Mennoooooooocccchhh...

This is a journal record of my recent bout with COVID-19 (or a variant of it) and you are not obliged to read or respond to it. There may be TMI for some readers, and there will be links to medical research - you've been warned.

What I had forgotten to mention on Monday's post, was that by Friday morning my throat had more or less closed over. I had been unable to consume anything other than fluids (and a small amount of porridge) since Wednesday evening. By the time I was getting ready to settle down at Carnwath, I knew I had more than just a resurgence of Chronic Fatigue, or just a nasty cold. A fortuitous call from Mac1 who, when she heard me and the symptoms, grimaced and said that the previous month she'd had similar and tested positive for COVID, put me on alert.

It reminded me that I had testing kits with me - so immediately did one, and... well, that's where the wheels fell off! I lay down at about five that Friday evening, and slept right through to nearly nine the next day. Somehow I pulled myself together to drive the next six miles down to New Lanark, the forested car park where I have been several times now. It's a proper little haven and I knew I could sleep for however long there and be perfectly safe. And sleep is mostly what I did, in between swallowing down as much fluid as possible. Beyond, the throat (the headache had gone off mostly by end of Saturday), the lack of hunger, by Monday it dawned on me that I was having a couple of symptoms that had come upon me during that first infection way back in February 2020. They are not pleasant.

Back then, I had the fever for about three days, not just one night. The chest was very badly affected, this time less so, but still not great. I was bedridden for a week - though probably would have been longer, but there was a father to care for. This time, I had to get going by Tuesday morning, but definitely still needed to be abed. 

In 2020, despite taking on board ample fluids, I did not urinate for eleven days. There was very minimal kidney pain then, but when fluid did flow, it took three or four days to stop showing the blood and protein content that indicated AKI. At the time, kidney injury from C-19 was not recognised - now it is. Naturally, there was related constipation.

I have to report, this symptom not only returned with this attack, but there was also much more marked pain radiating from the kidneys and over the whole abdomen. One of the worst things to take in whilst in kidney distress is potassium - so once I started eating again, it could not be my beloved bananas or potatoes. I had indicated in my Sunday gratitude post that there were lingering symptoms, and the AKI and constipation were two such. At the time of scheduling this post, which is a week following that admission, things have improved, but not entirely returned to normal (though by the time of you reading this, it is hoped that will be the case). 

Another symptom that has come this time around, but I escaped in the first bout four years before, is anosmia. It took several days for me to recognise that I was not smelling anything. Not a whiff. This is very disturbing to me, who has, till this point, had a keen nose. There are those who may make light of this and call it an advantage. 

They'd be wrong. Not only is smell an essential safety mechanism - what of fire, gas, other foul odours with possible injury inferred??? - but it is also a key part of taste. Without the sense of smell, taste is almost entirely eliminated. Food becomes nothing other than one amorphous blob of fuel. I have found one or two items that are highly seasoned reach through, but there has been no enjoyment of summer berries, or other fruit (pineapple manages to get through), all bread is just texture only, even my curries are bland compared to what I know them actually to be.

All the research that is being done doesn't avoid the fact that this symptom could well remain for a long time. Some folk recover at least some olfactory sensation after a few months, but many are still without full use of their nose, and a few are completely anosmic still, after four years. I confess I find this as upsetting as the ever-worsening tinnitus that threatens my hearing. Just as I no longer know the truth of silence, now I cannot appreciate the smells of the pines and mosses and wildflowers that surround me on my forest visits, the clarity of the air with the seaweed and salt upon it as I stand beside the Clyde...

On that Tuesday after three days of R&R at NL, I had to get The Grey up to Glasgow for his annual appointment. I was still testing highly positive and had to declare so at reception. We were turned away. Although hugely disappointed, because it had taken some effort to get that appointment in the first place, I was actually perfectly glad to drive away and back to Dunoon. As you will have read on my posts during that little respite, I stayed in Grey, just popping up the once to the Hutch. Those few days continuing my rest and recuperation by the water were indeed helpful, but by the Saturday of mid-May, I knew I needed to be moving again, despite still testing positive. I wanted to get over to Balfron to visit a quilting show that Mac1 was helping to facilitate. The coughing had set in by now, and some unpleasant, very sticky catarrh was manifesting.

