Rare Bit Blogging

I’m starting to emerge from hibernation. It feels like we’re definitely close to the end of winter. I mean, just listen to the birds! Their song is notably more upbeat and urgent. The air smells different and, although it’s still very cool, the sun is getting stronger. I always forget how long UK winters are, and how warm weather feels. It seems like cold is the only feeling I’ve ever known.

I’ve been out twice this week. Yes, twice. On Wednesday night I went to the theatre to what I thought was a creative writing session. It was in fact an open mic poetry reading evening. I was in the mood for writing, not listening, but I decided to stay until the interval at least. In the end, I stayed until the end, drawn in by carefully selected sentences and measured meters, astounded by authors who recited their rhymes with animated physical gestures, AND many read from memory. I was mightily impressed. I also felt a tinge of sorrow, reminded of my passion for performance, sharing the notes I had cosseted and cajoled (and cursed!) with audiences, hoping they got it, got me.

I’m not long back from my second visit to the local theatre this week, this time to see Hidden by Motionhouse. It was intriguingly described as dance circus and recommended by a friend who has a finely tuned barometer for unique cultural experiences. I was so impressed. Again! Twice in one week! I’m so relieved to be quenching my thirst for culture.

Seven athletic dancers expressively contorted their powerful bodies within the confines of a minimal set for an hour before the intermission. Sixty minutes felt like sixteen. Despite reading the description and watching a trailer beforehand, I still don’t have a clear understanding of what was going on. I decided to let it wash all over me.

The opening was joyous. Outfits were jaunty and colourful. The mood soon turned grey and apocalyptic.

The mind blowing acrobatics of the dancers made us hold our breath, and the gasps after a successful somersault were clearly audible. If I had a pound for each backbend… They made it look easy, but I know if I tried some of the moves at home, I would quite literally break.

Motionhouse are on the move – catch them on tour now!

Yesterday when I woke up, the birds chirping outside my window sounded different. I know because I woke up in the early hours roasting hot so I opened the window a few inches to cool down. Their song was more optimistic and upbeat. Could it be that spring is here?

Definitely not but its bags are packed and it’s well on its way. I know in my bones it’s going to snow again and temperatures will plummet. Then I’ll know the cold in my bones again. For now though I’m going to use this improvement to fuel a pre-spring spring clean.

I’m having more creative ideas. I often want to write. I want small projects. I want to improve my life incrementally. I have an appetite for food. I’m hungry like a wolf. I could eat a horse. I think that’s the HRT. I’m trying not to fight it and playing around with my eating habits. Maybe multiple micro meals would help? Fasting sometimes helps, depends on the day though. I’ve tried discipline, makes it worse. Maybe boundaries? And maybe also accepting this slightly (+ 3kg) bigger me? I’m going to have to go clothes shopping. I hate clothes shopping ☹️

It’s really tough not being motivated. I feel I’ve lost a lot of my passion. Playing is just a job 90% of the time. I never thought I’d say that. Until a couple of years ago, I woke up excited about the music I was practicing. I couldn’t wait to get my fingers stuck into the strings, plunging into juicy chords with curiosity, recognising technically difficult passages and finding strategies to tame the notes.

Most days I practice at least 2 hours, for stamina and reassurance more than anything. Some days I walk away after an hour. There’s no point fighting when there’s nothing there. I’ve thought about putting a short simple programme together but I just haven’t the energy or focus after learning the latest requests and covering the tricky sections of my wedding repertoire.

I once harboured a hope that I’d play at the Opera House in Covent Garden, or perhaps at the Met in New York, or even the Sydney Opera House! Why not? Those days have gone. What ambitions can one have at 53.5 years of age?

I feel terrible today. 27/1/25 is my blue Monday. I had a 4 hour fayre yesterday and from the moment I woke, I knew I didn’t want to go. I dragged my heels and everything that could go wrong did, laughably so. I just wanted to stay at home and watch a film safe and warm in my armchair but I’d paid for the fayre.

I went out to get my car. Despite temperatures on the + side, the lane was covered in a fine sheet of slippery ice. It took longer to pack the car. I got grumpier.

I set up. I don’t like the area I usually play in. It’s cold and draughty but it’s a good position as there’s no other way in – people have to walk past me.

I took a small flask of strong coffee, a big flask of vibrantly comforting green tea and a hot water bottle – the ability to warm my hands keeps me playing.

I forgot my playing specs! They’re there on the table ready to go, I just didn’t put them in my bag. Thankfully I had my reading glasses. Better than no specs.

The main room was crammed with exhibitors who had all woken up early and sacrificed their Sunday to try and get some business. I was one of 3 musicians and the only introvert. I’d say there were 50 people who attended. Not 50 couples, 50 individuals. It was pretty depressing.

