider as a source for the droplets.

I think I’ll wait for the cafe to open at nine, then realise that I’d still have to sit outside on the prom to eat my breakfast, so give up and walk home.

I read this on the Dyspraxia Facebook group:

I’m done with shame and feeling sorry for myself. I will no longer apologise and be a victim to it. You don’t see a wheelchair user apologise for using a chair. So why should we apologise for how our wires connect in our brain ? Which is outside of our control. We either work with it or struggle against it. Either way we owe no one an apology for how we’re wired.

At first reading I felt irritated by it, because after all, shame, apologising and self-pity have been a way of life for me. Looking at it again, I can see it’s not a personal attack on me, in fact it’s a perfectly sensible attitude, but somehow it struck a nerve, maybe because I’ve always judged myself on those criteria and come up wanting.

Writing that date jogged something in my memory, and I’ve realised what it was: my wedding anniversary, 38 years ago today.

But that’s not how I intended to start.

As far as I can remember (I was planning to start) it’s over five years since I wrote a ‘story’, by which I mean a short piece of prose with a beginning, middle and an end, worthy of submitting to an anthology, reading out loud or sharing with an online group (though I have written quite a lot of poems in that time, some of them not bad).

Sitting behind the café, with traffic passing, and dog walkers and joggers and wild swimmers, the sun is warm on my face and the wind mercifully calm. I can even hear the waves during lulls in the traffic, though to get the full impact I would have to walk down the beach past the terrace of pebbles, where there’s nowhere to sit except on the ground, and hence nowhere to write. From this vantage, I can see the sea, but not the water’s edge. I can’t even see how far the tide is in.

I’m drinking coffee from my flask. The café won’t be open till nine o’clock, as it’s a week day. I check my phone. It’s bang on eight. I don’t know whether there is anywhere else that’s open already, possibly the Coffee Cup, but I don’t like their breakfasts.

I set off to walk, in the opposite direction, heading for the pier. I pass the café and a couple of kiosks, but none of them are open.

But the pier is open, so I walk to the end, where, clearly in expectation of a busy summer (or at any rate more so than last year), more fairground rides have been erected. When I first moved here, the pier was closed for renovations, and re-opened in 2017, since when attractions have come and gone, but I don’t remember seeing this many before.

It was quite surreal, to be walking around them alone, apart from a couple of guys fishing, and one lady sitting outside the cafe at the end of the pier, who told me it would be open at nine. I leant on the railings for a while watching the sea, and the Isle of Wight ferry, then walked back along the other side of the pier and turned left on the prom.  

This year I’m with my son, daughter-in-law and the ‘boys’ (dogs) at the ‘cabin’ (the name we seem to have settled on as sounding less pretentious than the ‘lodge’) in the Surrey Hills – hopefully another ‘first of many’. I came for a couple of odd days when they first picked up the keys and for my birthday, when things were still in lockdown. Now it’s busier – the swimming pool is open, but for pre-booked sessions for single-cabin-only groups, and yesterday morning I booked a slot and had my first swim since September in Cyprus, all by myself in the empty pool. It was glorious, but the changing rooms aren’t open, so I had to walk back with my clothes on over a wet swimsuit – which was okay, apart from the seat of my jeans, which got soaked, and I hadn’t brought a spare set of bottoms because I’m travelling on the train and had shoved everything into my backpack – including my swimsuit and towel, which my son scoffed at but I really enjoyed that swim. My daughter-in-law kindly lent me a pair of trousers while they dried over the radiator.

It’s close enough for me to easily come over for a day, and I have my own key now so I can come whether or not they’re here. Admittedly it’s a hundred mile round trip, but not a bad one, mostly on the A3.

Tuesday 4 May 2021

I didn’t finish writing yesterday because the others got up and I never got back to it. So I’ll cheat today and just add to what I’ve already written.

There’s not much to say. We went out for a lovely walk across the fields in the sunshine, came back and then the weather changed and it was wild and stormy all afternoon. We played board games, laughed and got grumpy as families do. The wind is still wild now, but it’s not raining.

