The build up to Christmas this year has been thoroughly miserable, weatherwise, and lemon juice is being rubbed into the papercut by my Facebook memories showing me snow photos from recent years. The torrential rain is bringing back memories of childhood Christmasses in Wales when the festive season was marked by the man from the council turning up with the gift of sandbags in case of flooding from the brooks that bounded our road. There were a few pub evenings when someone would come in and tell us we’d better get home before the road went under!
We’ve recently moved offices in our building from a ground floor that felt like a basement, tucked away at the back of the building, to the attic space with skylights. The rain, thunder and howling gales we’ve experienced this week have been hammering on these little windows and reminding me once more of my Welsh childhood…this time, though, summer holidays in caravans when you’re only separated from the weather (or tapdancing gulls) by a thin metal skin. Those days meant a trip to a town rather than the beach, and I was 40 by the time I discovered Fishguard didn’t exist in a permanent monsoon microclimate. Other rainy day destinations included Devil’s Bridge, Aberystwyth, or the Centre for Alternative Technology in Machynlleth where the coffee was made of dandelions or something – my dad was horrified.
Rain = learning, by this logic, so the new office makes me quite happy even though it’s a very long way up. The stairs are quite open, too (all 73 of them) and it took me a week to get past the cognitive dissonance caused by the very steep drop to the left of the door which told my mind was going to fall. It’s perfectly safe, but my heart skipped a beat every time I opened the door as I’m not very good with heights. The new office is cosier, and we share it with a small theatre company who have their own Welsh person.
I am now off until the New Year and have plans – such plans! – involving various craft kits, some fabulous fabric and a whole lot of naps.
Things making me happy this week
- A good wander through the fields with Sue and the Bella-dog
- Coffees with Heather and Miriam
- A girly night in with Amanda, watching a Doctor Who Christmas special and then Weekend at Bernie’s
- Finishing the crochet blanket I started two years ago (at least!) – see above!
- Making more toadstools (all of which have gone to new homes) and giving in to the urge to add a door and window to one
The thing making me sad this week
Thirty-something years ago, in a pub called the Nag’s Head in Monmouth, an ex-boyfriend of mine introduced me to a bloke called Nigel. A few years older than me, he’d been in sixth form when I started at the local comp, so I’d seen him around but never spoken to him. We bonded over music (especially Mr Springsteen and a range of classic rock), books (shout out to Terry Pratchett) and shared a dry (at times I’d go so far as to say arid… desiccated, even) sense of humour alongside a horror of misplaced apostrophes. If I’d had a big brother, I would have liked him to be like Nigel, up to and including the ability to take me down several pegs when I’m taking myself too seriously. I know not everyone appreciated that about him, particularly his habit of saying the things that needed to be said on Monmouth’s local Facebook pages and his total inability to suffer fools gladly. He loved diving, and was delighted with the crocheted nudibranches I sent him instead of a Christmas card. He appreciated good cheese, good rum and bad puns.
Last year he did a round with cancer and we thought he’d kicked its arse. We’d planned an evening out in ‘that there London’ in October for his birthday this year but he’d been in hospital and was on antibiotics for an infection. It turned out that the bastard cancer had made an aggressive comeback. Two weeks ago he told me his prognosis wasn’t great, and – typically – that he wasn’t going to be starting any long box sets on TV. I offered any assistance that he and Caroline needed, although I drew the line at crocheting a giant life-sized Nigel as that was just weird. He laughed.
Caroline phoned me this week to say he was receiving end of life care, as he’d gone downhill very quickly. I woke up to a message from her on Saturday morning to say he had gone. It hit me in the evening when I saw a cartoon about fancy Christmas cheese that on any other day I would have sent straight to him. I will miss him terribly.
All I can say is that wherever he’s ended up, they’d better make damn sure the apostrophes are in the right place and to put him in charge of the music, otherwise they’ll never hear the end of it.
Kirsty x
What I’ve been reading:
The Drowning Pool – Syd Moore
Hogfather – Terry Pratchett (Audible)
Lost Christmas – David Logan (Audible)
Sharon, Tracy and the Rest – Keith Waterhouse
The Dark is Rising – Susan Cooper (BBC World Service adaptation)
Past Lying – Val McDermid
What Kirsty did next 