Becoming an old sailor.

As Pat’s return looms I’m faced with the alarming prospect of restoring the house to a state of cleanliness she might just tolerate. And the thought brings total inertia as I turn into A. A. Milne’s Old Sailor. 

  For those readers who had a deprived childhood - their parents failing to read them Milne’s complete oeuvre - here are the first two and the last two stanzas of the poem, enough to give you the picture:

    ‘There was once an old sailor my grandfather knew

    Who had so many things which he wanted to do

    That, whenever he thought it was time to begin,

    He couldn’t because of the state he was in.

    He was shipwrecked, and lived on an island for weeks,

    And he wanted a hat, and he wanted some breeks;

    And he wanted some some nets, or a line and some hooks

    For the turtles and things which you read of in books. …

… So he thought of his hut … and he thought of his boat,

    And his hat and his breeks, and his chickens and goat;

    And the hooks (for his food) and the spring (for his thirst) …

    But he never could think which he ought to do first.

    And so in the end he did nothing at all,

    But basked on the shingle wrapped up in a shawl.

    And I think it was dreadful the way he behaved - 

    He did nothing but basking until he was saved!’

Skype to my lou.

Unlike Glendower, when I ‘summon spirits from the vasty deep’ they come - thanks to the miracle of Skype. Pat’s prolonged stay in England has been made more bearable by being able not only to speak to her, but to see her - and Quinn with an occasional guest appearance by Candy. Sophy and James are on Skype too, and have been in touch since Pat’s been away. Apart from Matthew, all the family confined to a box, summoned or dismissed as the mood takes me - solipsistic heaven. And all for free. There’s got to be a catch somewhere, but I haven’t worked it out yet. 

   

All lit up.

Like the fleet in Lieutenant-Commander Thomas Woodrooffe’s well-lubricated commentary for the BBC in 1937, I’m all lit up today. Yesterday I wasn’t. To elucidate: on Tuesday it snowed steadily from dawn to dusk. The evening was punctuated by a succession of power cuts which caused the alarm to go off on the central heating boiler. I had to switch off the pump to prevent the boiler exploding. On Wednesday the sun shone down on a winter wonderland for those of us who didn’t have to drive anywhere. I imagine those who did felt about as cheerful as the Grande Armée on its retreat from Moscow. The children were happy, though, as the schools were closed and they could spend the day snowballing.

  I was feeling a bit like Troilus when Criseyde’s gone over to the Greek camp. It’s all very well for Pandarus to tell him:

Ye, god wot, and fro many a worthy knight

Hath his lady goon a fourtenight,

And he not yet made halvendel the fare.

What nede is thee to maken al this care?

The difference is that Troilus, as Criseyde’s pervy uncle is well aware, doesn’t know when, or even if, she will return. And then things got worse: I couldn’t get the wood-burning stove in the kitchen to light. I tried six times, using up precious firelighters and kindling. Eventually I gave up and shivered all day until I lit the fire in the sitting room in the evening. 

 Today, at the second attempt, it lit and as Wordsworth said in a completely unrelated context: ‘And oh the difference to me.’ Being all lit up hasn’t reconciled me to my situation but it’s made it slightly less miserable. 

Solo, perduto, abbandonato!

As a sequel to Jimbledon Fortnight, for the last ten days we’ve had something approaching a normal social life. The Thursday before last, Jane came to stay at her house in the Faveto. We saw quite a lot of her, including going for a ramble in the foothills near Amandola. And the Sunday before last Warren came to stay with us for a week while he did some work on his house in the Cese. We suggested to him that he get his partner, Rachel, to subscribe to Skype so that he could talk to her and their son, Archie. Above all they could see each other. She did and it worked like a dream.

  But what a change a week can make. On Saturday Jane went back to England as did Warren the following day. And today, in response to a sudden - though not unexpected - family crisis Pat has flown off to Stansted from Ancona. We don’t know when she’ll be back. So apart from Eva and Meg, I’m on my tod for the foreseeable future!