Category: Thoughts

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Mirror, mirror on the wall…

Recently I’ve noticed new, small changes to my body which have made me pause and consider. As in, think about the stance I always had on aging. ‘Oh it won’t bother me!’ said I, ‘Wrinkles are a sign that you have lived and laughed in your life, bring it on!’.

Hmm.

Yes well, they ARE. And I do still agree with what I’ve always spouted about aging gracefully and refusing to walk around with skin that looks like it’s been pumped full of liquid rubber or stretched tightly over a drum.

But I must confess there are moments nowadays when the mirror asks a lot of my pure intentions. More than I expected, to be quite frank. In these moments I find myself quietly raising a finger to pull the skin above my eyelids gently upwards “just to see” the difference it would make if I were to… (what? I don’t know!) get something done I suppose, to the slightly sagging skin that is now making its presence felt around my eyes.

It’s confronting, but quietly done because I don’t want anyone to spot me being so vain and frivolous (including myself).

Then there’s that favourite black evening gown hanging upstairs which I must finally acknowledge no longer suits me. Having worn sleeveless tops/dresses for most of my adult life, I am more than a little shocked by the change in my upper arms – when did the muscles start to hang from the bone like loose meat fillets?? And why can’t I make the bodice fit snugly like it always did? Nowadays it bites into my body in strange ways. Looser skin I guess, or something like that.

Geez.

Ah well, chances are I’ll never do much about any of it. I’m too chicken, too poor, a little bit too lazy and even principled on the topic to take any drastic measures but that doesn’t stop me being surprised I even considered it. When you get right down to it, I guess aging is difficult to accept no matter how ‘wise’ you’ve become. I’ve had to work my way through a fair few unexpected health challenges this past year (knock on wood) which shook the balance out of life for a while. Moving away from my private pyjama party on the sofa is a very welcome change let me tell you, with simple things like walking to the bus stop or going shopping for an hour finally back on the agenda. I’m hugely thankful for it.

And yet I can occupy my mind now and then with silly irritations about my skin losing elasticity. It’s too silly.

Maybe I need this little reminder to chill out a bit more.

I’m ready for a good year, I’ve waited and hoped for it so fingers crossed my friends and let’s all be a little easier, kinder to ourselves in 2016. Because life’s just too short for silly worries and irritations.So right now my eyes are looking pretty ok to me, and I’ll be damn happy to go out feeling fabulous in any evening dress, under my own steam this coming year. How’s that for starters!

plastic surgery
I wonder, maybe, what would it be like if I had that bit lifted??
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Scuba, anyone??

Ok, so we’ve already established that basically, I am rubbish at sports. Always was, no doubt always will be. My sad little attempt to master the art of horse-riding many moons ago left no illusions on that score.

But despite the humiliation of that hapless endeavour, I still wasn’t quite ready to give up and just a few months later had persuaded my partner-in-crime (a.k.a. long-suffering-hubby) to join me on one more ‘fun’ sporting adventure. Scuba diving. In the city of Amsterdam.

I know, I know, perhaps a tad unrealistic given my lifelong fear of water smothering my face – but somehow, it seemed vaguely achievable. For a while.

So where to get lessons… well in those days (we’re talking 20 years ago!) it was a case of browsing telephone books and ‘asking around’. No internet, no Google! Someone, somewhere recommended a ‘PADI’ diving course to me. It sounded good. Professional. Manageable. We hopped along to an introduction day, and by the time the woman-in-charge had assured me I could always buddy-up with hubby and would be allowed to go-slow in the early weeks, we’d signed on the dotted line for their 12-week course.

Five weeks later, we headed off to the first session: theory. By now my Dutch was reasonable if not fluent, so I struggled a bit but left feeling quietly confident, this time I would not be bested! Lesson two however, the start of the ‘practicals’ was a different kettle of fish. Entirely.

In the bright lights of the swimming pool’s changing room, I glanced around at the other women, noting the athleticism of their bodies. Hmm. Slightly intimidating. Skinny (then), with muscles that knew best how to drag me out of bed and into a car, I slithered into my bikini with no small amount of trepidation.

