The Curious Tiger

I feel the earth beneath my feet, damp and soft. It smells warm and familiar – comforting. My claws sink into the ground and I move quietly through the forest. I am not hungry; only yesterday I ate very well indeed. But today I want to walk through my domain and mark my territory.

I tread softly, for I sense a change. There is a tang in the air – a smell I do not recognise. I stand still and listen, my whiskers twitch forward, my mouth slightly open, my ears attuned to every crackle and creak. Standing still, I am invisible. Small birds and animals fly and scurry round me. They know who I am, and rightly fear me. That which is ahead of me is new, unknown, and I am cautious.

I am also a curious tiger, and instead of avoiding this uncertainty ahead, I move steadily forward. My presence is undetected, I am sure. The heavy forest air brings me scents I know and many that I do not. It is the unknown, which draws me.

I enter a small clearing and smell wood moke scented with the ripeness of burnt flesh, and of many other things I do not recognise. I am intrigued. I move closer and see a small fire in the clearing, but not fleeing through the forest as it may do on dry, dangerous days. It is controlled, restrained. I look carefully about: next to the fire is something I have never seen before. It smells of rotten plants. Next to that, is the monkey.

I call it a monkey for that is what it most closely resembles. It is decked in something that is not fur and does not seem to be a part of it. It smells of plant, and of bitter things that make me open my jaws widely so that I may detect their taint more clearly.

My ungoverned movement has given me away - the monkey has seen me! It stands with a strange stick in its hand as if in defiance. Puny creature! I lift my head – the stick exudes its own unique odour: It smells of wood, of the caves, and it the air about it tastes hard and sharp like the red rocks in the mountains.

The monkey is afraid. It waves the stick hesitantly in my direction and I can taste the odour of fear. This is reassuring; the creature is not so foreign, it fears me. Yet as well as fear there are many other smells and tastes that cling and cloy my senses – that of the creature itself, and many more that surround this strange animal. I decide that its signature is as distasteful as if it has dived into every kind of excrement it could find.

I gently pad a little nearer. The monkey sits down upon a rock, but has not stopped glaring at me, or pointing its stick - as if that might stop my progress! Its pale skin is damp, slick with sweat – in its fear. This is as it should be.

I do not wish to eat the monkey. But I am curious. I have heard of these creatures in the forest before. I have smelled their flesh-burning fires. I have tasted them upon the wind before. Like most, I have avoided them. But this is just one, on its own.

I move closer. The monkey is now shaking, trembling beneath my gaze like a found calf. Its legs have a very fine fur upon them, and each hair stands on end at my approach. Still it points the stick at me. Now I am nearer, I detect something else – further pungency from the stick: it stings my nose and I twitch in disgust. The stick smells hot, and it smells cold. It smells … of death.

I am now near enough to kill easily. But first, to try and understand this creature, I lick its nearest leg with my long rasping tongue. I can taste it completely now: Piss and sweat, strong, natural odours, combined with a myriad of other strange tastes that are sour and rancid. The creature shivers. It does not look nor sound like any monkey I know. I do not think it would be good to eat.

I look into its eyes, trying to fathom exactly what kind of creature this is? It has the tang of carnivore, yet is rank. I do not understand - as I look into its eyes I see nothing – no connection, no life behind its small, frightened white and blue eyes. It is almost like a dead thing. If I look at any other creature, or they look at me, we see that we are one. We know that whether we are predator or prey, we are all part of the same. We all know what we are and where we belong in this world. This creature – this upright, smooth skinned, foul tasting monkey – does not have a place.

With its acid taste lingering in my mouth, I yawn (for effect, I admit), and the creature waves its death stick at me again. At any moment it may fall back off its rock, its thin legs waving skyward – that would amuse me. But it does not. It just keeps watching me with those dead eyes. Bored, I turn my back on the thing – it is not worthy of my time or my interest.

I walk away, swaying my tail in contempt, letting the monkey see my strength and power. of course, it does not understand, it does not realise that I have given it the gift of its own life. that gift is a waste - I am sorry for such a thing that does not belong to the world.

My curiosity is satisfied. I move on, knowing that such creatures will not warrant any further investigation should they ever cross my path again.

(C) Carolyn Sheppard 2006

Dowse and out

I spent a few days in Mallorca recently and instead of coming home brown, I came home black and blue. Fell off (through) a ladder which wasn’t very clever. I did replace a roof tile and take down and chomp (ready for burning) around 30 dried palm fronds though.

I was only there for a few days, but long enough to make the place habitable for Sally for her last proper sojourn there as resident before she turns the casa over to Orlando’s children. I also managed to spend quite a bit of time watching two hoopoes in the neighbour's yard. Wonderful looking birds! The house, though, is too difficult for Sally to maintain, so it’s good that it is going back to Carlota and Robert now. There’s so much needs doing! Oh - and this was how the garden looked before we had a good tidy.

That’s why I was up a ladder, trying to clear the weeds off the bathroom roof, and that’s where I came a cropper as the ladder slipped its feet and I descended ungracefully and vertically through the rungs.

But black and blue notwithstanding, it wasn’t just Mallorca that prompted me to write this blog post today. I had an interesting couple of days this weekend too.

Firstly, I spent Saturday in Kingston helping out at a summer fair for the Aurora Health Foundation. This is a small local charity that works with people who were abused as children. It’s a valuable service and one that is desperately seeking funds, as are so many of these independent charities today. But they provide services that you can’t get anywhere else – counseling, complementary therapies, all sorts of things that the NHS can’t provide, even if they wanted to.

I spent my time singing mostly – sitting in the corner with my guitar and mumbling my music. I enjoyed the day not because of the singing, but because of the amazing atmosphere of cooperation and fun that there was. Everyone involved in the day was volunteering their services. What a nice bunch of people to meet. I also liked seeing the parakeets that are wild in that part of London. Noisy birds, but oh my, so colourful!

Late Saturday night my phone beeped at me. ‘Are you awake?’ – well I am now! My friends who had been to Glastonbury had been diverted and were near our house, could they stay over as they had to be back in our town in the morning? Well, of course.

So I set them up in my son's room, on his double bed. Meanwhile, an hour later (2am), Penni came by after a late night London gig. She stayed downstairs. So when my daughter came down in the morning, it was with some surprise to see five of us sitting down to breakfast.

The reason my friends were over our way was to visit Therfield Heath and go dowsing. I'd had a play with two dowsing rods and they wiggled wonderfully at the kitchen table! However, on the heath - where we had a very windy and slightly damp picnic - I was not so successful.

