My lovely friend, Sue, handmade a journal as my Christmas gift. I was in awe as I opened her parcel on Christmas morning, as I had never received anything like it. Sue made each page from her handmade paper and learnt how to hand stitch and bind them together. Inside, she thoughtfully placed art cards and envelopes in lace pockets, a bookmark, sayings and poetry, a little handmade notebook, stencilled flowers and leaves, stitching, stamping and delicate paintings.

I was speechless as I turned each lovingly crafted page.

Tim and I felt Sue’s love as I sat with her gift in my hands.

Sue and I share a deep love of creativity and the gifts it bestows. Her treasured gift has sat on my bedside table since Christmas, as I felt it was too good to use.

Then I had a word with myself.

All Sue’s loving effort would have been for nought if I didn’t use her gift. So, after a flash of inspiration in a dream one night last week, I sat first thing and started to write on the pages. Recording the dream and the thoughts for a long term creative project of my own.

I chose a special pen that one of my families had gifted me, which sits in a holder covered with rabbits and spring flowers.

It set me thinking about all the things we keep for best. I recall back in the day when there was a parlour in the homes on the terraced streets. The family lived their everyday lives in the kitchen at the back, and the parlour at the front was kept for best. For Sundays, family get togethers or when the priest or vicar came to call.

After the Second World War, and many years of lack, it was natural to keep treasured possessions for best.

I thought about the things I have been keeping for best.

The Converse shoes I painted for our wedding day. After all, it was totally impractical to wear heels on a steam railway! Emily and I both wore hand painted Converse, and I have kept mine in a box at the back of our wardrobe for over a year.

Now I have decided to wear them every day.

Emily gifted a pair of earrings this Christmas, which I treasure. They are made from our birthstones: Aquamarine for Tim, Blue Topaz for me and Amethyst for Em.

I wear her thoughtfulness every time we visit the hospital. 💕

As the first kettle of the day started to boil, sunshine poured into our kitchen, and I decided to hang some laundry outside. There is something so comforting about seeing clothing hanging on the line, moving in a gentle breeze, and it smells lovely when you bring it in at the end of the day. It is part of a loving routine when we are fortunate to have warm weather, and everything looks and feels better in the sunshine.

We are practical souls and, over time, have come to understand that the life we had changed in an instant when Tim was given his diagnosis. It takes time to absorb the impact (if you ever really do), yet life carries on. We are navigating a new landscape where a different language is spoken, and our days are unfamiliar and beyond our control. We attend appointments and do as instructed with medication and treatments, as we grapple with the many side effects. Yet we are together, living in our home, the same house we chose three years ago. Surrounded by all our furniture and bits and bobs. It is our foundation of grace.

We live day to day, taking each moment as it unfolds, and building a routine that nurtures and supports. Long-term decisions are beyond our grasp, and we accept that. Day-to-day choices are simpler to make if we loosen our grip on what was.

We have discovered that it is jarring to compare our lives now to how they were. It is buying into the violence of our times. So many angles of life set us up to compare ourselves to others and how their lives are unfolding. Pictures on social media spring to mind! It is equally damaging to compare our lives now to what they were like.

We are discovering that we are creating a new way of living. A different routine. Not measuring ourselves by how productive we are. Relinquishing the luxury of getting totally absorbed in a creative project, but learning to create in small bursts. Holding the ability to remember what we were doing, despite many interruptions, and being able to pick up where we left off, sometimes hours or even days later. Anyone who has spent time with babies and toddlers develops this ability, and like a learned muscle memory, it stays. Getting the housework done in small sections. We may not get the satisfaction of knowing that the whole house has been cleaned in one day, but we have realised that when is housework ever truly done?

It is a gift to discover that not everything has to be done in a day.

The art of slowing down gifts us time to natter about nothing in particular. To sit together and listen to the birds singing or watch them feeding. To see the bulbs and flowers springing forth in the welcome sunshine. To read aloud. To share plans but not dash to immediately put them into action. To leave our phones for hours without touching them. To allow life to unfold without the need to be all over everything.