What was truly disappointing was that my test that morning turned out to be as strongly positive as the first one, and this was now day 12 after the onset of symptoms. It is difficult to find any current research on COVID, but generally speaking, it seems that after 10-14 days, one can reasonably consider no longer being infectious but should still take all precautions - such as wearing a mask and keeping a distance. Anyone who did approach me too closely, I quickly advised that I was recovering from the infection, and they approached at their own risk. I was able to enjoy the show, spend some quality time with Mac1, had some good conversation with a group of ladies over afternoon tea (chairs at a good distance) and then went and charged Grey at the local CPS tower, did some grocery shopping, and parked in the spare ground at Balfron for that night. Thus began another week of a different level of R&R...

As for the testing positive, apparently, this might happen for weeks! 

😕

POST SCRIPT; LATEST. The scheduled post was updated Tuesday morning (two days ago). Finally, the test result was negative!!! Still coughing and croaking a bit, and the anosmia continues, but otherwise on the up.

Menoturals; Of The Land

Last week, my newspaper released one of its documentary films, which immediately captured my interest... and tugged at my heart. I will share it with you shortly, for I think you will all enjoy it just as much as I, for all sorts of reasons.

First, though, let me explore a little of why it struck me so deeply. Long-term and attentive readers will recall mentions here and there of my ancestors' rural roots. On my father's side, his father had left the crofting to move into forestry down by Invergordon... but his father had been a Skye crofter who then moved across to Kinlochbervie/Oldshoremore to marry into a crofting family there. (Click that image to biggify.)

A few of you may recall a video I shared back in 2017, which was filmed very close to that place (in fact, Oldshoremore gets mentioned a couple of times in it). Much of that wee film resembles what you will see in this modern version from Norway.

On my mother's side, there were five generations of shepherds/smallholders (not called crofting in the Border region), ending with my uncle Andrew... though when he sold the farm, two paddocks were kept and a home built, so he still has his feet on the land. Until the 1970s, the family farming had been done in the glen at Meggethead. Then, a reservoir was required, and the Megget Valley was deemed the ideal spot. My grandparents and Andrew were relocated over the hills above Buckholm, where my uncle still lives. They went from sheltered, lush swards at around 550 feet above sea level to over 1000 feet above sea level and hilltop exposure. Lambing, always challenging (as you will see), became a real chore. I can recall assisting in my younger years in the darkest February nights, in the shelter behind dykes to protect from snow drifts. Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr... I can also remember helping to stook the newly mown hay, which my elders and male cousins had quite literally scythed by hand, in much the way you would have seen in that 1940s film. Then, in 1966, Andrew was in charge enough to command a move into the 20th century and along came...combine harvester and an automated hay baler!!! I shudder to think how we kiddies, even under the age of ten, were expected to muck in and clamber all over that machine with no sense of health and safety.

So many of those smallholdings have been subsumed into ever-expanding superfarms, and the sense of society that once existed between farming neighbours has been severely eroded. Yet, there is a movement back towards those more independent, community-focused forms of farming. Hedgerows are being replanted, and the field edges are being left for wildflowers to encourage a renewal of badly damaged ecosystems. It is this concept which drives Rakel, the star of the video. You will find in this short documentary an echo of the northern Scottish crofts and the lowland Scottish hill farms, as well as the love of connection to the land and the dedication to the livestock. You will see sheep and their lambs, glorious scenery, and feel the emotions of the family dynamic that struck deep cords within me. 

I would note here that today marks the 45th death anniversary of my shepherding grandad, the man by whom I tend to measure all men.

Menoshirring; Give A Gal Some Shears...

