memory lane: more snapshots

I remember...the house in which I spent the first 11 years of my life. It was a big house, with high ceilings and many rooms (I was the youngest of 5, and my grandmother also lived with us).

I remember...the big, drafty sash windows with which we used little wedges to stop them rattling on a windy day.

I remember...the wind coming under the front door and lifting up the hall carpet in billows - and me sitting on it, wishing that I was feather light and could be lifted up with it.

I remember...the huge curtain I used to roll myself up and hide.

I remember...the fire that was lit at Christmas and I would lie on my tummy and gaze into the flames.

I remember...pretending the staircases were waterfalls in one huge imaginary landscape.

I remember...the gong that hung outside the kitchen door, to summon us to dinner - 'Mummy can I bang the gong puhleeese...'

I remember...the Christmas trees that were sown in a row in our garden, and that the last of them needed its head chopped off to fit (and remember there were high ceilings!)

I remember...trying to persuade my 'youngest' sister (10 years older than me), to join in my imaginary games, and having fits of giggles.

I remember...the excitement of when my brother set up his railway on the floor of his room, and looking at all the tiny figures and buildings, while the trains raced around the track.

I remember...Bonnie the black Labrador whining at the back door, wanting to come into the kitchen.

I also remember...Bonnie rushing up to me when I had fallen down the stairs, sniffing me to see if I was hurt.

I remember...the sound of my grandmother (Nanny) playing her piano.

I remember...my mother laying out all her seed trays and tending the seedlings.

I remember...my sister Debbie coming downstairs wearing a face mask and being silly - much to my delight.

I remember...the strange quietness after bedtime, and the eerie hugeness of the dark.

I remember...the freezing winter mornings, when Mum brought in an old fan heater so I could stand in front of it while I got dressed for school...and she huffed into my socks to make them warm.

I remember...many other moments, but I will save those for another time...

memory lane: Molly & Dinah

It's been some time since I have ventured on a Wednesday's walk; what with Easter busy-ness and visitors and a whole oddment of things life seem to be scurrying by somewhat rapidly - time to breathe in and then - wait for it - breathe out.

Ransacking my mind for an appropriate memory which didn't involve too much coherency - not something I feel i have much of this evening - I settled on one for all you animal/pet lovers that read my blog. Of course, most of you will have scampered over to Charlie's House - already with its own firm fan base ("of course!" murmurs Sir Charles).

Most of you won't have read this blog from it's gentle and somewhat stuttering beginnings of occasional posts, so won't be familiar with the following two characters. But if they had lived - sniff - they would certainly be regular features here - in fact they and Charlie would probably be the main bloggers, with the occasional post from me!

Molly and Dinah were the two lovely guinea pigs we acquired in 2005, I think it must have been. They had a long haired mum and a rough haired dad and took some time to grow into their own fur...they had little coronets on their heads and whenever they washed it looked for all the world like they were 'doing their hair' - especially Molly.

But who needs words? This is what this lovable pair of sisters looked like:

Dinah

fancy a cuppa?

... might be nice...

Molly - and Dinah's nose!


looking down

Molly chatting to Charlie one Nov 5th

(firework night in the UK -pets inside please!)

whispering secrets?




Molly's snail impression



she could do a very good disapproving look

All right, some explanation needed...we only have a lawn in our front garden, which is open right onto the road and slopes, so it's not safe to have small animals grazing...so I sowed grass seed in a seed tray thinking the guineas could reach over the side and nibble it...well you can see what happened; they got right on top of it and ate it all in one go! So, back to me handpicking from the front!

The guinea pigs were fascinated by Charlie from day one, and always very excited to see him. very aware of the problems and injuries that can occur from combining rabbits and guinea pigs, in general they were together but with some kind of barrier between them. One day I decided to see how they would do in the run all together. To keep a close eye in the proceedings, I got in too (you are allowed to giggle). Once the guinea pigs were in, they went straight for Charlie in delight and proceeding to give him a thorough sniffing. If you know how guinea pigs sniff, you'll know they do so very intently, rubbing their noses across the thing they are smelling...

