I have forty minutes to throw something together here before I have to go out. When I say, have to, I make it sound like hardship but the weather is absolutely glorious out there. How I wish I was in that summer house in the Breakers of old before it fell into the hands of someone with money but neither taste nor concept of romance. Well, that’s him/her labelled, whoever he/she may be! Continuing, I have just returned, instead, from a stroll, right, towards the fields and Blebo Craigs beyond. So lovely and warm, it is hard to believe it is still only March. Then, again, I remember sunbathing in the back garden at Lyndhurst in April … The track was muddy but the yellow flowers on the gorse bushes are blooming and daffodils in varying hues of spring line the verges. Beyond the mish-mash of houses, I like to stop and soak in the scene; the rolling green fields and the old back road, as we used to call it, in the distance. We always hated the front road, preferring the twenty-minute drive to school via the quieter, more scenic route. I still love that road, despite the lethal Z-bend where Mrs Gabellone, our French teacher, was cruelly killed by a car-load of drunk students. Some things never leave you.
That once quiet back road is no longer quiet and, as I stood and soaked in the scene, I was aware of the sight and sound of a constant stream of cars all going, at great speed, who knows where. In fact, each and every road around St Andrews is busy now. There is a proverbial rush hour morning and evening, for goodness sake, as, nose to tail, the traffic endeavours to negotiate these hideous speed bumps which are being introduced on all the main thoroughfares converging on the old town. Not only completely tacky and just completely wrong for a town with innate elegance but a gift to garages! Dodgems do not fair well negotiating such obstacles, knocking the wheel alignment to hell so … just one more valid reason to get my turquoise Wrangler with my name on it. Which reminds me, let me check my EuroMillions tickets. I feel sure I must have won!
Help, that’s thirty-five minutes gone! Where? Annoyingly, this week has not been the most productive. It started off well, I think, as I vowed to forego my nightly gin and endeavour to switch my light off before 2am. However, the reality is that I have achieved neither of the aforementioned and, as one can imagine, I feel all the worse for it. As for the progress of my future bestseller worthy of the big screen and Sandra Bullock? Well, in a word, slow. I have broken the back of the middle section – there are three – but I need to find my stride for this part. A synopsis of thirty years, I intend to handpick the highlights – and the lowlights, for that matter. So far, I have actually surprised myself in my generosity but the very subject matter of the third part will dictate no rose-tinted glasses. Humour? Of course. Always.
I never even made it to check my tickets stopping, instead, to check my turquoise Wrangler before doing so. It has been dropping in price over the weeks and I had claimed it as my own. Confident, therefore, that nobody would buy it before, obviously, I am able … da dee da dee da … ‘Unfortunately, the car you are looking for has been sold’. What? That can’t be. It had my name on it!! I can’t believe it. Thank you, God. What happened to good guys winning for once?! Yes, yes, one day, I’m sure I will get over it but for now … Life goes on. Car-less!
So near yet so far. I almost had it in the bag in circa the hour but the wheels, inevitably, came off (in more ways than one) and I decided I needed to boost my Vitamin D levels before sunset and headed for the beach. A glorious evening, thankfully the dots were congregating at the town end and, thus, I benefitted from relative peace. I walked but, then, I actually sat down on the sand and contemplated life; grabbed a little perspective. I found myself thinking about a friend of a close friend whom I heard, at Christmas, had been diagnosed with cancer. I wondered how she was. On my return, I received a message from Shona to tell me that Jane had passed away earlier today. That was no coincidence. God speed, Jane. I’m sure there will be a large Pimms waiting for you at your journey’s end.
Wow! A reality check if ever there was one. Everything else seems, now, mundane but the world keeps turning and life goes on … Before I forget, let me tell you that I have updated my ‘About Trish’ page. For some reason, the other day I decided to re-acquaint myself with the explanatory blurb on each page, confidently believing it worthy. Instead … Who wrote that stuff?! Quick, change it! People are reading that drivel. Amazing how the years change one’s perspective and that which was once so important becomes increasingly less so with the passing of time. I suppose it’s called experience and, like sponges, we absorb both the happy and the sad, constantly changing. The first ‘About Trish’ I wrote, however many years ago, was wholly reflective of my mindset at the time. Even the more recent update seems irrelevant now. I realise that in writing a synopsis of oneself, one has to recognise and understand one’s key traits, one’s character, and from whence it came; one’s greatest influences and that which is truly important. The fundamental stuff. Think, stripped back, who am I? Ironically, after all these years, put my hair in bunches, plonk me in a semi-circle next to someone not of my choosing and I would still be inclined to pick up my chair and move – and, you know what, I like that!
‘Our childhood memories are often fragments, brief moments or encounters, which together form the scrapbook of our life. They are all we have left to understand the story we have come to tell ourselves about who we are.’
Edith Eger, ‘The Choice’.
This is Trish, signing off.