There were lots of fayres on the same date. That’s how it goes. How does one choose? I like the venue as it’s local and the staff are nice but that doesn’t guarantee me a gig. There was a 90th birthday party in the room opposite where I was playing. The birthday “boy” made a request and I was delighted to play it for him, twice actually, but I silently wished they’d booked me to play during their meal. They got some free live music for their party anyway – maybe next time?

I was tense throughout the 4 hours. Maybe it was one of those days I should’ve listened to the voice that said to stay at home.

I’m just about back in the swing of things after my trip to Lyon. I didn’t really want to go but I’m ever so glad I did. I know Lyon really well already and I have so many other destinations on my list. I also knew going to a funeral wouldn’t be the holiday I hoped for.

Everything happened so suddenly! 2 weeks ago my bags were packed and I was ready to cautiously make my way onto the main road at 2am to meet the taxi. I didn’t want to risk the cab getting stuck on my icy lane.

I couldn’t believe how much snow there still was at the airport. Despite the conditions, the flight left promptly and we landed at 9am. I jumped on the shuttle and was at my Airbnb by 11. I found a small studio flat in the heart of the old town which had everything I needed and it was warm and cosy. It was the perfect time to test the bed with a much needed siesta.

A couple of hours later, feeling revived and refreshed, I needed to stretch my legs. It was bitterly cold but sunny, the skies a soft inviting wintry blue hue.

I bought a big carton of soup, a jar of chickpeas and some leeks for my evening meals during my stay. I’d packed my breakfast oats (I know! I definitely didn’t need to pick up a January croissant habit) and I bought some fruit and milk to go with them so breakfast was sorted. There were coffee pods in the flat and I already knew my way around a Nespresso machine after Spain.

On Sunday I went for a long walk in an area I didn’t know very well, La Croix Rousse. Lyon is a city of twos. Two rivers flow through it and there are two hills – Fourvière which is the area where I lived, also known as the hill that prays since the cathedral is perched up there. The other hill is Croix Rousse, nicknamed the hill that works. It was home to the silk weavers. I made my way up to a park and wondered around there for a bit:

before weaving my way downtown through the winding streets of quirky Croix Rousse:

I had an early night after my long walk. The funeral was at 10 the next morning.

I walked steadily up the steep hill to the church, arriving shortly after 9. I’d been to my teacher’s funeral at a crematorium in Lyon, I’d been to a French church wedding, but I’d never attended a French funeral in a catholic church. I didn’t know what to expect but I suspected it would be a lengthy service.

I walked into the church with a few people. I greeted the 3 bereaved children and offered my deepest condolences before signing a book with a few words about CC. I sat close to the back. It was quiet, no organ, no music.

The funeral began. It was long at an hour and a half and quite formal. The heartfelt family tributes were moving, the sermon less so and I enjoyed drifting in and out of the complicated French vocabulary. We had been given booklets with some lovely photos of the deceased in his youth and prime. They also contained the words we were supposed to recite at appropriate times.

At the end of the service we were invited to go to the coffin in pairs if we wished to do so and say our goodbyes. A woman walked next to me. As we approached I whispered to her that I wasn’t sure what to do, whether I was allowed to go. She whispered back that it was fine. She dipped a metal orb into holy water and made the sign of a crucifix over the coffin. I copied her and followed her out of the church. I thanked her profusely.

Turns out she’s an artist and she invited me for coffee to her home a couple of days later, and she’s close friends with a harpist who’s half Welsh, but that’s another story!

After the service we all gathered at the family home where I used to live. Despite the sorrow of the occasion it was great to see the house with the shutters open, flooded with daylight, full of people whom grief had rendered thirsty and ravenous. I knew quite a few of them actually. CC and MJC often had guests for dinner and there were lots of familiar faces. Interestingly, people don’t change that much in 30 years.

After some genuinely pleasant exchanges, I dawdled my way back to the flat, walking through the barren gardens which had been in full bloom when I was there last May. I had another early night.

I was invited to the burial of the ashes the following morning at 10am in the cemetery which was a 30 minute drive from the city centre. This was very emotional for me. The tomb had been opened and CC’s ashes were carefully placed with MJC’s coffin. I was unable to attend her funeral due to work commitments so having the opportunity to say goodbye was precious.

I felt quite drained that afternoon and just took it easy.

On Wednesday I had a lunch date – with myself! I couldn’t possibly go to Lyon and just have soup so I treated myself to a nice meal at a restaurant I’d spotted near the flat called Court Bouillon (Stock). It appealed to me as it wasn’t very tourist oriented and the owners seemed passionate about produce and their style of cooking. There was a choice of 2 starters, 2 mains and either cheese or dessert on the lunch menu.