In an area on top of a huge water table, ripe with natural energy lines (St Michael's and Mary Ley lines go through our town, as does the Greenwich Meridian and two of the oldest Roman roads in Britain) I detected nothing. My pendulum did not swing except when caught by a gust of chilly wind, and my dowsing rods remained immobile in my frozen hands.

Looks like I'm not a natural dowser. The others in the group were tripping gaily over the ancient tumuli and planting little flags where they felt energy responses in the earth. And I wondered what it was I was missing - like being at a party and the only one sober, or in a room where everyone is speaking a different language.

I enjoyed it though - a different experience. As I wandered back across the heath to go home, there was a heavy metal rock band in a trailer playing to an audience of about three down by the sports club. There were dog walkers and children tumbling down the hills, rolypoly style. Kite fliers enjoyed the wind and the larks were christening the cool air with their melodies. Good thing that red kite I'd seen this morning wasn't around or they'd be dinner!

A long day

See these guys? You've heard of them. So, why are they in my blog? Well, it all starts with a rather ordinary day. I woke at 7, had a bath, and eventually got number one son out of bed by 10, when we were due to drive daughter to work and him to see his girlfriend in Birmingham.

All the way to Brum was easy. He and I had a nice chat, the traffic was easy. The Sat Nag took us up the M6 and then the M48 - not my preferred route, should have gone off the A46 to our particular destination. No matter, I like arguing with the sat nag.

I dropped Alex off, turned around and headed straight back. It was about 12.45 by then. Sat nag said 'go this way' - I ignored and headed for the A46. Then the A45. Wonderful! Then sat nag took me on to the M1. OK, I can cope with that.

Well, right up until we got to Silverstone I could cope with that. 'Slow, Pedestrians in Road' said the big overhead sign. What?! Well, we slowed just past the turn off for the services. We slowed, then we stopped.

Something was up ahead, and there was no turn off for us to escape. We waited for 10 mins, then 15. Most people turned their cars off then. The sun was beating down. Three lanes of stationary traffic. And not a bean in the other carriageway either. Whatever it was had closed the entire motorway.

30 minutes. An hour. We are out of our cars, wandering up and down, talking to eachother and seeing who was going to be late for what. Some motorbikes cruised down the gaps, irritated by the open car doors. But they didn't get any further when they got to the traffic stop which we could see in the distance. Flashing lights, just below a green bridge.

The beautiful sun beat down on the hot tarmac and hot children, dogs and other motorway creatures were seranaded by the muffled tannoy and achingly annoying permanent 'vroom' of the nearby racetrack.

Amazingly, no one lost their tempers. One story reached us that someone was on the bridge threatening to jump. Another said an accident, someone else said protestors. I don't know. But I do know that for two hours I was parked on Britain's busiest motorway, with several hundred others.

I stood in the fast lane. I chatted with various people, including a huge guy in a green tracksuit from the tour bus ahead. Yes, one of the Harlem Globe Trotters (I think he's third from left on the ground in this pic, but somewhat older and a little heavier now). I wish they'd got out and given us a show! Imagine the news coverage an impromptu show on a motorway would have gotten them. Instead we had kids playing football on the other carriageway, and an old man walking his dog. At one point we saw a cyclist heading full speed down the other carriageway (the wrong way). It was all getting rather surreal.

The Harlem Globetrotter guy was nice, from Washington. A bit worried as they had a show at Wembley at 6pm. Tomorrow was Belgium... Radio and internet reports said 'the M1 will be closed till 3.15. Till 4.15. Till 4.30...' Eventually the highway folks gave up. And for the first time ever we had to do a three point turn on the motorway and drive the wrong way back up the hard shoulder.

I didn't folow the diversion back onto the M1 -that was anightmare. I cut across to Northampton and then home that way.

I eventually got home at 6pm. That's a helluva long day for a simple round trip to Birmingham and back.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-13253791 - yup, it was a jumper! We thought we were having a bad day, hers must have been worse.

Closed!

The first 'day' of our adventure to Athens was mostly travel and then straight into an event. But the second day was slightly less hectic. Waking at 8.15 I was up and showered when my boss knocked on my door to hand me the phone so I could rearrange a meeting. I'd said 12 April and meant 12. But never mind, we were still able to meet up with our contact at the BGS and duly headed back down into the metro - our favoured means of travel around the city.

Our hotel was extremely nice, and near the metro, as was our original hotel. We'd had to change as we'd been told that not only was it in the red light district (not really a problem) but that there were regular riots and drug dealing in the square. We will do a lol for our employers, but not that (drugs, fights or the other)!

The metro stations were wonderfully clean, bright, almost advert free and efficient. In some stations the excavations had exposed ancient works, so instead of being covered up they were made a feature of the station (see picture above). We found our station for our meeting and headed off. Down leafy roads, into a nice residential area. 'What number are we going to?' asks boss. I show her the email, and she says '84'. Off we went up this little alley. Past no. 8 ... past 18... past 34... until we could see the other end of the street where it ended in a junction. 'Let me see that email again'. I handed it over - '8A'. Oh dear, we'd passed our destination probably a quarter of a mile back. Well, it was a warm morning, not bad weather for a nice walk.

After our meeting we decided to head into town and see a few things before making our way airportwards (no, I know that's not a word, but it works doesn't it?). Having had no breakfast, our first priority was lunch. We took the metro again into the centre and as soon as we walked out of the station, were surrounded by ancient things including some restoration works stacked up that made it look a bit like a DIY store garden display. The city was bright in the sunshine, the streets buzzing with people and we wandered on towards what we hoped was the centre.

We found a lovely pedestrian area that underlooked by the mountain (OK, I'm being liberal with the English language, but it's the best word I can think of for now). There were cafes, street sellers and plenty of gypsy beggars. We eventually selected a restaurant where the waiter did not leap out at us and try and drag us into their lair. As we walked past one set of waiters, we declined their offer and a comment was dropped in Greek. It was quite obviously a compliment (perhaps not a very tactful one) directed at my colleague. She was oblivious but I turned slowly and looked at the waiter who, probably assuming I had understood (well I understood the sentiment if not the language) looked away quickly.

The thing about being OFU is that people ignore you and that means you can observe. It's a bit like being invisible, except that people don't walk into you. This can be especially entertaining when you are out with someone who is younger, pretty and thin. My boss stood out in Greece - she is tall, pale and attractive. She turned heads regularly. What amused me was her not noticing - car drivers, passers by, waiters... they most certainly liked to look, potentially to the detriment of their own safety!

