Kathleen Jowitt writes contemporary literary fiction exploring themes of identity, redemption, integrity, and politics. Her work has been shortlisted for the Exeter Novel Prize and the Selfies Award, and her debut novel, Speak Its Name, was the first ever self-published book to receive a Betty Trask Award.
Back on the metaphorical bike
As you might have guessed, I haven’t been writing much recently. At first I didn’t have the brain. I’ll write more about that, some time, maybe. Then I didn’t have the time. Still don’t, often. I get about ten minutes at the computer at a time before people start howling. If this post turns out very short, you’ll know why.
Instead, I’ve been exercising my creativity in more three-dimensional forms. I’ve been going for projects that I can pick up and put down again without their unravelling completely, and at the moment I’m tackling my mending pile and posting about it on Instagram under the #MendMarch hashtag. The picture on this post shows a mend on top of a mend; the new one features a long white stripe in between cypress green and terracotta, in honour of the Strade Bianche which you might just be able to make out on the TV in the background.
But I did manage to put together a list of the five best cycling novels for Shepherd. I think I’ve remarked before that there aren’t very many to choose from, and I suspect everybody puts The Rider at the top. No shame in that. It’s a brilliant book.
As for the literal bike, I’ve been out once on my faithful red town bike to go to an ultrasound appointment that didn’t happen (long story) and had a few goes on the cargo bike, which may or may not be being recalled (boring story). It’s all a bit of a waiting game, really, but we’ll get there in the end.
You know it’s been windy when…
… the umbrellas in the litter bins are the big ones that only close up in one direction. Everyone expects those little folding ones to fail in the face of a stiff breeze (of course they’re going to, with that added weak point half way up the spoke) but the big ones need the wind to put in more effort.
I do own a little folding umbrella. The canopy is printed with Alphonse Mucha ladies and I bought it during a sudden downpour in Prague. I don’t use it much. The Fen winds would have it inside out in seconds. My preferred brolly is a 1960s vinyl number with black polka dots: it has nice strong spokes, but a comparatively small diameter, which is handy. I find umbrellas a bit awkward to manage, and wouldn’t trust myself with a golf one. The plastic is beginning to decay at the edges, though, and it’s not going to go on forever.
On Thursday I managed to forget completely that umbrellas exist and that it would be a good idea to take one with me, so I got very damp. Oh well. Possibly you shouldn’t take advice on umbrellas from me.
on a personal level
Drink red wine from a tumbler.
Add three spoonfuls of sugar to black coffee.
Write a sentence longer than most people’s paragraphs.
Talk to a railway man.
Quote some dreadful Victorian slush.
Try to persuade the nearest soprano to sing some dreadful Victorian slush.
Photograph some buses.
Tell everyone you prefer trains.
Look at three different maps of the same place, none current.
Take the baby to look at trains.
Take a beermat home with you. Take six beermats home with you. (Or: be pleased that the beermat collection has gone to someone who appreciates it.)
Join the Friends of King Alfred Buses. (I have been meaning to do this for ages and have at least/at last managed to print off the application form.)
Yell ‘Trolloper!’ at the cat. (I didn’t, because it was five in the morning and the rest of the household was more or less asleep, despite the noise of the cat/waste paper battle.)
Read the lesson at Mattins. (I get one opportunity per year. I am on the rota.)
Remember the date. Tell people why it’s meaningful on a personal level. Although probably not in those terms.
(Two years without Pa, six months, nearly, with the little one.)
(Thanks to Havi for the concept of SMOPL.)
December Reflections 31: my word for 2024
Now.
Enough worrying about the future. Enough revisiting the past in the light of new information. Enough telling myself I’d do it right this time if I only I got a second chance. I only get now once, and it’s only polite to show up for it.
December Reflections 29 (hope for the world) and 30 (thank you for…)
Peace.
Hope. For the world.
Hope, for the world.
Hope for the world.
Hope.
Thank you for hope.
Thank you for everything.
December Reflections 27 (2023 taught me) and 28 (an intention for 2024)
2023 taught me that the thing that worked up until yesterday may not work today – and that the thing that didn’t work a month ago may be exactly right for now.
And my intention for 2024 is therefore to pay attention and keep an open mind, trying things so long as they seem to have potential and to be compassionate.
December Reflections 26: magic
Well, any sufficiently large number of light emitting diodes is indistinguishable from magic. Probably.
December Reflections 25: love is…
Only one person ever knew what they were getting into, had the choice whether or not to be human, knowing what that inevitably implies, and still did it, for all the rest of us.
December Reflections 24: one year ago today
… Three months pregnant (I would have said it was more, but the maths works out, and it’s true that we were only just starting to tell people) and with a lap full of cats. I spent a lot of last Christmas Eve making vegan pierogi. This year we’re getting it out of a packet (not vegan).
December Reflections 23: seasonal
I don’t know where this year’s gone. (I mean, I know exactly why it’s gone, but that isn’t quite the same thing.) Which is unusual for me, because I usually make a point of being aware of where I am in time.
These last few days, though, it’s all seemed to settle down, though not on account on anything I’ve done myself. The Morville Year, which I’d bought and immediately lost in the extra safe place in which I’d hidden the present I bought at the same time, turned up (as did the present – too late for the birthday for which it was originally intended, but just in time for Christmas). I loved The Morville Hours and the way it moves gently through the cycle of the year, and have been looking forward to reading this, a collection of related articles.
Slow Time is an old friend, a book that’s encouraged me to explore the calendar and the traditions in which I grew up. And one thing that I have already noticed about organised children’s activities is that they are very keen on seasonal themes, so it ought to get easier from here on in.
One last thing. I was amused to note, firstly that I’d run out of my previous soap bar just in time to start the Christmas Spice one – and secondly, that the one I’ve just finished (and had been using all through Advent) was called Wake Up Call. If you know, you know.
Kathleen Jowitt 