Creaky joints and naughty dogs

Should you be wandering past the Station House in Campsea Ashe on a Tuesday morning (non-Suffolk readers, unless you’re making a pilgrimage, this is unlikely to be you), you’ll see four or five ladies of mature years lying on mats finding their neutral pelvises and drawing chalk circles in the air. One of those ladies is me. Now you know.

Back in my early thirties, living in Essex and working in London, I attended a twice-weekly Pilates class run by an amazing woman called Melissa. She was full of beans, mixing up standard Pilates technique with lots of pair work, stretching and floor exercises. When I joined, I wasn’t particularly limber, but by the time I’d been with her for a few months, I could touch my toes without bending my knees (still can, in fact) and do all kinds of stretchy things. I even taught the class once or twice when she was ill. Dear me, the elasticity of youth!

Melissa’s class had almost mystical powers. I was employed at the Department of Psychology at UCL back then, and worked closely with all the Masters and PhD students. One day, one of them sank into the chair in my office, eyes closed and sighed, heavily. “I don’t know how I’m going to get through the day,” she complained. “I overdid it a bit last night.” I recommended the class – sure enough, after an hour of stretching, extending and bending she was as good as new.

I left the Department in 1998 and did another Pilates class somewhere else, taught by a woman called Melissa. A pattern was emerging. Fast forward to 2020 and I noticed a post on Facebook from a lady advertising her Pilates classes. This particular form of exercise had always worked for me and I got in touch and joined up. Sure enough, the instructor’s name was Melissa. I don’t know if there is some kind of rule that Pilates classes can only be taught by people bearing this name, or if Melissas naturally gravitate to this kind of work. We may never know.

 Anyway, back to Campsea Ashe on a Tuesday morning. Melissa Three is fantastic. This week, she had us doing something called the Mermaid. I could do it on one side, but not the other. Last week, we lay on our backs rolling our heads around on a semi-deflated ball. Gosh, it felt good. There was much sighing and creaking. For some reason, the right side of my body is not nearly as agile as the left. I have no idea why this might be.

Last week, we celebrated my father’s 95^th birthday on the Monday. We had a large Indian takeaway, including a particularly delectable dish of tarka dhal. One of Melissa’s exercises, about three quarters through the class, involves assuming the four-point position then alternating the naughty dog and the cat. I was a little concerned about the lentils. I won’t lie to you. I confided my worry to my friend Barbara at the beginning of the lesson and there were explosions. But only of laughter. As we pushed our navels up towards our spines then went down into the aforesaid naughty dog, I kept my eyes firmly fixed on my mat. Barbara and I are notorious for outbursts of helpless laughter at inappropriate moments. 

Fortunately, all was well. I managed to end on a series of shoulder rolls and spine stretching without anything untoward shattering the calm.

I’m not the greatest at self-care, but I’ve got a lot better since lock down. My weekly Pilates class is an oasis of calm in a busy week, with a bit of creaking and grunting but lots of laughing too. I love doing it in a building which has been refurbished and restored by a community group and is now being run by them too. It doesn’t hurt that they do the best hot chocolate for miles around – a delightful end to all those naughty dogs, mermaids, neutral pelvises and shoulder rolls.

Note to self – don’t have curry on a Monday night.

Images by Unsplash and Pixabay

Ruth is a freelance writer and novelist. She is married with three children, one husband, four budgies, six quail, eight chickens and a kitten. Her first novel, “The Diary of Isabella M Smugge”, published by Instant Apostle, comes out in March 2021. She writes for a number of small businesses and charities and blogs at Big Words and Made Up Stories. Ruth is a recovering over-achiever who is now able to do the school run in her onesie most days. She has abnormally narrow sinuses and a morbid fear of raw tomatoes, but has decided not to let this get in the way of a meaningful life. You can find her on Instagram and Twitter at ruththewriter1.

 

Frolicking with the gardener

I don’t want to shock you, but I feel we know each other well enough for me to be  honest with you.

