And you’re carrying those eggboxes because….?

I don’t know about you, but it’s the little things I’ll remember about 2020. As this year has gone on, I’ve cherished the many little acts of kindness, funny stories and frankly bonkers experiences which have characterised it for me.

Things seem to happen to me. I’ve always got a story, which is pretty handy when you’re a writer. Last weekend was a bit of a tough one. Lots of emotions resurfaced from some sad times a while ago, I wrote a blog for More Than Writers about some really heavy stuff and I felt tired, a bit down and generally pathetic. I had a FaceTime chat with three dear friends on Sunday evening and we were all feeling a bit sorry for ourselves. We agreed that this was understandable and tried to encourage and build each other up.

On Tuesday, I went into Woodbridge to meet up with the lovely Darrell who runs Archway Carpets. We had a hilarious, socially distanced lunch with lots of loud snorting, laughing and giggling. As we left, he handed me about fifty eggboxes. This would have come as a surprise to most people, but seemed perfectly normal to me. Our chickens lay beautiful green, blue and chocolate brown eggs and I frequently drop off half a dozen for Darrell and his family to enjoy. Hence the boxes.

“You’re not going anywhere else, are you?” he asked me, eyeing the armful of boxes with trepidation.

“Actually, I am,” I replied, standing up and hefting them into a comfortable holding position. “I thought I’d go to a well-known chain of High Street shops with an “M” in its name and buy some new jeans.”



Marching down the Thoroughfare (Woodbridge’s main street), I spotted a few people giving me odd looks. My appearance was unremarkable save for a fine new pair of boots and the said eggboxes. I arrived in M and Something, had a quick browse, chose the jeans and approached the cash desk. You know when you haven’t seen people for a while and you talk more quickly and in a higher pitch than usual? The two ladies in charge were a bit like that, in the middle of telling a funny story and deep in laughter. Under my mask, I had a broad grin on my face. I do love to hear laughter.

The transaction started going through, but the younger of the two ladies (Lucy. Hi Lucy) was staring at my eggboxes.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “but I’ve got to ask. Why on earth are you carrying so many eggboxes around with you?”

I told her I was collecting them to soundproof a studio. This was obviously made up, but she was already laughing so I changed horses in mid-stream and explained that Darrell loves my eggs. This finished her completely.

“He LOVES your EGGS! Ooh errr Missus!”

Doubled up in infectious laughter, she disappeared temporarily behind the cash desk while her colleague (Julie as I later found out. Hi Julie and welcome) burst into peals of laughter too. In retrospect, I suppose I could have chosen my words more wisely, but it was too late to backtrack. I explained that the eggs, technically, were not mine, but those of my hens. We carried on laughing and talking in high pitched voices for quite some time. Gosh, I’ve missed socialising. Pretty soon, they knew all about Big Words and Made Up Stories and the Diary of Isabella M Smugge (out in February people, keep an eye on my socials).

I was wondering what to write about this week, but as we filled the shop with shrieks of laughter, I realised that it could only be about one thing. A middle-aged woman in new, shiny boots walking into a shop with an M in its title holding loads of eggboxes. Julie gave me my own carrier bag to convey them back to the car. I left beaming from ear to ear (not that anyone could see through the mask). My friend Sue was in the queue behind me, also laughing (hi Sue), The other customers were gazing at me in that way that people do when they suspect that someone might have escaped from a secure facility.

Such little things can lift the spirits and engender a burst of healing, life-giving laughter. I’m chuckling now, just writing this. Here’s what Mark Twain had to say about it: “Against the assault of laughter, nothing can stand.”



Enjoy your week.

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 February 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.

 

Diamonds, Good Eggs, Sunshine and Chocolate

Living in Britain is great. If you’re ever short of a conversational opener, you can say anything about the weather – and I mean anything – and it will keep you going for at least five minutes. Too hot? We wipe our foreheads and talk wistfully about the thunderstorm that’s forecast tomorrow. Unseasonably chilly? Well, the nights are drawing in, but they say it will be sunnier next week.

Investigating your family tree can uncover some exciting facts. My ancestors have donated a dash of French DNA, possibly some Dutch and Belgian about fifteen generations back, but mostly good old Scottish genes, which have blessed me with extremely fair skin. In winter, I’m blue. In summer, I go white. Then red. I don’t get on terribly well with extreme heat so this week has been a bit of a trial.

Realising that 2020 was the year of our sojourn in Costa del Loudham, my sainted husband got out the pool, blew it up and applied vast amounts of glue to mend the many leaks. Next, he purchased floating hammocks and some drinks holders in the shapes of doughnuts, palm trees and watermelons. On Monday, I was so incredibly hot and grumpy that I betook myself to my chamber, dug out my bathing costume and poured myself into it. Wrapped modestly in a towel, I ventured out into the garden. We live in a semi, not massively overlooked, but if our neighbours had glanced out of their bedroom window that afternoon, they would have been treated to the sight of a Rubenesque middle-aged lady lowering herself into the water while yelping. It was COLD. Good Lord, how cold it was.

After a bit, it became bearable, then blissful. Every day this week, I have galumphed over the lawn and hurled myself in. Yesterday afternoon, I found myself lying on the said hammock, cup of cold water held by the said palm tree having a lovely chat with my daughter. We lay there, gazing up at the intense blue sky and watched as two buzzards circled and swooped and cried out to each other. It was lovely. I was completely happy and relaxed. If life gets better than lying in a large paddling pool from a Spanish hypermarket on a roasting hot day, I’d like to know about it.

Wednesday was a top day all round. I went out and had brunch with four dear friends in the morning, which felt like a real adventure. Going out of the house. Entering a place of entertainment. Seeing people who are not blood-related. I think we all felt rather daring.