Reminding myself that I could start slowly, I headed towards the pool, my newly purchased goggles hanging around my neck, my flippers clutched in a nervous fist, my oxygen tank strapped to my back. The whole group was waiting for me in the water, standing in a circle. No one spoke. I sat down heavily on the edge of a small wall, and tried to put on my flippers.

For some reason, the damn things refused to fit onto my feet. Shoving my toes in got me nowhere and after five failed attempts I was in danger of becoming upended from the tank on my back and my feet seemed to be doubling in size even as I watched them. I heard a shout, ‘wet your flipper, then your foot slides in!’. The group was becoming impatient. Two minutes later I was all flippered up, feeling more frog-like than any woman ever should but – hey – I was on my feet! My rubber feet. God they were huge! how the hell was I to walk into the pool??!

With all eyes on me, I took a step forwards. The flipper swayed, I wobbled precariously, took a step backwards. Fervently wished for the tiled floor to swallow me whole, then tried again. No dice. Suddenly, hubby was beside me, ‘it’s ok, just turn around and walk backwards’ he whispered. Minutes later we were in the water. Glares of irritation floated my way, I ignored them and focused on the instructor,

“we’re all going to float to the bottom now” she said, expertly popping in her mouthpiece and vanishing into the water in one smooth action. The rest followed suit. I popped in my mouthpiece but when I tried to sink to the bottom of the pool, discovered that I couldn’t. My legs kept rising to the surface and my flippers looked like shark fins, floating wildly above the waves.

Hubby was struggling equally. We thrashed around for a full minute, legs going in all directions, and I could feel the giggles rising as a realisation of what we must look like to the waiting would-be divers down below, hit me.

Suddenly, the instructor resurfaced, her eyes flashing furiously, “what’s wrong now?” she gurgled, “did you two not put on your weight belts?”. Damn, no we hadn’t. I caught his eye, and laughter burst forth. It was more than she could take, “I hope you’re going to work very hard here” she barked, making me laugh all the more, “this is a serious sport!”.

Oh Gawd. Now I knew I was in trouble!

Scuba diving lessons
My flippers were floating above the water like shark fins
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Paris.

A word, a city which until now has conjured up countless images of la tour Eiffel, the Champs Elysee. Fashion. Style. Romance. A hint of French arrogance, according to some. Winding streets, large open spaces, artists on pavements, delicious cafés au lait and melt-in-the-mouth, crumbly croissants au chocolat.

Right now you hear it and the first thing that comes to mind is the horrific attacks from just one week ago (really? Is it only one week?). Attacks on our civilised world, our freedom of movement and expression.

The thing is… Last weekend I chose, quite deliberately, to post a blog similar to earlier ones. I chose not to focus or even comment on Paris and the awfulness of it all. I wanted to continue doing ‘normal stuff’. I felt you, my readers, deserved that too. Because holding onto what we do, what we like, what makes us laugh and sometimes even cry especially in these strange, challenging days is in itself, a strength.

But today, it feels wrong to ignore it completely. It’s just too big. I’ve read many blogs this past week, listened to so many reports that my head still spins. A lot has been said. Wise words that I can’t begin to match but I thought, as there’s so much sadness going around, maybe I can offer you a different word to move us away from despair and fear. And back towards light, especially for those living in the City named after it.

Hope.

  • I hope, that as we work to put these dreadful deeds behind us, that something good can and will emerge from them.
  • I hope that Europe’s leaders can truly come together at last and find a way of dealing with the situation. Right now.
  • I hope that we, the people of Europe, will reach out to each other. Build new bridges that bring us closer together, regardless of race, religion or background.
  • I hope people will know that these attacks are not a Muslim creed or way of living. They are the actions of one group of fanatics, who seek to destabilise the civilisation we have built over hundreds of years.
  • I hope we are all brave enough to withstand the lure of mistrusting others which some would have us succumb to.
  • I hope for lessons learnt from past mistakes to guide the way forward, not backward.
  • I hope we can soon learn to see and think of the city of Paris for what it still is – beautiful. Entrancing. Magical. Ours.

I hope.