Going home today. It’s been a flying visit, but a peaceful one. Home today, on the train. Never want to leave, never want to go back. I don’t know how to get round that. I don’t know how to fight off the great waves of hopelessness that well up from time to time. Is there an answer? I’ve been looking for one for so long. Being with people helps sometimes; sometimes it makes it worse. Ditto being on my own, the advantage being not having to consider and deal with the reactions of others.

The wind howls around me, but the sun is still shining.

I’m getting a massive sense of déjà vu now, not so much about the actual moving day but because I think I must have written about this every 30^th April for the last five years, and I’m sure I’ve read it not that long ago. I stayed overnight on a camp bed in the flat then drove back up to Bedford the next day to collect the rental van and fill it with stuff, then on the day after that I drove down in my car with my ginger cat in a basket on the seat beside me, via Guildford, where I picked up my son, while my daughter and her then partner (now husband) drove down in the van, which had to be parked at the end of the road, because there was no room outside the flat, and the furniture and other stuff carried through the drizzle and up the stairs into the flat.

Every year I feel as though I should mark this date in some way, which I’ve done today by going for a walk, retracing some of the steps of the first day – except that that was really a coincidence because I only thought about it when I was sitting on the bench behind the café drinking coffee from my flask (because the café doesn’t open till nine on week days).

What I did think about when I was walking was how my regular walking route has changed from when I lived in the flat. That first day I walked along the beach to the Coffee Cup and then turned inland, and walked past the cemetery and along the road which passes the end of the road where I live now, past all the shops and then the traffic lights where I turned back towards the sea again. That first summer, my walks were mostly in the opposite direction from where I was today, through the Rock Gardens, past the castle and across Southsea Common towards Portsmouth Harbour. Over the last year, while I haven’t even been going to the swimming pool, I’ve stopped going over that way altogether.

Maybe it’s time to start revisiting some of my old haunts again.

I said he wasn’t ‘… a friend, exactly…’ but looking back now I can see he had a deeper understanding and empathy than most of the other people I met at those events, who were eager to tell me how great I was, but never noticed what was going on under the surface.

Anyway, I don’t think I met up with them, due to some mix-up rather than intent, but I remember walking alone by the canal, taking pictures of the narrow boats.

The other day I mentioned that I’d gone for a walk, with that same intention of improving my well-being. I don’t think I said that afterwards I had a miserable morning, full of buried rage, but I’m sure that was just coincidental.

Today I woke around the usual time (four-thirty to five), but some time after six, when I was thinking about getting up once the heating came on at six-thirty, I dozed off again and slept in till half past seven.

I got up and dressed, and instead of doing my yoga/tai chi routine I decided that I would make a flask of coffee and go for another walk. As I walked, I thought about the mornings when I used to walk to the swimming pool – which is now closed, of course, and has apparently done so for good.

I walked to the beach, and then along the beach, briefly thinking of doing tai chi in the stretch of damp sand and scattered pebbles between the waves and the ridge which marks the usual high-tide line. It was later than I usually walk, there was at least one wild swimmer, but also two ladies in anoraks with bicycles behind the cafe, who I thought could have been two of the regulars, now presumably dried and warmly wrapped up.

I went up the steps by the crossing opposite the Rose Garden, my usual route. I hadn’t stopped outside the cafe with my coffee, as I usually do, because there were clearly people there preparing to open up. I’m not sure what the rules are now, but I know they’ve been operating a take-away service, and they have tables outside. I found a bench in the sunshine in the Rose Garden, and spoke to a robin – I invited him back to my garden, but warned him that I have a cat, albeit an elderly, dopey one, and he cocked his head and looked at me, but didn’t take up my offer.

