Lost time

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

Oh, I was going to write you a blog today. After all the extraordinarily generous comments of yesterday from the Dear Readers, it was the least you deserved. I had to go on the train, and had a nice seat with a table, and silence de glace for an hour and a quarter each way, and I read the papers, and thought thoughts, and even made notes in a special notebook, so that I should have something marvellous for today’s post.

I thought: I shall tell them this fascinating thing, and that buried nugget; I shall report this astonishing quote, and that obscure story. I was going to come back to the world. And, on top of that, I had all kinds of meditations on old friendship, and variations on universal verities, and, my dears, the very contemplation of life itself, and what it’s all about, Alfie. It was a thing of glory, in the privacy of my own little head.

And then the hours galloped away from me like an unbroken pony. Coming back to the family from the train was a thing, actually, of utter enchantment. The three-year-old was singing many songs, some of which she had made up herself; the nine-year-old was doing multiplication and knitting; the twelve-year-old Godson was revising for his history exam, and telling us the entire story of The Battle of Hastings.

‘Yes, yes, ‘ I shouted; ‘discipline, that’s what won it for the Normans.’ He laughed a lot. There are times when he finds me very funny, most usually when I am saying something I consider rather serious. I take it where I can get it. If I can make a twelve year old boy laugh, I mostly think my work is done.

All of which is a long way of saying: there is not much blog after all. And I must apologise for that. I wish I could say the dog ate my homework, but of course The Pigeon is too immaculate for that.

 

Needless to say: no camera today, because no time. Here is a quick selection of pictures from the last few days, because you must have something to gaze at.

When I was choosing this picture of The Pigeon, the two smallest cousins gathered round, stared at it, and said, in unison, with a dying fall: Oh, oh, the little Pigeon face. Could not have put it better myself:

It is late, and I don't want to fall into sentiment, but goodness you were generous and touching with your comments on yesterday's post; and I thank you all for them. People like to be snotty about the blogosphere, but in its finest incarnation, it can act like a wondrous shot in the arm. It is not what I expected would happen to me here, and it feels like a most delightful gift.

Family life

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

The writing of the blog gets later and later. This is the thing that amazes me about family life: what the geek character in a glossy American thriller would call time suckage. I write that not in a tone of disparagement, but of awe and wonder. Awe is an overused word; but I do remain in awe of those of you who look after the families.

Perhaps I should explain for those of you new to the blog that each November, I come to the Beloved Cousin whilst her husband is in South America for his work. Together, we do the domestic life, with three children from twelve to three. I tend to take over the cooking, because that is what I love.

What astonishes me is the amount of co-ordination that is needed. We spend a great deal of time making lists. Then I usually lose or forget my list and have to make a new one. Menus are also interestingly complex. All the food groups must be represented. Someone does not like cheese; someone else cannot eat fish. We can’t have chicken on Thursday because we had it on Tuesday. Also, there are an amazing amount of errands that must be run. At home, I just have myself and The Pigeon to look after; I write my book and indulge my passion for American politics. Here, I realise the great gift of time that I sometimes take for granted.

Today was not an especially crowded day, on paper. Yet, it ended up so busy that by seven o’clock, when the children had been fed and bathed, I had not stopped for a second to listen to the news. That is why The World has been rather absent from this blog for the last couple of weeks. I am normally a fiend for current affairs; now, the Cousin comes downstairs and says: ‘The stock markets have gone apocalyptic again,’ and I feel the shock of insulation. For all I know, the revolution could have happened, crowds with pitchforks could be walking down Whitehall, and all I would be aware of is that we must get the Chemistry revised for the Godson’s exams tomorrow.

For all that, it was a day of small, but potent pleasures. I saw some lovely people who knew my dad in his youth. They spoke of him with such admiration and fondness; they remembered his great racing days, his courage, his brilliance on the back of a horse. It was keenly bittersweet. I was able to talk of him without a tremor in my voice, but as I type this now I feel a little flayed, the grief still near the surface even after six months. I spoke to my friend the Man of Letters this morning, his voice strong and reassuring down the line. His theory is that it takes a year, to feel normal again. I quite like that theory. It means I don’t have to bash myself about for having moments still of sudden, streaming fragility.

In the evening, my sister’s dear face appeared on the Skype, which is still a kind of miracle to me. I got news of the Nieces. We made some Christmas plans. In the removed from the world state I am in, I vaguely hope there still will be Christmas by the time I get home.

I speak to my mother, who kindly informs me that she is making sure the autumn leaves are being cleared from my flowerbeds, so I do not come back to dead, brown mulch.