To let the old lives rest, as we learn to rest in the new. 💕

Life is like a game of ‘Snakes and Ladders’, and this week we landed on a snake. As we slid, we had to show up for appointments, complete a lot of paperwork, get the van and car MOT’d and serviced, get a tyre mended (a nail had paid a visit), and cope with Tim’s side effects from chemotherapy.

It was important to remind ourselves that we are still on the board, and, you could say, this week has been a lesson in slowing down, adjusting, and adapting.

I used to watch the pairs of seagulls wheeling in the sky when I lived beside the Mersey River, and this chapter of our lives together reminds me of them.

Neither of us can multitask or rush anymore. Mind you, that might never have been wise.

We are adjusting and adapting in myriad small ways, and hopefully this will carry us through. Together.

The mound of paperwork feels impersonal, and I ended one report with the line,

‘We hold hope and each other’s hands.’

Which reminded us of my favourite poem.

Hope by Emily Dickinson

“Hope” is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul

And sings the tune without the words

And never stops - at all.

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard

And sore must be the storm

That could abash the little Bird

That kept so many warm.

I’ve heard it in the chillest land

And on the strangest Sea

Yet - never - in Extremity

It asked a crumb of me.

🩷

Spring is starting to show her beauty in the Northern Hemisphere. The Anemones and other bulbs we planted in our front raised bed two years ago have divided and are gifting us more blooms this year. They are a sight to see each time we go in and out of our home. 💜

We are also grateful to the clusters of dear souls we are connected to, who are in touch. We recognise how hard it is for people to know what to say, and given what is unfolding in the world right now, many are understandably fearful and worried. What is happening in our home in a tiny microcosm compared to world events, yet there are parallels.

Tim and I decided at the start that we would not add fear, drama or any upset into our mix. That also means that we choose not to send any of these kinds of energies out into the world. We believe that what we send out comes back, and the last thing we want to do is add to energies that pull people down.

It’s been interesting so far. It is also a tricky thing to write about and share, because we choose to believe that people mean well, and may not realise what they are saying or how their messages land. Messaging is always tricky. Face-to-face is much better, but as we are isolating, we are falling back on phone calls and messaging.

We are all operating from our version of ‘normal’.

Some well-meaning people send messages: ‘Let us know if you need anything.’ Then go silent.

We share that we have been instructed to isolate, and the reply is, ‘Let us know if you’d like a cuppa or a visit.’

Some ask how Tim’s treatment is going, but then try to re-ignite old arguments.

Others send long lists of worries, and fire off many ideas about what we should and shouldn't be doing.

Some are naturally wrapped up in their own world, and still ask us to show up for them as we have always done.

Some have clear ideas of how we should be handling our situation, which they don’t hesitate to share.

They are all operating from their version of ‘normal’.

Everything takes energy, so we are careful in our responses. Mindful that people are people, and they are trying to help, so we stay calm and kind. We send kind thoughts, clear and kind replies, all the while honouring our boundaries.

Clarity is our touchstone. 💜

I recall a newly diagnosed friend asking me what the hardest thing to cope with was. My reply, ‘Other people’s reactions’.

Tim and I share the belief that everyone is doing their best, and even if they are not, it makes our world bearable to believe they are.

For those messages and calls that catch us, we have a brief natter, then let them flow past, like leaves on a stream. For those who wish to ignite a row, cause an upset and impose their agenda, we are grateful for their future silence.

We hold the cluster of souls who are like-minded and kind in our hearts.

When we receive loving messages, we are so grateful, as not everyone can find the words.

Kind thoughts are a loving energy.

Kindness is the energy we send out into the world.

You know that feeling you get. The one that defies logic. The one you cannot name or describe in words. The feeling that speaks to you and compels you to do something that you cannot explain. If you are asked to justify the action, you are unable to.

