Birthdays, funerals, snow, etc
It’s snowing again. The news is gibbering that This May Be The Worst Winter since 1963. It’s by far the worst winter in the twenty years I’ve lived here, and the first thirteen of them were out in the country, where it’s a good two or three degrees colder than in town. Our old village still has snow lying from the last load. And it’s only the middle of December. It’s not even winter yet: three days to go.
Hellhounds, yaktrax and I are at the mews, and I keep going to the door and looking warily out. It’s dropped a good ten Fahrenheit degrees today; it was raining this afternoon, and it started snowing this evening.
It was raining as I trotted dismally down the pavement toward the church in my good clothes, good clothes including my good wool coat* because the church is much too cold for sitting around in in a mere raincoat.** Peter’s neighbour was a soldier—I’ll call him Leonidas—so there was a double line of regimental types (dripping with medals, I might add, very alarming) standing by the door.*** And when they brought the coffin in it not only had the Union Jack draped over it, but his sword and his hat rode on top on either side of the wreath of red and white roses, and I kind of lost it . . . although not nearly as badly as I lost it at the end, when the regimental bugler standing at the back of the church played Last Post. . . .
The father of a friend of mine died yesterday. She is one of the don’t-need-all-the-fingers-of-one-hand-to-count-them friends, one of the friends who are my real family. He was family too; I perhaps didn’t do so well in the biological family department, so we had a joke that her parents adopted me. He was diagnosed five years ago with a disease that has been eating him up slowly, inch by awful inch. Given the situation it was absolutely time for him to go . . . but . . .
I kept getting—let’s call him Hector: he would have made a good prince, and the last five years have been a doom even uglier than being dragged through the streets by a nasty, faithless little git who happens to be good with a sword. I kept getting Hector muddled up with Leonidas this afternoon; Leonidas was also much loved.†
Today is also Peter’s birthday. We’d been planning to go to Wisley†† and have lunch and a stroll around the garden†††. Leonidas died last week; and then we heard that the funeral was today. We decided to have dinner out instead.
Then they started predicting snow for Thursday.
Then Hector died.
Colin had a peal to ring today, and I didn’t guarantee to be back from Wisley in time, so we’d cancelled handbells. And then I thought handbells would cheer me up—and Peter said yes, fine, go—so last night I phoned round and both Niall and Fernanda were willing. We’d stop promptly, for once in our lives, so I could get off to our birthday dinner.
Then the mavens started not merely predicting snow, but declaring a weather advisory, especially in the south of England. Don’t go anywhere if you don’t have to: all this rain is going to freeze, and then the snow will cover it up. Whereupon I started worrying about dinner. It’s a pub with atmosphere plus terrific food, and it’s not far—but it is down an insanely windy little road with no shoulders and a straight drop into the local river. I dithered and wrung my hands—and the local radio station was interrupting its normal programming‡ to tell you to go home and stay there. Peter, bless him, pulled the plug: let’s stay home, he said. Thank you, I said.
Meanwhile I was still going to get my handbells; serious meteorological unpleasantness shouldn’t be till later. I was feeling a bit shifty about handbells on Peter’s birthday, when the birthday part had already been rather wrecked by funerals and weather. Plus I am longing to ring the trebles to bob major—eight bells, four people—which is what I’ve been whaling away at on Pooka,‡‡ so here I am deserting my husband on his somewhat less than optimum birthday for only moderate selfish personal gain.
And then Niall showed up and said, oh, by the way, Colin is coming.
Colin?
Yes. His peal got cancelled—because of the weather.
. . . So we rang major. And it’s working. Practicing ringing handbells on my iPhone is WORKING. UNMODIFIED RAPTURE. This is ridiculous, right? You have no idea.
It also started snowing at 6:30.
Yes, that's a black plastic garbage bag. And that's another hamper, from his kids (great minds, faced with Impossible Men, think alike). The quail were already in the oven by this time.
One of Peter’s birthday presents, The Man It Is Impossible to Buy Things For, was a hamper from one of these fancy-food-through-the-post people—whom I wouldn’t ordinarily go near because they’re too frelling expensive, but Peter does like to eat, and it’s a way of spending some money, you know? So we tucked in to Boneless Quails with Foie Gras and Pistachio Stuffing and they were excellent. Also right after we’d had the conversation about staying home I ran down the street to our local posh wine shop and said I want a bottle of really good claret that I can joggle around and toss into the back of the car and we can still drink tonight. So we had that with the quail. And it was also excellent.
And then in the middle of dinner the phone rang. I think I’ve given up on the Cherub, and Oisin had given me the name of someone he knows. I have a meet up, chat, and maybe sing a little, introductory lesson with maybe-my-new-
Man, gift, penknife, kitchen disaster area
voice-teacher, next Monday.
But in a year or so, when I ring my first quarter peal of bob major on handbells, it’s going to be in Hector’s memory.
* * *
* The dressed-up proper-lady coat that I only remember is missing one of its large, silver cod-military buttons when I go to put it on. Sigh. This has been going on for years.
** Fortunately I had an excellent rose-bestrewn umbrella
*** I’m such a pacifist it’s not funny—and no, I have no answers, I just can’t deal with killing people—but I totally believe in society’s responsibility to look after those who get shot and blown up for our benefit and defense, however misguided I think the system is.
Contents of the black plastic garbage bag. So how would you wrap three draught excluders? (We need at least two more, but it's a start.)
† Favourite story: he retired early from the military for health reasons, but sitting around home was boring. An ad caught his eye: a financial advisor was wanted in a prestigious local firm. Must have extensive experience and be under forty-five. Leonidas was in his mid fifties and had no experience—not as a financial advisor. He got the job. And retired (again) as the most successful advisor the company had ever had.
†† http://www.rhs.org.uk/Gardens/Wisley
††† And the gift shop. There’s a new book on ROSES in the RHS catalogue that I have my eye on.
‡ Peter gets a medal, speaking of medals, for listening to our appalling local radio for emergency updates.
You want to know what he's reading, right? Mwa ha ha ha ha
‡‡ For anyone late to the party: Pooka, aka Apocalypse, is my iPhone, and Mobel is the iPhone method-bell-ringing simulator: http://www.abelsim.co.uk/
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