Charlie, rather bemused by the attention and the two noses buried in his fur and sniffing vigorously while making interested chattering sounds, sat for a while and then hopped away. The noses followed. He hopped away. And they followed. In the end, out of desperation, he scrambled on to my lap and eyed them from a higher vantage point, while they scurried around doing their little jumps in the air (with bouncing fur).

Forgive me for waffling on about guinea pigs. I do love them! Sadly Molly and Dinah had malocclusion of the back teeth and it wasn't discovered until it was too late. They had them filed down but they were all ready too deteriorated in health and had to be put down....

They were so lovely. I can't really have any more at the moment due to my health, and Charlie is all I can manage pet wise. But I dream of a whole guinea pig building filled with 'weeenk, weeenk, weenk' - ing noises...

To finish, a short video of them as little ones...I kept the sound so you can hear a snatch of that lovely weenk- ing sound at the end.

memory lane: wearing different shoes

This may seem like a strange memory to share, but it is a moment that had a surprising impact on me - because it was not just something I saw, but something I experienced.

A couple of years ago, maybe 3, I had a fall in our back garden. Our back garden has got a lot of concrete in it, not just the patio stones but concrete path, steps, and flower bed walls. The safest place to fall in our back garden is in a flower bed. I did not do this.

At the time, the low capstones that line the concrete path were loose, particularly the one nearest the house. We had just come back from staying with parents, I think it must have been, because we were putting in Charlie back in his hutch from his carrier, and I was going up to the garage to put away the stuff that goes with him. At least, that was what I intended to do.

I stumbled, and the toe of my foot caught against the first capstone. This was the one which had no hold whatsoever, which resulted in not just me tripping over, but being catapulted up the path. I was flung forward, and reaching out my hand to stop myself, my right arm slammed into a capstone on the other side. This capstone was not loose. It is a testament to the momentum of the fall that I knocked it out of place.

Have you ever had one of those moments where you're in the midst of something - and despite the speed of which it happens, you think 'oh, no', because you know the outcome will not be good, that it will interrupt life, cause other people hassle and you pain? Well, I remember that feeling as I went down. (This is not, by the way, the moment of impact that I mentioned at the beginning - it is simply the preamble, and since I'm telling the story I may as well tell all of it.)

I felt my jeans - and my knees - rip against the coarse stone, skidding as I fell. I felt the jolt of pain in my arm. And I felt the overwhelming nausea of the shock of the fall. Winded, I could not initially move. What I felt mainly, in that moment, was fury at myself for not being more careful. It took a supreme effort of willpower to turn myself so I was facing the other way, battling against the urge to throw up. From there, I whimpered for help. I must have sounded like a miserable cat.

When Andy had found me and started clearing up the bits outside, I limped into the kitchen to deal with what seemed the most immediate problem - mopping up the blood on my knees. The fact that I was having to support my right arm against my chest was something I ignored at the time. I was in shock, shaky and frustratingly incoherent.

Somehow I must have hobbled upstairs, because I have a clear memory of sitting on the bathroom floor, dabbing ineffectually at my knees with my arm still clutched against me. When Andy discovered where I'd got to, the thing he homed in was the arm. It turned out I couldn't clench my fist or put any pressure on it without agony - so off we went to A & E (Accident & Emergency - E.R. for my overseas friends!!)

I was x-rayed but they could find no break, though they felt it was warranted due to the degree of pain I was experiencing (I was almost disbelieving - how could it hurt so much and have no break?!!). They surmised I had badly bruised the bone itself and sent me home with painkillers and a sling. That night, and for several afterwards, I could only lie on my back with my arm draped helplessly across my stomach - any effort to straighten it made me howl in pain.

And the knees. Ugh. What happened a few nights' running was this. I would lie, on my back, while they throbbed, and would eventually, amazingly, drop off to sleep. When I woke up, and pushed myself up with my good arm (not easy), the knees would bend and - sorry for those who are squeamish - literally rip open again. It was horrible.