Since lock down began, I’ve been seeing other men.

It all started in April. Things were weird, the sun was out and I was facing a year of many challenges. So, when a rather handsome gardener appeared and started building a polytunnel on our veg patch, I found myself spending a lot of time with him. I took him over cups of coffee as he dug the foundations, offered him lunch as he hammered the base together and then invited him home for dinner once he had it all done. One thing led to another, as it will do.

This fine young man then turned his attentions to our back garden and started doing lots of little jobs we’d been meaning to get around to for years. He fixed the old pew and turned it into a herb garden. He built a pond out of an old boat. There seemed to be no end to his talents. Thanks to him, the family were enjoying a bumper crop of fruit and veg and a weed-free and well-ordered veg patch. Two manky old beds at the back of the house filled with aggressive and pointless spiky plants were transformed into beautiful flower borders.

Next, a handyman appeared. He too got going on any number of little jobs around the house and garden which my husband and I had had on the to do list for years. I offered him cups of tea and lunch and we even went out together a few times.

As autumn approached, the gardener cut down on his days and we got in a plumber, and a painter and decorator. They repainted the kitchen and changed everything around so that it made sense (it never has). Shamefaced, I showed them our downstairs bathroom, which has been in dire need of a jolly good makeover for many years. Nothing daunted, they ripped the whole lot out, repainted, put in a new loo and basin and even bought new towels and little candles to make it look really posh. Going to the toilet now is an absolute delight. Every time I exit the bathroom, I think of our plumber and it gives me a warm glow.

This is not my bathroom. It is an image I found on Pixabay. 

You’re probably wondering how my husband felt about all this. Fine, is the answer. Absolutely fine.

Since March, we’ve all started taking on new roles. My husband and I were planning to spend most of the year being caterers, but that is over for the foreseeable future. A friend of mine was running a thriving beauty business, but stymied by restrictions, she began her own little gardening company which is going very well. I started the year as a freelance writer and will end it as a novelist with a publishing deal.

One of our favourite films is, “The Madness of King George.” In it, there’s a great scene where the Duke of York (Julian Rhind-Tutt) tells his brother (Rupert Everett) that he’s just found out he’s the Bishop of Osnabruck. “Remarkable what one is, really,” he muses.

And so it is. Quite remarkable. We all have hidden talents, unplumbed depths, unconscious abilities. Sometimes, it takes a life-changing situation to bring them all to the surface.

This year has brought fear, uncertainty, apprehension and worry into all our lives. Some of us have had to make sweeping changes and most of us are living a new normal. Life has given us lemons, but we can use them to make a new and exciting kind of lemonade (if you’ll excuse the torturous metaphor). 

Tonight, I’ve invited the gardener, the handyman, the plumber and the painter and decorator over for dinner. But it’s OK. We’re not breaking the Rule of Six. There will be five of us, as there are every evening. Six, if you count the kitten.

What’s your new normal?

Images by Pixabay. I know I already said that, but it probably bears repeating.

Ruth is a freelance writer and novelist. She is married with three children, one husband, four budgies, six quail, eight chickens and a kitten. Her first novel, “The Diary of Isabella M Smugge”, published by Instant Apostle, comes out in March 2021. She writes for a number of small businesses and charities and blogs at Big Words and Made Up Stories. Ruth is a recovering over-achiever who is now able to do the school run in her onesie most days. She has abnormally narrow sinuses and a morbid fear of raw tomatoes, but has decided not to let this get in the way of a meaningful life. You can find her on Instagram and Twitter at ruththewriter1.

