Every Little Thing

and none of this, none of this matters

is the last line of Don Paterson's poem, Rain.  

Lockdown is still loaded with odd feelings and contradictions. You feel numb, you feel full of longing. Everything matters, nothing does.

Like my insomnia last night. There I am, attempting some yoga in the living room at 3.40am, watching light seep into the inky sky and hearing the birds start with their dawn cheep-outs. 

I have been awake all night, for no obvious reason. 2am Weetabix, Radio 4, and reading have failed to drip-feed me to sleep.

I finally fall over after 4.37am.

In the morning, I made sure to force myself to go for a jog. My favourite thing about lockdown jogs is meeting other people in the 'hood. Naturally, I have to stop for a chat. It is such a luxury just to talk to people in the street. It feels like a relief, like breathing out. 

When I get home, the kids hatch a plan to make lunch for us. They get dressed up for the occasion. They google 'posh music' on Spotify and play piano concertos through the speaker. They find a white table cloth from a drawer and say,  'Welcome to thy banquet'. 

It was so relaxing to have the tables turned and be waited upon. Again, a brief luxury. Every small, good thing savoured. 

After lunch, we go a local walk, as we always do. Bonus points if we get to stroke neighbourhood cats or dogs. 

In our own dog-search, I am still looking at rescue sites, some abroad - which is 'a thing', apparently. Tess has already adopted one of the  pups, in her head. She imagines it on the end of her bed.  I have started to imagine it around my feet. It is there, it is not there. It exists far away. It needs love. 

Who knows where the 'event horizon' of all this Covid chaos will be. It's the dizziness of not-knowing and trying to guess. Telling yourself that life's main challenge is to take whatever comes. Steel yourself. Learn to float. Hold on. Let go. Do both!

Tomorrow is another day. I hope you will sleep well tonight, curled up like a pup. 

In Sickness and In Health

I am compelled by contrast. As a small child, in the middle of a sun-soaked, leafy day, I suddenly thought about winter snow. Imagine?! The contrast! That such a thing was possible, if only by increment. From June to January, how it all changes. 

That was the late 1970's. But hey, January to June, 2020? It's incredible how all our lives have all changed. 

I also have a huge slice of contrast in my own life story. What many folk don't know, is that I was desperately ill and 'disabled' for two decades and now count myself as recovered. 

I was an 18 year old university student when I caught a flu virus.  I felt slayed. I couldn't stand up. My family brought my food to my bed. I expected to get better, but I got steadily worse. 

It was flabbergasting. I developed a migraine- level headache that never went away. It was there for every waking moment. Painkillers wouldn't touch it. I couldn't watch TV, talk, read, or even listen to the radio. It was like being in an iron lung, inside my own head. I got too weak to hold a knife and fork. I couldn't walk to the loo; my parents had to drag me on an office chair. Even my skin rebelled, developing eczema. 

After about 6 months, doctors diagnosed Myalgic Encephalomyelitus (or ME). It was something I'd never heard of, and a name I was embarrassed of. M.E. was too... me, me me. The ridiculous mockery of the term, Yuppie Flu. 

The realisation of just how ill I was, dawned in slow horror.  It was possible to get a virus and not get better? It was possible to get worse? Time and healing are not always linear. 

I spent 4 years bed-bound in constant pain and suffering; 4 years being the skinny ghost of a teenager in pyjamas in a back room.  

Then  another 16 years when I operated at about 50% of normal. On a good day. I was the Great Pretender. 

I became best pals with Stuart, who also had ME. We both had lots of catching up to do. We dressed oddly and paid for taxi's to cafes, where we ate scones. We laughed and we cried. We made jokes about quiche. I was so unused to being out and about, I had an urge to wave to strangers from the back of the taxi, like a child. Here we were, two kids with bad fringes.

Stuart formed a band  called Belle and Sebastian. I thought he was a bit crazy. In a good way, of course. Good luck with that song about Judy and the Dream of Horses, I thought. No chance, I thought. Ha!

A few years in, I met my partner, Francis, at an early Belle and Sebastian gig. I asked Stuart where he'd been hiding Francis. I 

called Francis, 'the unrequited love of my life'. Until he started requiting. 