(In the end, we went out to a pharmacy to ask advice - the outcome of which was that I had to keep the wounds moist at all times, otherwise scabs would form and tear open, as I had been experiencing.)

I don't remember how I got to the place I did - I think Andy had stayed in the supermarket (where we went to the pharmacy) to pick something up and I decided to go back to the car - and I ended up standing at the side of the 'road' in the car park, waiting to cross. My knees were stiff and I could only hobble, not walk. My right arm was strapped against me. And I was suddenly terrified.

Because it's not just about the physical injury, it's about what it means. I knew, without even thinking about it directly, that I could not move fast if I was required to, and that I did not have my arm to support me. I felt out of balance and unsure, and I had to cross the road.

And then it happened. I looked to my right, and saw a frail, elderly lady attempting the same feat as I was trying to make. She was bent over a stick, and very wobbly on her feet. And a wave of empathy rolled across me.

This is what it's like for you, all the time. It's not just that you can't walk fast, or that everything aches with pain. It's the vulnerability that comes over you when you can't trust your body to react in the way it used to react.

Right now - right then, I felt like I was wearing different shoes. Her shoes.

And so often the picture of that lady will flicker across my mind. Whenever I see someone struggling to walk or clinging onto a support, I remember. I remember wearing different shoes. And that same wave of empathy flows through me, along with the knowledge that my pair of shoes were only temporary while I healed up, but hers were there for the rest of her life.

And so I am always reminded, when behind someone walking slowly, or someone struggling to get on the bus, or wherever I see those 'shoes'. And I have a glimmer of understanding - and the patience that comes with it.

Because for a short time, I wore different shoes.

How does the saying go?

Don't judge a man - or woman - until you have walked a mile in his shoes....



Today: 4/10, medium high

memory lane: the nature of remembering

how do I remember
the days strolling by
covered in a mist
of forgotten time -
golden light,
or cold touches of dark

snatches of feeling
summoned by a scent
a sight familiar
as if I have seen it
before, somewhere
hidden in my mind

the blacks and whites
have faded now
even shades of grey
have become less
recognisable, instead
the world is multicoloured

crimson, cerise,
aquamarine streak
through my memory
each representing
a thought, a feeling
a certain moment

closing my eyes
to feel the sunshine
recognising the warmth
on my skin, as I
acknowledge the memories
of a hundred rays

I understand
what summer smells like,
where winter leads me,
where spring lifts me,
where autumn encases me
in memories of fallen leaves

for I have seen them before –
triggers, reminders
of what has been and what
has been remembered…
and I wonder at those things
I have forgotten.

A slightly unorthodox entry, I know. I hope it still counts :)

________________________________________________

I am also participating in:

over at Lynette's!

memory lane: the Phantom

When I turned 18 we organised something special to do as a family. So my parents, my sisters, one of my brothers and I were booked to go and see The Phantom of the Opera at Her Majesty's Theatre in the West End.

I had never been to see any kind of show so this was very exciting. My siblings have all lived in the London area at some point in their lives, but at this time I had not often been to the busy centre of London with all the tourist sights, the atmosphere and the glamour of the West End.

There was a change to our plans however - circumstances taking the dramatic turn they did, it ended up that the evening we had booked to go was the day of Princess Diana's funeral. It was unprecedented, and for the first time, the theatres closed and all performances were cancelled. We had to reschedule.

Sadly only one of my sisters and her then boyfriend could attend the performance with my parents and me - none the less it was a lovely evening. This was the first time of two that I have seen Phantom in London, the second being in 2000 when my Brazilian penpal came over to England to meet me. (The original production of The Phantom of the Opera opened on October 9th 1986 - so 2009 is its 23rd year!) I had never been to anything like it and the excitement was palpable. I am a country girl, so it was an unusual occurrence to be in the hub of the capital city.

From the opening of the first act, I was utterly transfixed. It is difficult to explain the impact to those who have merely seen the film version, because so much of it, it seems to me, is designed for the stage. The great chandelier rising up above our heads and the thrilling crashing down at the end of Act 1 - this is for the theatre (I should add here that I say 'cinema' where Americans would say 'movie theatre', so when I talk of 'going to the theatre' I'm talking about stage plays, not films!)