Paris, the Eiffel tower and more
Artists on pavements, melt-in-the-mouth croissants
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Last call for flight EI607…

 

For some reason I tend to view money spent at airports differently to the dosh I hand over on a more normal, spending spree. I still see it as a way of “using up” spare cash, taking clever advantage of the special offers that shine and shimmer at me from sparkly glass cases. As I did years ago when duty free really offered you a bargain.

Logically of course I know that nowadays the whole duty-free lark is far less meaningful than it used to be. The prices aren’t all that great unless you’re travelling long distance, and treating myself to a new foundation/lipstick/perfume or expensive face cream is – at the end of the day – pure (happy) self indulgence and nothing more.

But the thing is… logic doesn’t really come into it! As soon as my feet have carried me past the passport check, a sense of euphoria enters my body and bubbles its way down to my toes. Like a well programmed robot I quicken my step and speedily find my way into the first, brightly lit shop, my boarding pass at the ready. Just for a quick peek you understand.

Yeah right. Quick or not, I know very well that there’ll be no plane boarding for me until I’m armed with a pretty, plastic bag carrying at least one, but more likely three, joyous little items. Including – if it’s a trip to Dublin – a good perfume for my sister. Just one of the little things we do for each other.

You see, I’m a bit of a shopaholic. Maybe even more than a bit. When that film “Confessions of a Shopaholic” came out I sat entranced, loving, appreciating and recognising the joys, twinges of guilt and total addiction that every woman/girl (who enjoys shopping) is familiar with. The satisfaction that comes when you’ve made your final choice and head towards the cash register, your purchase-to-be clutched firmly in one sweaty little hand. The rush of blood that warms you later as carefully you unveil your new item to the oohs and aaahs of those around you (or even just your own – equally good!).

Sigh.

I’m not really sure why airport shopping feels that bit different, or loosens the rules a little more for me. It just does. Perhaps it’s the time pressure – mustn’t miss that flight! Or the perfume-scented, brightly lit atmosphere which this happy little “in-between world” literally oozes. I’m also fairly sure that echoes of the old, pre-Euro need to “use up these left-over liras” still live inside my head because I’ve fed and watered them so well.

Oh well. I will probably always feel less guilty spending money there than anywhere else. So I’m sticking with that for now and off to compile a nice list for my next gallop through Schiphol. We’ll call it… good preparation!

Duty free shopping
If I run a bit I should just make it to the gate!
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So, rugby’s the one with the pointy ball – right?

I try. I do, I do, I do, I do. It’s rugby world cup time these weeks and almost everyone I know is feverishly caught up in it. So I want to be too. Especially for Ireland, who won the (what’s it called again? oh yeah) Six Nations cup last year which qualifies them for undying support from every living, breathing Irish person…

But, the thing is… I’m totally crap at it! I know next to nothing about rugby and no amount of ‘come on Ireland!!’ screeches, thrown eagerly into the room during an Ireland-versus-anyone-else match can change that.

Last weekend, Ireland played France. I’d read here that the French media had been targeting Irish players quite vindictively beforehand, in a bit to psyche them out. This got my gander up. “We better really thrash them!” I spat vehemently to hubby, as we prepared for the showdown. He raised an eyebrow, surprised by my sudden interest.

As the game progressed I gave it my all. “That’s a bad tackle” I yelled, “he should be sent off for doing that!!”. “No love, that’s allowed in rugby” was his response. Five minutes later, “what kind of a ref is that!” I fumed, when France was -correctly – awarded a penalty (in truth, I spotted no reason for penalties throughout, scrums are just one big mash-up to me but I felt right was on my side this time because it was against ‘our lads in green’). As did most of the Irish spectators, methinks. We’re like that, us Irish. Big on the emotion, less on the rationalisation.

At times I was certain things were going too far. “The poor man’s head will be smashed in!” I whined in horror, watching a scrum, “look, look! The other guy’s boot is hovering over his skull!”. And when a second Irish player ended up on a stretcher, my indignation knew no limits, “what the hell… doesn’t anyone try to stop this insanity?”. You get the picture.

