In which I find a new way of having a perfectly lovely time

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

Feeling human again, albeit a human after two too many cups of coffee. (Coffee is rather like martinis; one too many is fine, it's when you hit two over the limit that you are in trouble.) 1633 words today, not all of them bad ones. I do notice that my adverb habit is getting a little out of control. It's all very well going up against Mr Strunk and Mr White, but there is the edge, and then there is the abyss.

Sarah called and we shouted and laughed at each other for ten minutes. This is what passes for normality with us; much better than yesterday, anyway.

As you may be able to tell, my brain is addled. I was going to give you an entire disquisition about Shirley Sherrod and race in America and the whole crazed media machine, but I fear my cerebellum would find that a bridge too far. The always enchanting Michael Tomasky has written about it well here, if you are interested. (I think it is interesting, and sad, and baffling, and, in the end, instructive.)

Instead, I have some pictures for you, so as not to torment you with fragmentary sentences and incoherent thought. Along with the new camera, I have a newish bit of software called Picasa. You can download it free from the internets. It is sort of maddening, because it does not always do what I want it to do when I want it to do it. I become a bit of a little dictator when it comes to technology. But it is also wonderful because, as I discovered today, you can do all kinds of special effects. I have no end of searingly dull pictures on my computer (hopeless at deleting things), and I find that instead of looking at them in boredom, I can take them, and jazz them up, and suddenly they are - POP ART:

Well, not quite, but you see what I mean. This was a rather pointless shot of my tumbling honeysuckle, and now it is a homage to Andy Warhol.

Not all the effects are so extreme. One can do tweaking:

This tiny viola is a tinted version of this:

A little more saturation and some highlighting, and you get this:

An overlay of blue gives you this:

A bleaching out of light and colour produces this:

A little intensity and some shadows turn a blah salvia into this:

With some extra colour, a view of the garden on a cloudy day becomes this:

A rather inconsequential head of marjoram takes on an air of glamour and mystery:

An utterly failed shot of a tree suddenly looks like a painting:

The dogs look like they are in their very own movie (although I do admit they are so chic that they look like film stars even without airbrushing):

An ordinary chive takes on a whole new lease of life:

As you can see, it becomes rather addictive. It is giving me absurd amounts of pleasure. Only two days ago I was uncertain I could see the meaning of life (low grade viral load always does that to me); now I can be made happy by fiddling about with a picture of a chive flower. Sometimes it really is the little things.

Wednesday

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

What incredibly kind get well wishes you all send. It is like getting little virtual pots of chicken soup through the blogosphere. Thank you.

Did not sleep much last night and woke still feeling absolutely awful. Dozed and moaned about in bed for the morning, despite my resolution to get back to work. I was about to write the whole day off, when suddenly an entire new section of book fell into my head.

Sarah, who had been worried by my flat voice when she rang at ten, called back at lunchtime to find me up and jabbering.

'I'm going to do a whole thing about the psychology of beauty, with specific reference to thighs,' I said.

'Oh yes,' she said.

'And then a little diversion on the burqa,' I said. 'I've been thinking about it, because of the French.'

'Of course,' she said. 'The French.'

'And I might make a small tangent on the patriarchy,' I said.

'The patriarchy,' she said. 'Yes.'

(I have an entire new idea about how the patriarchy exists and does not exist, all at the same time.)

I went on for a while. After a bit, she said:

'Are you sure you are all right?'

'Yes,' I said. 'Remember how I hate being ill, I think it a sign of weakness, as if I have given up. And then I always go a little crazy in the head at this stage of a book.'

'Yes,' she said, once more with feeling. 'You do.'

It's not really craziness, although occasionally it feels like that. It's just that when a book comes, it comes like a freight train, and sometimes I get run over by it. I become monomaniac; I can't think about much else. I care so much about it that it makes my ears ache. More, more, more, shout the voices in my head. More words, more ideas, more little lemon twists. Better, better, better, yells my perfectionist self, which I try and fail to vanquish.

Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to sit down calmly, not really caring much one way or the other. Are there sanguine writers out there, who just think: that will do?

Luckily, my mother has sent me limes. She says I need the vitamin C. I am perfectly certain that this is the answer.

In the meantime, despite a lingering viral load, I have done 2190 words, much to my astonishment.

Here are some soothing things on which to gaze:

Miraculous little apples on my new apple tree.

The chanterelles my niece bought yesterday.

Old-fashioned lavender, in a pot.

My favourite mint. I keep thinking: I must make mint tea.

Update on the mystery seeds, still growing.

And the lovely pot table, still giving me vast pleasure.

Tuesday

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

Thank you so much for incredibly kind get well wishes. Still feel mostly ropey, but the older niece and her gentleman suddenly arrived bearing THE FIRST CHANTERELLES, and if that does not make me feel better, nothing will.

My plan is: back to normal tomorrow. I can't be malingering; I have to write a book.

In the meantime, here is the newest rose in the garden:

And its fellow:

And some lavender, just because:

Really am feeling most peculiar. I think I may go and have a little lie down.

Off sick

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

Ill in bed today. There is a low grade virus going round the compound. My mother had it last week. My ears hurt; I can't think a reasonable thought; my entire body feels as if a cross Welsh Mountain pony has cantered over it. It's that kind of illness that drives one mad, because it's not really that bad. I should really butch up and carry on, but then I feel too weak and have to surrender.

Really, I think to myself: it's not pleurisy. I had that once, and it made me cry. I actually thought I was going to die, it hurt so much. Sarah had quinsy last year, which really can be fatal. Although I must say, they did know how to name a disease in the old days. Quinsy and pleurisy fall so much more beautifully on the ear than swine flu.

I lie, tossing and turning, feeling slightly like a skiver. I wonder how cross I should feel about Mad Sarah McPalin of the Clan Bonkers saying that all peace-loving Muslims should 'refudiate' a mosque being built near the site of Ground Zero. When very strange people go on saying strange enough things, I almost lose the capacity for outrage. Although I really can't quite work out why the erection of a place of worship two whole blocks away from the place where the World Trade Centre stood should 'stab' Mrs Palin in the heart. In the end, I think: refudiate is rather a splendid new word.

Hugh Sykes is reporting from Afghanistan. He is the best, most humane, most interesting reporter in the entire BBC. He is public service broadcasting in one human. I love him.

I ponder what it is all about. I always get a bit of a mortality attack when I am ill. I think: life is so short and strange, and sometimes I struggle to invest it with meaning or sense. Usually, when my mind strays into this avenue of thought, I turn my head and see this:

And this:

They lounge around on the bed like duchesses when I am under the weather, dozing, stretching, occasionally gazing at me in karmic contemplation. I think: that'll do.

Saturday

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

Few words today. Today is mostly all about gazing out of the window, quietly.

I do have a question, though. I am wondering whether to change the design of the blog. Those of you who use Blogger will know there are swanky new templates available. The thing is, I quite like this old design, in the same way I liked those boxy  cars they used to make before everything had to go through a wind tunnel. Once I change it, there is no going back. This old template is dead like the dodo. The main advantage of the new versions is that I can give you much bigger photographs, which I have wanted to do for some time, mostly so you can see the canines in their full glory. (I am only half joking.) I am not sure they have the quiet elegance of this outdated design, though.

So: do I stick to the classic original and stay an analogue creature in a digital world? Or do I embrace the winds of change?

I can't decide. What do you think?

In the meantime, I give you flowers:

And trees:

And meadows:

And dogs:

Have a lovely weekend.

An ordinary Friday

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

I call up my mother for a logistical conversation, but somehow we end up talking about a drunken Irish playwright who used to chase her round the upstairs corridors of a white house in Wicklow in the 1960s.