We had a good lunch and came up with a cracking plan for some events later in the year. One thing I've learned about my boss, I don't think she stops working - ever! As the weather was warm and our business part of the day over, she changed out of her business clothes into a dress.

After our meal we wandered down to the entrance to the nearest ancient monument which I thought looked like the Acropolis (in fact I had said it was the Acropolis - d'oh!). The waiter who had previously commented in Greek said, in English as she passed, 'Oh, nice dress'. She completely missed the comment. 'I was expecting something bigger' my colleague said as we looked at the brilliant marble structure nestling in the rich green of pine trees and well-watered grass. It was, in fact, the Agora (left) another ancient structure. Well, now we were even - I scored minus one for misidentifying the Agora, she scored minus one for reading 84 instead of 8A! (Actually, as I got the date of the meeting wrong, I was probably on minus two.)

We wandered over to the guard who was on the phone. 'Closed'. He said, brusquely. Oh. 3pm? That was rather early! Never mind, time for the Acropolis. We meandered on down the street to the next metro station, to discover (on asking a friendly policeman) that we were at the bottom of the road that leads to the Acropolis. Our walk commenced, in the warm sunshine, past a flea-market and on up into the foothills below the Acropolis. After a wonderful walk past many interesting sights, we reached the gate to the Acropolis. 'Closed'. Just our luck! One afternoon in Athens and we manage to miss the opening times of it's greatest attraction. Instead we climbed up onto a rock with superb views over the city and of the Acropolis above (these are on my Facebook page). I took a picture of my boss on the rock as she looked so relaxed and summery. In fact it could be that we hadn't talked work for about half an hour, so maybe she was unwinding.

One amusing thing we noticed on the way up, and back down, from the Acropolis was the dead dogs everywhere. They weren't really dead - they were just sleeping. But there must have been a good 15 or more of them, some lying in the shade, some flaked out in the sun. They looked a bit like the aftermath of a cull.

Being in a foreign city means I have to buy something for my family - in this case I bought a little snow globe of the Acropolis. We had joked about there being a snow globe tourist trinket - because the last thing we could imagine was snow! Being a collector of playing cards (this is my claim to 'sad'), I also purchased some cards. They were not exactly the usual pretty views or ancient sights, they were in fact called 'Greek Lovers' and (once I'd opened the packet) I realised bordering on pornographic! We headed back down into the town, then back to the hotel to pick up our bags and head off to the airport. On the way we stopped for some strawberries - huge piles of them displayed like mini strawberry mountains on stalls in the market square. Our journey back to the metro though took us via a slightly less touristy street. We didn't go far along it before turning back into tourist land. Closed shops, sad looking people, rubbish in the streets and the shops that were open selling house remnants. It wasn't the most appealing of areas, but it was the real face of the city, the darker side that every place has.

At the hotel we sat for a while before beginning our homeward journey. I passed the unopened playing card pack to my colleague - she was looking and laughing and completely unaware that the senior concierge was looking over her shoulder, at her and at the cards, with his eyebrows rather animatedly heading skywards. I was in fits of laughter because he then walked on, shaking his head at me in a friendly way and she had not noticed. The other thing I've learned about my boss: she is good fun to be out and about with, both for work and when off duty.

On the plane home she worked for three and a half hours solid. I slept and dreamed and did a bit of demon wrestling. A productive and informative and educational trip. I really want to go back again one day.

Facepage and Webbook

That's how tired I was by Wednesday evening when talking with my boss. Facepage and webbook - they sound kind of convincing, don't they? Mind you, she was not at all convinced that there is a dinosaur called Barry (baryonyx walkeri actually). I have no idea how we ended up talking about dinosaurs - it was late and we were on the bus from North terminal to South. Which was a bit mad really. Our flight was from South terminal Gatwick, but we had been emailed by Squeezyjet that it was changed to North. So we parked at North. And were then told it was South. So we took the Gatwick hornby train set to South and did catch our flight to Athens. But on the way back our flight was delayed, so it landed at North and we were unloaded and put on a bus to South. So we got off at South, picked up our luggage, and got the train back to North. And then, driving out, went past South again. The amount of times we'd gone between the two terminals for just two flights ... felt like we'd travelled halfway to Greece.

We'd pulled two rather long days by this time so our conversation was starting to sound a little surreal, and still with a two hour car journey ahead. No worries, though - in the mood for Abba (but none available) we were kept awake instead with loud French rap music. Of course, what else? But having taken you to and from Athens in just a couple of paragraphs, perhaps I should fill in the bit in the middle which was a business trip for a networking event in Athens. The University I work for has networking events all over the place - there was one last month in Hong Kong which my colleague went to and next month I get to go to Southend too! But this time it was Athens, to the land of fabulous ancient architecture and, as it happens, my first sight of a modern European shanty town. The financial situation in Greece is difficult as we know, but I guess it's diferent when you see it with your own eyes, in Europe (not some far away African country as we are used, and immunised - not immune - to). That was a very small part of our trip though. The purpose of our trip was the social event with our alumni.

We arrived in Athens after waking at 4.30am to leave at 5 and catch a 9am flight. So we started our day tired - but also didn't have a lot of rest time as we had to time shift two hours forward on arrival. No problem: metro from airport to hotel, enough time for a change of clothes and then off to the venue by taxi. Unfortunately lots of registered delegates did not turn up, but fortunately lots of those who hadn't, did. But this did mean the hand-writing of many badges with long and complicated Greek names. Thankfully we had a colleague with us, Maria, who is native Greek. Otherwise I think I could have proably totally screwed up the spelling of so many Greek names as to have invented a new language. The event went well and thankfully did not finish too late. There was nice food and drink and lots of good talk and socialising - exactly what we wanted. After the event we went back to the hotel (boss, myself and Maria) and had our debrief camped on Maria's bed with tin trays full of take-away leftovers from the buffet. An odd 'hotel picnic'. Plenty of laughter though, that always helps round things off nicely. I slept like a log and awoke fresh and ready for action at 8.00am. First thing I had to do was call and re-arrange a meeting that I had got completely the wrong day for. But it was ok. Day two of our mini-Greek odyssey began. And that, I think, will be another chapter.

Picture: even the Metro stations have ancient monuments in them - this is one that is showcased in the station where they dug up a Roman watercourse.

18 women, 3 dogs, 2 Irish songs and a dozen lawyers

What a busy week! Last weekend I went on a walking trip with 18 women and 3 dogs (and the only bitch had four feet, honest). We went to Burnham Deepdale on the Norfolk coast and, as luck would have it, the weather was lovely! We strung out along the coastal path as we walked but I kept getting left behind. Totally my own fault, I'd keep stopping to look at avocets, oystercatchers, ducks and geese.

