The eighth run

Well, here we are, a full week in! So, what have we learned about blogs? They're compulsive, allow you to talk about whatever you want, and get it heard, anytime, anywhere. They're obsessive: it almost becomes a daily ritual to get up and scribble down something 'for the blog,' and it gives you space to squiggle down any meandering thoughts that go through your head.

Nothing beats that initial flash of inspiration. That convinced, confident burst of wanting to write that assures you you're writing the right thing, and that you're making a small mark on the world by doing so. I think the only thing that comes close is when you're in a bookshop and you spot a book that you MUST have. The book you've been looking for. The book that hooks you from page one, and holds on so much that you're six pages in and have unmercifully bent the spine back in a kind of passionate yoga before it dawns on you; you have to buy it first.
Such feelings are a blessing, a moment of light in the greyness of life, up there with finding a £20 note stuck under the wheel of a car in the street, coming home to the one you love and having the night only for each other, Christmas dinner with the family, a rare day out: it's rare, it's special: and because it's special, it's sometimes what makes life just that little bit better for writers.

The seventh walk

Has it been nearly a week already? Doesn't seem like it.
Anyway, I'm sorry that the blog Friend Connect system doesn't appear to be working and that I'm currently fiendishly masquerading as two different people - I've joined everyone's blogs and read them (interesting stuff!) but Google can't make its mind up whether I'm Taipatala or Sarah so it looks like I haven't joined any blogs yet :( Sorry guys, I've tried to add everyone but you don't come up on the dashboard for some reason so I have to manually click on each person via links that come up under Blue or Freya since they're the only ones who come up as Followers. Guess I overestimated my meagre skills a smidge!

Really into the festive spirit. Last night, on an adrenaline rush ruled by tea (ok, tea with three sugars) I wrote out all my cards and delivered any and all that could be delivered on foot. Most people would call this 'merrymaking' but really, it's procrastinating. The writer's bane. People think that's writer's block, but at least writer's block eventually subsides, especially if you hear a song or do a little research which eases it. It's so easy to think 'oh, I'll just do this bit...' or 'oh, that kitchen hob hasn't been cleaned in a while...' or worse, 'the dog needs walking again!'
I don't quite know why. I mean, if we didn't like writing we wouldn't do it, but here's the theory: it's being chained to a computer. Has anyone else noticed your neck aches like heck, you get really hot and bothered and by the time you finish your nails are bitten to stubs? Well, mine are, anyway. But sometimes you've just got to blank your mind and do it, like housework...wait, no, not housework, that's the other writer's bane (too many procrastination oppotunities)!
Christmas is a different time of year. I can't help but feel like an interior designer as I pick out green pillar candles and dress them with £2.95 plastic wreaths from R and J, or eye up tinsel with a cynical air, playing my C grade GCSE for all its worth: 'well, that's 10 metres, but it's twice as expensive as the 8 metres...' (yes, you start to sound like an essay question at this time of year, but at least it's expected of you). We've still got to replace the sad-looking, bent tree at my Grandmother-in-Law's so she has some festive spirit to come home to.
If no-one's guessed, this blog has gradually just become a diary. I wish I could invent this great big series online, but it's just not something I can do. At least a diary doesn't require consistency (I'm a bad liar) and I don't have to be in character all the time. It might well be just as the title suggests - meanderings - but maybe one day someone else will realise they're walking down the same path, and will be glad of the company.

The sixth amble - and I'm being stalked.

Christmas season is nearly apon us! Like many of us, our family heralds Christmas as being official when the Coca Cola advert comes on (a lot can be said for Cocacola-isation right now) even if that particular advert did come on in November...
I'm also waiting to see the version of the John Lewis advert where you get to see what's in the box (Squirrel? Sorry, old Weeble and Bob joke) although it appears to have been wrecked by a Gordon Ramsey parody of the whole affair. Never mind.
Can't help but feel festive now I've filled up on the big three - Muppet's Christmas Carol, the Grinch and Santa Clause, essential Christmas viewing in the Jackson household. We've been trawling the aisles of R and J (affectionately dubbed 'Rubbish and Junk'), checking out the baby trees and assorted decorations (many of which are bigger than the trees), wrapping pressies (fewer than normal this year: it's so easy to overspend so this year I've stuck to a one pressie policy and saved well over £300, at the risk of being labelled a stinge) and spraying the whole house with cranberry air freshener. People get tenderer, too. I can throw open the floor of what life was like for my parents growing up and almost expect nostalgic ramblings by the gas fire.
As to the stalker...well, labrador retrievers should come with a User Guide. I can see the advert already. A close up on a furry, beautiful black head, the wet nose, the endearing eyes, pleading at you wordlessly through the screen. A deep voice-over. 'This dog is neglected. This dog is maltreated. This dog is starving. Her owner hasn't paid her any attention for approximately 2.5 seconds and the last time she was fed was ten minutes ago.'
I'm not kidding. Labs are amazing dogs, but instead of those crying dolls they ought to issue people with a lab puppy and tell them it's a toddler substitute - people would run screaming! Millie is super-clingy, follows me everywhere (if I walk past her, it's an invitation for her to follow me), and I quite often turn around to find her attached to my jeans leg. And no way can you shut the door on her - 2.5 minutes in the toilet?! Are you serious? You can't expect her to wait that long!
Well, at least the remedy's simple: one half hour romp to the park +kong + bowl of food = one happy lab.
Well, if I don't go now she won't stop whining, so I guess I'd better go.