The atmosphere was wonderful. The little shrieks that suddenly bubbled up from the audience as we realised the Phantom was sneaking about on top of the chandelier trembling above us, and later on in the show where the Phantom is taking Christine by boat to his lair - the stage was covered in low lying mist, and candles rose up out of it as the boat moved past, utterly convincing. Because the show is such a long running fixture, the effects show all the signs of a theatre made for the performance. I like that fact I have only ever seen it in its 'home' theatre. It adds a certain specialness to it.

The dramatic songs and energetic performances were equally as gripping. I loved the entire thing. Although, I have to say, nothing can quite beat that chandelier falling from the ceiling...

My sister had been given complimentary tickets to the restaurant at the top of the OXO tower so after leaving the theatre we went to eat there (a bit of a shock to my stomach at having a main meal after 11pm!) . I had a rack of lamb, if I remember rightly, which was delicious but so rich I was full after four mouthfuls!! I can still visualise the gleaming dome of St Paul's rising up in the skyscape that was all around us. Actually, looking it up now I realise how recently the restaurant had been opened when we went there.

We didn't stay overly long in the restaurant, and it worked out perfectly. As we drove back through Westminster Square, Big Ben struck twelve. (Big Ben is actually the name of the bell, not the clock face or tower, although often people refer to it as such.) As I looked up from the car window at the glowing dial and listened to the great, deep ring of midnight, I felt a huge ripple of contentment. It could not have ended better.

patchwork memories

There are many memories I have which are not full stories but simple snapshots. This is especially true of my childhood - where the patchwork of memories is not numbered or dated, and sometimes one memory includes repeats of the same thing, or event. Or an object - I remember an object in many phases, but I could not place it on a chronological line.

I remember the huge kitchen table where we ate our meals; I also remember cutting up sponges there and making paintings, using the sponges as stamps. I remember making cards for my mother using tissue paper to make flowers.

I remember collecting warm eggs from the henhouse, and how the hens would let me stroke their backs.

I remember being fascinated by the gas mask in the loft room.

I remember clambering up staircases with Bonnie, our black Labrador, in tow - making believe I was scaling mountains and waterfalls in some amazing adventure.

I remember my dad finding a grass snake and putting it in a fish tank for a few moments so I could have a good look at it; I remember also catching sight of an adder as I played with the petals of a flower on a bush.

I remember the guinea pigs hollering with excitement when they heard any kind of bag rustling, thinking it was feeding time. I remember when Topsy, one of our rabbits, gave birth.

I remember lying on my tummy watching the ants march to and fro from their nest; I remember catching butterflies and the delight when they stayed briefly on my finger when they were free to go.

I remember turning out all the lights so I could play 'spaceships' with Bonnie, landing on a distant planet, going round with a torch and discovering the resident alien (aka the hamster).

I remember our cats, Twinkle and Tiptoes, curled on my lap and purring; I also remember the too-enthusiastic pummelling with their claws which came before hand as they got themselves comfortable.

I remember making a house out of an old television box and bringing a tolerant Twinkle inside with me.

I remember how my brother, sometimes my dad, would on my request pick me up by my ankles and swing me round in circles, while I squealed in delight.

I remember hurtling down a snow covered hill on a simple plastic sack.

I remember frequently asking to hear stories of my brothers and sisters when they were my age (I am the youngest by ten years).

I remember the smell of the Christmas tree and how I would make little piles out of the pine needles on the carpet.

I remember lying in the dark in front of the fire.

I remember having staring contests with my sister (she who laughs, loses).

I remember the view from our old house.

I remember feeling - elation, disappointment, joy, hurt, fascination, puzzlement.

I remember more than all this - but this will do for now...

Today: 4/10, high

memory lane: carpet snorting

It was a Monday night at the college where I studied theology. I took a break from the work I was doing in my room because my friend Sarah had ask me to go to the Laundry. She needed me to take her clothes out of the washing machine and put them in the dryer, while she was studying in the Library.