But at least I now know how teams can score (try = 5 points; conversion – 2 more). Proud of this new knowledge I totally over-used it, delighting in my expertise, “wow, now they only have to get a conversion and they’ll be 8 points ahead – right? Right?” I yelled. “Yes!” shouted hubby, “same as last time!” (patience finally wearing a wee bit thin).

By the time I’d double-checked that Ireland could only score in the left goal for the second half, and asked the difference between a rugby offside and a football one, he’d moved to the far end of the sofa. My run was finally over. Oh well, there’s still the quarter final to enjoy this weekend, I’m thinking of dragging out the Paddy’s Day stuff, just for the craic. There’s bound to be at least one good green wig somewhere in there…

World cup rugby
“That poor man’s head is going to be crushed!”
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Goodbye in any language is a big ask

This morning I got the very sad news that a beloved aunt of my husband had died. Quite suddenly, or so it seems. Having come through an emergency operation quite well, we were hoping for a recovery to carry her that bit further. A recovery that would see her march on a little longer through life. Fearless, feisty as hell and brim-full of the old energy she exuded until roughly one year ago, when even a trip to her favourite market (something she’d enjoyed for years, together with my mom-in-law) was no longer on the cards.

Our hopes were not realised. It came as quite a shock.

I’ve had many shocks like this, in recent years. It never gets easier, because I feel things very deeply. Always have, probably always will. I can’t even say I’ve developed a ‘formula’ of sorts to deal with loss because every time is different from the time before. And hoping I’ll manage it better now is just a waste of energy, which ups the ante even more. Inside my head and heart.

Because heartache wants its moment, wants its ‘pound of flesh’ and if you turn your back on it, it merely doubles in strength, and bites twice as viciously.

When I first lived abroad, I realised there would be moments like this, in relation to my parents, my more elderly loved ones, at home. I dreaded them, but accepted their inevitability. They came, they went, we coped, together. My sister always with me, in spirit if not physical presence. The family I built here waiting in the wings – loving, holding, shushing, calming me. The friends I’ve made never far away.

More recently, it’s been members of my husband’s family we’ve had to lose. A cherished mother-in-law who took gentle care of me and loved, laughed with and at me, for many years. Aunts and uncles, whose sense of fun and mischief appealed to me, whose curiosity for my Irish mannerisms and heritage transcended boundaries and bonded us like childhood friends giggling over past memories.

I’ve been lucky to have found a place in the heart of such a family. Lucky to have enjoyed a home-from-home, as the years went by. But it makes it that bit harder to let go of someone we all love – again – and I’ve been dragging my heels about it, because I know the hurt it brings.

But the heartache wants its moment, so I’ll play by the rules and let myself be sad today for a special woman whose memory I’ll always hold dear.

Thank you and R.I.P., dear ‘Tante Leentje’.

market shopping
Now THAT’s what I call a real bargain!
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“You rang, m’lady?”

I’m lying, drowsily, beneath a satin, quilted eiderdown. The room is dimly lit, there’s a log fire crackling in the fireplace, “Lady Mary, your breakfast” … ah yes, that little rope I pulled on… “thank you Anna, no I can butter my toast myself today”….

Sigh. And sigh again.

Seriously – what’s not to LOVE about the BBC series Downton Abbey?! I know what draws me to it, because I’ve thought about it, oftentimes. It’s the sheer beauty of it all. And the power of my over-active imagination. Along with the mega-dose of wonderful escapism each indulgent little episode gives us.

The location, the setting. The calm. The ease. The gossip. The silver tea service. The china. The stylish cars. The kitchen (“have you finished that orange sauce for the duck, Daisy? Then come help me get that kedgeree prepared for tomorrow’s breakfast”). Delight, delight, delight.

The thing is… the minute I hear those soft, musical introductory notes, graciously welcoming me to step back into another era, away I float. Into the Downton Abbey world of grace, wealth, dinner gowns and long satin evening gloves.

For sixty minutes I am there with all the actors. Gliding around my room in a beaded gown, readying myself for the evening meal in full assurance that Carson (the butler) will watch our every move like an eagle searching for prey and the Dowager Countess will fill the spaces between courses with amusing witticisms, “I’m a woman. I’m supposed to be contrary”.