I Never Thought I'd See the Day

 

This week, I’ve found myself doing things that surprised me. Aged 54, living a relatively comfortable life, it would be easy to get into a rut. Get up, make packed lunches, herd children into car, drop off at school, buy bananas and stuff from Melton Produce on the way home (I don’t know what my parents do with them, but I can’t keep up with demand), load the dishwasher, put on a wash, get down to work. That’s pretty much how every day looks and that’s fine. Work these days involves all kinds of thrilling things. This week, I conducted one interview with a 22-year old Christian mission worker in Manchester, drafted my Christmas blog for More Than Writers, wrote up a piece on writer and stand-up Paul Kerensa, conducted a lifestyle interview on a beautiful Cambridge house and started editing my novel, The Diary of Isabella M Smugge.

Interesting stuff.

But it is not that of which I speak. Anyone who knows me knows I am not really an animal person. My philosophy has always been to keep animals who benefit the household in some way. Our chickens and quail lay eggs for us and in return enjoy a happy life being fed, watered and given plenty of space in which to amble. Dogs are a no-no due to all the time and attention they need. I just haven’t got that time and it wouldn’t be fair to have one. Mr Leigh is mildly allergic to cats and I am terrified of them, so we’ve always set our faces against the suggestions from the children that a cute little kitten might be a nice addition to the family.

As I told you back in June (https://bigwordsandmadeupstories.blogspot.com/2020/06/its-been-quiet-week-in-lake-wobegon.html), we adopted a kitten aged three weeks very much to our surprise (and, presumably, hers). Now a cheerful little thing aged around five months, she has somehow managed to get us all wrapped around her velvety little paws. She has not one but two beds, bought by my besotted husband and daughter to keep her warm at night. “You put the base in the microwave and it heats up,” they told me, returning from a trip to a well-known pet store not a million miles from here. “She’ll love it.” She doesn’t. It’s been completely ignored until we discovered the other day that if we put it in front of the Rayburn when it’s lit, she’ll curl up in it and go to sleep.

A kitten scratching post set provided entertainment until she got too big to squeeze through the furry tube. A crackly mat is also largely ignored. What she does love, more than anything, is Nerf gun bullets. She will play with them for hours and the house is littered with them. Also scraps of paper and random pieces of fluff. Just like young children, if you buy her a toy, she’ll play with the box. There’s a life lesson for us all there.

A couple of weeks ago, my husband and I were in the kitchen having a conversation that I would never have thought possible.

Him: “Have you thought about what we should get Misty for Christmas?”

Me: “We should get her a little stocking, don’t you think? How about some antlers?”

Him: “Definitely a stocking and maybe some cat treats. I’ll have a look in that well-known pet store not a million miles from here.”

Me: “How about we get her one of those big scratching posts for her main present?” 

At this point, we broke off and uttered the phrase that has become a daily occurrence.

“I never thought I’d see the day…..”

There will be some people reading this who are spluttering into their coffee at this point. Lynette, Cathy, Steph, you have known me long enough to find this kind of kitten-based chat hilarious. It gets worse.

 Yesterday, Misty paid a visit to the vet to be spayed. She returned home in good spirits with the instruction that we should put a protective cone over her head so she didn’t scratch herself. We all tried. We did. In ones, in twos, in threes. We ended up scratched and traumatised. When we did manage to get it on to her, she wrenched it off. I found myself ringing the vet and asking if they could suggest anything else. “We can give you a kitten vest if you like. It’s a bit like a Babygro.”

And so, we returned from the vet with a kitten clad in a rather natty navy-blue suit. Which she ripped off after an hour and refuses to wear.

At some point in the next few weeks, I will be looking at a kitten Christmas stocking bought by the aforesaid husband and daughter, and instead of screeching, “Have you lost your MINDS?” I will be smiling benevolently and working out what to put in it. And whether to wrap it.

Ah yes, life. It has a habit of sneaking up on you in the most unlikely ways. I never thought I’d see the day.

Images by Pixabay and Unsplash.

Ruth is a freelance writer and novelist. She is married with three children, one husband, four budgies, six quail, eight chickens and a kitten. Her first novel, “The Diary of Isabella M Smugge”, published by Instant Apostle, comes out in March 2021. She writes for a number of small businesses and charities and blogs at Big Words and Made Up Stories. Ruth is a recovering over-achiever who is now able to do the school run in her onesie most days. She has abnormally narrow sinuses and a morbid fear of raw tomatoes, but has decided not to let this get in the way of a meaningful life. You can find her on Instagram and Twitter at ruththewriter1.