Read more

A decade ago, I was in South West France looking after a friend’s beloved dog and home, when they returned to the UK for a visit. It was a rural location, and I relished the peace. Belle and I settled into a routine of early morning walks when the mist floated over the fields and evening walks when the 40-odd degree heat had started to ebb from the day. During the morning, I worked on my laptop, as Belle snoozed by my side and in the afternoon, we either napped through the heat or sat outside to catch a welcome breeze.

One afternoon, I sat outside in the shade with Belle on my lap, as we became aware of an unusual noise. It gathered in volume, and we looked up to see hundreds of birds flying over. We watched as they flew in a V formation, with birds from behind coming forward, so the lead birds could drop back, and smaller birds were nestled in the middle.

I had never seen anything like it. Belle sat still on my lap as we watched in awe as the noise continued long after they had disappeared over the horizon.

It was a magical sight.

My friend’s sister lives in France, and I asked her what birds they were, and she shared that they are cranes migrating South for the winter. So, I wrote about it, and my writer friends replied. A doctor in Sweden said he rode the train past the cranes’ breeding grounds on the way to the hospital every day. A friend living in Spain said how the cranes fly over their home every year on their way to North Africa. Our connections hummed as we shared.

This memory came to mind this week as Tim’s situation took us down a turn in the road, and I needed to call on the kind souls who man the phones in and out of hours. As Tim and I leaned into our support network, we were met with kindness and reassurance. A nurse I spoke to made a point of coming to meet us when we were in the hospital for treatment later this week. She is wonderful and a source of knowledge that we were unaware of. Her kindness really helped, and Tim’s consultant and her team came to see us, too. Their suggestions and the practical things they put in place have made the rest of this week easier to manage.

💕

During the pandemic lockdowns, I used to create a Daily Balm of some words and an accompanying picture, which I shared with my subscribers. I hoped to offer comfort and support as we found ourselves dealing with situations both strange and unsettling. Life was unrecognisable for many, yet we found ourselves able to adjust and adapt as we did our best to get through it.

After us hitting sheet ice from Tim’s cancer diagnosis, a few months have passed, and Tim is receiving treatment. We have continued to weave, where and when we can, with the activities that centre and ground us. For me, one of those is writing, and I had the idea for new posts, behind a paywall here on Substack, called ‘Jane’s Tinking’.

‘Jane’s Tinking’ posts will land every Monday (in your Inbox or on the Substack app.), with words, observations, a story or two, hopefully laced with humour and based on life’s absurdities.

‘Tinking’ is a wonderful knitting term. To ‘tink’ is ‘knit’ spelt backwards, and it relates to a knitter taking their garment back stitch by stitch, and then re-knitting it in a new pattern. Every time we adjust, adapt and pivot in life, we are ‘tinking’.

‘Jane’s Tinking’ will run alongside my usual Friday post, which will always be free, as I am mindful of how tight money is for all of us. For ‘Jane’s Tinking’ I am offering an introductory discount of £0.98p per monthly subscription, £9.80 for an annual subscription. If you wish to sign up at this rate, then I will run the discount for the life of my Substack.

I am gifting a ‘Jane’s Tinking’ subscription to my existing subscribers as a heartfelt thank you for your loyalty and support. Of course, you can unsubscribe at any time if this is not for you, just as you can from my Friday post.

As always, I appreciate your support, thoughtfulness and encouragement, and it is always lovely to hear from you.

Love, Jane 🩷

As we left the Shooting Star Cancer Unit at Wrexham Maelor Hospital after Tim’s first chemotherapy treatment, a nurse came after us with a box. A lovely chap with twinkling eyes, still linked to his IV, said,

‘Ohh, you’ll love that, it’s got a hat in it.’

We had been there for five hours and had another load of information along with a bag of drugs to take home, so we tucked it into the car and set off for home.

With our coats and boots off, and the kettle on, we unpacked Tim’s gifts at the kitchen table.

As Tim said,

‘I have never been given anything like this.’

