wendy house

Early evening In Paris, in the company of a recently married couple, leaving our hotel in search of the Tour Eiffel. Will we walk? Will we ride bus 63 then 24? Will we take the metro? Do we want to get there quickly or have a beer first?

The map with the metro and bus routes rustles she checks routes and numbers. The map never leaves her hands yet the decision making is clearly mutual. I chip in ‘Hoorah’ when having a beer is thrown into the mix then comment that I don’t mind how or when we get there.  

The discussion takes minutes, it’s like an elegant dance. If alone I would already be sat in that bar drinking a beer, watching the world go by, listening to people and relaxing. In their company I am happiest to be stood on the street corner listening to the uncovering of each others values, finding out what works best for both of them,  together.  It’s sensible, practical, sometimes funny, time consuming. It’s love. I am watching love happen and glad to be temporarily touched by it’s closeness.

My understanding of a couples’ love has been changed by not having lived in it for over a decade.  I’m not speaking of the love of family, friends, my recently departed Matrix or her remaining companion. I’m speaking of the sharing and merging of selves. In my last decade there was the too-sluggish death of a rejected love, skirmishes into sexual relationships, the love of close friends and cats.  My view on the love between a couple is now mainly drawn from strong memories of my 4 very different loves from the last century, watching and listening to others, and the stories told in books, films, blogs and newspapers.

The loves that I see shining brightest is in sharing the detail of living. Things like shopping for food, preparing a meal, deciding how to spend the evening. All show love. Maybe those of you who are living in love find this odd when the passion and joy in the laughter, warmth, smiles, praise, sex, and scents can be so wonderfully intense and engulfing.  I can find laughter, warmth, smiles, praise, sex and scents in my life. When I’m with friends and family there is also the mutual knowledge of sharing the detail of life with someone who has gradually built an understanding of what works.  When the passion and the detail meet with another single person, this is the couples love. Not part of my life.

We stopped for some golden beers before taking the Metro to the Tour Eiffel. We danced through the park basking in the glory of the tower’s golden night-time plumage.

This post is dedicated to Paris, the traveler, her first love, her husband, and the memory of Matrix.

the first and only text message waiting on my phone when I woke that morning read

my position has been eliminated

It didnt read

• I’ve been made redundant
• I’ve lost my job
• They’ve got rid of me
• They’ve cut my job

No words of anger, no tremors of fear, no tissue of tears.  Just the 2 words which feel like they are being pretentious because they have 3 or more syllables.

position = job

eliminated = cut

excerpt from an email:

When’s your first novel? Bet you could combine the intellectual challenge of a Will Self novel with the creative wackiness of Terry Prachett!

this qualifies the sender as a friend for life.

wendy: 4 pints of Ringwood and a bottle of Chianti

bar staff: how many wine glasses would you like

I look at the smiling person next to me

smiler to bar staff: just one glass please

smiler to me: it’s cheaper to buy a bottle of wine and then leave some than it is to get 1 glass then refill it later.  They know me here, they’ll understand.I’m a sot

barstaff: are you sure you dont want a long straw instead of the glass? It will save us on the washing up

smiler: (sudden squeaky scream) I can’t believe he just said that!

wendy: what’s a sot? acronym, slang or real word?

wendy: i think I must be lonely

mary: rubbish, you are the least lonely person that I know, you just spend a lot of your time on your own

We met several months before.  We both started a ‘mountain glacier hiking’ course.  At 60 Mary was the oldest person on the course. She had not signed up as part of a couple nor was she treating the course as a mate-finding opportunity.   How refreshing. I soon started to seek-out Mary’s company while hiking and during the rest breaks.  I quickly tired of the chattering from other hikers, normally affluent couples considering what gear to purchase, what restaurant to recommend. 

At 60 Mary’s love for her terminally-ill bed-ridden husband was not stated, but it beamed stronger than a lighthouse.  She recorded our hiking sessions, the beautiful scenery and laughter,  for him with her new digital camera.  He could feel part of an active interesting life because she sought this life out and carefully bought it back to his bedside with love. What a fabulously generous heart. 

