Monthly Archives

August 2016

On mowing the lawn

24/08/2016

Feeling brave, I took the lawn mower for a spin around the garden. Typically, it’s not me who cuts the family lawns, however it was sunny, the grass had got a little shaggy and everyone else was busy or physically unable.

The current lawnmower is petrol powered. My previous experience with such machines has not instilled me with confidence. I often can’t get the thing to start. Historically, I’ve been embarrased by lawn mowers which start first time, every time, for the Midget and never for me. With this newer lawn mower I’m having a little more luck.

I managed a loop of orchard before things started going a little strange. The machine’s growl seemed to deepen and a trail of cut grass remained on the grass behind me. It should have been scooped up. I stopped and checked if it was full. It wasn’t. I went to start it again. But of course, this time it didn’t start. The cord slipped and pinged back to the machine. From here it takes an especially hard tug to get it back to the right place. The first time this happened to me I panicked thinking I’d destroyed it. Mid tug, a cheerful chap chirped up from behind the garden wall:

“You having difficulty starting it love?”

He caught me off guard. I laughed to cover my embarrassment and told him something incoherent about it requiring some strength. I tried to start it again. Success.

But the problem of the grass being left on the lawn and the dodgy sound hadn’t been solved. I walked along a little more. Then concluded that I needed a second opinion. I stopped again and glanced up. The man and his rambling companions were still peering down over the garden wall. Knowing they’d seen me walk only a few metres with the lawn mower, I was further embarrassed.

I started to cross the garden when the chap called out again, his cheerfulness matched the bright sunshine, but was at odds with my own feelings of failure and inadequacy. He asked a simple question about the local area. If I’d stopped and thought I’d have been able to advise him correctly, but, as it was, my mind was overwhelmed with emotion. Flustered, I told him the wrong answer (the answer he was looking for). He and his delighted companions continued their trek.

Of course, the Mother was stood watching the whole performance from the patio. Still feeling hot in the cheeks, I explained my failure to understand the lawn mower and the two of us headed inside to ask the Father for help.

He, of course, fixed the machine in a matter of seconds.

Traveling the hills of home by steam and on foot

Yorkshire tourism

23/08/2016

Life has been very full life recently. Busy is one word that could be used to describe it, but busy, I feel, has some rather negative connotations. Instead I prefer the word full. I’ve been going to bed tired, both physically and mentally, and waking up bright after a generous night of deep and luxurious sleep. Since my week when I couldn’t sleep in the Spring, I’ve become considerably more appreciative that I can just do this.

Sleep gives me the energy to play the roles of hostess and tourist. This morning Lady Patricia and I climbed up onto the moors where the Brontë sisters used to walk. The hills were purple and uncharacteristically warm in the sunshine. Below, in Haworth village, we wandered through the rooms of the parsonage where the sisters lived and wrote. I imagined myself sitting at the table on which they crafted their novels and poems and imagined the letters written of their neat fold away writing desks.

Haworth is known for being quaint. Some years ago I watched the cyclists climbing up the cobbled streets for the Tour De France. You can see me, crouching on the pavement with my camera, on the photo blue tacked to the mirror in the jewellery, glasses case and fascinator shop. You still see many yellow bicycles as you drive around Yorkshire. On Monday we took a quick trip on the steam train through the village, visiting neighbouring Oakworth station where the Railway Children was filmed. We passed under the tunnel and enjoyed a muddy walk down the valley.

yorkshire sculpture trail, saltaire

Last week was more chaotic. Eight of us had a brunch in the village, which for some of the group lasted for most of the afternoon. Some people got overly enthusiastic and slightly obsessive over their pottery painting. And to my utmost surprise, I wasn’t the last to finish. We went on some beautiful walks, but also got completely drenched out on the hills. We found a path with little sculptures – including a cat in a bath, and many blackberries. The beginning of last week was stunningly sunny, and spent much time in the garden. Digging, sawing and hauling scaffolding planks around the garden was somewhat exhausting, but in a good sort of way. Laying in the sun eating the Grump’s cake and flapjack was more relaxing. The Mother seems pleased with her raised beds.

A subset of us also took a trip to Salts Mill in Saltaire. Placed conveniently on the main railway line and the Leeds-Liverpool canal, Saltaire was, like Bourneville of Cadbury fame, a Victorian village designed for factory workers with concern for their well-being. The old mill is no longer used for the production of cloth. Nowadays it’s a wonderful combination of museum, art gallery, bookshop, art materials supplier, antique shop and seller of useful home stuff. The Dutch-Kiwi bought a vegetable peeler from a display that felt more like a design exhibition than a shop. I found a very expensive table I liked. We feasted at the diner and came away from smiling.

