My Happening Life
I have no business being this tired. Again. Feh. Okay, so I had three events today, service ring, second service ring*, and Peter had a gig for a little Hampshire literary festival.** I got through Grandsire inside at the first service ring.*** Second service ring, um, well, I was mostly on the two, which after several months since the new ones went on still has a springy rope which makes it difficult to make strike accurately and I’m striking challenged at best and I’m worse when I’m nervous and we had Visiting Superior Ringers for the Special Service. I didn’t embarrass myself (much) but I wasn’t brilliant either.†
Hellhounds plumbed new depths of disbelief when I went off and left them a third time.†† Peter and I had had a very silly conversation about his gig. When he told me about it weeks ago I wrote it in my diary. Then a few days ago he said, you don’t have to come if you don’t want to. I said, well, I was planning to, but I won’t come if you don’t want me to. No, no, he said, it’s entirely up to you. No, no, I said, it’s entirely up to you. No, no, he said. . . . I finally said, it would feel very odd not to come unless you forbid me to come, and he declined to forbid me. So I went. And it went very well.††† They didn’t even have to take Peter home in a bucket afterward.‡
Then I rushed home and started frantically planting bulbs–the weather is supposed to turn fierce tomorrow–before it got dark, the day having somehow escaped me, although have you noticed how early it’s getting dark already? It’s only October. It’s going to be polar night here by December. I got my first swathe of bulbs in a few days ago, and after last year of almost no spring bulbs because the mice got them all, this year I’m planting them in pots and putting netting over the pots. I’ve tried the Tabasco and the mustard and the pepper and the chilli powder, and the mice have all said, ah! Condiments! How thoughtful! and tucked right in. I also put a few mouse traps out. I’ve been keeping an eye on progress and thought that nothing had been disturbed but when I went out there this afternoon I discovered that while they’ve been turning up their noses at the mouse traps‡‡ they’ve had several forays into the pots themselves and, so far, been rebuffed. But I’m only using plastic netting; I dread having to use wire–handling it is ghastly and I will rip myself to shreds on the cut ends–but that’s next. I will have bulbs. All I have to do is remember to take the netting off again when the little green shoots start coming up next spring.‡‡‡
Now, do I want to risk a bit of PEGASUS on the late-evening brain–?
* * *
* And it was for the RAF although I still don’t know why. All these boys and their medals. I think traditionalist boys like medals because they don’t get to wear jewelry.
** No, I wasn’t asked. I keep telling you I’m invisible over here.
*** Cue: yaay. There were only five of us, so no tenor-behind to help keep us steady, and we were ringing on the back-six-minus-the-tenor, so the three to the seven, which sounded extremely strange^ and I was ringing inside for the excellent reason that one of the others of us got to the treble first.^^ And I had to ring horrible long-thirds singles!^^^ Several times! In theory I’ve been ringing Grandsire doubles long enough I should be ringing it inside for service, but I learnt it at my Wednesday tower and almost never ring it at my home tower, so I tend to chicken out on the day.
^ Usually when you’re ringing doubles methods without the tenor because there’s only five of you, you ring on the front five
^^ He’s bigger than I am and has longer arms
^^^ No, I know you don’t really want to know. It’s just that it’s one of the calls that when you’re learning to ring a method and beginning to ring touches of it rather than plain courses, a kindly conductor will call it around you so you never have to ring that particular piece of work, and then when in theory you can ring the method you spend a lot of time muttering to yourself, pleeeeease let me not have to ring horrible long-thirds singles (Grandsire)/ horrible three-four down singles (bob minor)/ horrible coathanger singles (Stedman), etc.
† I was moaning to Niall later that I need more practise on eight bells: my Wednesday tower only has six bells^ and home tower practise nights often enough don’t have seven other ringers steady enough to hem a beginner in and I’m a slow learner. S l o w. And Niall said the two is hard to place precisely because of the springy rope. So you see. Although he may have been saying that to make me feel better.
^ And there are plenty of nights when we only have six ringers
†† However I had drugged them to near insensibility by an extra-long walk^ during which we met a man with an Irish Setter who said of the hellhounds, usually that type of dogs are very laid back. Not in my experience, I said. I would have said Irish Setters are usually not very laid back, but this one took one look at the hellhounds and fled.
^Unfortunately I had to go too. Ah. Perhaps I see my problem.
††† There were, you know, people there, beyond the organiser and her minions. You never know. One fellow went up to Peter after and wanted to get all impressed and amazed that a famous writer lives right here in Hampshire. I considered waving and saying, Hi, I’m the chopped liver. But I didn’t. But writers do have to live somewhere. We’re not all in garrets or the Savoy.^
^ Peter Warlock was born at the Savoy. Okay, wrong medium. Never mind. Songs are on my mind because Peter read the two of his poems I’ve set (to music) and it suddenly sounds very odd to have the lyrics without the tunes.
‡ He’s kind of falling asleep over his patience^ now, but that’s allowed.
^ Solitaire. You know, with a deck of cards
‡‡ How stupid does she think we are? –Just so long as it’s not rats. Or squirrels.
‡‡‡ Supposing there are little green shoots and the mice/rats/squirrels haven’t just said, oh, she’s only using plastic. Pass it on. Party here tonight.
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