... she WILL use them! As lamented last week, I made a major change. Apart from a couple of times in my life, I have always had long hair, varying lengths, but always sufficient to 'dress'.

My hair was thick, slightly wavy, and generally easy to manage.

It could be piled up high...

Left loose...

...or tied in a simple chignon -
which was my go-to style.

But as can be witnessed from that last image, I have been struggling to keep the mop under control. Not only has the balding gene stolen my Widow's Peak and begun to steal into my crown, but the quality of the hair has changed dramatically since the menopolyxinaemia kicked in. It became brittle, so lots of straggly, untameable bits. And when brushing or combing, great lumps came away. It became so thin even the clips and clamps that used to struggle with the thick hair now struggled to find any hair to keep a hold of and were constantly slipping.

So last week, the scissors took off the bulk. Then on Wednesday, a brand new shiny rechargeable shears kit arrived, and another inch was removed.

I may take it back even more with the next shearing. The beanies cover a multitude of messiness. It is also now quite clear why beanies are more than necessary! As to which...

Here is the next crop of crochet; a bandana-style cowl to go with the second of the stripe cosy hats, then a bowl-beanie created from the rim to the crown and a pair of mitts to match. The cowl is an adaptation of a large shawl pattern I will be making at some point, so half counts towards the pattern stash breaking I have been meaning to do!

Menoonable; Reminiscence

Over on MY TAKE bloggy this month, I took up the challenge that Sandra the Mad Snapper set - well, not her actual challenge, but an adapted one of my own - about photographing ordinary objects. My POOproject. Earlier this week, the image below appeared...

A few commenters remarked that they had looked up the company (now absorbed into a larger organisation, as often happens). One guessed that it was a past employer of mine.

I had mentioned B&K when narrating my earlier history in the guise of an analyst programmer. This photo of two lasting mementoes triggers this post telling you more about that. It was a heady time - that is to say, it was the only time I was ever 'head hunted' by an agency. They had been approached by B&K to fill the post of head of their IT department, who had skills in hexadecimal language for Nixdorf machines. It was a dying art even by the early 1990s. I was one of only two folk in Sydney to meet the criteria. The other was the one who had vacated that offered position. I had recently severed my contract with Siemens Nixdorf due to the glass ceiling effect, not to mention misogynistic and paternalistic behaviours in the almost entirely male staff towards the four women in the office. If I didn't take up the post, B&K would be forced into a total system upgrade at significant expense.

It was the time I had started my medical studies, so could not commit full-time. I also did not have my own transport, and B&K's office was in a part of the city which would have entailed more than two hours each way on public transport. No worries, mate. The company laid on taxi vouchers for all journeys for the six months I was with them. They paid the salary I asked them for without quibble. When I discovered that there needed to be some undoing of previous work to get the system doing what was wanted of it, there was no doubting or questioning, just "what can we do to help you in the fix?" The Norwegian CEO was one of the best examples of positive management I ever experienced. 

In case you haven't already searched it, Bruel and Kjaer was a specialist engineering firm focused on precision measuring instruments, seismology, medical... You need precise assessments; these are the goods for you! The Sydney (and only Australian) office was focused on the sales and service of said instruments. 

The computer system not only had to work on logistics (my speciality) and general administrative tasks but also keep live tracking of deployed instruments to ensure optimum service standards. This involved some learning of the engineering side, which I relished. 

When the system was running to standard, I wrote the manual and trained a junior for its maintenance. (I was 'on call' for two years following in case of any major failure - I was called up only once in that time.) My contract with B&K was drawing to a close just before the end of November 1992 - but they insisted that I attend their Christmas party that year. All 25 staff were there, and it was held at one of Sydney's most prestigious waterside restaurants. Again taxi was provided, and the company gifted all the employees with goodies baskets to take home.

There were fancy cheeses, crackers, chocolates, individual Christmas cakes, a single-size Bolinger bottle each... then personal items for everyone, which for me was the brass coaster and mini Swiss penknife on a keyring.