There was so much kindness and thoughtfulness in his box, and everything was useful. There was a hat, deep care hand cream, mouthwash, Donna’s Ashworth’s ‘I Wish I Knew’ book, a puzzle book, a book of different-sized PostIT Notes, a metal drinks bottle, a tote bag, a pen, a pair of socks, handmade chocolates, a tin of boiled citrus sweets, a complimentary treatment voucher, a mug signed by all the volunteers, a manicure set, notes from the volunteers, and everything was wrapped in star spangled tissue paper. One of Donna Ashworth’s beautiful poems was pasted onto the inside lid.

Tim picked up the hand knitted heart in a cellophane wrapper with a picture of a lavender bush, made by a local village craft group. He went through to the sofa and took the heart out and sat looking at it, with it’s little ‘Made With Love’ silver badge, and his eyes filled with tears.

I put my arm around him as I silently remembered all the knitted hearts that my lovely funeral director friend, Kylie, asks her family and friends to make, so she can gift them to the families she cares for. There is love in every stitch.

We wrote to the Awyr Las Charity (Welsh for Blue Sky) and thanked all the volunteers, support workers and donators for their loving kindness. What a difference their box made to one of the scariest days of our lives, as their loving energy touched our hearts, pushing fear onto the back burner.

✨💕

Recently, we have come into contact with many people who started as strangers.

We trust the medical professionals who are entering our lives, as we lean into their advice and follow their direction. We are organised and show up where and when we are requested, and these appointments form the pattern of each day.

It is in the spaces in between that life is flowing in a welcome sweetness.

A smiling receptionist asked what we were watching on television, and a few days later, she came and found us and shared her thoughts on a programme we’d recommended.

At another centre, the consultant was running late, and a nurse came out and asked if she could make us a hot drink.

In one hospital, we walked past their in-house workshop and later got to meet one of the engineers who is based there. What followed was his story from the age of thirteen, shared knowledge of lathes and milling machines and what their work in the workshop involves.

At Tim’s first radiotherapy appointment, without warning, the double doors closed, and I stood outside watching Tim and the radiographer disappear down a corridor. It was an abrupt parting I was unprepared for, and I turned, unsure what to do next. A voice called out, and I saw a lady sitting in the waiting room. We were the only ones in there, and I sat beside her. I was close to tears. She said,

‘I saw what happened.’

She held her hand out, and I took it. As we sat there quietly, I steadied myself and explained that it was the first time since Tim’s stay in the hospital that we had been apart. She asked where his cancer was, and then told herself off for asking. I shook my head, and when I was able to speak, I answered her and asked her how she was. I sat listening to her story. Her bravery and kindness shone out, and we hugged before she went through for her treatment. Over the course of a fortnight and our daily visits to that hospital, I never saw her again, but I remember her name, and I hold her in my healing prayers.

On another day, Tim had been called through for his treatment, and I bobbed to the loo. Returning to my seat, I was aware that someone was looking at me, but I needed to settle myself down and be quiet for a few moments. After I looked up, I saw a gentleman a few seats along, and he was sitting there, looking straight ahead, and wringing his hands. I was sure it was his gaze I had felt a few minutes before.

I moved across to sit next to him, and without speaking, I placed a hand over his. He looked across at me, and we sat there in silence for a while. Simply resting our gazes on each other. We started chatting and found we had much in common. He is a gentle soul and has had a rewarding working life as a gardener. At one stage, a nurse came out because our chat was stopping this lovely gentleman from drinking the water he needed before his treatment. We were gently told off, and both got an attack of the giggles, and promised to behave so he could drink. Just before Tim returned, I commented to my newfound friend that he and Tim would get on. They did, and we all fell into a pattern of sitting together, as his treatment times and Tim’s were close most days.

On Tim’s last day of radiotherapy, our appointment was moved to the afternoon, and we were concerned we’d missed our friend. Life had other ideas, as his hospital transport had left without him, and the receptionist had called them and they were sending someone else to pick him up.

Our friend had a dry, demonstrative sense of humour. He was quick and quiet, so if you weren’t paying attention, you’d miss his words and hand signals. That day, as the receptionist was told by the hospital transport that they’d just dropped him off at home, she fired back with,

‘I think not. I’m sitting here looking at him.’

