A Bit Flat

At Easter, we had a low-key family holiday in Cornwall.     I may have mentioned it.

We set off to return from Penzance on Easter Monday.  Stopped off in Truro for a pasty with my parents; dropped Pascoe off at Exeter airport and Perran at Bristol Uni.

Carenza, although she did come home with us, departed in the wee small hours of Tuesday morning on a flight  for Eastern Europe.

So from a full table on Monday lunchtime, less than twenty-four hours later, we were empty nesters once more.  Melancholy threatened.

I said as much to Carole:

“It seems ungrateful after having the privilege of a great holiday, but it’s hard not to feel a bit flat now.”

“Ah, but that’s a good thing because it means you get on well with your family.  Apparently the peak time for divorce lawyers is at the end of the holidays, at Christmas and in the Summer, when people have realised they can’t tolerate each other’s company any longer.”

Thanks for putting it in perspective, Carole –

When our holiday finished, it could have been much worse than feeling a bit flat – instead, I could have been feeling relieved.

Why Take a Holiday?

Photo by Will

Sometimes when you are trying to get your work up-to-date, cancel the milkman, engage a helpful neighbour to empty the letter box, it feels like the last thing you need is a holiday. 

On top of that, Nigel and I both felt washed out following a long-lasting cold virus. It was hard to summon the energy.

However, for Easter Nigel had booked a house in Penzance where Pascoe, Perran, Carenza, Will & Dan were to join us.

For a week we tramped the cliffs swathed in blackthorn blossom, bought the freshest fish, foraged leaves and blossoms from the hedgerow, ate round the kitchen table and spent the evenings reading.

When I came to pack for home, I found myself staring at the nasal spray and cough sweets in my drawer.  For a moment I couldn’t think why I had them there. 

That was when I realised just how much good the holiday had done us.

Stick Men go on Holiday

Photo by Adri, Singapore

Since my post about endangered stickmen, I have received good news from Adri in Singapore about the care being taken of Stick Men and Women there and was feeling quite optimistic about the future of the species.

However, a recent holiday in Cornwall has re-awakened my worries about these accident-prone little chaps.  
Whereas Singapore public transport offers them a sanctuary, this is what happened to a Stick Man on a Cornish bus.

And at the sea-side, if there is an accident to be had, then Stick Men seem to have it.

It’s just a good job that we humans would never get into all the trouble that these stick men do when we visit the sea-side.

Perhaps it might be safer for them to stay at home.

I found Jesus at the Garden Centre

Garden Centre statuary is fascinatingly naff. 

It is rare to find a beautiful, simple form produced carefully in good quality material.

I started snapping some prime kitsch at the weekend.

I spotted Greek goddesses suffering from the usual wardrobe malfunction;

Buddhas smiling tolerantly at plaster kittens.

Then finally….was I really seeing this?  Jesus, resplendent in fake marble, sacred heart and all.

It was, after all, Sunday.

Then it occurred to me:-

Garden centres are quite large organisations. 

Perhaps everybody wonders who keeps buying in the weird statues, but nobody knows.  Perhaps in fact, nobody is buying them. 

In our irreligious age, perhaps the deities have spotted where it is that people flock to on holy days and have decided to establish a presence there – in the garden centres.

And from the garden centre, they can find their way into people’s hearts and homes. 

It is a cunning plot to restore religion to the nation.

The only thing that might foil it would be if somebody started to produce garden statuary that was both in good taste AND affordable.

That would definitely put the kibosh on it.

A City at Second Hand

The town where you attend university will be forever significant to you. 

That street corner is the place where Somebody first held your hand, that bridge is where you and your friends whistled the Ride of the Valkyries  so loudly one night that you woke the neighbourhood.  That second-hand book shop is where you bought the little calf-bound copy of Thackeray.  

The town is a map of your youth.

But I also expected to have some sort of a relationship with the cities where my children were at university. When Pascoe went to Norwich I looked forward to getting to know the city.  I would have a confident grasp of its layout, know good places to eat, be familiar with its heritage. 

When he gained his degree and moved on (all of five minutes later), I felt like shouting “Wait! I’ve barely scratched the surface of Norwich.”

And now, as Perran comes to the close of his studies, we are facing the end of our romance with Bristol.  When we visited last month, it was important to take our leave of old haunts – Pero’s Bridge, the murals of Stokes Croft, Banksys, vintage shops on Park Street.

But vibrant Bristol just wouldn’t lie down.  Instead, it presented us with a whole new area to explore – the heritage area of the docks where we went aboard the replica of Cabot’s ship and Brunel’s SS Great Britain. We had a great time, and I suspect that Bristol will never become a city of memories for us – we shall go on visiting.