There are not many things about which I can get sentimental, but even as I recall this time for you here, I well up a little. You see, I had spent three years in a state of stress; first, I had emigrated on a working visa, but it took till mid-1992 to get the final acceptance and obtain citizenship (i.e. I can sympathise with refugees, for at any time, I could have been deported); second, I had been through no less than four jobs prior to B&K, all on short-term contracts due to that visa uncertainty, and all of them had been challenging due to highly unpleasant management experiences. To have thought I had left the computing life behind me as I transitioned to health instead, this final contract was surely a gift to ensure I had a positive thing to look back upon for that chapter. A company that truly valued and trusted its employees to do the work they were engaged for, that actively sought to assist and keep those employees upskilling and focused on their task, and in which even disagreements were dealt with at adult levels with no rancour and proper resolutions found.

The coaster is in constant use, and the wee knife has proven its worth on many occasions. I treasure them as the triggers to the memories of six incredible months.

Menolyrical; Final Friday (non) Fiction

Can you believe we are here already? One down, eleven to go... Final Fridays of each month, air off your old images and make some words around them! 

Yesterday's post told you how I opened up a cardboard folder full of images - some I recalled and some I didn't. 

This one was among them. Yes, that is yours truly... summer of 1980.

Here is the why and when of the image - even if I can't explain having a poster-sized print of it!!!

In April of 1980, I turned 21. Although 18 had officially been the age of majority in the UK for ten years, Scotland tended, socially, to think still in terms of 21 being 'the big birthday.' I'd celebrated my 18th in Nigeria but was settled back in Scotland as guardian to my wee brother, Mac3. I was working full-time at ESCA by this time and able to save quite comfortably. 

Thus it was that I shocked a few who knew this rather shy and quiet one by developing a sense of independence... I booked a solo trip to the isle of St Lucia in the Caribbean! What most of those folk who claimed to know me had failed to understand is that I always tended to the solo way of life. (The one who did spot it early on saw it as a problem... "You'll die a hermit spinster!" yelled mother one frustrating day when I didn't want to join in a party. She is likely to have been correct.) The biggest rebellion regarding independence came with my emigration to OZ... but that tale is told elsewhere here.

I had a fantastic week on that magical little island and have only fond memories from it. I danced reggae and limbo, snorkelled coral coves, sailed and swam with sharks... you can read all about that HERE.

This picture though: taken after a lovely afternoon snorkelling and a successful attempt at para-sailing. Of the group of seven of us who attempted it, I alone had managed to stay aloft for a full five minutes. I still don't know quite how - and I never did it again. But it brought a sense of elation and, I suppose, was another signal of my being perfectly able to live life my own way. 

As was the hairdo. The very first day on the island I was introduced to Belinda and she did this first cornrow design for me. It was a looser style and with thicker pleats. The day before I left, though, I wanted a longer-lasting version and one that could adjust into other shapes or simply tie back in a ponytail. So Belinda spent about four hours creating the much finer design you will see in the story link just given.

That was in the days when my hair was truly thick and lush. The days before the onset of menopolyxinaemia and so much else that happened. Forty-two years have passed. The body has thickened and the hair is thin, thin, thin. These days, I can barely get a slide to stay in place, it is so much less. With each stroke of the brush, a handful comes away. I am thinking of marking my last chapter, a final show of rebellious independence. I am thinking of shaving it all away. 

Just thinking, mind you...

Menoizikul; Midweek Musicalisms

Last week you saw an early film of Sr. Paco picking the strings perfectly. Moving forward three years... not the best visual, but oh that sound. This too with the collaboration of another of the Mac Clan guitar heroes - John Williams. 

Mac1 and I both learned guitar, inspired by these two giants; although she was more inclined to favour Julian Bream as much as I did JW. As it turned out, she was better at country and folk music, whilst I did follow the classical... for a while. We could hold our own for a party, but there were never going to be any recording contracts!

I digress - see how all this has sent me down memory lane, the route of nostalgia, the avenue of reminiscence??!!!