'The green soup, Mum,' I say sternly, to get the conversation back on track.

'Hold on,' she says. 'I'm writing it down.'

'You don't need to write it down,' I say. 'It's so easy, I can just tell you, and you can keep it in your head.'

'Yes,' she says. 'The only thing is, there really isn't any head, any more.'

I know what she means. There are times when I actually have no information about what day of the week it is, and have to look it up on the internet. Not that long ago, I spent an hour searching for my wallet, to find that it was in the fridge. (The most idiotic thing was that I ended up congratulating myself on having the genius idea of even looking in the fridge.)

I did work. I walked the dogs. I did recycling. I went to the butcher and bought a fillet of Aberdeen Angus on an entirely unjustifiable whim (the expense) and laughed at his jokes. I took my mother watercress, leeks, garlic and chillies for the soup, and a cheesecake for a treat. I failed to get to the post office, but there is always tomorrow.

In other words, it was a good, ordinary day. There is a lot of craziness out there in the world, so I don't turn my nose up at an ordinary day.

Talking of ordinary things, here are some, which even in their very ordinariness, still carry a certain beauty:

A fallen pine cone.

Wild grass, out in the meadow.

Clouds and treetops.

The last of the fading chive flowers.

Lemons, from the day I was making lemonade.

Excuse me, how did those two get in there? They are not ordinary at all.

A green leaf.

The lichen on my dry stone wall. You know I can never get enough lichen.

The wild corner of my garden, where I pretty much let things grow as they will. I put in some ferns and ivy and vincas, and the rest is left to nature.

Moss.

A rowan leaf.

 

The sun is making a half-hearted attempt at shining. I think I shall go outside and look at it.

Have a very happy Friday, wherever you are.

SOPH, SOPH - This one's for you

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

To my regular readers: please forgive me. I am going to use the blog for a little bit of self-indulgence.

My old friend Sophie lives all the way out in Santa Monica, and she's had a hell of a year, and I want to send her out a big, fat, vulgar dose of love. Sometimes an email just won't do it. For some reason, this needs to be nailed up on the wall.

So, Soph, this is for you:

Remember when we first met, in the dark, subterranean bar of Brasenose? (What the hell were we doing in Brasenose?)

Remember Commend, Commend?

Remember the parties in the Cathedral Gardens?

Remember our intemperate love for Mr Everett?

Remember Dreamy and the Ducklings?

Remember the summer that I refused to take off this hat?

Remember when we had finals fever so badly we would get in the car and drive round and round the ring road, singing Oh What A Night at full volume?

Remember the first flat-share, and how I made you watch The Big Chill and High Society over and over?

Remember when we drank 1928 Armagnac and ate four courses in that restaurant in Prague in the shadow of Charles Bridge?

Remember the mornings in Sausalito, and the visit to Napa, and the time we drove up to Big Sur?

Remember the green velvet jacket that I wore that whole trip?

Remember all the boys that made us cry?

Remember all the boys that made us laugh?

Remember the time we went to Connemara and sat on the sand at Dog's Bay, and ate stuffed mussels at O'Dowd's, and I had a freak-out in that hotel restaurant because it was far too posh, and you had to take me to the pub and feed me Guinness until I could speak again?

Remember when you came to Hay, and we met Terence, and dear Roger madly went swimming in the river?

 

Remember that sweet lunch in the tiny white house near Deal, when you looked so glamorous in your California shades?

Remember when I quoted Yeats at your wedding to the Lovely R? One man loved the pilgrim soul in you.

Remember when we took little Z boating on Lake Windermere in the pouring rain?

Remember last summer, when both the children sat under the Scots Pines, and we had tea on the lawn and sang songs while Tara played the guitar?

That's twenty-five years, baby.

That's what it's all about.

Sometimes, it seems like it's all tunnel, but I know there is a light.

You are my most beloved friend, and this is the face I think of when I think of you:

Remember the Good Times.