Later I did a weird and wacky therapy and it was the start of a miracle recovery from 20 years of illness. Now, 24 years later, Francis and I have two beautiful kids, Hugh and Tess. 

When I think about trying to write about my lost 20's and 30's, it is too big to know where to start. I have enjoyed writing these bite-sized blog posts during the pandemic, and perhaps that's a good a way to go. To keep it informal and short. There are many aspects I could touch on, in future posts. But this is the speeded-up version. 

I often think of ME sufferers who are still ill, who haven't been so lucky. I'm horrified by the prospect of  'Long Tail Covid'.  People with Covid-19 are not getting any better for months, or possibly years.

I am still very heart-sink-y about Tess's chronic cough. For 6 months, my beloved child has been unable to exercise (even slightly) without it triggering coughing fits. She coughs every night before bed. She coughs when she wakes. She coughs when she gets chatty. She coughs at traffic fumes, now cars are back on the roads. 

I still suspect (and fear) she has Vocal Chord Dysfunction, yet another chronic condition.  One that can run parallel to asthma. It has to be managed, when it can't be treated. I've been told we will need to wait months for an ENT appointment on the NHS. 

 So, here we are folks, in a global pandemic- approaching the solstice, mid summer, the longest day. My favourite time of year. Nature feels like a young girl who has no idea how beautiful she is. You could fool yourself that life is meant to be easy. For a moment or two, at least.

The trees are resplendent. As poet, Philip Larkin wrote about the unfurling leaves, every year, they begin, 'afresh, afresh, afresh. '

One day at a time, is maybe where most of us are at. Judy can keep on dreaming of those horses, be they sinister or bright. There is always room for both in the paddock of life.  

Every So Often, it Hits You

I'm in the queue at Morrisons, when it hits me. They start playing Country Roads through the ceiling speakers. That'll do it, pal.  I'm crying behind my wonky reading glasses and my FFP2 face mask. 

Hormones, (or decreasing stores of them) are probably partly responsible, but I'm thinking of the whole country and what it's had to endure, right back to that first, 'Oh, my God' moment, when each of us grasped what was coming our way. 

And yet, here I am, dripping with luck. I'm buying a trolly load of food from all over the world. Scottish strawberries in a bath-sized plastic tub for a mere three quid. Edwin Morgan would have approved. 

Every time I go into shops, I admire the shop workers. The young boy behind the till in Morrisons looks stoical with handsome eyes. I realise he could do with a haircut, but couldn't most of us? 

Talking of food - I believe that Boris is about to sign a terrible trade deal with Trump that will bring chlorinated chicken and loads of  lower food standards our way. Here is a petition from the National Farmers' Union to maintain food standards and here is an important article with all the gory (Tory) proposals. 

When I get home, I have a letter (via email attachment) from the school.  Our son, Hugh, is invited back to primary school for one last, half hour to collect his stuff and say goodbye to his wonderful teacher, Mr Murray. Hugh is due to go to secondary school in August. If a second wave doesn't scupper that. 

The head teacher of the primary school writes - It has been a privilege to know your children and they have consistently demonstrated fortitude and determination, before and during the COVID pandemic. 

Straight in to the WhatsApp group with the other mums to hit the cry face emojis. It's that kind of day. 

Here's a photo me at primary school age. How different the world was then. Much less complicated. No hint of the threats to come. No known pandemics and climate emergencies.  Just beautiful fashion. With practical pockets and polo-neckary. 

Wee Tess's cough / potential Vocal Chord Dysfunction is still coming and going. Six months on. I would love to get her the anti-body Covid test, but in my heart, I don't think it was Covid. None of the rest of us got anything. I'm clutching at straws, I guess.

We went down to the Riverside recently and she managed to skate a bit. It got busy with people milling about, so we headed home.
Here she is, looking way cooler than I did as a kid. 

Ahem...remind you of any famous poetry books? 

They've still got a wee stack of them, and many exciting poets at Tapsalteerie Press.  

I've not managed much poetry recently. I'm definitely a full-time mum, who occasionally cries to Country ballads in her local supermarket.  Feel free to join in. It's that kind of day.  

As Tess says occasionally, and, for no apparent reason:

'Do it for twenty bucks and a cigarette!'