So, I walked to the Laundry and went to the machines. But Sarah's washing wasn't there. I couldn't find it anywhere. I appreciate that this isn't particularly funny. But I must have been overworking my brain, because I started to get the giggles. Off I went towards the Library, snickering. It only got worse as I went along. On reaching the Library, the word SILENCE hung above the doors. Oh dear goodness. Deep breath in. Control, Lucy control. I entered the Library. I wasn't actively giggling but alas, I still had the giggles. They were rippling up from inside - I had simply clamped my mouth shut.


Seeing Sarah made it worse. Quite what my expression was I can't say. But staggering up to her table - I opened my mouth to speak. How can I explain in writing the noise that came out of me? Try breathing in and saying ahhhhh really loudly at the same time. Imagine it ten times louder.

ERRRRRRRRPPPPPPPP! I cried.

I had done it. I had barked like a giant seal in the library. Everyone looked at me in amazement. Monday evening was a busy time in the library. Every table was full. Feeling dreadful, but unable to control the state of my voice, "SORRY!!!" I shrieked, and turned tail and ran.
Sarah was hot on my heels, gasping with laughter.
We collapsed in the outside corridor, much to the alarm of other passing students. It took a very long time for me to get the words out.
Eventually, Sarah's washing was found.


A week later. A Monday night. Sarah was in the library, I had agreed to go to the Laundry. She had asked me to transfer her clothes from the washing machine to the dryer. Memories of the previous week were already causing flickers of amusement inside me as I entered the Laundry. I opened the machine - her clothes were there! I reached in and - they were dry. She had forgotten to turn the machine on. Already too far gone with laughter for any good to come out of this, I switched the machine on and hurtled towards the Library. I appreciate that I didn't have to do this. I could have taken the safe method and gone back to my room to calm down. I should have known. But, this was me. And this was Sarah. Sarah and I are the kind of friends who automatically gravitate towards each other when any kind of hilarity occurs. I could not overcome it.


Must...find...Sarah...must...share....


So off I went, back into the main building, sniggering through reception and lurching unsteadily into the Lecturer's Corridor (where they had their offices). There was actually a Lecturer in the corridor at the time, who gave me a look of such puzzled amusement that my mild hysteria increased still further.


SILENCE! Pronounced the board above the Library. Impossible.


I swung through the doors, making strange, gasping hiccupy sounds. Mercifully Sarah saw me coming this time, launched out of her seat (already infected with hysteria herself). She herded me out of the library and we both collapsed in the corridor outside, immobile with laughter.

This is a feature of our friendship. I remember a time when we were on one of the staircases; I clutched at the rails, sobbing with laughter, unable to stand. Sarah was even worse than me, collapsed against the wall making mewing noises. What was the joke? You've got me. Frankly, there didn't even have to be one.


Another occasion we were in Sarah's room and some amusement brought us to the state of lying on the floor, snuffling with laughter. 'I just snorted carpet up my nose!' giggled Sarah. And henceforth we refer to the 'sort of friend you can snort carpet with', which sounds a little dubious (!) but simply means a friend with whom you laugh so hard you are rendered helpless on the floor.


It is a friendship that was meant to be. Early in our acquaintance I was sitting in my room and heard this strange snickering noise outside. My room in the first year was opposite the kitchen. On further exploration, I discovered Sarah helpless with laughter in the kitchen sink, with the window blind on her head. It had fallen down, and she was trying to sort it out. Naturally, I was soon up on the draining board with her.


It isn't only laughter that binds us, of course. We have cried a good many tears with each other since those early days, and wailed over embarrassments and days which have all gone wrong...I still remember Sarah launching through my door and crashing onto my bed and burrowing into it; likewise the time I stumbled, agonised, into her room and buried my head in the first thing I came to - her towel (!)


I will finish up with one last story (there are many!!) Sarah and I had this uncanny knack of ending up in the toilets at the same time. Many times I would go into a cubicle and suddenly become aware of this sniffling noise (try giggling without using your vocal chords and with your mouth closed - you've got it). We would both make this sound when we suspected the identity of the other person, and on hearing the sound the other would roar with delighted laughter.