Our friend’s hand signals had me in stitches.

I asked him how long he’d been there and if he had had anything to eat. He reached into his bag, brought out a white bag and handed it to us. Tim opened it, and inside were some Cyclamen cuttings our friend had grown in a pot, for our garden. My eyes filled, and I looked at him, whispering thank you. We exchanged details, and Tim smiled at him, saying,

‘I know my wife, you’ll be receiving a parcel.’

Sweet moments and loving connections. 💕

I apologise for the lack of contact and writing over the weeks since before Christmas, and I appreciate your patience. Life can sometimes take us on a tumble, and ours has.

Before Christmas, further medical investigations into Tim’s pain led us to hear the word cancer for the first time. As Christmas rolled into the New Year, it was confirmed that Tim has bone marrow cancer, and we started a different life chapter from the one we had planned.

‘Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.’ ~ John Lennon

We’re on the treatment road with Radiotherapy behind, and Chemotherapy ahead, aiming for remission.

We lean into our inner strength and our bond as a team. We pivot in an instant to change course as strange and unknown occurrences arrive without warning, and loved ones react in a variety of ways.

Tasty food, soothing baths, nattering about nothing in particular, making plans for a model railway indoors, a steam railway in the garden, future steam railway, club and rally visits, and naps and rest are now part of our daily round. Soothing messages reassure shattered children.

We hold hope, and I carry a picture of Tim in my heart, healthy and happy, in his overalls, with oily hands, wearing his cloth cap, pottering in our workshop, and working on his beloved steam engines.

We have decided not to share the daily details of this life chapter, but Tim has insisted that I carry on writing. We are nurturing each other and the pins in our life map that bring us back to our calm centre and maintain our flow together.

It is calm at home, and we know how to nurture that calmness within and for each other.

Right now, I have no clue what form my writing will take, but I sense that themes of comfort and calmness will feature.

‘Love is a powerful energy’ ~ Tim & Jane Dalton

I remember my Great Granny Thorne’s embroidery, and her daughter, my Granny Jean, inherited her mother’s needlework skills.

As a child, my Granny Sturgeon and Granny Jean, along with my Great Granny Thorne and my Mum, would gather and sit knitting, crocheting, embroidering or sewing and my sister and I soaked up their love of handicrafts. More than that, those times gifted us with an appreciation for slowing down, spending time together with our loved ones, and making things. Usually gifts which pass through our hands, with love in every stitch, to those we care about.

I make cakes, a favourite being my Mum’s moist fruit cake, and gift these to all the families I go out to meet. You know how you always take something when you go to visit family, and invariably, bring something home? Love flows between our homes. I am always mindful that I start as a stranger to those who are grieving and facing a terribly difficult time, so to walk through their front door with some homemade cake is like taking love from our home to theirs.

I have crossed paths with a kind man who runs a small business, and I buy his little cake cases. They are like tiny loaf tins in sturdy paper, and make my cakes look professional. I can bake with his cases and then easily wrap them up to gift the cakes.

We are all facing tricky times, some way more than others, and never have we needed each other more. Yet in this world, we are being pitted against each other, and each of us is battling with feelings that leave us wanting to retreat.

In order to show care to others, we first need to care for ourselves, and I feel we may have lost our way on how we care for ourselves.

I sat with a family yesterday evening, and I was asked what happened as I wrote life stories for loved ones.

I started by saying that it all comes from love.

I can feel the loving energy as I weave their memories and details into a story that honours their loved one who have passed away. I can ‘hear’ their voices in my heart as I write, and it is a privilege to see the heaviness they are carrying lift, just for a little while, as they laugh and share the memories that are now becoming treasures to them.

It is a privilege to stand with them and honour their loved one.

In all the hustle and bustle and flowing care to others, my body has started sending strong signals that I have been putting myself at the back of the line. Yesterday afternoon, Tim put me to bed, covered me up in handmade throws, pulled the blinds down, and quietly closed the door, with the gentle suggestion that I take a nap.

When I awoke and returned to my desk, I saw these words.