I think: people are very kind.

My conclusion from all this, because I like to have a conclusion, is that you are a bit of a miracle, all you family people out there. Especially the single mothers and fathers. The old platitude of not enough hours in the day comes bashing home when I see what is required, just to keep the charabanc on the road, at close quarters. It is a platitude because it is true.

One of my feminist crossnesses is that the people who do not work outside the house, mostly especially women, get described as not having a job. Well, it’s a job. It might not be commuting, and nine to five, and involve secretaries and meetings and conference calls, but it seems to me being a good parent demands being a major-domo, a shrink, a nurse, a cook, a cleaner, a washer and wiper, a driver, and a planner.

I know it’s a choice; I know it’s a joy. Those small people give you rewards of the heart which you would never get from a boss. But it’s work, all the same. Sometimes I think there should be a red carpet for the parents, an Oscar ceremony for the fathers and mothers. There should be a glittering night when a crowd gathers to pay tribute to those who are raising the next generation. It’s a huge thing; respect should be paid.

 

The photographs today are very odd indeed. There was no time to take the camera outside, and it was a rotten old day anyway. But I made the mistake of mentioning my new hair a couple of days ago, and some of the Dear Readers requested a viewing. At first I thought: oh no, I can't put up my silly old face.  Also, I rather like the anonymity of this blog; you know my name, but mostly you do not see me. There is a sort of safety in that: the bad hair days and mornings when I wake up with cross, puffy eyes are not recorded. I freely admit it's a bit of vanity thing; and I do like the idea of my words speaking for themselves.

Yet I find it oddly hard to refuse the Readers, because you are all so kind. So I took a couple of pictures, most abashed and feeling rather foolish. When I looked at them, they made me laugh, so here they are.

My expressions are rather mad because I took them myself in a looking glass in the Cousin's back hall. It's the thought process which I find funny, so that's why you are getting a series. I am angling the camera up, so you can't see it, and just pressing auto-focus, and hoping for the best.

So: slightly serious face:

Oh, hello, I'm Joyce Grenfell:

No, no, but remember to SMILE for the Dear Readers:

No, come on, proper big smile:

(That is what the cousins call my crazed Buddhist all creatures are wonderful smile.)

Now feeling like a complete idiot, because what am I actually doing?:

My lovely old hairdresser did do a good job, though, didn't he? He's been cutting that hair since it was blonde, which is a very long time ago indeed.

And now for a proper face:

She has no doubt at all that she was built for a close-up.

And finally: small housekeeping note. Because of the time thing, I am rudely not replying to your kind comments. I read and love them all. Forgive the omission.

Sunday trees

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

The Cousin has the great good fortune to live near the Westonbirt arboretum. It is one of my favourite places in the world. I should know the history of it, but I don't. All I can tell is that a very wonderful human decided, a very long time ago, to plant many glorious trees, over many glorious acres, and now I get to walk amongst them, with three cousins and three dogs, with my happy mouth open in awed delight.

This is some of what it looked like:

And that was on a dull day. Imagine what it must look like when the sun comes out.

Middle cousin, with her dog on left, and my dog on right. She was not posing; she just suddenly saw something and whipped round and I happened to click the shutter:

(I gave her that red bag for her birthday. I had no idea it would be such a success.)

All cousins and all dogs, rather tired at the end of a long morning's walk:

All three girls, my old lady on the right, doing her high dignity face:

And oh, oh, oh, this face:

I know she is descended from wolves, and I should not insult her dignity by fawning on her, but sometimes when I see that much beauty I feel slightly other.

Still feels a little odd, finishing without a hill. It is like that moment when you come down stairs and you expect there to be an extra step and there is not one, and your foot goes flat on the floor and you feel rather rattled and foolish, even thought there is no one to see. Shall I ever be able to live in flatlands ever again?

A day at the races

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

It started off as a very ordinary day. The sun was muddling through an autumn mist. The Pigeon was looking very regal. We went to watch the Godson do some riding. There was delicious chard from the garden for lunch. I am always rather amazed that anyone would have a garden with delicious chard in it.

Then, I noticed in the paper that Master-Minded and Kauto Star were both running today, at Ascot and Haydock. I have been so out of touch that I had not realised this was happening. For those of you who don’t follow National Hunt Racing, this is a bit like Vanessa Redgrave and Judi Dench appearing on stage together.

They are not only two magnificent champions, but they are real old troupers. Master Minded is not actually that old, only eight, but he’s been racing in this country since he was four, so it feels as if he is an enduring fixture.