The Fifth Wander

I had St. John tonight, where we went over the Mental Health Act and discussed Mental Health Capacity and Consent - did you know, for example, that anyone under 16 can't give consent to medical treatment from a St. John Volunteer unless the volunteer acts in parentis? Did you know as well that St. John members have no obligation to treat someone when off duty, but a Health Professional does? Either way, people that join St. John tend to be the same - unless the situation presented to you is likely to result in loss of limb, we'll be in there with gloves and improvisation kits (kits I tend to call 'Super Bodge Brother' kits, but of course the patients don't hear that!)

St. John is possibly the best and most challenging thing ever to happen to me. Have you ever been great at retaining medical knowledge but know you couldn't get the grades to be a doctor? St. John will give you a leg up. Ever wanted to meet people who've 'been there,' on the medical front line? St. John is full of them. Ever thought, 'what would I do if...?' and panicked because you don't know the answer? Well, St. John has all the answers and more besides.
If anyone wants to join a club or society while still at Uni and wants something flexible and fun, I strongly recommend St. John. A lot of places in Cornwall have a local division (St. Ives, Penzance, Helston, etc) so you are never usually that far from a HQ!
St. John is a lifesaver (literally!) for me because I got cocky doing a BTEC National Diploma and thought I could get good grades at A Level. Of course, maths was never my strong point and my science A Levels turned out to be dismal - thus my dream of becoming a doctor floated away from me. This was how I ended up at Tremough, studying English, which hopefully will allow me to get involved in some kind of health/medical promotion either with animals or people (I've always loved being bossy :))
So, St. John is such a big part of my life now I couldn't let it go. Even when Peter decided to leave, I couldn't bear the thought of leaving my division behind, so I stayed on where Peter left.

I bought a tussie mussie (or flower garland) today to go with my wedding dress. I've always found it hilarious that while I, the blushing bride-to-be, bought my dress on Ebay for £90, my fiancee was suited and booted at a famous Cornish tartan company, with custom fittings, personalised service and three train journeys to be measured and recieve his beautiful but elaborate costume, and I must say, it's stunning. We practise dancing to our opening song ('When the Boat Comes In,' by Fisherman's Friends...) because neither of us can dance (in fact, Peter has fallen victim to an invisible stack of chairs hovering too close to a dancefloor before) but we love it. We think we're getting married in two years' time (if Peter doesn't come to his senses before then! :)) but the outfits are sorted, and we're hovering around a famous Cornish inn as the venue. When all else is said and done, the outfits may be eclectic, the food might well be seized by the Department for Health on breach of the RDA of calories, I might well be wearing a dress that doesn't fit and blue dolly shoes that look like a rip-off of the ruby slippers, upstaged by my husband-to-be, and we might well end up tripping over each other's feet in a Godforsaken inn in the middle of nowhere, but it will be 100% unadultered Jackson-Nicholls.
Night, bloggers. Sleep tight.

The Fourth Stroll

My hamster died today. A beautiful Russian, tiny, champagne-coloured, with a streak straight down her back like a a badger. Sweet whiskers like transparent catgut, and eyes like tiny blackberries.
I held her in my hand, the only time I've managed to do so since I got her, and felt her cold, hard body against my fingers. It made me think of every pet I've ever owned - the three dogs, the twelve Guinea Pigs, my two mice, Loki and Roo - Roo was sold to me too young, but because of that I could leave him on my shoulder and clean out his cage - he was completely and utterly hand-tame, loved company and being stroked, and used to climb all over my hands and arms, his miniscule claws pinching my skin softly. He was the only brown and white mouse in the litter, and the smallest, but he was possibly the most hand tame pet I ever had. We had two chinchillas...Salt died of a tooth disorder and his brother Pepper died a week later from heartache (they live together all their lives, and if one dies, the other follows after). We've also had countless hamsters, including my first one, Rosie.
Guinea pigs get my vote for ideal first pet. They're not prone to many medical conditions, they're easy to clean (except if they're long haired, where they need a bath and a brush every week), they NEVER bite unless provoked, and if handled well, they love handling. They need their claws (and sometimes, their teeth) clipping too, but that's not a problem if you learn early.
We buried the hamster in a Tampax box (it was all we had) sellotaped up to stop Millie digging her up (she managed to dig up Leo, my last hamster - it was pretty gross) and had to dig the hole with a soup spoon because we couldn't find a shovel. She had a good life, died at four years of age, and I'm glad at least she died in her sleep.
Either way, I've got to find a home for a cage now. Any takers?