 

And now, for listeners joining us from Long Wave, normal service will resume.

Back to normal

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

That is, if anyone knows what 'normal' actually is. I wonder about that quite a lot. Half of me rather yearns for normal. I have a respectable self which thinks that working regular hours, and keeping the house tidy, and cooking proper food at serious mealtimes is the mark of an adult. I also have a thoroughly disreputable side which thinks: sod them all if they can't take a joke. This side says: I am a creative, dammit, of course I can't do my paperwork, that stuff is for the drones. One side believes Flaubert, who said: be regular and orderly in your life like a bourgeois, so that you may be violent and original in your work. One side favours Scott Fitzgerald, and wants to go and jump in the fountain outside The Plaza.

Small aside:

When I first went to New York City, all by myself, at the age of nineteen, the very first place I went was The Oak Bar of The Plaza, because that was where F Scott used to drink. I ordered a bourbon, straight up, from a barman called Mose who looked like WC Fields, and had a lovely conversation with a gentlemanly psychologist who was in town from Florida for a shrinks' conference.

'Oh my GOD,' shrieked my old school, Upper East Side friend George, when I told him this the next day. 'Did he offer you money?'

'Certainly not,' I said. 'He was perfectly charming. Why would you say that?'

'Because that's where all the HOOKERS go,' said George, in horrified delight.

Anyway, I spend most days battling it out between the bourgeois and the bohemian. No wonder sometimes I have to go and have a little lie-down.

Today was more orderly than yesterday. I wrote a fairly calm 802 words. I made a little flower arrangement. I walked the dogs. I am, however, averting my eyes from the toppling pile of paper which sits to my right, waiting malevolently to be dealt with. We can't expect miracles. Or at least, I can't.

To divert my attention from my vanishingly thin organisational skills, I am contemplating The Beauty. Bugger the paper, let us consider the flowers:

 

It always amazes me how much pleasure one tiny arrangement in a Moroccan tea-glass can bring. That is apple mint, flowering marjoram, lavender, astilbes, a hellebore, and one old-fashioned tea rose, all from my very own garden.

Talking of pleasure and beauty - you know what is coming next:

Did you ever see such elegance?

The whole red chair thing started because I have my sister's poodle to stay, and I wanted to take a nice picture of her, so that the sister and the younger niece could see that their canine was having a nice time while they were away:

Then I decided that the whole black dog against the scarlet chair with the vintage Union Flag cushions thing was too good to waste. So I made the other dogs get up there for their own photo shoot. They were quite puzzled, since they never sit on that chair, on account of it being too small for them. But they bore it with resigned patience:

I know that dogs do not have human thoughts. I resist anthropomorphism daily, not always with vast success. But if they were capable of putting together a sentence in their doggy heads, I suspect it would be: 'Let's just humour the old girl.'

The sentence in my own head is: 'In the words of the late, great Nancy Mitford: do admit.'

 

Final photographic addendum:

One of the things I love about my new camera is that I can fool around with filters and colours. As you can see, it can do sepia, and black and white, and varying shades of warm and cold. I am still discovering its many functions, a process which would be made easier if I had not already lost the manual.

Some of you have left very kind comments about the pictures, and asked to be reminded what the heavenly new article is. It is an Olympus PEN, what is called a three quarter camera. It is not quite an SLR, with the advantage that it is not as heavy and clunky; its design is retro and particularly pleasing. However, as you can see, it is miles more sophisticated than a simple compact. As far as I can tell, its only disadvantage is that it is expensive (I got it with my American advance, which was quite naughty as I should obviously be saving that for a rainy day), and its zoom is sadly limited. I really do want a proper zoom lens, but they are a fortune. I am contemplating screwing up my eyes and just saying what the hell, but have not quite got there yet.

 

Have a very happy Thursday. I wish you all patient black dogs and roses in glasses. Or equivalent.