Marking time...

...for Knots in the String.

I wander through the shallows and wonder about marking time. Waiting for Christmas, waiting till Christmas is over, waiting for our beach summer, waiting for the pup (which we haven’t even really cuddled yet).

And thus, how do we mark time so that we don’t waste time? Because time is precious and of the essence, isn’t it?

I garden, I cook, I write. I meet a close ballet friend for end-of-year coffee. I look at shopping stored under the dining table at the cottage and wonder how to turn it into Christmas gifts that sparkle with silver and excitement.

Nothing is done frenetically as the good thing about being here on the coast before Christmas is that all the Incomers (thrip, Great Unwashed, shackies, whatever) are too busy in the city and so the village is calm, quiet, there’s the most perfect ambience and I laugh when I meet a dog-walker who says: ‘Loving this! Making the most of it before the Great Invasion.’

I wonder about Christmas Day. We may have been on the water, hosted by our daughter’s friend, and so we plan a picnic on his yacht.

But with weather possibly besetting us at this unsettled time of year, with winds and anchor dragging etc, we have a land-based Plan B for the five of us, including the boat skipper – a picnic on the patio. Reduced numbers this year as son’s family head off to daughter-in-law’s family.

Amongst the odd things we do in the garden, my husband ties up pinecones which we roll in peanut butter and then birdseed for the wild birds. I got the idea from a Netflix Christmas movie but do wonder if the peanut butter might encourage the European wasps.

We spend every night watching a Christmas Movie and remark how different it would look if they set some in Australia! We sit and it’s rather like being I/V sedated – relaxed, eating chocolate, overawed with the whiteness of snow, the mass of red and green decorations, men and women dressed in Christmas knits and colours, the way everyone smiles beatific, snowy smiles and how it’s always always a happy ending. Shmaltz and love – beats what’s going on in the real world any day.

We are pleased for my husband’s Syrian barber as Assad falls. The barber is thrilled, having seen his country, his family, his friends all living in fear for their lives for years. But then Israel carpet-bombs the neutral corridor between Syria and Israel and claims the territory. I shake my head. Lest anyone think I’m anti-Semitic, I can say categorically that I’m not, that I have always believed in religious and racial and other freedoms, but particularly the freedom for everyone to live their lives gently and in safety. I can but hope. Perhaps I should write to Father Christmas…

I walk back out to the garden where the Papaver Orientalis has begun to open. The bees buzz around it as if it contains the nectar of the Gods and then they bumble out, I’m assuming very high on opioids. It’s a beautiful flower, transparently white with a rich burgundy interior and I’m thrilled I managed to see it bloom.

I watch the USB of our ballet concert and I recall that I didn’t want to perform at all, grief affecting every fibre of my being. I see a number of mistakes because of lack of concentration and being inside my head, heart and soul. There is a sadness on my face, except when the choreography requires Mina to take my hands and I smile and grab at her lifeline. I wish I’d just walked away from the whole thing the day after the Terrier passed away. As I remember back, so the loss renews its hurt and I decide to pack up the amethyst tulle skirt and give it to someone who might appreciate it. I want no memories of that painful week. I also wonder if I really ever want to dance on stage again. And so I write more of my novel. It’s a huge panacea. The words are flowing, and I paste a little here – unedited, very raw, but here you go: an extract from Act III:

Life was funny really, she thought, trying to be objective. It really was just about circles, linking, overlapping, spinning around. She started walking and then took her shoes off to wade through the water. It always helped to clear her head – an infusion of reality. Thoughts of Kate however, stayed with her. Why was the dancer here? She had said she needed to heal. Oh! The calf tear, the one that had been in the papers! The one that stopped her touring with the company. Annie recalled the Arts Review pages of the Saturday papers saying that the NBC had closed Swan Lake after the accident because there was no one like the Malkov pair to dance it with such raw power. Wasn’t the company supposed to have taken the ballet to New York? How infinitely sad, not just for Kate, but for the NBC and for Kate’s… Tatiana’s… husband.

Annie opened the gate and walked into the garden and the quietness, the hole left by Blighty, once again threatened to suck her into its vortex. After he died, she wondered if life was just perpetual grief and how much better off everyone would be not loving anyone or anything, and then there would be no pain. But her grandson put it all in perspective when he hugged her and said, ‘Love you.’ How could she not have the joy of her family? Her friends? Even the love of this house that her husband had rebuilt according to their dreams.

(NBC: National Ballet Company - a totally fictional company)

Yes, I’m using the death of my beloved terrier for inspiration because it seems right to turn it into a positive. When I talk to you next week, we’ll have visited the 4 week old pups and had a country picnic. I can’t wait to see how this Sunday develops, to see which of the pups we might be leaning toward. (Another visit at least, I hope, before collection day in January).

As only algorithms can, I’m being as saturated with Jack Russell reels as we are with Netflix Christmas movies but like the movies, they bring such happiness gurgling up from deep inside. Watch this space because I’m hoping fit to bust that I have good tidings to bring for you and your… etc etc.

Music? Not a Christmas song! Golly, something cool and summery and why not! And PS: I apologise for early delivery, but it’s a busy weekend coming up which I will hopefully be able to write about next week.