Having readied myself for the dinner gong (with Anna pinning back my curling tresses), I’ve frowned slightly at a spot of dust on the banister and made a mental note to mention it to Mrs. Hughes next morning. Smiling sweetly at the footman I’ve helped myself to Mrs. Patmore’s delicious platters – careful not to take too much but just enough – and chatted quietly with those seated to my left and right, making sure I give them equal attention. For to do otherwise would just be bad manners.

It’s a happy hour. An hour spent mimicking Lady Mary’s astonishing accent and wonderful use of language. Reminding myself to remember certain phrases she casually trots out “I’m not entirely sure that we should bother ourselves with matters of this kind” or “had you asked for my support my darling, then of course I would have gladly given it”. Words that make me want to be far more eloquent than normal life demands but which I can never quite recall the next day.

I’ve even wandered around my own back garden carrying a wooden lantern, half imagining I’m walking that estate. My husband laughs because he knows it’s part of who I am. A dreamer, a story-teller in my own way, a lover of ease, comfort and beauty, both inside and out.

So thank you Julian Fellowes, for the gift that is Downton. For letting us enjoy and revisit a world in which there still is space and freedom for the very privileged to do little more than breathe in and out as they come to terms with the changing world around them. A world that remembers World War I heroes, forever etched in my grateful heart for the huge sacrifices they made.

And of course, there’s still the simple beauty of it all.

Downton Abbey
…into the Downton Abbey world of grace, wealth and long satin evening gloves I float…
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Here’s looking at you, Joost

I wouldn’t normally devote a blog to the day’s sad news – there’s enough of that going around these days God knows – because my aim is to lift our spirits with these posts, but I guess I also want to make us think twice about certain things, and in that context it fits.

For yesterday, a well known, Dutch writer/poet/art critic committed suicide, Joost Zwagerman. Aged 51. A man whose huge enthusiasm for art spread infectiously throughout Holland the last year or two mainly because of his regular appearances on a daily chat show, DWDD.

And it just really got to me, the tragedy of this sad, sad deed.

Apparently he suffered from manic depression. Apparently his father attempted to end his own life some years ago. Apparently his best friend succeeded in doing just that a few months ago. I have to wonder.

The thing is… could anyone have helped him, stopped him from taking this irrevocable, drastic step? The never-ending question. Does it always have to be this way, that people who are ‘blessed with’ the huge gifts, are also burdened with an equally destructive or negative characteristic, in some dastardly universal balancing act? Think Van Gogh. Amy Winehouse. Robin Williams. Philip Seymour Hoffman (I could go on).

What must his family be going through, right now? Three daughters. The man himself had strong opinions about suicide, publicly shared those thoughts even, sharply criticising those who commit it for the huge damage it inflicts on those ‘left behind’ as he put it. How strange, how poignant, that he himself should now choose to go down that same, dark route with a new book about to be published. I guess that meant little, in the end.

I wasn’t familiar with him until he showed up on TV. I’m not that literary and as an Irish woman living in the Netherlands, have a tendency to stick to English-language books even though I speak the language. Because I’m a lazy sod on that score.

But I, and many others, was hugely impressed by Joost’ flamboyance, his energy, his sheer joy in sharing his (very broad) knowledge of specific painters/styles with us, the common folk. When he talked, we listened. Avidly. His eye picked out tiny details we’d otherwise have missed, his voice brought us information we could understand and appreciate, even with limited artistic knowledge. Secret snippets of information worked cleverly into paintings by old masters were a delight to him, and as he explained the thinking behind them it all morphed into something fascinating. Joyful. Uninhibited.

My husband would ‘shush’ me if I interrupted him while Joost was at large, on DWDD. I have a (mean) tendency to tease him about the programme, and how enamoured he is with its presenter although secretly I totally admire the man myself, and how well he manages it all. It’s an Irish thing: taking the Mick at any and every opportunity.

So here I go, just for you Joost – thank you for sharing your clever insights with us these past years, I’m so sorry you saw no other way ahead. To DWDD (and on behalf of my hubby and I): kudos to you Matthijs, for creating and encouraging this gifted, learned and special man to benefit and share in your unique platform. Hats off from me on this rather sad day.