I didn't know a lot of the people walking, but I was with two friends and maybe have made a couple more - unless my bad singing put them off in the garden on the Saturday night. It was a great fun weekend though - good company, good food (we cooked en-masse in the kitchen) and great countryside. I do like the Norfolk coast.

Sunday evening was Mother's Day and I was taken out by my daughter for a lovely meal. Accompanied by my mother, and my adopted daughter (not really, but she's like another daughter) plus other friends, it was a lovely evening. An exhausting weekend! But my busy-ness did not stop there.

On Monday night I went to the local open mic session in Wivenhoe and I played a couple of songs. The audience seemed to like them (it was early on, so not a lot of people there at that time). Later on I played again, only this time with my office colleague, Matt. I played, he sang - two Irish songs with lots of enthusiasm. Other colleagues came along to watch (I was astounded, usually work mates say 'yeah, I'll be there' and have a string of excuses in the morning why they didn't turn up) and videoed the performance. Available on Youtube of course (7 Drunken Nights, Rocky Road to Dublin) .

So how do we get to a dozen lawyers? Back to work! On Wednesday night I ran my first event for my new employer: a networking session for lawyers at the Inner Temple in London. On the whole it went well but I think the sunny weather persuaded a few folks to hit the sunshine rather than the smoking room (as our venue was called). My biggest mistake of the whole evening was a simple one I should have seen coming. I wore the wrong boots! Before we'd even started my feet were smarting. Oh well, hopefully that was the worst that happened.

I met an extremely interesting and lovely lawyer called Mark who, as well as having got up to some 'high jinks' at University, has also been Knighted by the Pope. I had never heard of that before. He told me how he had a green suit made, a hat with ostrich feathers and got to wear a sword! Fabulous - I hope he sends me the photo. He also mentioned that the papal crew told him that most folks knighted by his holiness only last about six months, so was he sure he wanted to buy the green suit? Admittedly, I guess most of the be-knighted (that doesn't quite work lingusitically, does it?) are probably beyond dotage, unlike Mark.

So - an active and enjoyable week. Oh, and I played badminton on Thursday at work too. You know, just in case I don't do enough in my days...

Dreams and food

Well I did dream last night, but I have no clue what about, so you don't get a recounting here today. I have been told that there is nothing more uninteresting than telling someone else your dreams (in a way so negative as to put me off ever mentioning them to that person again) but I like hearing about dreams. I like the way they weave reality with fantasy, and also a little bit of prophecy.

My friend Chris posted this on Facebook, a link to an interesting little story about dreams: The Timekeeper at the Way Out of a Dream which I enjoyed and hope you do too. Now, on to food...

The picture on the right features my very first paella! Made from a low fat recipe, it includes all sorts of lovely ingredients such as squid, chicken, bacon, prawns, peppers, peas and of course rice. I used a risotto rice which worked really well.

I volunteer to cook sometimes for the family (musician friends) who are kindly hosting my presence during the week whilst I am working far from home. I had never tried a proper paella before, but with the help of John (who just happens to be a chef), I think I did ok this time. He did some chopping for me and prepared the mussels. Before last night I'd only ever eaten one mussel, so I was hoping I liked them.

The family ate the meal and no one has complained of feeling ill today, so I think it was a success. I will try something different next week.

Along the Devil's Dyke

Yesterday I went with 12 others for a walk along the Devil's Dyke. It's a lovely old earthwork, one of the best preserved in the UK. The weather was mild and a bit misty (the sun came out after the walk was over). I didn't take any photos but I wish I had - the views over the fens were wonderful. I saw larks and some partridge, but not a lot of wildlife. I think 24 tramping boots probably put paid to any chances of that. You can see some really nice pictures here:

http://www.burwell.co.uk/content/devilsdyke.asp

The company was good. We didn't set a killing pace, just ambled along really, changing who we talked to as we went along. I spent some time talking to a lawyer who travels 2 hours each way into and out of London every day. Not sure I'd like that commute. She keeps chickens and is automating their pen. A real mixture of high-tech and ... well, chickens! After the walk we had a convoy of six cars taking us to a restaurant called the Missing Sock.

The food was lovely, and a reasonable price and there was a dog in the garden to play with, ponies and rabbits! An interesting and unusual sort of restaurant, one which has live music (I will try and get to play there sometime I think) and a host of characters who run the place. I can highly recommend it. I went into the garden and threw the ball for the dog, and whilst feeding the rabbits a young lady came out (at a birthday lunch with her granny) and said 'I didn't come here to be sexually harassed.' - Oh my, what on earth happened? The young lady looked around 17, but was in fact 15. 'He asked me for my facebook' she said, shocked. Because, after all, the guy was 22!! I suggested she take it as a compliment and agreed that on no account should she give him her facebook. Ah, how times have changed. In my day 'sexual harassment' (if we'd had the term) would have been someone pinching yer bum.

The reason we were all there was for a friend's birthday. 14 of us sat down to dinner in a huge circle - it was a bit like King Arthur's round table.

That was a nice way to spend the first half of a Sunday. (The rest of it was household stuff, but the walk and meal fortified me for that.)

Letter to my brother

Hi Phil

Well, writing to you here seems a mad thing to do, but it's about the only way I can think of putting a message out there that you may get.

It's been a very difficult few years, and in the near future we will be selling the house in Royston. I don't know exactly where I'll be - at present I'm working in Colchester and spending the week staying with friends in Ipswich, but this job only lasts till the end of September.

So I'm going to have to job search again in the summer and who knows where I'll find work! It gets harder every time - and of course I am getting older. But hey, experience you know... well, it does count in some jobs, and in others I've been interviewed by folks so much younger than me I feel positively ancient.

Finding this job was lucky - I didn't really think about going back into higher education but when I saw this job, maternity cover at the University of Essex, I liked the description. And I love the job too; nice people, nice location and a great organisation. I'm getting used to the idea of having a job for a short time instead of a career move. It's ok really. I did a year at FFI and I'll be here for about seven months. That's long enough to make a difference. I might even look again at maternity cover work next time, because it is interesting to step into someone's shoes - knowing they are going to want them back again! Must remember to wash my feet more regularly...

Sally came round for late lunch yesterday. She's going to be 80 in January, can you believe it? She is starting, after all this time, to look like an old lady. Considering her age, she's been defiant to say the least. She's given up the Casa now, we go and clear out her stuff next month. Robbie and Carlota will take it over - there's lots of work to be done. It's still not on mains water or sewerage.