The starter was a simple lightly charred little gem lettuce with gently pickled red onion and walnuts. Delicious! The accompanying bread was flavoursome, brown and bitty.

For my main I chose rabbit, polenta with black olives and a chorizo and rosemary sauce that was weightily packed with flavour. I mopped up every drop of sauce with the bread.

Dessert was a playful candy floss glazed Chou bun filled with a decadent pistachio cream dressed with apricot coulis and an intricate biscuity tuile. The cream tasted more of pistachio than actual pistachios, it was a delight.

Sated, I went to walk it all off. I had a meeting with one of the daughters of the deceased that evening. It was my penultimate day in Lyon and I had a lot to do.

I made up a game called Passerelle-Pont to amuse myself as I zigzagged from one side of the Saône to the other. I didn’t really have time or the headspace to visit either of the exhibitions which had caught my eye. F, true to form, was at least 30 minutes late, but I really didn’t mind, I just kept walking and it was important that I see her after all that had happened. She was angry. Understandably. All emotions are valid in grief. Much as they are in life.

I left the flat at 7 the next morning to catch a train to Geneva, then on to the airport. I kept a watchful eye on the departure board to find out which platform to take. 20 minutes before my train was due, I read the word “supprimé” (cancelled). My heart sank. What now? I asked an SNCF attendant – she sent me upstairs to the information desk. Oh it’s fine, she said. You can just take the 938 instead. Ok I thought, but if that one’s cancelled due to the tree still being on the line, I’m really stuffed. There was only one daily plane from Geneva to Manchester. I considered a coach or a taxi to Geneva – out of the question.

We embarked the 938 and I dozed off. An hour from Lyon, we were told we had to wait an indefinite amount of time at Culoz station for the train driver to arrive by car from Geneva.

Due to Swiss laws, only specially trained train drivers were allowed to drive trains in Switzerland. Honestly, you couldn’t make it up.

We arrived in Geneva at midday, nearly 2 hours later than anticipated. I jumped on the train to the airport and dashed through security. I just had time for a coffee. It cost me the princely sum of £7!!! It was the best coffee I had that day 😃

Tune in again soon for hopefully even more rare bit travel adventures!

One of the negatives of menopause is the difficulty in making decisions. I used to be able to weigh up my options relatively quickly and make a decision quite easily. Now it can take days and even then I’m still not certain I’ve made the right choice.

Take tomorrow’s acupuncture treatment. I really want to go. It’d be great to feel balanced, which is what acupuncture does, before going to France. Since it snowed I’ve been worrying about getting to my appointment. My car is surrounded by thick ice beneath deep snow. The lanes are sheet ice. I considered walking. I’d prefer that over driving in this, but time isn’t on my side. Walking back in pitch darkness in these conditions isn’t my idea of fun.

I bumped into a neighbour on my way for my walk and he advised running the engine for 15 minutes to get everything flowing again. Sounds a bit like vehicular acupuncture. While the car was warming I decided to clear some of the ice and snow, it’d be a good workout. A friendly woman pushing a pram with 2 toddlers passed and we chatted. She said she’d cancelled all her appointments and didn’t understand why her husband insisted on going to work (!!) She recounted how he’d almost crashed going down the lane and struggled with driving every day. She said she wouldn’t bother.

As she left, I thought sod it, but I kept digging and stabbing at the hard packed ice. I gave up, then kept going. A neighbour walked over and offered to help me. He started attacking the ice with his shovel. After a few minutes, the path looked much clearer. He volunteered to wait so he could help if I got stuck. To my delight, I got the car moving. I thanked him profusely. He asked if I played the harp. I said I did and asked how he knew, could he hear me?! No, a friend of his had been for a few lessons with me.

And that, dear readers, is the end of this episode. The moral of the story? You tell me!

I’ve just come back from a short walk in the above. Snow is great and snow is cool. I love the moment it actually snows, watching the skies fill suddenly, growing a heavy grey to announce giant cotton wool flakes which tumble freely from the skies. I don’t enjoy the aftermath though, and all the fear surrounding it. The roads look dirty. Walking on big piles of haphazardly shovelled snow, sometimes deceptively soft, other times as unyielding and slippery as glass, is uncomfortable, but I walk anyway. It takes ages to get ready, layering on thick thermals and attaching my grippy Yaktraks to my walking shoes.

I walk a lot faster and with significantly more confidence with these accessories.

I saw a neighbour looking through her window and checked she had sufficient supplies. Then I bumped into another neighbour walking her dog and had a quick catch up. I gave a stranded vehicle a push along with 2 other helpers. I probably won’t see anyone else or have any other human contact today.