Back to the two heroes for today's musicalism item...

Menorgraffikul; Art Meets Giraffe

Thank you all for the birthday greetings during the AZing thing. I did actually have a rather fun day reading everyone else's posts and watching snooker (yes, I love snooker - chess with balls... cough!)

Back in March, I had been looking around the net for something which I don't entirely recall at the moment - but which, as these things often do, resulted in me landing somewhere totally unexpected. The Kunsmatrix platform allows anyone aspiring in the world of art to display their work virtually. I had a wander around a few 'galleries' and came upon one that really caught my imagination. One picture in particular. Then a second. Looking more deeply at the info, I found them to be within my budget and I determined immediately that these were to be my birthday present to myself. (Long-termers here know that I like to collect a little bit of art here and there.)

Anyway, I sent in my request and had a wonderful email exchange with the artist, Julie McMurray. Not only did she offer a generous discount (as I am a pensioner) but she lives in lovely Lancaster and has an active, bright and cheerful Instagram stream. 

So what was the art I bought? A gorgeous rendition of the Sydney Opera House brightened up in the style of Klimpt - and the Giraffe In Love... with which I am much in luurrrvvvv and cannot help but smile every time a gaze upon it!

Oh, here you are - a full-frontal of the Raffy and his Rose...

copyright Julie McMurray 2021

Thank you, Julie - they are everything I hoped and more!!!

I got lots of lovely greetings... and a surprise special chocolate bar from Bertie and Gail (which I have had two bites from - yes, I am really that restrained, but it may not last much longer for it is delicious). From Aitch, there was a voucher to the big A and I purchased two more of those excellent wire shelves for the kitchen tidy up - and then a truly surprise bunch of flowers from our wonderful blogpal and all-around fabby human being, Mara. Spoiled or what?

Now I don't have to keep lifting one pack or tin to reach another beneath it!

This counter was two-thirds covered with all my stuff -
now look - usable acreage!!!

Menoculayshunal; Wonderment Of Ponderment

It's all about looking for The Light...

No, where were we? Thinking. It's all about thinking. At this stage. 

Being so busy in the thinking just now, a button on Voovoo the Vaio was hit that produced a sudden click and BOO! The thinking had taken me away from a focus on what the hands were doing. Who knew the camera could be triggered thus? The temptation was to trash the result. However, the decision came to keep and use the frame (with a little editing). It is quite illustrative of the greater concept, of the endeavour. Of this little series about moving from the earth to the ether and beyond...

Thank you to all who were so receptive to last Monday's post. In the ponderment prior to typing, it was recognised that this is effectively taking up once more the Mac History series. That fell away, possibly, because this stage needed to be reached. The stage of sharing experiences and events that, to some, will seem rather foreign, even fantastical. Realising that that autobiographical was returning to posts, the previous postings were perused, to see where to connect, where not to repeat unnecessarily. It soon became apparent that, for the most part, the 'history' is purely material. It was 'kept safe' so as not to jingle too many bells. 

There were a handful of posts in the spiritual element. The one that started it all off, though, the event on the hillside with grandad and sheep... somehow that cannot be found. Or never got posted. It is essential to explaining The Journey, however. 

This toddler was taken by her shepherd grandfather up towards the copse on the hill, looking for wee lambies that may have been born overnight. He set her down by some tussocks with an instruction to stay there until he came back. While he was away, another fellow came and sat with her. There was a sense of safety. Of Love. As grandad came back towards them, the stranger departed saying only, 'remember Jesus.' Being but a toddler, the girl asked the grandad where his friend Jesus lived. The grandfather nearly dropped her down the hill. 'Where did you ever hear that name, lass?' 

'He told it me just now.' The grandfather took his time, but then told the girl that Jesus must be her friend only, as he did not know him personally... and that she should not mention that name to her grandmother, or anyone else for that matter.

Which she didn't. For a very long time. 