There's big stuff happening in my life and I worry that once we've moved, you won't know where to find us. We've been in Royston for more than 22 years now; it will be strange to leave (if I actually do - it is so dependent on work). Alex is at Uni, Mel at college and hoping for Uni next year.

I have to think sometimes who you know and who you don't - but I know you will remember Carol. She still lives in Royston and we regularly play Scrabble.

I hope you are well Phil, it would be nice to hear from you again one day.

Spring is in the air

The sun may take its time and the cars may still have frosting some mornings, but according to the ducks on campus spring is definitely here! The drakes are getting terribly excitable and the ducks increasingly irritated. It is amusing to watch though. There are more boys than girls - seems to be a typical problem.

The other morning I walked from the main campus up to the Constable Building. On the way back I took the scenic route via the (rather muddy) lake paths. To my delight I saw six tufted ducks. The main lake is a haven for the 'bully boys' of the water world - seagulls. They compete with the ubiquitous ducks and the hesitant but resillient coots and moorhens. The tufties are cute but I was completely 'made up' when I saw ten water birds I didn't recognise. Low in body, sharp in beak, they looked a bit like mergansers (but I kthink they are more of a sea bird). Making a hasty field note in my work notepad, I hurried back to the office to look them up. Goosanders. Hey, I was close!

The daffodils are starting to thrust their little yellow heads out of their green sheaths, pink cherry blossom is squeezing out its coloured tips and the birds are twittering even more energetically than usual. The ripe sun is streaming through my window and making my computer screen almost impossible to read.

Spring is here. I like it.

Back to food

Did you know it's Fairtrade Fortnight? I found out at work, because the students were promoting Fairtrade sweatshirts and had a stand with food on showing that - for example - in one cookie ingredients came from five different countries.

Check out http://www.fairtrade.org.uk/get_involved/fairtrade_fortnight/default.aspx - find out about Fair Trade food and why, more than ever, we should look at what we eat not just for the goodness (or, as in most of my favourite foods, badness) but for the environmental and social effect the whole chain of events has.

The Jump

I dreamed about a post-apocalyptic world. This is not surprising as I watched 2012 the other day - but that was all the lead up to the latest take on a global disaster. Not asteroids, not climate change, not even alien invasion - 2012 was about sun spots heating up the earth's core. Oh, and that did cause a little bit of climate change.

So what was my vision of the aftermath? Well, the floor kept shifting, a bit like partly cooked pastry. There were rooms where we had sheltered, with old blankets and a strange colour to the atmosphere. And when the ground began to shake - we had to jump.

This jump in my dream struck me because it was so physical. Not the jump so much as the falling back down. We jumped straight up many feet - probably as high as a house. And I knew that the fall back down was straight down, onto the earth. But I also knew that the fall would be fine if I just relaxed.

The sensation of falling was very physical, I was extremely 'present' in this action in my dream. And after the feeling of falling, as I was relaxed, hitting the ground was fine. A gentle touch down.

I had not been drinking. I slept reasonably well, and the difficult dream world was challenging, but not frightening. I have no idea what it means, but I do now know that falling in dreams doesn't always have to end with waking up or hitting the ground dead.

This lovely picture was borrowed from: http://www.josephinewall.co.uk/ocean_dreams.html

Food security

OK, what is food security – a lock on the fridge door? Oh, if only it were that simple. Because keeping food safe is not what food security is about – it’s about the very real potential that this planet will not have enough food to feed all the people that live on it.

It's not just about population numbers, it's about where most of the food we produce is being consumed. Although overall global food production is sufficient to meet the needs of the world’s 6 billion people, about 1 billion do not consume daily minimal requirements for protein and calories. And if everyone in the world ate food at the same rate that we do in the developed west, we would need six planets to feed us all.

The problem isn’t just the ‘greedy west’ (although it may be cited as a contributary cause); the point is, we are eating the wrong things and producing them in a way that is unsustainable.

Without getting too scientific and technical, I can explain briefly just why we need to eat less meat, less processed foods and reduce our reliance on mass production.

Firstly – meat! Did you know that pigs eat more fish than any other animal? Not a good idea when our seas are under threat. Do you realise it takes ten times more ‘energy’ to produce one unit of meat than it does one unit of vegetables? That means you could feed ten people instead of just one by reducing meat intake. PETA has a rather good article on this.

“According to Environmental Defense, if every American skipped one meal of chicken per week and substituted vegetarian foods instead, the carbon dioxide savings would be the same as taking more than half a million cars off U.S. roads.”

Secondly – processed food. This is direct experience, not something I learned out of a book or on the internet. I used to travel to work with a guy from MAFF (Ministry of Agriculture, Farming and Fisheries as was). He would tell me not to eat lettuce, because its shape made a great ‘bowl’ for capturing all the chemicals in the rain and the pesticides used on them. He advised me to always cut at least two centimetres off the top of carrots, because that’s where all the chemicals collected. And, finally, how they had discovered that flour packed on wooden pallets had absorbed the wood preservative chemicals through the paper wrappings. We eat tons of chemicals - whether we want to or not.

Finally, mass production. To make meat cheap, it gets mass produced. And that involves some pretty inhumane practices, but more than that it involves unbalancing nature in a damaging way. There’s lots on this subject, but here’s just a taste of why monoculture (just one crop) has dangers and having all our animals together also increases public health risks.

So what is the answer? Can we revert to subsistence farming, can we convert the world’s production to organic farming? And can we change the eating habits of the whole of the western world? Oh my there’s a challenge, but actually, we do have to try.

The world is slowly becoming more and more aware that we are facing a real threat to our wildlife and habitats that will seriously deplete our biodiversity. But we are still largely ignorant of the role played by food production.

Do you know your favourite chocolate spread is full of palm oil? Do you know that the cheap bacon you buy in the supermarket means that certain species of fish are becoming extinct? It’s hard to expect everyone to suddenly become knowledgeable about how food is produced and the effect of various production techniques on the environment, but some very simple dietary habit changes could make the world of difference.

I’d love to give you the ‘answer’ right here – what to buy, what to grow, what to eat. But the truth is the responsibility is yours. Two very simple steps are to eat less meat and look for sustainability and eco-friendly logos on the food you buy.

This is a subject that should conern us all - whether we approach it from a species preservation aspect or personal health. It's important for us, the planet, and the future for every living thing.

Recommended reading:

The Meat Crisis
Crop diversity
Biodiversity, Ecosystems and Food Security
End of the Line
CABI Blog - dangers of high yeild crops
Fruit and Nut forests of Central Asia

Photo credit: Inhabitat

Valentine's day

(C) Carolyn Sheppard

To affinity, and beyond!