What is interesting about him is that people have often been keen to write him off. If you look at his figures, you find an extraordinary list of victories: 13 out of 18 races in Britain won. I think it was that when he first started winning big races he did it in a way people hardly ever see. He would demolish highly talented fields as if they were a bunch of selling platers. He would jump and gallop everything into the ground with soaring disdain. He was so much better than everything else it almost felt embarrassing. He would win at Cheltenham by 19 lengths, and pull up as if he had only just gone for a mild training canter.

So it did not even take for him to get beat for people to start sucking their teeth and saying he was not really as good as all that. If he won a race by 9 lengths instead of 19, the knowing sages would nod their heads and all but tap their noses and say he was on the decline.

I’ve always stuck with Master Minded, because I haven’t seen that many horses as truly majestic as he in my lifetime, and it’s almost as if I want to reward him for that brilliance by keeping faith with him. (I’m a bit sentimental about racing, in a way of which my late father would certainly not approve; when it came to betting he was flinty as a hedge fund supremo.) As a result, I’ve lost a bit of cash on him over the years, but I’m a great believer in putting my money where my mouth is.

He lost his last race; he looked lovely on the first circuit, flat on the second, got fairly easily beaten. My twenty quid went down the drain. Never mind. I was not down-hearted. There is a thing about very great champions, a mystery, an enigma that will never quite be solved: some days, the world-beater shows up, some days, it’s just a very good horse, who can be beaten by something else on its top form. I still thought the real Master Minded would pitch up later in the season.

And then there is Kauto Star. He is eleven, which is old, in racing years. Not geriatric, but a sure veteran. The young pretender, Long Run, had come last season and taken the Gold Cup. Worst of all, he had usurped Kauto Star’s crown in the race he had made his own, the King George at Kempton. Bear in mind Kauto is the only horse in history who had won that race four times in a row, the last time by over 30 lengths, against some of the best chasers in the country.

He is the mightiest and most beloved champion since Desert Orchid: first horse ever to win a Gold Cup, lose a Gold Cup, and come back to regain it; first horse ever to win fourteen group one races. There was a time when he seemed almost unbeatable. In his early days, he used to put in terrifying mistakes, quite often over the last fence when it seemed as if he had everything sewn up; in his later years, he could put in exhibition rounds, making such mighty leaps that it seemed as if he had wings.

The thought was, though, that his great days were all behind him. People were muttering about retirement. Today, he was facing three tough miles, up against much younger horses, at least four of whom had big wins under their belts. He might fall, be pulled up, get tailed off; the talk was that if he did not run well today, he would be retired on the spot, and that is the last we would all see of him.

I’m going to give both my heroes another chance, I thought. I got distracted by children’s lunch, and did not get my bet on Master Minded on in time. Still, it was a great delight to watch him prove his knockers wrong, and trot up, back to his talented best.

Then there was an hour before Kauto. I’ll just put on a little twenty, I thought, mostly out of love. I was not sure he could do it. Long Run is a very, very good horse. I was acting on sentiment. Then I got a bit more forensic. Paul Nicholls had trained Kauto to the minute for this race; Long Run would be being saved for later in the season, and often does not run well first time out. I’ve always thought there is a little question mark over his jumping; he can go a bit flat and careless.

I examined the form. There were definite drawbacks over another of the two main dangers. Sod it, I thought; this really could be Kauto’s moment. Five minutes before the race, I put on another twenty. Sod them all, I thought: my boy is not done yet.

I explained some of all this to the children. They got very excited. They watched the quick replays of his earlier triumphs that Channel Four was showing, and decided they loved him. ‘Come on Kauto,’ they said.

Off the horses went. Kauto Star was jumping very well, but almost too stupidly well, standing off outside the wings. I was worried he would take too much out of himself. The lovely Ruby Walsh, his regular jockey, took him to the lead, and kept him there. He can’t stay in front for three miles, I thought, not at his age. But he kept pinging his fences, and was bowling along as if he did not have a care in the world. Ruby was so relaxed half the time he seemed to be riding with just one hand. It was delightful to see the two old pros in such perfect tune with each other.

‘Maybe he can do it,’ I said.

‘Come on, Kauto,’ cried the children.

‘No,’ I said. ‘He can’t do it. It’s too much to ask.’

But Long Run was making mistakes, and running a little ragged. Kauto was collected and foot perfect. He’ll fade, I thought. The younger fellas will come and pick him up.

Into the last four fences. I was on my feet. ‘Come on my son,’ I shouted.

‘Come on, Kauto,’ yelled the children.