Now it’s just the family here. Time for a little quiet to reflect on how wonderful it’s all been and how lucky I am for the incredible friendship I’ve been shown. Life is good.

Incompetent me, who can’t possibly do manual labour…

I’m pressure washing the patio. It might not seem like the most ideal way to spend a Tuesday afternoon, but it needs doing. There are many things that need doing. Including dealing with the fence. My aim for the summer is to not touch the fence. The fence is very long and making it respectable again is the sort of tedious job that mean gods might give to someone troublesome like Sisyphus to keep them out of trouble.

Anyway, returning to the patio. It is made of huge stone slabs that have gone green over time and need cleaning up. Incompetent me, who can’t possibly do manual labour, set the pressure washer up, despite the yellow beast being stored on a high shelf in the garage and being a little bit broken.

Now as we don’t have an outdoor tap, I had to use the one in the garage. Surprisingly I actually managed to find the key. I opened the window careful not to disturb the spiders. Through this I poked the hose pipe. One end was attached to the tap (there was a pot beneath it because it drips) and the other end was attached to the yellow beast.

At the other end of the house, in the kitchen, I put the plug in the electricity socket and told the Mother to stand guard as I ran from one end of the house to the other switching on the electricity and the water. She was instructed to shout if anything appeared to be acting in an outrageous manner. A bit of water pooled out of the beast which purred slightly, but nothing went bang.

I began work.

Forty or so minutes later, just as I was in the rhythm of things, the yellow beast stopped growling and refused to cooperate any longer.

I squeezed the trigger a few more times and nothing happened, so I put the water gun down and went over to see why the beast was upset. I switched it off and took a closer look. Interestingly, it had stopped pouring out water. For a foolish moment or two I just stared. And then it dawned on me that I was looking in the wrong place.

I raced to the garage, which involved going up a step, through two doors and down a few more steps. I leapt through the jungle of tools, wood, ladders and random pipes scattered on the floor.

There was a waterfall. The end had popped off the hose pipe, soaking everything. A river flowed through the garage adding more victims to the chaos, including the Tall Aunty’s bed (no she doesn’t live in our garage).

And so, with much regret, the yellow beast was caged for the day. I attended to the flood and put the Tall Aunties bed and a few other damp things outside in the sunshine. Everything done, I gave up with the cleaning efforts and sat down to write this blog post.

Then it started raining.

Missing the smoke signals, again (Burnout, exhaustion and a flitting mind)

Burning out is associated with people who work ridiculously long hours. Sleep deprived workaholics are inevitably going to crash at some point. Demanding fast paced jobs make chronic stress an inevitable part of modern life. It might be a bit melodramatic to say that either you commit to this destructive style of life and have success, or you go nowhere. But few people seem to believe balance and contentment is achievable.

Combustion from over working in such a stereotypical fashion doesn’t apply to me. My lifestyle doesn’t allow for it. Eventually, I’m sure, I’ll need to attend to deadlines and commit to a desk (I spend relatively few hours here in my present set-up), but for now I’m content to travel and explore other options.

Despite this, I still crash.

I had a mug which said ‘You can take the lass out of Yorkshire, but you can’t take Yorkshire out of the lass’. The same principle I think applies for the underlying drive is that eventually results in me ending up as fragile embers. I can take myself away from high intensity situations that could stereotypically be blamed for my combustion, but such environments truly only exacerbate inherent tendencies.

Left alone I still go up in flames.

It doesn’t really matter where I am or what I’m doing. My brain is going to latch onto more problems than I can reasonably hope to handle. It’s going to make those problems appear vital to my sense of identity, and then, when elegant solutions hide, it’s going to become overwhelmed.

Physics is attractive because it provides beautiful solutions to problems. However, I’m in the blind spot of physics, somewhere on the scale between the single atom and the entire galaxy. The understanding I crave is both scientific and emotional. I don’t have industry funding or a super computer; my total processing power is one loopy human brain. My laboratory is my life. I make assumptions that make a frictionless surface seem logical.

My small brain goes between helpful answers, like ‘42’, and answerable questions like, ‘why do I feel upside down?’. Since this is my thinking pattern, it’s incredible I’m not more flammable.

I shouldn’t underestimate my brain. Its resilience is remarkable. I’ve got to admire its ability to keep fighting, even if it’s failing to land a single punch. The bell rings, I wipe the sweat from my brow and then turn back to the ring for another round. Simultaneously it’s eyed up the fire-escapes for a swift exit. I flail between fight or flight in an exhausting state of paralysis.

Do I over analyse and therefore over complicate my life? Or does my analysis simply make me aware of problems that would have existed regardless? I’m the scientist asking for more funding, more research is needed but I’m not sure that someone wiser might not see that the truth is right in front of me. I feel the answer writhing within reaching distance, but I just can quite get a grip.