There is no way to ratify or rationalise experiences such as these. It was the first of several such... revelations (?) Altogether disconcerting when one is actually rather logically-minded and deeply interested in the scientific. It would not be denied. At age seven that girl asked her mother whether she could attend Sunday School. Turned out she was jolly good at Bible Study. She earned herself her very own bible in return. (Still held.) But even in those early years, there were questions. Questions, questions. Despite studying with the Baptists at that time, the girl sought answers from others; Jehovah's Witnesses, Roman Catholics... and later, Jews, Buddhists, Sikhs, Bahai, Sufis. When teaching Sunday school within the Scots Kirk (Presbyterian) there came a trip to the Isle of Iona, where another important experience took place. That physical healing was big enough, but there was also a spiritual legacy. The teaching became more open, more questioning and encouraging the children to question, just as Jesus himself had of his teachers. That was not particularly well received by the establishment. Time to move on.

Meanwhile, one followed the line of logic in life, starting out first in agri-economics and statistics, number-crunching,  but getting involved in computing as it developed from mainframe to LANs and then 'personal computers'. That first degree in computing set me free in many ways. Due to it, emigration to Australia came about. Analyst/programmers were 2nd on the list of prescribed professions for max immigration points. 

That career itself did not last so very long (it's all in Mac History if you are really keen) and along came medical studies and alternative therapies. For a pure science fix, membership of the Australian branch of the National Space Society, lay studies in astronomy at the Sydney Observatory under Dr Nick Lomb. Oh, one could go on about those times; the obtaining of one's own telescope, the participation in studies on logistics of living on Mars, the attending of conferences with big names such as Alan Shepherd, John Young, Buzz Aldrin, Carl Sagan... but these are all material things and were an alternative attempt at finding one's place in the great mystery of life.

This one was deliberate!

How to marry up the night search for the Leonids and finding oneself in the company of a stranger, tall, silent... oozing Love... and dressed like a Native American chieftain?! How to marry up the ever-present 'inner-voice' with the figures and numbers of logic and maths?! How to draw all the threads of so many philosophies and tie them into one explanation?!

It is too easy to pass off another's experience as irrelevant, or having no bearing upon one's own life, simply because we have not had those experiences ourselves. It requires of us to be very grown-up about life to accept that there are a great many experiences to which we will never be exposed, but that does not mean that they are not experienced by others. Even looking at these as one's own history, the logician keeps a balance. It is the sceptic within which, in some way ratifies the experiences. This is not a person who can be passed off as fanciful, feeble-minded or frivolous.

Menorumbelatoring; When The Earth Moved For Me

What a week. I heard about tornadoes, earthquakes, flash flooding, rail disasters... and let's not forget the small matter of COVID.

Indeed, what a year. Everyone is going through something. One day we'll look back and reminisce. 

But anyway, to the title. On hearing about the earthquake over in North Carolina, Bertie Boffin's Gail remarked that she had never experienced one and had a curiosity about it, being as how she is a geology boffin herself. I, in return, remarked that I HAD experienced one.

Not in the direct, buildings on my head kind of way. In the swaying and swinging of the earth way.

It was 1989. I had not long emigrated to the Great Down Under Parts and was thoroughly enjoying learning the Australian life. Standing, as I was, in my bedroom in Turramurra, brushing my hair, I felt all of a sudden woozy. Only I realised it wasn't within me but external. The floor had shifted.

There was a rumble, like thunder, and creaking, as the house shifted. Through the other end, there was a crash or two and mum yelling, "what's happening?!"

I dashed through to find two of her pottery ornaments in smithereens and several other items well out of place. Mum herself had been caught wrong-footed and was lying on the carpet - luckily missing hitting her head on the coffee table.

We had no idea, never having experienced such. Only that evening, switching on the six o'clock news, did we discover there had been a massive quake centred in the Newcastle area of NSW. It was pretty devastating. It turned out that our home was right on the fault line. Not quite the San Fernando fault lines, but significant. 