The Pigeon was also on her feet, barking her head off, which is what she always does when I shout at the racing.

Three out. Kauto Star still in the lead, against all the odds. At this stage, I actually jumped onto an armchair and was bawling my head off. ‘Come on, you beauty, ‘ I yelled.

The Pigeon was jumping up and down on all fours.

‘Come on, come on,’ shouted the children.

The younger horses were gathering themselves for their final effort. Ruby still had not asked Kauto the question. ‘Oh just steady,’ I shouted. ‘Just stand up.’

The heavenly Ruby Walsh kept the old horse balanced and straight and steady, using only hands and heels, preserving all his energy for the final push. Everyone else was scrubbing away. I suddenly thought the mighty champion could do it.

Over the last, everything else faded away. Kauto was tired, but he’s not only a once in a generation talent, he’s got enormous courage. He does not give up. He just went on galloping to the line, brave and true, seven lengths in front.

The crowd went nuts. Paul Nicholls jumped in the air for joy. Ruby Walsh fell on the horse’s neck, hugging him. I was shouting and crying. The children were yelling Yes, yes. The Beloved Cousin looked at me in amazement. ‘He looks as if he could go round again,’ she said.

The King was back in his castle. He walked back to the winning enclosure, his ears pricked, his head held high. The crowd gave him three cheers, twice. No one could quite believe it. It was one of the best things I ever saw in racing.

So, it went from an ordinary day to an extraordinary double from two remarkable horses. I wish my dad had been here to see it.

Master Minded, spring-heeled at Ascot today:



Photograph sadly uncredited, from the RTE website.

The old campaigner, Kauto Star, with the young champion, Long Run, to his right:



Photograph by the Press Association.

Ruby and Kauto, two of the most glittering talents in the National Hunt game, putting their heads down and getting serious over the last, on their way to wonderful, improbable victory:



Photograph by Alan Crowhurst for Getty Images.

And my own little champion -

This one was a bit blurry because of the fading light, but I love it so much I could not resist showing you:



And here, in all her perfection:



I'm afraid to admit that sometimes I do look at her and say: 'You are my own little Kauto Star.'

PS. Wrote this rather quickly, and very tired, so please forgive if it is not quite the most flawless prose. I just wanted to tell you that story.

The Playwright

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

Back from my little trip away. I went to London and got my hair cut. It's now very short and composed of black and red and amber streaks. I said to my dear hairdresser, who has known me since I was twelve years old, and has cut the hair of every single female in my family: 'I just can't have respectable hair.'

He runs a very respectable shop. He is not one of those trendy fly-by-nights. He does the hair of women of substance. But he always smiles and laughs when I come in and say: go crazy, chop it all off, put in magenta stripes.

I had a vital meeting, which always sounds stupidly grown-up. One of the great joys of my life is that I do a job which requires very few meetings. They are not my pianoforte. But I am so babyish that when I may write the sentence 'I have a meeting' I always feel incredibly important and adult.

I saw my friend The Playwright. He is one of my very few real life friends who actually reads the blog. I love him very much for it. I said: ‘Really, I would like to write about you every day, but I don’t want people to think I’m swanking about. Oh look at me, with my clever playwriting friend.’

He made a parabola in the air with his glass of Kettle One.

‘Sod what anyone thinks,’ he said.

He has a talent of saying things like that and still sounding like the last most charming man on earth. It’s a freakish gift.

So: The Playwright arrived with a vast bunch of flowers, like something out of a Nancy Mitford novel (although now I come to think of it, no one ever gave anyone flowers in Nancy Mitford much, there was just Fanny and those disappointing carnations); came up the stairs; admired everything, most especially the 1970s luxury snacks I had prepared (when was the last time you had a duck rillette?), tried three different kinds of vodka and settled on the Dutch, and then told the Beloved Cousin and I stories of the Upper East Side and the Welsh Valleys which made us laugh so much we shouted like navvies.

He also gave me possibly the single best piece of advice I’ve ever had in my life. It’s so good I can’t repeat it yet. Of course, the Dear Readers must have it eventually, but just now, it is so precious, I have it in a glass case of my own and am still gazing at it.

Got back to find The Pigeon missed me. She had been pacing, apparently. Of course I am mortified to discover she has not behaved more perfectly than any dog invented in the history of dogs, but then a part of my secret black heart likes to hear this kind of thing. Imagine if I just buggered off and she shrugged her shoulders and barely even noticed.

