Respect

Last night as I was just settling down to sleep I thought "I'll just see what's happening on the other side of the world" and I checked in to read my penfriend Beth's blog -
http//:elizabethkaplan.blogspot.com/

I found a series of very moving posts about the premature death of Jack Layton, leader of Canada's National Democratic Party. He had led his party to prime position to challenge the current Conservative government and he was the great hope of so many in a country which is by long tradition liberal, tolerant and egalitarian.

My first response was that I can't imagine that the UK would come out to show of respect and regret at the passing for any single politician. No-one since John Smith, briefly leader of the Labour Party who died suddenly of a heart attack in 1994, has been held in such universal high esteem.

Last night I wrote all of the above and then accidentally deleted it. Instead I tapped in a brief sentence about the passing of Jack Layton on my Facebook page (PennyJeanRea). This morning my son (TomSmith) replied "I'm still mourning John Smith". So, 17 years on, the good man is remembered by the next generation.

I hope they meet up - John and Jack - over that sunset horizon - and hatch a better plan for us.

Railed in

Upper Wincobank Chapel now has smart new railings and gates, along with well-stocked flowerbeds and silver birch trees to replace the hedges that were stripped out when new houses were built behind the Chapel garden.




The housing construction company KeepMoat, has kindly paid for the work and in a burst of whirlwind activity, a series of contractors turned up over the summer and completed the installation.

There was a Chapel here in 1817, in the coach house of Wincobank Hall and a Sunday School was held in the laundry until this lovely building was opened in 1841 as a Day School for 180 local children. And it is still bursting with life.

Cupboard love

Most cities are proud of their history and consider it an important part of their tourist industry. Sheffield, long known as a socialist stronghold, decided to demolish its castle after the Civil War to discourage any Royalists from sitting out further sieges. The remains are kept in a cupboard below what is known as Castle Market.

This chunk of wall is the only piece accessible to the general public and if you creep through a door and down a staircase into the concrete bunker you can squeeze round it in single file and stroke the stone work lovingly.

My Canadian friends and possibly some Americans would love to have a pile of ancient rubble like this. Perhaps we could just sell it and then we would have more space in the cupboard.

Addressing a problem

My lovely neighbour Alison just came round to help me stash six boxes of books in the loft. I have more unread books than I could possibly read in my lifetime and yet still I buy more. I was trying to explain to her how painful it is to part with my collection of stuff, how trying to make decisions whether to keep or discard the most trivial of items brings tears to my eyes. Alison told me to watch the documentary "Me and My Hoarding Mum" in which a pretty young TV presenter and her two brothers try to persuade their much loved Mum make some space in her home for their younger brother who can't even find space in the bathroom never mind in his bedroom because of her collection of treasures largely puchased from charity shops.

I'm not that bad I thought, then noticed that I have seven address books spread over my kitchen work surface. I also have two more at work and two BlackBerry address books. Even when I transfer addresses I just can't throw the old one away. The psychiatrists on that very sad programme said there is no hope, no cure for hoarding. Doomed I am. Just save me from my children, please.

My babies

Here is my beautiful Rosy and if you look carefully you will see that she is cradling her unborn baby, my first grandchild.

My friend Vicky explained the most miraculous fact that this tiny child was within me even before Rosy was born. As a girl child develops in the womb her eggs are ready waiting to bring the next generation into the world. Ok, I know the fathers have something to do with it all as well, but still ...isn't it all just amazing?

Reality

Home. To glowering grey skies and just a spot of cool rain, to my own little castle on my very special hill, to my tiny garden, a pile of
post, a flashing telephone and the 312 emails I went away from. My lovely neighbour Carolyn had kindly watered my plants and most thoughtfully, had left me fresh milk in the fridge for a nice cup of tea.

I stayed awake long enough to check in with my children and unpack then went to bed and slept for a while before waking up to check my emails to find to my relief that Beth's recall for a second mammogram was a false alarm then I slept for another twelve hours, cosy beneath a fluffy duvet instead of hot beneath a cotton sheet. I am just made for the damp and the cold. I love the rain. I think I must be a direct descendant of the Ancient Britons, made to survive life in a draughty mud hut.

Today I had an important appointment - a Speed Awareness Course, intended to cure me of my occasional tendency to drive faster than the speed limit permits as well as save me three more penalty points. On the last occasion this happened I was in Hertfordshire, visiting my sister. I'm not sure exactly where the misdeed was done, but I noticed neither the signs or the speed camera. I think I will in future.

Packed into our classroom were 24 reluctant participants who were all as vague as me about stopping distances, were equally unaware of the dramatic difference between injuries sustained from impact at 30 and 35 mph and were generally fairly confused about road markings, maximum speeds for various vehicles and unaware even of the meaning of speed when translated into ground covered per second.

It has made me realise how dangerous our roads can be, for both drivers and pedestrians, how easily an accident can happen. I am lucky to have stayed alive so long. It is nearly forty years since I took my driving test. Perhaps it is time for another.

Strawberries in the jam

I am sitting at Toronto Pearson Airport waiting to board my plane home. My head is stuffed with the most wonderful memories and new ideas.

From Montreal we flew to Ottawa to visit to Beth's beautiful mother, her very tall brother Mike and his young and very lively son Jake. And 91 year-old Aunt Doe who seems to have more energy and determination than us all. An inspiring family with many fascinating stories to tell. It was a delight and privilege to meet them all.

Yesterday was just the icing on the cake, each gem of wisdom and experience gleaned from the inspiring writers I met at Beth's Garden Workshop was like a juicy strawberry in the most delicious jam , the taste of which I will remember for years to come. And Beth the most inspiring of teachers, the most honest of writers. I realise how lucky my sister was to have such a penfriend to give her a window on the world and how blessed I am to have had the opportunity to step through the glass into a garden of creativity on the other side of the world. Thank you Beth and thank you to all the new friends I have made.

And now I am going back to find out what the state of play is at home. Watch this space ....