23.06 and all's well

For the first time since I started Big Words and Made Up Stories, I gave myself a day off last week. Sorry about that. I’ve been inundated with phone calls, texts, WhatsApps and hand-written notes shoved through the door pleading with me to fill in that missing week.[1]

I did have a very good reason. My first ever novel, the Diary of Isabella M Smugge, is being published by Instant Apostle next March. I started writing it just after 10.30 in the morning on 7^th May and my deadline was 30^th September. I took a fairly relaxed attitude throughout the sunny months of lock down. Some days, I’d write nearly a whole chapter, others, I’d allow my ideas to marinate before the next burst of activity. It was fun, making someone up. My heroine is a snob, quite selfish, looks down her nose at people and has little if no self-awareness. She and her family (banker husband, three children, Latvian au pair) have just moved from London to Suffolk, and she thinks that everyone will be delighted to see her. However, her perfect life is about to unravel.

Writing her story, I found that she’d had a pretty grim childhood, lots of abandonment issues and was a child of divorce. One of my favourite sayings is, “Everyone’s got a story” and Isabella certainly does. It was fun to write it, albeit a bit weird. Who was this woman? How come I was suddenly making up hashtags and writing authoritatively about Instagram? I found myself trawling through Pinterest for annoying quotes (I found plenty).

Along the way, I made up a whole cast of supporting characters. For some reason, I really enjoyed writing the horrible ones. I suppose because my entire writing career has been about interviewing people who are good, generous, philanthropic and compassionate, I never get to talk to the villains. Ex-cons, yes. Unreconstructed bad folk, no. So, it was fun to create a hideous agent called Mimi Stanhope, married four times, smokes like a chimney and is rumoured to sleep in a banana leaf coffin. She drinks coffee constantly, has blood-red nails and her third husband ran off with a traffic warden. She’s a great agent but not a very nice person.

Isabella’s mother is also a bit of a moo. We don’t find out about her background until the end of the novel and it goes some way towards explaining why she’s been such a hands-off mother. I wrote a fight scene which erupted over some value sausage rolls. Someone microwaved a Girls’ World head. I made up some imaginary bloggers.

As I may have mentioned on a number of occasions, all I’ve ever wanted to do is write. And now I am and it feels amazing. Writing fiction is a new departure for me, however, and I’m surprised how exhausting it can be. You wouldn’t think that tapping away on a laptop while sipping tea and gazing out of the window would be that onerous. But you’re going to have to take my word for it. It is.

Last Wednesday I should have written my blog. I spent the entire day writing the final chapter and sent it off to the publisher at 23.06 pm. I was drained, a limp rag, worn to a frazzle. I thought to myself, “Ruth, will the world stop spinning if you don’t write your blog tonight?” I decided it wouldn’t and fell into an exhausted slumber.

So, now, we’re at the editing stage. This is about as much fun as cutting your own toenails with a blunt pair of shears, but it must be done. I suspect that chocolate will help a lot. Also tea. The fun bits, like talking to the publisher about the cover design and writing the blurb are yet to come. 

Isabella and her world have become very real to me. I don’t want to leave her, so I have already written the first page of the sequel. The last four and a half months have been wonderful, a chance to do what I always dreamed of doing, creating a world and peopling it with characters. You could say I’ve come full circle since I created this blog. The novel has quite a few big words and it’s one giant made up story. I like it and I hope you will.

If you want to pre-order a signed copy, please let me know via Instagram or Twitter (ruththewriter1), in the comments on this blog or in any other way you can think of. Only another six months and my self-centred aspirational blogger will be launched upon the world. #livingmybestlife.

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[1] I haven’t. This is all made up.