Cripes!

... for Knots in the String.

I’m supposed to be writing a piece to attract interest and hold your attention!

Really?

But how hard it is to think after ballet class. Honestly, we work our little derrières off. But lest you think ‘Why the hell does she do it then?’, I love it. It’s extremely difficult to explain to folk who don’t know of the level of concentration required to keep the feet, legs, hands, arms and torso in sync and flowing. Trust me, it’s a lot.

Your face must always look as if you are enjoying yourself. And despite it all we are! We turn up the following week, so that speaks volumes, and what we’re noticing is that the work we’re doing seems up quite a notch on what we used to do which is in itself thrilling and challenging and we want to meet those challenges head-on.

( These are the feet of our graceful and elegant teacher, Lisa, showing us an intricate tendu set.)

What I find awe-inspiring is that our whole class is late 60’s-mid to late seventies in age. Amongst us, there are hip, knee, ankle, back, tendon, balance and essential tremor issues. Some of us have had brain tumours, double jaw replacements, hip ops, knee replacements and bowel reconstructions. Golly, all hail to the medical profession! But the general philosophy amongst us seems to be Use it, as they say, or lose it.

So here I am, post-class, feet up on the couch, looking out at the sky and wondering on life.

We had planned to rest our veg garden through the winter, but it may need to be planted out for economy’s sake. We still have to fill up farm vehicles with diesel fuel, and I do wonder if the little Orange Man with the Small Hands and his cronies have thought how the cost of fuel will be have to be passed on by food growers to the consumers everywhere across the globe. Farmers cannot possibly absorb this into their weekly budgets – trust me, my family farms! Food will be expensive! I’m sure you’re seeing it in your weekly shopping trips. And this despite the fact that the fuel excise in Australia has been frozen for the next three months.

I wish my parents were still alive to tell us how they lived during and post WWII. Phrases come to mind: tighten the purse strings, tighten the belt, live within means. And above all, Keep Calm and Carry On. My parents always grew their own veg and fruit, and Mum preserved masses of food for the pantry, made her own jams, sauces, pickles and chutneys. I wore homemade clothing when I was young – lucky that Mum was such a beautiful garment-maker. I wore hand-knitted jumpers and cardigans. It was only later, after economies had settled in the fifties and the comfortable sixties eased us into the beneficent seventies that Baby Boomers hit their straps and became the fortunate generation. How many of you remember how lucky we were?

I commented to my husband on the irony of growing up in the 1950’s with parents who still lived in the straitened post-war style and here we are at the end of our lives, having to face something similar. Because every commentator from here to the UK and the EU is saying even if the wretched war was to finish tomorrow, global economies will suffer for an unforeseeable amount of time.

You know, once we used to talk of Faustian attributes (…Faustian…refers to a deal or pact where someone sacrifices their moral integrity, spiritual values, or soul for worldly gains like power, knowledge, or wealth. It implies a dangerous trade-off with inevitable, ruinous consequences, rooted in the German legend of Faust who sold his soul to the devil – Wikipedia). I think Faustian has been replaced by Trumpian, don’t you?

Other things:

*How quickly the nights have darkened as we speed toward the end of daylight saving. As we walked along a back road surrounded by the sentinel stands of crackling, dry eucalypts, and carpets of copper-toned and dessicated bracken fern, strips of shed bark lay across the ground like frivolously tossed ribbons. Our little Womble was en-garde, his rough Jack Russell coat gleaming in the darkening dusk, his bannerol tail quivering as a dormant hunting streak began to vibrate through his young body. To the right and the left were the thump-thumps of unseen wallabies, crashing through the high stands of bracken. Somewhere further up the hill, a lone kookaburra, knowing he was the king of the bush, laughed at the paltry humans and their even more paltry little dog. We were specks of dust below him in his high-above world.

*My husband had to use his head torch for the first time since October and it reminded me that despite the summer heat this week, winter is coming. I’m at peace with that thought, because on the coast, far from city lights, the night sky is a beauty to behold. A navy and black firmament studded with pinpricks of glittering light and the veil-like stain of the Milky Way. Perhaps this is the year I study the celestial chart and learn to read my way home in the dark.

*I’ve made little visible progress with Phoebe’s Prime, but in my mind I’m chapters forward. I lay my head on the pillow at night and tell myself the next chapter and the next, so that it feels as if someone reads me a bedside story. It’s doubtful I’ll make any progress because of Easter and the thought occurred to me, what’s the point? Apart from the enjoyment of stitching words and imagination together, if we do have a global financial crisis, it’s likely that book sales will diminish as people tighten their spending.

*We’ve left the coast for the Easter period. It’s the busiest time for the village, busier than Christmas – a massive and unattractive increase in population and noise levels. Being what we are, we’ll seek peace, empty spaces and country with our family. The Easter Bunny will find us wherever we are. I hope he (or perhaps she’s a she…) will find you as well.

I have such a curious sense of loss when I’m away from the cottage – a form of homesickness, a profound feeling. Our little pup feels it too – he doesn’t eat for a day or so and walks around with Princess Di eyes accusing me of letting him down. I asked him if he’d like to walk on the beach one evening (a city beach) and his little eyes lit up and I thought to myself how in sync we are. He crept into my arms and licked my neck and when we arrived at the beach, he revived enough to eat his dinner when he returned home. I promised him that it’s only a few days and he’ll be back in his coastal garden.

The nice thing about being in the city is time to get a haircut for all three of us (I had over an inch snipped off and miss it terribly), new ballet shoes and elastics, delivery of Easter hearts and chocolate eggs to the paediatric ward at our local general hospital, time also to book tickets for a literary festival in May, a ballet in June and space in an embroidery course, also in May. Time too for the tree men to trim our trees, and for us cut back the jungle-like city Matchbox, to power hose the townhouse path and to plan the planting of ordered tulip bulbs and winter annuals.

Time will fly. Doesn’t it always?

One final note:

CRIPES INDEED!

i opened my emails a few moments ago to see masses of new subs from Substack and I truly thought I’d been hacked and frantically wondered what on earth do I do about it. Then I saw Cindy Hattersley’s email:

https://cindyhattersleydesign.com/my-readers-are-more-interesting-than-me-meet-author-farmer-prue-batten/

I had forgotten the publishing date of the interview on Cindy’s wonderful blog and had been blithely walking the coast with my dog whilst my husband works with my son at the farm on trying to unblock the silo outlet. But on seeing the link on Cindy’s email, it all fitted together.

I’m delighted to welcome all the new readers and thank you so much for taking the time. I hope you will stay with me as we journey through age-ing together, through finding the good things in life and sharing the best of joy.

In the meantime, have a safe and peaceful Easter Break and see you on the other side…

Music?

Some royal blue cool from Dan Fontaine