My main memory was of thinking that I was all of a sudden on a ship at sea. And seasick. I am grateful not to have experienced more than that. It was quite enough, ta.

Menolyrical; Final Friday Fiction

The last Friday of March 2020 and the world is very different from what it was even a month ago. Here in blog land, we are keeping each other good company, and for this, we must be grateful. 

As more of you will have a bit more time on your hands, perhaps you'll have a go at the FFF challenge. See the dedicated page (check tabs up top) to find out how to join in. 

REMINISCENCE
One of the brilliant things about memory is that it generally recalls the good and - mostly - forgets the trials and tribulations of a particular time or relationship. Of course, there are degrees to this, many shades, and there are a few who remember only the dark. Predominantly though, the good times light our paths.

One of the tasks undertaken recently while adjusting to the new paradigm since Covid was a clear-out of my late mother's old dressing table stool. Which, I think was really always a sewing stool (you know the type) but it served in the bedroom too. It would have been her birthday on March 24th. It was a nice way to reminisce.

There was all manner of stuff in there. Clearly, my sisters had had a rummage and, I suspect, 'cherry-picked'. Much of it I could happily trash. Some scribbled notes on scraps of paper in mother's handwriting. Things about knitting stitches, or that something that she had heard from 'Shiela' or 'Wilma' or needed to pass on to 'Betty' or 'Dorrie'. There were cuttings from papers and mags which held no interest beyond the fact they had been of interest to her. Some sewing stuff. The odd nail, washer and screw. An inch of wool kept for 'just in case'. And another and another. This was the quintessential Elsie; always be ready for a rainy day, waste-not-want-not.

Among the items I opted to preserve were these. The photos were taken in Australia. The outside one at Old Sydney Town (historic re-enactment compound). The inside one, from our first visit to the newly refurbished Sydney city storehouse, the Queen Victoria Building. It was quite novel in the late 1980s to have old buildings repurposed to modern mall-style usage. It remains a very popular destination.

Who knows whether the box had been a gift sent from the USA or was a found item, but it is cute. (I have a 'thing' for little boxes and tins). Inside was some costume jewellery, most of which was trashable. I have kept, however, the little roll of bias trim. 'Just in case'. Will use the hair clasp as a paper clip. The diamonte necklace is worth nothing and has some spinels missing. However, I can remember my mother getting it for her 30th birthday and she wore it often when going out with dad. The little diamonte spray brooch she inherited from her own mother and I am happy to have it in my possession. Pure nostalgia.

Then there is the 'roo brooch. A tourist kitsch item, really, but of better quality than would be found these days. Who knew we'd be saying that about 1980s paraphernalia?!

Last, but far from least, the Children's Service pamphlet. Produced by the 'Scottish Council of Churches' (now known as the Action of Churches Together). Where on earth mother obtained this from I have no idea. I don't remember it ever from my own childhood... it is quite possible she picked it up from a bowls club fayre stall in her last years. Possibly finding some solace in the prayers within it? She never attended church, beyond the basic requirements of weddings, funerals and other nominated occasions.

It's a bit of a mystery, then. However, as a spiritual being, a philosopher and researcher of all things faith-related, I shall keep it in her memory. Tomorrow, you will find one of the small prayers quoted here. I hope you will find it fitting.

Nothing fictional about today's post, yet, in the recall of memory, it can only ever be coloured by the direct experience of this individual. Whether that would tally with the individual who was my mother, is quite another thing. I know that when family memories are discussed with my siblings, there are often differences in 'view'. Sometimes, one wonders if one actually shared the same space, or whether one or the other is living in la-la-land.

Do we all create our own lives? Is all of this just a fiction anyway, our lives just an imagining; like the sparks from a fire, looking bright and flame-like, but - in the end - falling away to ash and merging with the earth?

©Yamini Ali MacLean 2020

Menoweryglowery; It Is What It Is

In response to Monday's post, the MadSnapper suggested my feeling scattered was a likely reaction to being on care duty two weeks out of every four. I have hinted as much myself in a couple of posts now.