When I worked at the University of Cambridge, I used to run the University's 'affinity programmes'. A witty colleague once said to me 'to affinity and beyond' - which (as Toy Story was out at the time) was very amusing. The affinity programmes I ran were successful and profitable. It was a good time - a job I enjoyed and a period in my life that saw lots of changes.

But here I am, more than ten years on, and I'm going back into the world of higher education! I'm excited, indeed, but I'm also nervous. Not because of the job - the job looks great and the people I've met so far have been lovely. I know it's an environment I will enjoy - lots of people around, lots of communication and a chance to make a difference. Corny as it sounds, I like doing that in my jobs.

So why am I nervous? Because it's a change in my life that is wider than just my job. I am going to have to move to Colchester during the week - which will mean living 'on my own' (well probably in some hired room) for the first time in my life.

In other words, I have to 'grow up' at last. OK, it's only Monday to Friday - but it is a change, and a big change for me. Living away from home, planning and working and living with a whole different set of criteria for 'performance'.

I visited my new workplace today - there is a terrific gym. Perhaps I should join - instead of spending evenings mooching or playing on the computer, I could go to the gym daily. Get rid of some of this excess fat. Or perhaps I could write more... or perhaps... It's about motivation, isn't it?

I am motivated to do a good job, I am motivated to earn money for my family, I am motivated to get out there and do something. I just find the whole thing rather overwhelming.

What's the point of this post? Not a lot. I just needed to write my emotions out a bit. I am scared, nervous, excited and anticipating a real change in life. I guess it's quite simply one of the oldest fears in the book - change.

Wish me luck!

The Mountain and the Climber

He sat with his friend and said ‘I like that mountain, it looks amazing. I’m going to go up it today’. His friend agreed that it was a nice mountain, but that he should take care and make proper preparations. Mountains, though immobile and ageless, could still be unpredictable.

Oh no, the mountaineer said, I am just going to look at it today. But when he got to the mountain, he found it intriguing. He wanted to scale its heights. The mountain called to him and he could not resist.

The start of the climb, the path was smooth and the slope gentle, the harder bits easy enough to negotiate with his experience. He knew mountains.

His friend wondered why he was gone so long, but was not concerned. The weather at home became windy, then it started to rain hard. He was worried that a storm was on its way. He decided to call the mountaineer and warn him. But the mountaineer had his phone turned off.

Halfway up the mountain the going got tougher. But he persevered, this was a lovely mountain and he wanted to reach the top and see the view. As he climbed further and further the slopes became steeper. He had no rope or crampons, but his hands were strong.

But then the weather changed, suddenly – unexpectedly. He was smothered in fog; a wet, dank fog that sank into his light clothes and chilled him to the bone. He started to shiver, but he continued. He could get above the fog, still see that view. His feet, clad only in light shoes, were blistered, but still he continued. That view was in reach.

The friend wondered now what had happened to the mountaineer. He thought. Should he send out a search party? Should he go looking himself? Whilst he pondered, the mountaineer was still climbing. But now it was snowing.

Cold and weak, he realised at last that the summit of the mountain was probably too high to reach, but still he persevered. He clambered over an icy boulder and slipped. He tumbled down a hundred feet. Battered and bruised he picked himself up. To climb on, or turn around? He was nearly at the top – and the view still held promises.

He thought about what his friend would say – how he would admonish him for not being properly equipped and for taking on such an adventure. Even more so he would be cross that he had not turned around at the first sign of trouble. And while he thought he continued to climb. He was annoyed. How dare his friend tell him how to climb? He’d been doing it for years! He knew that the view would be worth it – a view in a million to be sure.

The friend knew that nothing he could have said would have made a difference. Even though on frequent occasions he had reminded the mountaineer to check the weather first, he knew that the mountaineer was driven and if the impulse took him, he would not listen to his friend. The friend began to feel resentful. His wise advice had been ignored. If the mountaineer was in trouble, it was his own fault.

Nearing the top, the mountaineer was excited. The view… the view… he panted as the cold air froze the very sweat on his skin. With the summit in sight the mountain shifted. A few loose rocks, some icy shale. The mountaineer fell. He slid and tumbled down and down. He was cut and bruised by unfeeling rocks, he was scraped and scratched by brambles and bushes. He found no purchase on his descent, until he reached a bleak outcrop above a precipice where his torn body finally came to rest. He looked up at the sky above him, and to the tantalising summit above.

He sat up, realised that he could not walk and that he needed help. He fished his mobile phone from his pocket. It was, amazingly, still working. He tried to call his friend, but there was no answer. He pondered – should he call emergency rescue? There he was, injured on the mountain, but in no small part it was his fault. Well, his and the mountain’s.

Deep within the mountain, its soul chuckled. For mountains see, feel, breathe and move. Mountains are not just the rock and soil, they are the air and wind, the clouds and sky. And mountaineers cannot truly conquer them, and the mountain knows this.

The man sits on the mountain, injured and bleeding and needing rescue. And rescue will come – for it will be noticed that he has not returned. His ill-conceived venture will be acknowledged and someone will come for him eventually.

Meanwhile he is cold and bleeding. But it’s alright, he doesn’t’ die. And he still has the top of that mountain to see one day.

Do you think the view will be worth it?


Photocredit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/lampywilf/456535194/

A year in fundraising

I’ve worked in fundraising before – but for higher education. I am a nature lover and I’ve worked in conservation before, but as a volunteer on a nature reserve. So imagine what a wonderful opportunity it was for me to combine my marketing, communications and fundraising skills with my passion, conservation.

I joined Fauna & Flora International (FFI) in February 2010, taking a maternity cover post for the Major Donor Manager. By strange coincidence Liz (who has been with FFI for several years) and I worked together in the past, but I was assured by my interviewers that it was my presentation that won me the job. Before meeting the folks at FFI I researched the organisation and was very impressed and inspired. That most certainly influenced my performance at interview and I had no trouble talking about how I could contribute.

One of the first things I did was join FFI as a member. With very little cross-over time before Liz left (to produce her second beautiful bouncing baby girl), I was thrown in at the deep end (what other end is there?). I quickly became involved in producing reports for donors, getting to grips with the database and in planning for a major event – our spring Conservation Circle dinner with guest speaker, Stephen Fry. A man as charming in person as you may imagine. And he spoke with real feeling about the rhino relocation project and his own interest in conservation.