The third meander...into the past

We cleaned out my Grandmother-in-Law's house today, and God, I never knew Dettol could smell so good.
We found some amazing discoveries - cologne-soaked tissues, a 1st edition painting from the early 1930s, and even - in the back of a wardrobe - the container for my Grandfather-in-Law's ashes. I'd never known a house to be so well-kept, but somehow cluttered, with scents and times and memories that I'm not sure even my Father-in-Law remembers. I found my other half's grandfather's documents in a bedside cabinet, his Navy membership booklet, vaccination records, six copies of his photograph. We found a Victorian hand warmer (you know, the ones that ladies always tuck their hands inside when it gets cold) in a forest green velvet, all beautiful curls and rosettes like a May Queen's hair, and bonnets with ribbons to match.
The sad thing is, even if I asked my Grandmother in Law what these things were, she won't remember. She's got dementia, and sometimes she's exactly sure where she is, other times she has to ask every 10 minutes what we're doing at her house. She was a seamstress, evidenced by the ancient-looking sewing machine in the makeshift lounge, the numerous spools of thread, needles, ribbon and fabric we've found. So I guess we just have to wonder what stories lie behind most of these things. Why she made them. Who they were made for. How she learned to make them, what she learned while she was making them.
I found an old picture of my fiancee. He looks so young in it, such round cheeks...but it isn't him. The two people could very well be twins, but they are not the same man. Peter has changed since then. He's focused now. He's stronger now. He knows someone loves him now more than life.
I've never cleared quite so much dust and...stuff as today, and I work as a cleaner. But I've also never been so taken out of that little world we like to preoccupy, to forget there are other people and other pasts, other stories.

The second meandering, with my dog

I always remember the last scene of 'Marley and Me,' when John Grogan runs his hands up and down his labrador's body, stroking his otter tail, webbed feet, strong ribcage and velvety ears, and I always remember what he said: 'I'm looking again. It all kind of blurs into one, you know?'
I know. I can't think of any lab owner who wouldn't.
Labs are not a normal breed of dog. Never believe anyone who tells you otherwise. They're almost like baby substitutes, big, Bambi-eyed, bandy legged barrels, ambling through your living room with effortless grace prior to smacking their head on the French doors and sending your Relentless can flying sixty feet across the room.
Sometimes, when I'm sat still and Millie, my four year old lab, is trying to amble into the (I flatter myself) tiny triangle of my lap, like she did when she was a puppy, I remember those words and I have to touch her again, stroke her warm, soft ears and smooth black fur, look at her eyes and try and describe them - people always want to give them a delicious colour, chocolate brown or ice blue. Not Millie. Gravy brown. Thick, dependable and adorable gravy brown. That's Millie. Not special at all physically, but you couldn't have a family meal without her clinging to the plate. Like gravy itself, I guess.
It frustrates me sometimes. Knowing that time passes. Knowing that I can't, for the life of me, capture today, that moment when I'm lying next to Peter and I can't capture those tiny wings of freckle beneath his eyes, invisible unless you know they're there. His Mum's eyes, a warm ice blue, like the ocean in travel brochures, beautiful but welcoming. His face, always so lovingly pale, and his long eyelashes, his small ears. I can't capture him, but maybe that's why I try. I can't capture my brother's face, the twin of my grandfather, heavy with freckles, the brightest blue eyes, my mum's tan face and my Dad's hair. My Mum. Tanned, beautiful, but sturdy, strong, Cornish. Dark curly hair, so like mine, but my face is all Dad - plump, pale, a strong nose that makes me look haughty, whether I will or no, and my Dad's eyes. My Nan's eyes.
I can't capture this family tree at all for you. But it's enough to know it exists. It existed, at one time. How's that for a cultural artefact?
Maybe no-one cares what my family's faces look like. Maybe they won't care in the future either. But people care, or should care, that people see these things and love them. That's what writers communicate. That's why we do what we do.