That's not the story, that's the scene setting (!) It so happened Sarah and I were in Borders one day and went to find the toilets. One was out of order, so i went in first while she stood outside by the sink. I had to change my top, for some reason. I cannot for the life of me remember why, but still. Making a joke about the fact we were in the toilets together, I started mock laughing very loudly.
'HA HA HA!' I roared. 'HO HO HO!' Then, 'I'M TAKING MY TOP OFF NOW! HA HA HA!'
Sarah was laughing outside but something was wrong. She was laughing quietly. I paused. 'Sarah?' I queried.
'Yes?' she replied.
'Are you alone?'
'No...'
'Ah,' I said, calmly. 'OK.'
The awful thing was that because the other loo was out of order, I had to come out of the cubicle (Sarah dashed in, purple with amusement), and then had to calmly wash my hands while the other woman stared straight ahead of her with a closed expression...but every now and then there was a faintest twitch on her lips....



Sarah, this entry is for you :)

memory lane: the wedding

It was 2am and I was sitting in the kitchen with my mother, panicking. It wasn't about the act itself; I wasn't getting cold feet. What was causing me sheer terror was the fact that I would have to make that walk - I would have to walk down the aisle. I could see my legs turning to melted pools of jelly. Frankly, I was afraid I would actually throw up with nerves. Oh, look! Isn't she lovely! Oh look - oh - what - oh dear. The idea was sickening... I was nervous about being nervous.

(For those who only get what I call 'head nerves' this seems bizarre. For those of us with 'body nerves' - turbulent tummies, racing hearts and the resulting nausea, it makes perfect sense. It doesn't matter how calm I am in my mind. My treacherous heart and stomach take over.)

"I can't do it!!" I squeaked to my sympathetic mother.
Couldn't I just teleport to the front of the church and be done with it?!
She prayed for me, and I went back to bed. Eventually, I slept.

At the dawning of the day, it was raining. Three out of my four bridesmaids - Kaye, Sarah and sister Debbie, and I huddled under the arch outside the hairdressers waiting for it to open. (The fourth, my sister Louise, has short, cropped, shiny black hair so opted to stay behind at the house.) My hair is very, very thick. Both in quality and in quantity. The sort of hair that people ooh and ahh over, until they try and get it to behave. My hairdresser was bright red in the face and visibly struggling to remain calm as she attempted to tame the stuff into coils at the back of my head (I counted the grips later - there were about 50 of them in my hair that day). She did a wonderful job.


We scuttled back to my sister Debbie's car, somewhat self conscious with fancy hairdos and wearing jeans... Arriving back at the house (after clutching at my brother for a moment of reassurance) we discovered the bouquets had arrived. They were far more lovely than I had imagined. They included my theme flower, blue love-in-a-mist (nigella), with thistles, creamy roses, pink ranunculus and grasses. The corsages were cream rose buds and Andy's had a thistle.


Now, I had to get dressed, after which I put in my contact lenses. I had to wait as long as possible before I did because I can only wear them for limited periods - I have a prism in my glasses and my eyes simply tire out without it. Thankfully, I managed it successfully and didn't mess up my makeup.

Bridesmaids and my mum helped with necklace, tiara and veil...and I was all dressed and ready. I had two 'special ladies' or 'best women' in addition to the bridesmaids - Laura was involved in the music and the other, Rachel, stayed behind at the house after my mum and the bridesmaids had left, and the car came back for me and my dad. She had the delightful duty of lowering me (in my dress) onto the toilet just before I left the house!

There is a picture of me standing at the door with my dad and I am holding his hand - if you look closely you can see I am squeezing so tight my knuckles are white! I kept gripping his hand all the way to the church - using the other to wave at the interested pedestrians as we passed.

I am smiling somewhat manically in the video of my arrival - the smile is genuine but my eyes are wide with nerves. I remember standing at the bottom of the bell tower waiting to go in, making (half) jokes about throwing up over everybody, with my dear friend and bridesmaid Sarah roaring with laughter behind me. It was very therapeutic. Humour gets you through a lot of scary moments, in my opinion.