I fell in love with Mary. Not the love that hungers for sexual validation. Not a love that needed to be returned.  There was deep peace in her company. Knowing this I invited myself to her home in the foothills of Mount Ranier. The home she had built with her husband before his death so noticibly stepped towards him.

wendy: can I help you gather the leaves from your garden?

Mary: yes. they  will fall as fast as you’ll be able to gather them

After a morning gardening, mostly in silence, we went inside and Mary finished the home made french onion soup.  She talked while she stirred. Talked of how her father raped her and how the authorities didnt believe her story. Talked of how her sister committed suicide. How she left her bilogical family and built her own new family.  How she worked to help abused children and beaten wives. Clearly she has known and seen more loneliness than I could feel.

 The cedar dappled autumn sun played on her face.  No tears, no frown lines. 

It seems we have both found some form of peace amidst life, in the silences

The wasp nest in the Viburnum Tinus. A quick poll of my facebook contacts produced the unanimous decision to DESTROY, DELETE, DEVASTATE the nest.  My friends don’t care for wasps.

The nest is quite quiet at the moment I can only ever see one or two wasps working on building the structure and one or two wasps coming and going, pressumably feeding the lava inside.  It’s my first wasp nest, so with no real comparator it looks quite big to me, about 10 inched tall and 7 inches wide.  Branches of the viburnum go through the nest. I suspect that destroyinh the nest will involve destroying part of the plant.

Friends varied in their favoured  tactics of destruction.  Suggestions included:

• gas
• fire
• Council pest control services

Aquaintance: you are looking really lythe, you’ve lost a lot of weight* since I last saw you, what diet are you on?

Small Business Owner (SBO): the poverty diet

Aquaintance: [silence]

SBO: eating one meal every three days is a sure way to quickly  get really lythe

Egyptian guide (EG):   Saladin did one terrible thing which we cannot forget.   He masa creed 400 dinner guests

Wendy:   Killed 400 dinner guests?

EG:   yes

Wendy: I think you mean massacred not masa creed

EG:   the Americans say Masa creed

I  decided not to contradict her assertion of  how Americans pronounce ‘massacred’.  My role was only to ask questions, follow instructions  and make impressed noises.   For example,   she was the  director of where and when I could take photographs insisting that her prescribed locations were best.    She argued with me  if I chose not to  comply with her suggestions.    She told me to hurry up and move on when I decided to take photographs outside of her prescribed opportunities.  

Luckily I’ve escaped from her clutches  to my friends home. My friend  knows  how to

• ‘not know’
• acknowledge her own linguistic and meaningful creativity
• allow her guests to make thier own judgements (about where to take photographs)

In a mock Bavarian village nestling in the Cascade mountains  there is an store that specialises in selling Australian goods.   I purchased a fake Zebra skin cowboy hat that kept the sun from my neck  in  the Nevada desert and New York.   The Australian Zebra skin hat will be joining Eric and I in the  Egyptian desert next week.  

Todays texts:

Friend in Cairo:  How do you fancy camping overnight  in the Desert next Thursday? Tents and drinks provided.

Wendy: YES PLEASE!

continue reading “desert holiday hat”

Tiger: you were sat under your tree
Wendy: my tree?
Tiger: In Kingfisher field
Wendy: the copper beech?
Tiger: yes.   before I came to call for you, first  I would come by the field and look under the tree because you were often there,   you did a lot of your exam revision under the tree
Wendy: yes, I remember now. The tree was very helpful.   A calm, wise tree.   A girl’s got to develop a strong bond with a well established tree during her formative years. I had completely forgotten it.
Tiger:   Oh, Honey,   you are SO fickle

This blog post was bought to you courtesy of a cellular connection infront of Salisbury cathedral on a sunny September saturday courtesy of the letter T,   the colour green, and the shade of a conker tree.   Another day, another tree. Some things don’t change, other things change frequently.  Perhaps it’s time to find  a tree in Reading…

The day after my outstandingly fabulous Birthday party:

Spotty dog:   last night you said you were going to give up drinking, become a vergetarian, start cooking and join a gym

Wendy:   gosh,   I was in a good mood,   you realise this is a progressive plan,   one thing at a time,   each is conditional upon achieving the step before,   do you want a glass of champers with the mister man cup cake?

