Stories that make sense
“Seven hours and forty minutes of daylight today,” said the newsreader at noon. “Great,” I said; “when do they start?”
It cleared up a bit an hour or so later, but this was a grey solstice at the middle of what’s been mostly a grey winter so far.
I’ve been spending more time (and also more money) in charity shops this year; it comes of spending more time in town. Yesterday I wandered into the Sue Ryder shop (with some assistance from a kind person who held the door for the pushchair) and found these golden apples. They reminded me immediately of a set of four polystyrene, white-leaved, iridescent-glittered apple-shaped Christmas tree decorations from my childhood. The fight over who got to put them on the tree was always vicious: for some reason the obvious solution, do one each, was unacceptable. So I bought these ones in a fit of nostalgia, and because I was already on a bit of a kick buying tree decorations that the toddler and the cat probably couldn’t break. I hope they’ll turn out to be not so much the apples of discord.
But they sparked some other associations, too. Narnia. Jesus Christ the apple tree. The fascination with orchards and walled gardens and fruit trees that’s been a fixture in my head since we first viewed this house, five winters ago, and realised that the bare trees against the garage wall had labels telling us what sort of pears they were. Martin Luther claiming that even if the world were going to end tomorrow, he would still plant his apple tree. (Was Nevil Shute thinking of that when he wrote his gardening couple facing down the apocalypse in On the Beach?)
The best time to plant an apple tree being twenty years ago. Well, our predecessors in this house did that for us. (Yes, apples as well as pears.) The second best time being now. As for the best time to convert an evergreen into an enchanted tree growing golden apples – well, probably Tuesday.
Apparently I knit socks now. Which is another way of saying, persevering. I have learned how to knit in the round, on double-pointed needles, from a chart, in a fancy pattern.
And this pair in particular has called for some pig-headedness. The first one had several mistakes, and came out too big (I *did* knit a swatch, but clearly not a big enough one); with the second one I lost the game of yarn chicken so had to finish off in a different colour; then I unravelled the first one and started all over again.
Of course, with knitting it’s a choice to keep on going. One could easily put it back in the box and sulk; and quite often I do. With bigger, harder things it isn’t a choice: what else are you going to do? And yet I think we can be proud of ourselves for doing it.
(The pattern is ‘Christmas Eve’ from Niina Laitinen’s ‘Knitted Socks from Finland’, which I borrowed from the library purely on the strength of knowing the translator. I doubt I’ll get it done by Christmas Eve, but I’ve just renewed the book so I have it until 18 January…)
I’ve been wearing stud earrings much more lately (used to go for dangly ones, but they just aren’t practical with little grabby hands around). Mostly gold-coloured ones, but I’ve picked up a few silver ones – the ammonites and the lizards were new this year.
I got an extra pair of ear piercings, too. It’s quite fun to experiment with different combinations – though what I’m wearing at the moment is more of a ‘first thing that came to hand’ and only one pair is strictly a pair. The trouble with studs is that I keep losing the backs.
14 September, steaming around the Isle of Wight on the Waverley with my family. Good company, gorgeous scenery, scalding hot chips, and a gallant little boat still doing what she was built to do.
I don’t think I have anything very intelligent to say about glitter. I am feeling slightly under the weather and have, this afternoon, discharged my final responsibility of the year in my biggest voluntary commitment. So I will just post this picture of a little red glittery battery operated tea light, and note that I am giving myself the evening off any sort of Christmas preparations – and drinking a whisky mac.
Cat, in this case. Although we’re not entirely sure. You’d think that a cat would be more interested in, for example, chicken. Not that I’m complaining. She’s warm and purry (having been asleep on top of that pile of chaos for most of the day, she’s now on my lap) and cheap to feed.
Capacity. There are only so many hours in a day, even when it’s not a scarce-seven-hours St Lucy’s day.
There is only so much work that I can fit into three days, only so much voluntary admin that I can fit into a toddler’s nap. And then I have to switch off, put the laptop away. No more pressing on until the task is finished. I can’t get away with that any more. I can’t afford the egotistical luxury of being the go-to person any more: I have to direct inquiries elsewhere, ask for help, leave things undone.
I still have a lot to learn about this.
Recently I’ve been noticing how very satisfying rich colours are. The deep red on our dining room wall. Cobalt blue watercolour, before you start diluting it. In a box of 40 reels of thread, the magenta one. I like them opaque but not muddy. These leaves aren’t quite as good as my mug from the Women’s Tour, but they’re pretty good.
And getting outside, even just for ten minutes around the block. This little patch of trees and grass and path is just there to baffle the noise from the main road, but it’s a habitat for small joys like squirrels, deer, people on bicycles, people not on bicycles, huge and tiny dogs, sparrows, goldfinches, rosehips, hazelnuts, blackberries, bouncy balls, and exuberantly yellow leaves.
Windpump at Wicken Fen. I am not just trying to indicate that 2024 was the year we got National Trust membership, though this is true.
At one point I got very interested in windmills (this is not one) and fell down several Wikipedia rabbit-holes learning about Dutch windmill code and so on (this appears to be broadcasting something between ‘good news’ and ‘not open for business’).
But the real reason for choosing this photo is the sense of space I encountered at Wicken Fen, which feels emblematic of this year’s emotional shift. Big skies and quietness. This year I’ve begun to make more sense of the world in which I live, I’ve been deliberate in spending more time outside, and (most of the time) there’s been more space and it’s easier to breathe.
Kathleen Jowitt 