More Winter
By the time hellhounds and I have walked home tonight I’ll have spent nearly three hours traipsing around in the snow and the skin-peeling cold.* Life as a pedestrian. Give me my howdah.** It hasn’t snowed any more, although both the meteorologists and the sky keep threatening otherwise. The latter keeps dropping the occasional snowflake just to watch whoever it lands on jump. Aaaugh. That cold fluffy white stuff—it’s happening again.
And I keep putting my coat back on and going outdoors and providing another moving target. First, last and always there are hellhounds to be hurtled. I’m getting increasingly creative about our local options and yaktrax*** permits this. Hells, there are even one or two local footpaths that are improved by being frozen solid after knee-deep mud in November.
Then there was my piano lesson. At least I had one. It’s been forever.† I miss my cups of tea with Oisin while I beat my forehead with the heels of my hands and howl about life, publishing and everything . . . I mean the close textual and interpretive study of Sorabji’s Opus Clavicembalisticum††. And I did have the beginnings of a setting of Robert Frost’s Fire and Ice to demonstrate that I haven’t entirely given up music for hard-selling yaktrax to total strangers for 0% net.†††
Then there was more hellhound hurtling.
Then there was tower practise. Yes, we managed to have tower practise this week‡: we had eight ringers, only two of which were beginners ‡‡ which meant we could actually ring something and in my case slam a couple of chocks under the wheels of my ringing competence, which otherwise has a strong native resemblance to a downhill runaway. I even got to ring a whole series of the Evil Three-Four Down Dodge Single in bob minor, which I haven’t rung in so long I’ve forgotten. Although I’d mentioned this at the beginning of practise and Edward got around to offering me the chance at the end of practise, when I was starting to think rather fixedly about supper.‡‡‡ Never mind. I cobbled together a few brain cells that didn’t get out of the way fast enough and ploughed through.§
And now we have to walk back to the cottage. And it’s about 20 degrees (F) out there. And dark. And crunchy. When is April again?
* * *
* I’m thinking about a ski mask in Hampshire. It’s like imagining the Hellmouth in a small town near Santa Barbara. Years ago I had a gorgeous black leather mad-bomber’s hat lined with rabbit fur.^ It was so totally insouciant Leslie Howard/Michael Redgrave. You could see the Spitfire out of your peripheral vision, slightly fuzzy as it was from the halo of rabbit fur. I gave it away. When was I ever going to need such a hat in Hampshire?
^ Yes. I wear cow skin and rabbit hair. If I’ll eat it—and it’s not endangered—I see no reason not to wear it. Waste not, want not.
** Well, Hannibal got his elephants over the frelling Alps. And I like the idea of underfloor elephant heating.
*** . . . have totally changed my life. I’m not quite to the stage of stopping one in three and holding them with my glittering eye^ as I rant on about yaktrax . . . but close. For the number of people who have written down ‘yaktrax.co.uk’ in my vicinity this week there should be a noticeable blip on yaktrax’ graph of sales in this area. About 80% of my serious-winter claustrophobia has evaporated by the simple expedient of being able to go outside and walk around.^^ This is a hilly little town and as previously observed clearing and sanding the pavements (or for that matter anything but the main roads^^^) is not a priority.^^^^ So I’ve gone from whining with fear as I unlock the front door of the cottage and prepare to essay forth with two fully-loaded hellhounds to nonchalantly shaking my fist at the snow-bellied sky.^^^^^
^ No albatrosses were killed or injured in the making of this blog entry.
^^ Doesn’t do much about the freezing my eyelashes off however.
^^^And don’t count on it there either. Penelope set out for the film society meeting in Mauncester two nights ago, main roads all the way, got as far as the first roundabout on the bypass, went all the way around, and came home again.
^^^^ We started out better after this latest blizzard. I don’t know if it was a council minion or an enraged householder or assortment thereof, but the two worst downtown hills were semi-cleared and semi-sanded. And then we ran out of sand. Which is apparently turning into a national crisis.
^^^^^ I could do this so much better in a mad bomber’s hat.
† There is also, I’m afraid, an aspect to this new year of Before Luke and After Luke.^ I’d had composing plans for the holiday break^^ which were derailed with everything else when the accident happened. And when I finally had a chance to sit down at the piano I found myself wanting to write something For Luke . . . but what came out was . . . well, probably pretty much unplayable, not in a good way, although Oisin has said that if I will run it through Finale so he can frelling read it, he’ll have a go.
^ No particular news. Continued tiny improvements, which are the most we can hope for. And we do hope for them. But that’s all. It’s the old throwing rose petals into the abyss thing, and hoping that in this case the abyss does have a bottom, and if we keep throwing rose petals in, it will eventually fill up again. You’re keeping those candles lit, yes? Thanks.
^^ Plus learning at least one more unassigned aria out of my mezzo book, or possibly another Finzi from the Garland that Fear No More comes from. Which hasn’t happened either.
†† Which is always in the running for ‘most difficult piano piece ever written’ which is approximately all I know about it.
††† I’m a terrible businesswoman, but even I can see this isn’t an intelligent choice.
‡ Although there is Catastrophic News: Edward is retiring as Ringing Master. This probably has something to do with the Blessed Event due next May which will give Louise a sibling. But it’s a disaster for the tower; that leaves only Vicky and Niall as our reliable good ringers. It also means Niall is likely to get shanghaied . . . I mean elected Ringing Master at the tower meeting in a fortnight.
‡‡ But of the remaining six, three of us were Penelope, Leo and me, who are the Wombly Ones, and Niall, Vicky and Edward holding us together . . . demonstrating just how acutely we’re going to miss Edward. Waaaaah.
‡‡‡ And the fact that I was going to have to walk back to the mews to get it.
§ Possibly (evilly) inspired by the fact that we’d rung Stedman a little earlier, with me on an unfamiliar bell because Penelope, who is more out of Stedman practise than I am, wanted the treble. We went wrong rather quickly and everyone looked at me. . . . And it was Edward. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.
This is not going to make us miss him any less.
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