Walking is a lifesaver.

I’ve got 2 appointments tomorrow which I’ve been worrying about. The second one has just been cancelled due to the weather. I’d have had to drive to that one and I’m not sure I can get my car out. I can walk to the first appointment but I’m still worrying about that one – I have to go fasted and uncaffeinated – me without coffee is not a pretty sight.

(Addendum – I phoned this morning and I was allowed coffee 😃)

After the disruption of Christmas I’m back to exercising regularly again. After the osteoporosis diagnosis I lost the will to exercise – what’s the point if I’m going to break anyway? I’ve had a good chat with myself about it and I feel better now that I realise I’m doing more good than harm.

Later this afternoon I can get back to preparing for my trip. I’m going to bed at 5 on Friday evening so I can be ready for my taxi to the airport at 2am on Saturday.

I found out this morning that the funeral is next Monday, in 9 days time. By midday I had all my flights, transfers and accommodation booked. It’s really important that I attend the funeral.

I looked through some old photos last night and I have such warm memories of my French family. I was genuinely welcomed into their home as a member of the family and shown great kindness. I was guided and supported through some difficult times during crucial formative years. My passion for food, cooking and particularly baking was ignited thanks to MJC’s delicious culinary creations.

I still really don’t want to go but I wouldn’t miss being at the funeral.

Yesterday I received a text to say my French “papa” had died that morning, just over a year after his wife’s death. Tears prickled my eyes but they were swiftly replaced with a protective blanket of numbness. After replying I got back to my work in an attempt to quieten all the thoughts and possibly to block out the feelings. After practice I walked up the hill and had a steady trot back down – it was slippery after the New Year’s Day deluge and the morning frost was holding on tight.

In the evening I didn’t know what to do with myself. I’m familiar with bereavement and loss but I still don’t know how to handle it. What worries me is that I’m not expressing it. My default mode is practicality. I needed a big strong hug.

I looked for flights even though I don’t know when the funeral will take place. I also looked at accommodation in case it’s a full house. I don’t really want to go but I want to be there to pay my respects.

I journaled last night. Tonight I’m looking through old photos and remembering all the good times I had in Lyon while I was living with my French family.

A new year has arrived and I’m feeling great this morning despite the deluge. It could be the HRT which I’ve started using to improve my bone health. It’s a bonus if it boosts my mood. I tried HRT in gel and tablet form 3 years ago and it made me feel worse. This time I’m using patches. So far so good.

This Christmas, whilst uneventful, was a significant improvement on 2023. I remember watching The Sound of Music on Christmas night in an effort to console myself, those childhood feelings of safety and simple contentment a distant memory. I was entrenched in a thick fug of grief and numbness. The first half of 2024 was tainted with dread – I anticipated the worst whenever the phone rang.

I had quite a few December weddings and while it was good to be busy and distracted, I deferred much of my grieving process. Playing for weddings was super challenging – I was feeling devastated but putting on a happy face. Being around happy people celebrating was so painful. I looked around me and couldn’t understand how they could feel such joy, an emotion I became adept at faking.

Going to Spain in February was therapeutic and it gave me a lot of strength. Then a trip to Lyon to pay my respects to my French maman was also beneficial. A brief sojourn to Marseille filled me with sunshine, optimism and appreciation for my independence.

I really need to book some holidays but I’m not quite ready yet.

It’s a long process and I still have some grief work to do but it’s time to look forward. I’ve looked back enough for now.

I had such a good day. I did some stuff around the house before a focused full body workout. Then I went for my walk. It was a sunny day and I was feeling just ok. After a mile I turned around and saw this:

and my heart filled up. I could see it. I wasn’t looking for anything or hoping for something, I had no particular outcome in mind. When I go out I hope my mood will improve and that the exercise will keep me fit. My energy went through the roof when I saw the scene. I stopped worrying about the future, about my health, where I want to be, that I’m not ready for 2025, that I haven’t set any goals or intentions, then I realised I just want to be.

It’s been a quiet Christmas, which I prefer, with only 2 weddings. No wild parties for me these days although I might have a mini kitchen party involving some dancing later on. I’ve watched a lot, and I mean a lot, of TV and enjoyed snuggling up in my armchair in the evening for some entertainment.

Season 3 of Slow Horses was brilliant. Then I got really hooked on Ted Lasso which I’d heard so much hype about. It really took me by surprise. It was brilliant too with so many strong characters and it was uplifting and hilarious. I wish I could be more Ted. Bad Sisters is very good but slightly flawed. My vintage weepie was Kramer Vs Kramer for the excellent acting and just to check I still have feelings. I do. My final TV treat will be The Tragedy of Macbeth. Get me up those hills then back behind that harp!