I don’t have to stop giving. I need to begin by remembering I am part of the circle of care.

“You are not here just to do stuff, just to perform duties and complete tasks. You are here also to feel happy, and content, and inspired and well within yourself. You are here to have some fun, create meaningful moments and find the sparkle in your eyes again. You are here to unravel the magic of being alive, the magic of being you. To heal, to feel whole again. You are worth the effort.” - S.C. Lourie

It all starts with love. Lately, I have found myself wishing my time away till there is a break for a few days towards the end of this month.

From love;

I do not want to wish my time away.

I need to remind myself to slow down.

Not to swallow others’ stress or deadlines down whole. I don’t have to be the fixer.

To take time to walk. Just that, nothing else. To simply walk.

To breathe and watch the birds at our feeders in the hedge.

To stay in a soothing bath for as long as I wish to.

To pull warm socks on.

Yesterday afternoon, I dived under our Christmas tree and liberated a present from a loving friend, because I knew it contained different packets to make hot chocolate. That hot drink was just what I needed, and I know she will understand.

Each day till the end of this year, calls for love. A circle of care I include myself in.

Still giving, still loving, yet nurturing balance.

This week, a chapel attendant pointed out a situation she had just witnessed and how she was offended on my behalf. I looked at her and gently pointed out that I hadn’t noticed. I was totally unaware and in my loving bubble, delivering a ceremony, and to me, even when I was aware, I didn’t view it as an offence.

Pondering on this later, I realised how a simple choice I made over a decade ago had grown and evolved.

I choose not to wrestle with most people. Others have their opinions and perspectives, and I applaud their freedom to hold them. It doesn’t mean I have to start wrestling with them if I hold a different view. If I get into others’ mud and wrestle to validate my opinions and perspectives, I get splattered and more often than not, nothing changes. Also, not only do I get splattered, but everyone nearby gets splattered, too.

Some people love wrestling for the sake of it, and they thrive on getting down and dirty in the mud. There isn’t enough washing detergent in the world to remove the muddy muck you’re left with after a wrestling bout with a soul like this. The longer you choose to wrestle with them, the greater the stains.

If it is a calm, quiet debate or discussion, where everyone is listening, then count me in.

The greatest gift we hold is our inner peace, and it is the greatest gift we can give.

Behaviour is a language, and we always have a choice in how we respond. We can smile gently, say something non-inflammatory, change the subject, or make an excuse and vote with our feet. Anything that means we don’t step into the mud. There are a myriad of choices available.

There was a popular saying in the 80s or 90s, I forget which decade,

‘Don’t sweat the small stuff.’

The opinions people hold of you are theirs, and none of your business.

Most stuff is small stuff.

I recall a wonderful soul I used to work with in an august organisation in the City of London, when asked his opinion on one of his colleagues. Said colleague was a force to be reckoned with, and he’d enter a room or discussion, talking loudly and fiercely, and splattering everyone, at length, with his opinions. Then march off, with no discussion or debate, and with no quarter given to anyone who tried to wrestle in his mud.

My lovely friend responded,

‘Stay quiet and listen. It’s just a performance without substance, and he is not interested in anyone else’s opinion. Save yourself the bother.’

🩷

Inner Peace
By Joshua Fraser

The wind whistles past my ears.
Closing my eyes, I lose all my fears.
The waves crash into the rocks.
Out here, there is no time on my clock.

The serenity I feel here just soothes my mind.
A peaceful day so hard to find.
The breeze just calms my soul.
Helps me think about what is my life’s goal.

I then look out over the ocean,
And it feels like my life has lost its commotion.
The sun sets down over the clouds.
But the orange glow around makes me proud.

As the night draws near.
I feel like where I need to be is here.
The soothing nature this afternoon brings
Just feels like such a beautiful thing.

I sit and wonder where life will go,
But right now, all I want is for time to slow.
To enjoy this moment and feel free,
To clear my mind and find some glee.

It’s days like these I truly treasure.
Amazing nights and beautiful weather.
It may not seem like much.
But it’s moments like these I want to clutch.