I did my napowrimo thing, but thought; what can I say/ it’s not even half way through the month, and if I’ve reached the darkest point already, what am I going to do for the next two and a half weeks? (Seventeen days counting today). To add to the frustration, the shift key on the right side of my keyboard has stopped working, which means it’s a pain to do the capitalisation for NaPoWriMo 9and if I don’t keep on top of it lots of other things go down the toilet, like question marks, brackets and i0.

But the keyboard thing isn’t really relevant to my general feelings of despair, and I just need to get round to ordering a new one. I came up with a Napo-etc poem yesterday, but couldn’t quite bring myself to use the word ‘hope’. That’s the problem, isn’t it? When you can’t see any hope you can’t wish it into existence from nowhere. It doesn’t matter how irrational that is, that sense of everything falling apart. What makes any one morning feel any worse than any other? All mornings are shit – if you choose to write in the morning, it’s not surprising if everything comes back to moaning.

But if I’m honest, I know exactly why yesterday was so hard – because it was the first session of tai chi in the park – as opposed to on Zoom – and I’d been dreading going out and interacting with other people – even a nice, friendly group of people whom I used to see every Tuesday morning. Did walking twenty minutes to the park make it somehow worse than three minutes to the community centre where the classes used to be? No, not particularly. Anyway, I could have driven, but that would have meant finding a parking place near the park, and another one near home when I got back, and I need the exercise. The fact that it was in a new place probably did enter into it somehow, even though it’s a place I’ve driven past many times, it’s still a new walk and a new location. But mainly it’s the experience I HAD AT THE END OF THE FIRST LOCKDOWN (not shouting, just demonstrating that because I’m trying to use the left hand shift key I keep getting caps lock instead without noticing. Also, on the sentence I started with ‘Anyway’, I accidentally hit the ctrl key, and when I glanced up everything I’d typed so far had disappeared, because it had done ‘select all’, and I carried on typing – I didn’t realise that was what had happened, but I managed to keep hitting ‘undo’ till it all came back).

I have to go out again today, for a Covid test, but at least that only requires the minimum of human interaction.

When to stop
and when to go.
When to try
and when to no.
Questions always in my mind,
seeking things I never find.

I used to think there’d come a day,
when things at last would go my way.
I’d show the world a happy face
and life would fall right into place.

That will not be,
it is not me.

I take the thoughts that come to hand,
and turn them into words that scan.
And though I struggle finding rhymes,
that happens too from time to time.

There was a trailer on Radio 4 yesterday for a programme about how going for a walk first thing in the morning can improve your health and wellbeing (I haven’t listened to the programme – yet).

I decided I would do it this morning (go for a walk, not listen to the programme), then lay in bed and listened to the second episode of ‘Sweeney Todd’ instead, and by the time I checked the sunrise time on Accuweather, it was almost six already and I had no time to get to the beach for 6:19 to see it. But I got up anyway, dressed, fed the cat, let her out into the garden, made a flask of coffee, found a notebook, let the cat back in, found my glasses, found a mask, found my notebook again, found a pencil etc etc and left the house, came back for the mask, came back for gloves, and was walking down the road shortly after seven.

It’s been a while since I had a morning walk – other than to the doctor’s for blood tests, which has happened twice in the last few weeks. The second time was last Friday, and I thought about walking on to the beach (I was half way there) but decided against it as it was grey and dull and I wanted to come home and hide. It was dull this morning when I left home, but the sun came out while I was sitting on the prom drinking coffee.

I’ve written two poems, one NaPoWriMo one came to me as I was on my way there – actually before I left home, when I put my hand in the pocket of my winter coat and pulled out some pebbles, which made me think of Virginia Woolf, who filled her coat pockets with stones before drowning herself in the river. The other popped into my head when I was in the loo after I got back, as you can see above.

I’ve been meaning to say some more about my NaNoWriMo poems, obviously I’ve made it to Day 11, I think it’s working okay so far, but yesterday I felt completely at a loss till I found the seeds in my desk drawer – which I haven’t planted yet, by the way. It feels very risky, setting myself this task – though of course it’s not really ‘risky’, I could stop right now and it wouldn’t matter…  

These questions bother me every year, yet no one else ever seems to notice. All I can say to that is: do the maths.