As it turned out, I had to concentrate so hard on my dress that my nerves receded into the background - unknown to me at the time, my inner petticoat had got a little rucked up in the car and needed pulling down a little. My feet kept catching the front of my dress and I had to keep slowing down so I wouldn't trip over. My nerves completely evaporated once I had reached the front of the church.

Everyone seemed to enjoy the service. Family members who never went to church made very positive comments about it. The Marriage went beautifully, and the rest of the service was uplifting. It felt so...joyful. The then Principal of our college (where I had graduated a year ago - Andy had graduated just two weeks before the wedding!) did the address. We very much appreciated the effort he and others had made to be there. I remember him talking about the need for forgiveness, and not keeping a record of wrongs. We have the service recorded on CD - I must get it out and listen to him some time.

I wrote a poem for the occasion, which Rachel then read out:

I promise not to leave
when thorns grow up around you;
instead I will make a sword
and come and tear them down.
I promise not to laugh
at the dreams you've held so tightly –
because they are sensitive to light.
I promise to dance with you
even when the music has faded
and I cannot remember the words.

I will do my best not to be irritable
or resentful
even when I am tired and the day has all gone wrong
but when we make mistakes,
let us forgive and move on
and wipe them away at the end of the day
for love keeps no record of wrongs

I cannot promise to heal all your scars,
nor that life will be perfect,
nor that I won't ever feel like giving up.
But I will walk with you in the strength I have
and leave the rest to God.

Love bears all things,
believes all things,
hopes all things,
endures all things.

Above all else, I promise to love you.

(c) Lucy Mills

When we came out of the church, we stepped into the sun. Our conversational chauffeur informed us that it had been continuing to rain, but had stopped just before we came out. The weather was sunny, but not unbearably hot, for the rest of the day. I smiled so much for photographs my cheeks ached! We had our reception at a hotel near my parents, looking over the beach.

The whole day was filled with the warmth of genuine enjoyment. Many of the guests commented on how good a day it had been, and that added to our own contentment. It was lovely, too, how so many people from different paths of our lives got on so well together.

It was a wonderful day. I could tell you many other things about it (such as the wedding speeches) but this entry would simply be too long. I will simply say that Andy's speech was absolutely lovely. And my Dad accidentally compared Louise's head to a football (!) to much amusement. His speech was lovely, too - there was a moment when his voice caught ever so slightly and I had to duck my head because the tears sprang to my eyes. I don't think many others noticed. But I did.

Above all, I am glad and so blessed to have married Andy.

walk down memory lane: Lucky

I wanted to take part in this as I thought it would be good for me to record some of my memories – these days I feel so forgetful sometimes. Life seems to hurtle by and the days come round again so quickly – so today I will tell you a simple story of something that happened when I was 8 years old. It’s a loooong entry – so forgive me if it is too long.

We had quite a menagerie when I was a child. I was used to cats, dogs, hamsters, guinea pigs, rabbits, budgies, geese, chickens, and my favourite: ducks. Specifically they were Muscovy Ducks. Some people think that Muscovy Ducks are ugly, with their funny red faces, but I grew very attached to them and always thought they were lovely. Some other people confused them with geese. My uncle and (male) cousin took one look at our drake, Sir Francis Drake (aka Frankie), and turned tail and ran, leaving me bent double with laughter - and Frankie wondering what all the fuss was about.

At this time we had three: Frankie and two ducks, Sophie and Sonia. It transpired that Sophie had laid eggs. With my enthusiasm for ducks no one was allowed to eat the duck eggs (!) The chicken eggs were okay because there was no cockerel. I knew my stuff - if there was a drake, there were possible ducklings. And, there were.

Except one. One poor lonely egg, left in the nest. There was a tiny beak poking through the crack – but the duckling got no further. The other eggs all hatched, but not this one. It stayed there, with that tiny beak. Sophie eventually gave up, and took her ducklings off for food and water.