But it wasn’t all about posh frocks - meeting millionaires, celebrities and royalty. There was plenty of groundwork to do, and I enjoyed seeing the fruits of our labours. From researching potential individuals to approach to working with existing donors, there’s always plenty of paperwork to go with the fun stuff. What really engaged me about the job was the learning. Every report I wrote I learned more about the work of FFI. I was privileged to meet and work with the individuals who had hands-on influence in making change happen. In meeting donors, I met a cadre of individuals who, no matter what their background, all shared this common passion for conservation and the work of FFI.

From celebrities to bankers, from my next-door-neighbour (a retired Canon) to donors in far flung places, I was given a wonderful opportunity to engage with people who love and support what we do here at FFI.

In other words, fundraising isn’t just about putting out your hand and asking for money. It’s about understanding people, listening to what they want and making sure you are on the same wavelength, and if you aren’t, finding the right person who is. For me it’s about believing in what you are doing.

I have had a fabulous year at FFI where I have met some incredible people and developed my own knowledge far beyond my expectations. I have discovered new interests and learned new skills. But most importantly of all, I have discovered FFI and the amazing work that the committed people both within and external to the organisation do around the world.

www.fauna-flora.org/

Photo credits: Wildlife at Work Day; the Brooks's Club, London (featuring Carolyn, Rob, Catherine and Kelly with guanaco in the background) and school children engaging in active conservation education (photo by Helene Barnes). Photos (C) FFI

People Day

It's a plane. Hung by it's tail from the ceiling. It's art. Is it? Tate Gallery confuses me. Turner and Constable I get, even Lucian Freud and Picasso, but a dead jet? Dead confusing! But that was only part of my day. Delight at the original Flatflord Mill, intrigue at the changing syltes of Tuner, and cold disinterest at a 10 ft canvas painted a single shade of blue. Art? Of course, just not for me.

I'm being a bit previous though... because my unplanned visit to the Tate was about the third along in the things I wanted to share with you.

First off I had two reasons for being in Lonond:an interview and an event, both for the latter half of the day. But time was on my side so I headed off at midday to take things at my leisure. Formally suited and booted, I made a big mistake. I wore my new boots. The mile walk from home to the station informed me rapidly of my misjudgement.

Slow train to Kings Cross, read my bit - exciting (if old) adventure novel. Goold old Colin Forbes! At Kings Cross I stood and waited for a Circle Line train. My boots reminded me to sit down. To my left was a young man, his short blond hair sculpted in the manner of a Longleat maze. He wore a bright white bomber jacket and a beard that Scooby Do may ahve mistaken for his master's.

He was noticeable. He came over to me and asked about trains to Tower Hill. Two give-aways that he wasn't local - one, his accent and two, he had spoken to a fellow passenger on the underground! I explained the workings of the Circle Line and prevented his boarding a train for Plaistow. I also admired his hair. "Only four quid! Took two hours." He was a bright, cheery young man. We continued to talk (whilst other passengers backed away, made insecure at this unusual behaviour - communication!). He was down from Hull (originally from Goole), visiting his mum as a birthday surprise. No luggage, he'd buy what he needed. He briefly mentioned football - but I dismissed any Northern stereotypes from my brain. He said he liked racing. Horses? I asked, no - dogs. Greyhounds? No - whippets. I didn't know they raced whippets (was unaware of this at the time: safe to click, honest). "I race them against the gyppos" he explained. "Won £600 off one dog, that's how come I'm here. Now I can buy mum a present." He also explained that he came by train as he was banned from driving. Here we are - Tower Hill! Your mum will be pleased. And your eight brothers and three sisters and numerous nephews and nieces.

Opposite me then, after my companion had disembarked, were two men. One was so neat and prim as to make Lionel Blair look scruffy. Perfectly manicured hands, sitting neat with legs together and pointed shoes level; perfectly coiffured grey curls and - yes - mascara. He was talking with his travelling companion, at rest his mouth a slightly pursed smile as if he had a secret.

His companion confused me. Perhaps 30, huge, long black dreadlocks, do-rag and a leather biker (but an expensive one) jacket. Very well turned out, smooth milk chocolate hands, fine skin - fingers didn't look rough. I could not fathom the pairing, but as St James's Park was nigh, I had to abandon my musings.

Too early for my interview, I hunted for somewhere to sit and prepare. I walked in the general direction of my destination and chanced upon a huge crowd of Firemen on their way to the Houses of Parliament. Outside, the firemen were gathered waiting for an audience with the Prime Minister, drums, whilstles and chants filling the slowly chilling air as the sun slipped behind the skyline.Opposite was an ancient medieval building called the Jewel House (left). I crept into the small coffee shop of this ancient building and inside were four firemen, sipping hot drinks and talking. "not outside, lads?" I enquired. They had got cold waiting for the PM. He would come out to them, rather than have all those people go inside the Houses of Parliament (and all the associated security). I ordered a hot chocolate. Here to see a Minister? they asked; no, for an interview I replied, not politics. Wishing me luck, they departed for their media circus to be drowned in the echoes of Big Ben and cameramen.

I read my CV again (the one I sent in application), read the job description again and prepared some questions and examples that I could use in the interview then went in search of the venue. Success! But more than an hour early. I wandered on and, serendipitously, found teh Tate Gallery just a few hundred yards on.

I don't get the planes. My eyes enjoyed the galleries, my feet didn't though. A sore-footed hour later I returned to the Pizza Express. Table for one please - but I am expecting someone. As the place was nearly empty, my words were heard. A man in the corner stood and called my name. I was early - he was early - and he was also about six foot six!

I think I interviewed well. I hope so. Did I know the consultant he mentioned? Oh goodness yes - and I was very tactful. I described the consultant as professional, knowledgeable and 'somewhat insular in some of his views'. Giles, my interviewer, agreed. I will hear after two weeks whether I have a second interview or not. We shall see.

My next rendezvous was with my friend Lin from Holland, over for the annual social event of the Romantic Novellists Association. I was delighted to be invited by her to accompany her, and I did. We met up (along with another of her UK friends, Kate) at her hotel and then headed for the Institute of Mechanical Engineers which was the event venue.