Wandering around the stunningly topiaried gardens of a stately seat in Kent.  There some some significant, and in significant, discoveries:

• a pole dancing topiary bear
• a Virgin balloon full of hot stagnent air
• Woodwormed Jacobean panels beside a spiral stair
• Ms Scarlet’s radical stealth mohican-style crop of not-ginger hair
• some bushes (not Scarlet’s)

On a cold rainy August UK day my high school friends and I warmed our hands on hot Mocha’s outdoors in convent garden under the shelter of a large unmbrella.

A real frothy treat.

During our trip to Cornwall Flat Eric made some west country friends, including Jamie Bear, who now sends Flat Eric post cards, care of the Wendy House.   Jamie Bear prefers surfing to crosswurdz and indulges in creative spelling,  

Hoorah!  

Looks like curdles aw ’round

A Sunday afternoon in Helston.  

Spotty dog and I had confused Helston and Helford.   Thinking we were catching a bus to the seaside town of Helford we caught a bus to the inland town of Helston.   As we wandered through Helston looking for the coast we stumbled upon the town park.   A skateboard park with a coffee bar and dozens of fathers walking their children around the pond.   A veritable single-father-fest,   no-doubt influenced by the proximity of a substantial military base on the outskirts of town.  

I managed to keep my eyes firmly on the duckies.  

No dribbling.

In different Falmouth stores  Spotty dog and I simultaneously whipped out our new-fangled plastic cards to pay for lovely pressies.   Much to our suprise these words greeted us:

“we don’t take cards here, cash and cheques only’    

Neither of us use cheque-books.   We trundled off on a quest for  cash-points,     only to find that Brett couldn’t help us and we couldn’t have called him for help even if we had his number.   Tricky.

On a Falmouth  street an elderly gentleman caught me gazing into his front garden, admiring the plants.

He came out and apologised that his wife, who maintained the garden, wasn’t available to give me a tour of the tiny garden and name specific plants.

Spotty dog and I then accompanied him on his walk down a steep hill  to the dentist.   On the walk he told us how his house was once a Quaker school and brief histories of several other houses on the street.

Cornish folk are extremely personable.

The locals on Helston bowling green persistently tried to get Spotty dog and myself to join them because they needed what they called ‘young-blood’ especially that of  ladies.   Spotty dog and myself managed to escape with all  our own blood before the games ended

A couple of friends are in the process of selling one and purchasing another gorgeous home in downtown Reading, near the Wendy House.  

There’s one slight hitch in the plan

In 1998 the local council placed an access  restriction on the to-be-purchased property.   Pedestrians and vehicles cannot access the house from …     …the public highway.   There is no other obvious route to the house.   The current resident ignores this restriction.    How can my friends get from the roadway to the house without breaking the law?   Without:

• using a Vehicle:   A device or structure for transporting persons or things; a conveyance?
• being a Pedestrian: A person traveling on foot; a walker?
• accessing   the property from the  Road?

friend:   that’s a pretty top

Wendy: it goes all the way down to my knees

friend:   lets call it a dress

Wendy: yes, lets

Thanks to Mrs. Pouncer for pointing out this entertaining sign on the front door of a Reading nightclub targetting clientelle of a gay disposition who will benefit from some illustrated suggestions  on courtship techniques.

HIF: Did you enjoy your holiday in Italy?

Wendy:   yes

HIF: are you all fresco’d out?

Wendy:   yes

The Piccolomini library  in Siena was outstanding, fabulous books, floor tiles, wall frescos, ceiling frescos, quiet ambience, excellent lighting  and virtually no other visitors.

On Friday in Joe Allen’s*     Exeter St. restaurant Mrs. Pouncer partook of some Chardonnay,   Scarlet Blue imbibed some Mules and I took a small Boddingtons or four.

I can unreservedly, with miss spellings and split infinitives, confirm that Mrs. Pouncer is in person everybit the stylish counsellor that her entertaining blog suggests.   During our brief encounter I discovered the true extent of my lack of knowledge of advance eyewear handling techniques.   Mrs. Pouncer arrived at Joe Allens equipped with both fabulous stories and the four sets of eyewear necessary to fulfill all advanced eyewear handling techniques.   Needless to say I learned a thing or three.  