I was very distressed, and begged my dad to help it. He was very dubious. Still, we took the egg back to the kitchen. It had been so long in its state it was obvious it would get no further. We did the inadvisable, but last option, and helped to break the shell.

She lay, damp and weak. It was evening. We fixed up one of those red lamps and she lay inside an oversized ice cream tub. We left her overnight. My parents did not hold much hope for the weak little bird.

In the morning, I rushed downstairs to see what had become of our little one. My parents had carefully not looked over the edge of the tub (but they knew what was in there) – they knew what I wanted. I looked over the edge, and there she was, fluffy and bright eyed, staring up at me. Me. The first thing she saw. And the imprinting took place. I dubbed her ‘Lucky’.

After checking she was fed and watered, I was eager to see how she would respond. I went into our smaller sitting room (it was always called ‘the study’ – I think that must have been what it was originally). I placed her in the corner in front of the television and walked to the other side of the room. I turned to call her - but she was gone. I was aware of a soft, warm pressure on my foot, and looked down, to see her sitting on top of my shoe, looking up at me. I hadn’t needed to call her – she had followed me across the room.

Lucky slept in a woolly hat on top of a hot water bottle in the airing cupboard. She responded well to all of us, treating us all as family. There is a lovely photo of her standing on my brother David’s arm, peering up into his face, nose to nose.

It was summer, so I was off school. I would put out my ‘My Little Pony’ things and she would peer at herself in the mirror. I would pick her up and hold her against me in one cupped hand, using my thumb to stroke her head where it met her beak – this seemed to soothe all our ducklings – and she would close her eyes and nestle against me. She still liked to sit on my foot.

When I went back to school or couldn’t be with her, my mum would put her in the pocket of her apron, where she was perfectly happy. When she wanted me, she cried. Her cheeping would grow urgent and distressed, and had the ability of halting me in my tracks. I developed a maternal instinct - for a duck. One time we were going to visit my sister, then over an hour’s drive away. We had no choice but to take Lucky with us, in a cardboard box. We sat by the canal and had a picnic. A family outing, with a duckling in a cardboard box.

One day my parents gently explained to me that we just couldn’t keep her in the house forever. I was back at school, and she needed to be with the other ducks. It was a difficult transition – for the little duckling, and the little girl. We went one day up into the shed where the other ducks and her brothers and sisters. They happily wandered about. Lucky sat on my foot. Sophie tried to tuck her under her wings but Lucky would have none of it. My dad put her in the shed and we went out. We’d barely gone a few steps before the wild cheeping started. There was no way I couldn’t respond. I remember my feeling of utter distress. The attempt was a failure; I went back and got her. My dad was dubious about how she would cope with the shock of it all. But she did what she always did, and recovered.

In the end we would put Sophie and the other ducklings in our huge rabbit run on the front lawn. We would put Lucky in it for pockets of time, gradually increasing the period she was in there with the others. I would be within sight, but not reach. Initially she flung herself at the sides of the run, gripping it with her feet and flapping the tiny stumps that were her wings. I would have to rein myself in - resisting the urge to go to her. But she got used to it. So very quickly, I realise now, she adapted and immersed herself into her real family.

It got to the point where she was no tamer than the rest of them. The ducklings would all cope well with me scooping them up to hold them, but she did not come to me in the same way. She was a duck now. A real duck. It made me sad, though she was, of course, better off. I had to let her go.

Later, much later, I had to let her go again. It was my choice. The last of the others had gone, we now lived in a smaller garden and she was alone. I agreed she should go and be with other ducks – with more freedom of space. The new owners were almost as distressed as we were – ‘can’t you keep her?’ they asked, but I was adamant. In the car in the way home, a teenager now, I suddenly started to sob painfully. My parents would have turned round and gone back, but I refused. I had to let her go. I hope I was right – I hope she was happy. They said they would tell us if she ever had ducklings. We never heard anything, but I hope she did.

I always remember the feeling of her. The softness in my hands, the sound of her calling, the coolness of her webbed feet on my arms.

Lucky – the little duckling who defied the odds. She was only a duck - but she once believed an 8 year old girl was her mother.

Today: 4/10, medium