"Wine, madam?" Yes please! Strangely I didn't stay with Lin for long - I was soon chatting with Fiona and her friend Alan. "My mum used to make hats just like yours for the Beverly Sisters" I commented. (Note: she may have even made these hats"). Ah! Common ground. She knew them, and from our conversation, probably knew my mother and father. Show biz folks, you see.
Alan was very tall, her neighbour (not her husband) and he spoke with a soft, lilting Galway accent *sigh*. I talked to more people, drank more wine (though it was a cash bar, I didn't seem to buy any drinks). I met Charlotte and Sophie and one man (one out of perhaps the whole five men there) said "How lovely to see you!" gave me a big hug and kiss. To my sadness I didn't see him again that night. I had no clue who he was (but a little digging about on websites has revealed his identity to me - no, I have definitely never met him before!). After many nibbles and lots of interesting chats, polite clapping at meaningless (to me) speeches, I found myself once again with Lin plus Fiona and Alan. Lin had to leave but Fiona provided more drinks for myself and Lin's friend Kate.

Time came for us to go and Fiona asked where we were going. Kate was off in a different direction to me, and I was headed back to Kings Cross. "We can share a taxi" said Fiona and the four of us (Fiona, Kate, Alan and I) squeezed into a black cab and headed for Kings Cross. We had a real laugh in the taxi, chatting about I don't know what. I was in such a good mood. I was dropped off at about 10.30 in good time for trains home. As I walked towards the platform, our family friends were standing at the coffee bar. "Do you want a drink?" Nicole said. Yes please... hot chocolate.

They had been to see Bill Bailey as a birthday treat for Nicole and had a great evening. We chatted away on the train and I gave Guido his birthday present. His birthday had been weeks before, but I'd bought a lovely book for him at the Tate Gallery and the opportunity was too fortuitous to miss.

The best bit was that when we arrived home I got a lift back from the station. My feet, which had been trying desperately to get my attention all evening, were most relieved.

A people day - when everyone I spoke to from the lad on the train to the blind lady looking for the bus stop to the people at the social right up to my friends on the train home - had been in a positive mood. Or was it just me?

Photo credits: Jaguar picture from the Tate http://www.flightglobal.com/blogs/flight-international/2010/06/harrier-and-jaguar-at-londons.html

Jewel House - can't find, sorry!

Black cab: http://www.flickr.com/photos/8663355@N04/2354951901

A lovely day out

Last weekend I took my son back to Uni in Wales and stayed overnight, planning a leisurely journey back. It was very leisurely indeed! A five or so hour journey took me all day because I went the 'scenic route' as my father would have called it.

First stop was the town of Lampeter which I had a little wander round - but it started to rain so I hit the road. Trusting the sat nav (which has never taken me the same route twice as yet) I headed for home and my first, unscheduled, stop was Raglan Castle. I just saw the sign and thought 'why not?' and drove up to this magnificent edifice. I took lots and lots of photos, but strangely my camera went on strike and only saved a few.

I had a quiet wander round the castle - by now it was not raining and the autumn sun lit the colours of the trees and cast long shadows on the castle walls.

Further on I drove, enjoying the autumn leaves. The sat nav decided for some reason to take me back via Gloucester (having arrived via Bath) and - realising where I was (I do hate the disconnection with route that these automatons engender, but I was travelling alone so it made sense) I thought a quick diversion to Minchinhampton would be in order. And - travelling through the centre of Gloucester and out the other side, I once again visited the little town near where my family lived many generations ago.

I had visited the town with my family some 40 years ago, but had no memories of it save the grave of some relatives which I had in my mind because of a photograph my father took. I knew what to look for and found the church. Exploration brought me quickly to their tomb - my ancient relatives who lie beneath now crumbling marble. Sad to see how it has deteriorated, but I may be able to salvage the words on the tomb from the earlier photograph for they are nearly completely obliterated by time now. They are the ones surrounded by the little iron fence.

There's more information on the town here - Minchinhampton - it's very picturesque. I wandered around the town enjoying the old buildings and the feel of the place. I then headed off home, along roads lit by autumn sun and then enjoying a red sunset. A day with no pressure, no time limit, just A to B at my own pace. A very nice day indeed.

Two performances

And I learn that I can't tiptoe in cowboy boots across a wooden floor.

Sunday night I was the support act at Hitchin Folk Club, to the amazing Mr Dave Swarbrick. Swarb (as he is affectionately known by those who know him and those who don't) played amazing violin - no mean feat given his physical condition. He entertained with stories about the history of many of the tunes and chatted a little in between numbers, but mostly he just played with incredible dexterity.

I'm not a great one for violin on its own, and I must admit that I lost the thread of some of the tunes, and also found that violin without accompaniment does not fully sate my personal tastes, but it was still a good night.

My performance was obviously ok - for the first time ever I got whistles of appreciation! I sang a new song which I finished with. I'd only written it on Friday, but the audience seemed to like it. Maybe it's not always the quality of the song, but the quality of the performance. I certainly put my heart into it.

I sang a few songs of my own, and a couple of covers. Interestingly enough I had a discussion with the audience (I talk to the audience quite a bit) that I never thought I'd have in a folk club: 'do you want Snow Patrol or Eric Clapton?'. A vote was had and the show of hands was in favour of Eric. I sang 'Wonderful Tonight' but insisted that, as my music partner was absent, that the audience sing the guitar riff. It atually worked wonderfully - with a soft 'hm hm hm hm hmmmm, hu hm hm hm hmmm hm hm hm...' adding a lovely cadence to the song. Must try that again sometime.

After I had introduced Swarb I tried to creep back to my seat across the back of the hall... that's when I learned about my boots and the floor.

That was the Sunday night. On Monday, I had a very different performance to make. A poetic recital. I don't think I've read poetry out loud since I was at school, but considering it a 'performance' was fine, and I think I read it OK. It was the first time I've ever had any 'duty' whatsoever to perform at a funeral.

The funeral was of a family friend, Pamela Page Smith, who died aged 87 last month. I've known her my entire life, but then again - as is often the case - I discovered yesterday that I didn't really know her at all.

I learned a lot about her life; she used to be a BBC Concert Painist as well as a music teacher. Being a friend of my mother's, I guess we had a different kind of relationship, but in the late 1970's my mother and I did live with her and her husband for a short while. She put us up when we were 'between houses' shortly after my father died.

The interesting thing at the funeral was that many, many people subsequently mentioned when they lived with her and Erwin, her husband (departed 1993). Though she had no children, it seems their house was always open to visitors.

She left me her guitar (a nice classical) and mandolin. The mandolin is a lovely round-backed one, which used to belong to Erwin. He played violin and mandolin, she played piano (and a bit of guitar). What a musical, amazing pair they were in their day. I've never actually owned a mandolin before - believe it or not. I think it's time I learned to do more than strum a few chords. This one has a lovely tone.

So I have memories of them - musical memories. I often think of her at the piano and it was lovely to hear one of her pupils play at the wake afterwards. What a legacy she has left - thousands of people learning to play the piano. That's quite something.