I can also confirm that Ms Scarlet Blue’s hair was of a certain colour and that meeting her has brought new dimensions to my understanding of the word ‘cute’.

* no relation of Mrs. Pouncer’s acquaintance  Keith Allen,  father of Lily Allen.

Wendy House service will be temporarily sub-sub-standard while flagrant‘ Happy Birthday to us’*   activities are conducted in Italy accompanied by  this years soundtrack courtesy of  Eyan  …

* us = people I know (Eyan, Jenn, Angela, Dr. Phil, Prof. Dave)  and pobably quite a few people that I don’t know…

What is the best 45th birthday present for a Wendy?   A four day weekend in  Siena with spottydog as

• tour organiser.
• tour guide.  
• conversational sparring partner.  
• first-aid specialist,   she’ll have the plasters for when I fall-over, which she reliably informs me that I will, because I’ll be looking up at the architecture rather than at street-level obstacles.
• personal shopper,   because she has this uncanny  skill for inducing me to part with cash like no other person I have ever met.
• extended memory.

Excitedness levels have already reached amber.   Spotty dog has cunningly avoided booking through the recently defunct XL, travelling at ridiculous hours of the day,     waiting at transport interchanges for silly, silly, times and other such icky nonsense.

When spottydog visited the Wendy House I gave her a full 1 minute tour.   The full  1 mintue tour is the executive version of the 30 second tour.   It is akin to the  15 minute Hamlet only quicker  and with less literary credibility.   As audience, spottydog’s role was to  provide her unique insight into potential lifestyle developments.   Half way through the tour,   near the end:

Wendy:   this is my wardrobe (US = closet.   A closet is a  place where you keep skeletons, hence the title of this post)

Spottydog: that’s orderly

Wendy: its half empty

Spottydog:   its organised by colour and size,   even the shoes

Wendy:   Errrrrmmmmmmm…….     …is that bad?

Spottydog:   its not scatty

Lifestyle development suggestions involved, ‘open the beers’ and  ‘you need more plants’.   Spottydog, spot-on again.

One of the larger (circa 1862) houses in my street hosted a street-garden party  where I ate oodles of triffle and met dozens of neighbours who chose to buy homes  there because of the:

• good nearby schools.
• curved, quiet, tree-lined street.
• proximity to town, buses, trains, work.
• nearby co-op store.
• beautiful old houses at reasonable prices.

Each of us introduced ourselves by name and house number,  I became ‘Wendy at n(a)’.   My introduction received one of two common reactions:

1. Oh,   the cute one that isn’t really on the street!   We knew Marion who lived there before you.
2. Where is that?   We know [name] at n+1,   n,    and the empty new house n(b),   there is no house between them.

Uncommonly, the  Wendy House doesn’t have a frontage on the Street.    It is hidden behind n+1 with the pathway approach unintuitively placed between n+1 and n(b) rather than intuitively between n and n(b).    I discovered that  a prior resident of this Wendy House,   Marion:

• moved in soon after the stable was converted to a house,   mid to late  1960′s.
• moved out in 2002.
• died in 2005.
• was a kept woman,   no-one knew who her patron was.   My deeds show the house was owned by Brian during her time here.
• would stand at the gateway and chat to passers-by.  

My plan to become the wierd lady with the hats was generally well recieved.    One neighbour may give me an old set of oak gates from a local house currently stored  in his stables which haven’t been converted into a residence for a working woman.

A Reading friend of London extraction recently took  a vacation in the wild west of  the English Riveria.   She was pleased to discover that all modern conveniences are available in Paignton.    No longer do people on the English Riviera  have to share their teeth with ancesters, neighbours, or complete strangers.    

No more waiting for a person to finnish using their teeth before you can enjoy a crunchy-nut peanut butter sandwich.  You can hear my friends excitement:

New Dentures??!!  - as oppose to??!! Used dentures, one careful lady owner??!!   Priceless!

Schrockthehouse recently pointed out that there  is a shop in Oxford dedicated to keeping me informed about the goings on in the world,   called the Wendy news shop.  

while visiting  Seattle this April  I met with many local friends, indulged in  lots of purring, stroking,  creaky-meowing, general faffing  and furring-up-nosing.     All in the best possible taste.