For once, I feel like life is bliss.
So many hard days in which my happiness was missed.
I could get lost listening to the waves.
Listening to the birds and watching how the clouds behave.

I could close my eyes and fade into the night.
The tranquillity I feel helps me win the fight.
As the waves keep crashing into the rocks,
I feel the happiness in my heart become unlocked.

The day is drawing to a close.
The peacefulness I feel right now, I’ll only know.
Right now, my mind is finally clear.
It’s time to go as the night draws near.

🩷

The Christmas Rose and Hellebores were frozen in our new raised bed at the back of the garden this morning. It was still out there, and I stood and watched the sun rise through the tree trunks, marvelling at nature’s resilience.

Recently, we visited Tim’s brother and shared a meal. Tim has fun choosing where we’re going to meet, and the three of us try to do this every few months. This time we re-visited a pub, which holds special memories for us all, high up in the Peak District. They had lit the open fires, and we were seated at an old wooden table by a fireplace. We sit eating and nattering for a few hours, and there are always discoveries and much laughter. Familiar phrases are ‘And Dad went spare’ and ‘You never did!’

We choose to stay away from the mainstream media, as it is way too provocative and chaos-inducing for our liking, and social media feels the same. Time stands still as phones capture moments. It breaks the flow of life, and some folks are caught in the trap of their lives only being relevant through the moments they share. They live or die on the hill of attention seeking and then wonder why they feel lost.

If the following sounds judgmental, then I have some work on myself to attend to, but the three of us were dismayed by the situation that unfolded at the table on the other side of the fireplace.

A beautifully dressed couple came in for lunch. The lady brought some accessories with her, like a country leather hat and a tartan Christmas stocking and proceeded to ask permission to take some photographs. For the next few hours, she posed by the fire, on a stool by the bar, at the table and at other points around the lovely stone-built pub. Her poor partner struggled to get the right photographs, and there was a lot of toing and froing as she checked everything he was taking. This carried on throughout their lunch. Her partner’s energy visibly dimmed, and he looked so sad just before they left.

We tried to ignore what was unfolding and kept ourselves in our happy ‘nattering’ bubble. Interestingly, at one point, the lady approached us as she hung the Christmas stocking by the fireplace nearest to us. She asked if she was disturbing us, and, as I was the one facing her, I looked at her for some time and then replied,

‘No, carry on. We’re having a lovely time.’

I kept my tone neutral, although I have to admit I could feel my sarcastic side rising. Tim and his brother were engrossed in their conversation and didn’t even look up.

The lady’s need for attention in any form was paramount.

The image of her partner’s sadness has stayed with me.

Lately, the spinning plates arising from work have been tricky to manage, and a lovely funeral director I have been working with on some services, and I have been talking. It is always a sign for me when I start to swear, and in a few private settings, I have been turning the air blue. It lets the pressure off a little, but the underlying burners that are heating things have to change for situations to settle down properly.

I always feel I am letting the side down when I swear, as I ought to be able to explain myself properly without letting rip with profanity. After all, I have the full English language at my disposal! I have been apologising to those who have kindly listened, and some have even found it amusing.

With the lovely and wise funeral director, I shared a few challenges and the hard decisions that I had been forced to make, and she shared her experience on the situations that have unfolded and the people involved. I felt seen, and I also discovered that I was not alone, as she provided validation for the choices I had made. A weight lifted, and I am grateful to her for trusting me.

We had messaged, talked on the phone and left voice messages, but we had also talked properly. Face to face. I have never been one to discuss things endlessly. If I feel the need to talk and air something, then it happens, and action follows. I hesitate as I feel I’m adding to others’ loads, and I feel uncomfortable doing that. Conversely, when we talk, we can hear ourselves, and it gives others the chance to share too. We need each other.

It all comes down to trust and reaching out in a kind and honest way. Which brings me back to the world of media and manipulation, which had led to an explosion of surface-skating and meaningless connections. It’s no wonder some people are feeling empty inside.

In the middle of the night, who do you turn to or call?

🩷