Now I am making carrot soup with saffron for the children’s tea, and the Cousin and I are going to make hamburgers. We are having long discussions about the perfect recipe. I have gone very hard-core indeed, and put almost nothing but the best beef mince. We agree the onion is always a disaster, because even if you grate it it never quite cooks. I currently favour Lea and Perrins and a dash of mustard; the Cousin looks faintly doubtful when I tell her this. Time will, as it so often does, tell. If we hit on the Platonic burger recipe this Friday night, I shall pass it on at once.

 

I'm afraid the camera did not come out today; there was no time. Here are a few pictures from the last days:

And The Pigeon, in the evening light, looking a little plaintive. It was either because she had seen me packing, or I was just boring her with the posing, and she wanted something nice to eat:

I do miss my hill.

A day of ups and downs

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

A day of astonishing highs and lows. I like to think that I am tremendously sensible most of the time, have perhaps learnt something from the forty-four years on the earth, that my love of the trees and the hills might in some ways act as a great grounding mechanism. And yet I can still get knocked off course so hard that I can hardly catch my breath. I suppose a bit of fragility is a good thing in some ways; it makes one humble. But sometimes I do look with envy at those swaggery people who seem able to shrug off the slings and arrows. They merely ruffle their feathers like ducks, and off spills the water. I take things stupidly to heart.

I wonder also if it is that all the emotions are still very raw and near the surface. I find myself with sudden memories of my dad and my dog; I think of the dear departed cousin; I fear for the ailing godfather. It’s life; it happens to everyone; but still.

My high, because there must always be a ray of sunshine, is, slightly oddly, a visit to the vet. I admit this is not serious politics or grave economics or the state of the nation. It was tiny and unimportant in that old great scheme of things, but it was so lovely that I must relate it.

It started off in the most mundane way possible. The Pigeon needed her nails clipped. (She occasionally has a little problem with her dewclaws.) I brushed her and made sure she looked smart and put on her best black leather lead. The first enchantment was that the receptionist fell in love with her, came out from behind the desk, and fed the Pidge an endless supply of gravy bones. At which point, you may imagine, the love became mutual.

Then we went in to see the vet. He was a very nice, very capable Irish fellow. The clipping was done with efficiency and sympathy. He was most understanding about the fact that my old girl hates having her paws messed with, and did not hold it against her. (She makes piteous mewing noises and looks up with terrible pleading make it stop eyes.)

Then I asked him about the exercise. I told him of our ride yesterday, and wondered if I should confine her to very short walks, commensurate with her great age. ‘She loves it,’ I said. ‘She has always been a very active dog, and I do not want to treat her as a geriatric. But I do not want to over-tax her.’

He said to look out for stiffness. He tested her joints and her back legs. Not a hint of arthritis; as much mobility in her legs as he might find in a young dog.

‘She’s not on any medication?’ he said, in amazement, when I told him she was thirteen.
‘No,’ I said. ‘Nothing at all.’

He stared at her in blatant admiration. ‘She’s in incredible shape,’ he said.

This is the kind of thing my own vet does not say. Up where I live, there is the good, serious, flintiness of the North-East. Incredible is not a word much used. I love my vet, but he is a man of understatement.

The kind Irishman said again: ‘No medication at all?’

‘Really not,’ I said. ‘I’ve been very lucky with her. She’s a tough old girl. We lost her sister in the summer, and I was very worried about her, but she has bounced back like a Trojan.’

He nodded. ‘Take your cue from her,’ he said. ‘As long as she enjoys going out, let her run for as long as she wants.’

He pulled her ears, and gave her a treat. She gazed at him with her limpid eyes.

‘I’d say you’ve got a few more years with her yet,’ he said.

I wanted to fall at his feet with gratitude. Of course this may be over-optimism. At this age, anything can happen. I know each day is precious. But I have been thinking lately, in my secret heart, that I don’t know what I should do without her. It has been haunting me, a bit. I know that just because this thing was said, it will not necessarily be so. But to hear a professional gentleman state it in such a matter of fact way did feel like an unexpected present, and I do not take that for granted.

Rather few pictures today, I'm afraid, what with one thing and another, and not terribly stellar ones either. Please forgive.

Little bit of autumn colour for you:









And her glorious ladyship, a little bit blurry in the evening light, showing off her new manicure:





And doing her slightly wistful Grace Kelly impersonation:



That one always makes me laugh. It looks so affecting and almost melancholy; in fact, it is the face she puts on when she is bored to death of posing and is wondering when I shall stop and give her a biscuit.

P.S. Meant to say: am offline for the next 48 hours. Shall return, I would love to say in glory, more likely in usual ordinariness, on Friday.