And why do I bother to ask, when there is now a source of answers for everything?

In most Western ecclesiastical traditions, Christmas Day is considered the “First Day of Christmas” and the Twelve Days are 25 December – 5 January, inclusive, making Twelfth Night on 5 January, which is Epiphany Eve. In older customs the Twelve Days of Christmas are counted from sundown on the evening of 25 December until the morning of 6 January, meaning that the Twelfth Night falls on the evening of 5 January and the Twelfth Day falls on 6 January. However, in some church traditions only full days are counted, so that 5 January is counted as the Eleventh Day, 6 January as the Twelfth Day, and the evening of 6 January is counted as the Twelfth Night. In these traditions, Twelfth Night is the same as Epiphany and is also known as the “Thirteenth Day”. However, some churches that fall in the latter category consider Twelfth Night to be the eve of the Twelfth Day (in the same way that Christmas Eve comes before Christmas), and thus consider Twelfth Night to be on 5 January.

Wikipedia

So why have I never bothered to check that before? I probably have, it’s just that I’d forgotten the answer.

I saw the waxing moon through the slats in the venetian blind when I was doing my morning exercises earlier. Which reminded me of another question which occurred to me during one of my beach walks a few weeks ago. The sea had clearly been high enough to throw bits of seaweed, pebbles, sand etc up to the sea wall and over onto the prom, which, due to the terracing of the beach, almost never happens. It must have been due to a storm, but it got me briefly thinking about the tides – in particular, that there must have been an exceptionally high tide – and then I remembered that the moon was in its dark phase, so how could it be high tide? Which also made me realise that the tides are not related to the phases of the moon at all, as I’d been assuming, because the moon is always there (when it’s on this side of the earth), it’s just that we can’t see the bit that is in earth’s shadow – and why would that make any difference to the gravitational pull between earth on the moon? So why do the tides change as the moon changes? This puzzled me mightily for a while, until it dawned on me that the tides must change with the distance of the moon from the earth, which I suppose interacts with the phases of the moon (in terms of how much we see) but isn’t directly linked.

I didn’t check that on Wikipedia (or anywhere else), but I was quite happy to have figured it out for myself. Welcome to the inside of my head.

I left the beach to cross the esplanade and drink my coffee in the Rose Garden, which is more sheltered, and as I turned to look back, I saw the clouds moving and parting, and a brief burst of light came from the gap and shone momentarily on the sea.

I think I finished yesterday saying something about regret, and Geoff Dyer saying that whatever you do, or don’t, there are always regrets. But I part company with him there – I think I’m quite good at avoiding regrets, over the big things, anyway. Of all the major changes I’ve made over the last twelve years, I don’t think there are any which I would undo, were such a thing possible, even the ones whose consequences were painful at the time. Not that that spares me from agonies when I have to make a choice, but that’s another matter. The torments I went through before I decided to move here – which seem ludicrous looking back from this perspective – were only finally settled when I realised that if I didn’t at least try it, I would always wonder what would have happened if I had. And now I know.

I read somewhere – a few years ago now – that it is part of human psychology to see major life choices – marriage, house purchase, choice of job, divorce – in a positive light once they’ve been made and committed to. It’s the ‘it was meant to be…’ syndrome: ‘I was meant to meet you, move here, do that – because look what happened!’ I was saying this a couple of weeks ago, I think, when I talked about fate and fatalism. We know the consequences of those decisions, and can’t really imagine what the alternatives might have been like. Of course, this isn’t universal, and I can’t remember the research and references off the top of my head, but I can see how it has worked out in my life.

In the time before I left my husband, I bought a greeting card with the legend: ‘The only things I’ll regret are the things I don’t do’, and stuck it to the wall behind my computer. It also became the tagline for the new blog I started when I moved out. I’ve still got that card, in fact if I look over my left shoulder, I can see it on a shelf. I think it’s a pretty good motto.