Thing is, though, it is what it is. I am totally accepting of that and a willing participant. It's not the fact that I have to do the caring... it's the fact that I am not far off needing cares myself!!! The few years I have been back in the Bonny Land, life has been really rather sedentary. There's a 'chook and egg' side to this. I have restricted mobility anyway. It has always been there (since I was 10 or 11). For much of my life, I have kept active, in as much as my bones would permit. I was determined not to be imprisoned by the Rheumatoid Arthritis.

It was when the menopolyxinaemia hit (the first symptoms were kicking in at around 45 years) that the 'old arther' started to exact its tax for having permitted continued flexibility. Things began to seize up. Not just the obvious.

Still, I pushed on. Head has always been stronger in the mind-body connection of the YAMster.

Once I got to Sadeepany Ashram, though, where stillness is valued and encouraged, I ought to have found ways to keep the body moving. I see this in retrospect. While there, I was focused on the task at hand and anyway, "I am not this body" is the whole tenet of Advaita. Which I am not. But the body is my vehicle until the end of the trip. I have kept up the maintenance on all the 'electrical and hydraulics'... but the framework has become rusty through lack of use. Much like was happening to Li'l Ren the Redster, who sat outside the Hutch for weeks on end not driven and then not wanting to move when I did try to use it.

Cars are built for a purpose - to move from A to B and maybe via C and D. Bodies are the same. Efforts at 'chair cycling' and the occasional, though unintentional, 5km walk doesn't really help that much. Apparently. In fact, going to Edinburgh for half of each month means that even the 'cycling' has dropped off because no way am I carrying those pedals around on the buses!!!

No, when it comes to the physical part of all this, I have to deal with a body that was aged before it got going and which has been forced to over-ride rather a lot throughout life. Now, at 60, I am in not much better condition than many 80-year-olds.

I just need to give myself permission to use my times back in the Hutch for total rest and restoration. Not give myself a hard time at the increased time spent in recreation. For the time being, I am in one of life's "passing places" where it is necessary to let the traffic go on by. Breathe. Take in the scenery. Do the basics of keeping body and soul together, but not fret about the unnecessary and superfluous. Of the 'would like to do', 'want to do' and 'need to do', only the third is required.

What I am saying (I think) is that it falls to me to build myself up physically and develop a mental routine to counterbalance the loss of personal time in order to adjust to the new circumstances in the family.

If I vent here, it is purely because I am one of those who needs to 'talk out loud' in order to make sense of things. Not complaining, just venting. Releasing the steam. Sitting in my passing place.

[I am back in Edinburgh now until Feb 6th.]

Menoffagainorrhoea; Suffolk Sojuourn Day 2 - part 2

After our dip into the history of Ed Sheeran (till now), Aitch dashed off to collect her spectacles and I took the half-hour to wander the various rooms of the mansion museum. It is laid out in a wonderfully flowing display in what is actually something of a rabbit warren of a house! Each room takes a specific time in history and is fully dressed in the fashion of that period. From the Tudors to the Edwardians, it is quite delightful. Many of the panels found around the place are actually not of the building itself but rescued from other ancient homes in Ipswich which were either completely renovated or totally demolished.

The best I can do for you now is cease from words and let the piccies do the talking. Oh, just one thing. The elephants. Many places now use fibreglass animals as an attraction. These "Elmers" were all painted by professionals and by local schools for a local hospice charity.

Once done here and Aitch and I had reconnected, we grabbed a quick lunch at the cafe in the grounds and headed back home... but took time to stop by Memory Lane.

Well, actually, it is called Old Norwich Road and it is where I spent a chunk of my early childhood! The park is where I and my siblings used to walk in order to reach our school over beyond the houses at the back. Then there was No. 682. Once a simple bungalow, it has been levelled off at the front, had an attic room created and been extended quite significantly to the rear. The wooden plaque with the number on it is the very same one my father mounted 50+ years ago!!!