Well, it was the most fun ever. We haven’t seen each other all together for I don’t know how long. As with all good friends, it was as if not a moment had gone by. We laughed solidly for about the first half hour. Gales of merriment echoing around, five ladies gulping down cooling iced drinks and snorting with laughter. We certainly made our presence felt.

We covered a huge amount of ground in the two hours we spent together. We caught each other up on our lives, we listened, we encouraged, we learned. We’re all women of faith and it was so good to be able to talk about that. I hadn’t realised how much I had missed socialising, how much I miss my friends and how much I need that human contact. I left the café beaming from ear to ear and drove home in a haze of happiness.

As I drove back up Chapel Lane towards our house, a van came bowling towards me. We both slammed on our brakes, pulled into our respective passing places and waved at each other. The driver was young, with an open, smiling face. As he thanked me, he laughed and it was so infectious that I laughed too. He looked as happy as I felt and that joyous, spontaneous laughter (about what, I couldn’t tell you) lifted my spirits even more.

Let me end this week by sharing some lovely quotes about friends.

“Diamonds aren’t a girl’s best friend – friends are.”

“A true friend is someone who thinks that you are a good egg even though he knows that you are slightly cracked.”

“A friend is someone who knows all about you and still loves you.”

“There is nothing better than a friend, unless it is a friend with chocolate.”

Enjoy the rest of the week. I believe that rain is forecast ……………..

Images by Pixabay

Ruth is a freelance writer. She is married with three children, runs a catering company and keeps chickens and quail. She has her first novel in the editing stage, another two on the go, writes for a number of Christian charities and has her own business writing blogs for small Suffolk businesses. She is a recovering over-achiever who is now able to do the school run in her onesie most days. She blogs at @bigwordsandmadeupstories, covering topics as diverse as King Zog of Albania, a Christingle plagued by punch-ups and tummy upsets, and the inevitable decline of elderly parents. 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.

Memory ......

No, not the song from “Cats.” Although feel free to warble it as you read this week’s episode. “Mid-niiiiiiight, not a sound from the pavement. Has the moon lost her memory? She is smiling alone.” And so on, and so forth.

As I’ve mentioned before, I often wonder what the inside of my head looks like. I suspect it’s rather like an attic with mysterious chests half-full of treasure, half-full of tut, piles of dusty papers, toys and books I can’t bear to get rid of plus a whole heap of random stuff. Quite often these days (and I think this writing process is the reason why), one of those memories will shuffle forward and tap insistently on my forehead (from the inside) saying, “Remember me? Would I do for next Thursday’s blog?”

Yes. This week you, long-held memory, are getting your day in the sun.

Before we get to my memory, however, let's go a bit further back into history and remember the millions who died in the Holocaust. It was International Holocaust Remembrance Day on 27th January and today on More Than Writers, a blog  for which I write, Philippa Linton wrote a touching piece on a book she'd read about a 15-year old Latvian Jewish girl. You can read it here: https://morethanwriters.blogspot.com/2020/02/no-happy-ending-but-love-is-stronger.html. It really made me think. I am free to write, to think, to go about my daily life, but so many are not. I have a memory from 30 years ago which has stayed in my mind and I chose to write about it. No-one is going to shame me, or punish me, or imprison me for talking about what I would like to. I believe that the price of that freedom is a good memory - we should never shy away from the parts of our history (and, sadly, our present) which are hard to look at without strong emotion. As writers, we have unique power to remind, to restore and to rouse. The pen really is mightier than the sword.

Let me take you to a beach in North Devon. It must have been about 30 years ago. My then-boyfriend, possibly fiancé, had come down to see me for the weekend. From 1985 until 1993, I lived in Exeter and I loved it and the friends I made there more than I can tell you. By the time we got married in 1993, we’d spent 8 years on our long-distance courtship between Devon and Essex, considerably enriching National Express, British Rail and BT in the process.

On this particular day, we were either in Woolacombe or Croyde Bay. Both have vast expanses of golden sands and are much beloved by surfers. It was a beautiful day. We probably brought a picnic. I can’t remember what we ate, what we talked about or what we did. But one memory has stayed with me as clear as day. At the time, then a writer in the making, I remember thinking to myself, “Interesting. I won’t forget that.” And I never have, although along the way a ton of other information has dropped out of my brain, never to be seen again.

A mini bus drew up behind us in the car park. Out jumped a large family group with the usual paraphernalia of a day on the beach. Picnic, drinks, towels, buckets and spades. There were three men, three women and quite a few children. The women had their hair in long plaits down their backs, two were wearing glasses and all had a neat navy-blue headscarf on their heads, secured by hair grips. On their left hands, plain gold wedding rings gleamed in the summer sunlight. The men all had beards and had matching wedding rings. 

Rugs were put down on the sand, pushchairs were unloaded and assembled and everyone had lunch. After a while, the men got up and took all the children down towards the sea. It was a long walk as the tide was out. The ladies tidied up the picnic for about ten minutes. Then they kicked off their shoes and started giggling. The sound of their laughter was infectious, joyful.

 They were all wearing plain dark-coloured skirts, white tops and dark tights. It wasn’t your typical British beach summer garb. I watched as they started running around, chasing each other and letting out peal after peal of joyous laughter. I sat there smiling. I thought, “I’ll remember this.”

That picture of three laughing women kicking off their shoes and forgetting their family responsibilities for a few minutes has stayed with me all these years. I never knew why, but perhaps their very difference, otherness stuck in my mind. They didn't dress like everyone else, but they were like everyone else. They had the freedom to travel, to eat and laugh together as so many have not in the past. Golden sands, blue skies, freedom, the tang of ozone in the air and three ladies laughing like children.

Memory. As it goes, that’s a good one.