Marmite

This blog title is in German. It means ‘trigger warnings’. I initially thought that if I blogged about something as inconsequential and uncontroversial as our recent trip to Austria, I wouldn’t traumatise anyone. Is that naïve of me? Should I anticipate that some malcontents have nothing better to do than waste their time looking to be traumatised? Should I forewarn them of anything that might take them out of their safe spaces and echo chambers in a froth of ire and retribution? Should I, mischievously, satirise the concept of trigger warnings to raise a laugh here and a temper there? Oh, if you insist.

The New Year seems to have got off to a catholic start. I was going to say ‘eclectic start’ but the word ‘catholic’, which is a synonym of ‘eclectic’, has a less inclusive feel to it. I like that. 

I can’t believe that Monday was only seven days ago. So much has gone on, gone off and gone down that my diary-cum-organiser – the hard-backed variety that partners with a pen (and Tipp-ex) – is curling at the edges. I’ve had weeks like this before, but what makes this one stand out is that it was so very diverse (I employed different coloured marker pens), productive, fulfilling and good-natured. Almost everything I touched turned to stardust, and everyone with whom I engaged deserves a hug – whether they want one or not. These are just the (different coloured) highlights.

Does the fact that I started this blog on Valentine’s Day require me to undergo a Freudian analysis? Probably, especially when after reading this you’ll be asking: 1) How many sinking feelings does it take to change a lightbulb? and 2) How many sinking feelings can dance on the head of a pin? Yup. Friday was one of those days that had my heart sink into my stomach, and my feet into the ground up to my knees, several times over, exacerbated by recurring memories – or should I say nightmares – of historic sinking feelings.

Recently I was back at Cambridge for another excuse to eat, drink and be merry. Despite not being an over-achiever academically (although I am an over-achiever in the understatement department), I’ve always felt at home at College, rubbing shoulders and kissy-kissing with the higher achievers and more monied. This particular occasion tested my comfort zone in other ways but it remained unbreached, dear friends (with apologies to William and Harry – that’s Shakespeare and The Fifth).

Hubby and I were in God’s own County for a few days, aka Yorkshire. As has become our norm, he mainly does his thing (cycling) and I do mine (hiking, shopping, PhuDding and blogging). Day one, he went off over the moors, while I legged it up a gill (a narrow valley to you southerners), in and out of thickly wooded areas, because the sun was hot hot hot, and trees are known to provide a bit of shade. We PhuDders know that sort of thing.

Sometimes you have to block things out and soldier on as if nothing bad has happened.

One of my favourite mantras is: Those who can, debate the issues; those who can’t, insult. Remoaners insulting Leave voters as Little Englanders, is a prime example. Developers dismissing rural communities as Nimbys, is another.

To escape the 40-degree heat in southern France, Hubby and I took refuge in a medieval chateau that boasted a refreshing 32 degrees. It was nice enough in a National Trust kind of way, and the Gothic-style chapel hosted the usual multiple shrines of multiple saints venerated with multiple flickering candles in a Roman Catholic kind of way. Being the pseudo-Protestant girl that I am, and not to be outdone or intimidated by the Papists, I popped a two-euro coin into the box and lit a tall anorexic candle in memory of Mum and Dad, at the shrine of St George of course. No idea what he was doing in France, other than to undermine Europe, which is why he’s our patron saint, of course. Anyhoo, I placed my candle on the highest row between some older ones and, wherever I wandered in the chapel, Mum and Dad’s candle stood tallest and proudest of the lot. Yes I know that pride is one of the seven deadly sins, but I’m guilty of far worse, so let it go. I don’t light a candle for them in every chu...

It can’t have escaped your notice that there’s no such thing as an accident or bad luck any more. Someone else is always to blame. Everyone is responsible except the ‘victim’. They just want the right to be compensated, even by themselves through their own taxes. Daft, eh? 

Kate Middleton impersonating a blade of grass at Wimbledon last week put me off watching the tennis finals. I’m not too struck on champion Vondrousova’s tattoos either. It’s not as if they’re brilliantly executed – she looks like she’s stumbled through a disintegrating ink-smothered spider’s web.  A proper witch who annoyed me this week was Carol Vorderman; she took a cheap Twitter-shot at Johnny Mercer MP (Con) and his wife Felicity (more about her later) for not having university degrees. Did I say cheap? I mean tawdry. 

This blog title is inspired by the famous spiritual song that was itself inspired by Ezekiel 37:1–14, where the prophet Ezekiel visits the Valley of Dry Bones and prophesies that they (the people of Israel in exile) will one day be resurrected at God's command. The connection to this blog is either superficial or very deep and cryptic. Reader's choice. It seemed like a good idea at the time, eating, drinking and chatting, dinosaur skeletons watching every move, perhaps waiting to pounce (the dinosaurs, not me). The venue was the Oxford University Museum of Natural History, much more alluring than an Ivy or a Stein or a Ramsay, and the service was better too.

I hate surprises. They come in many shapes and sizes and I hate the lot of them. Our marriage got off to a rocky start when Hubby refused to tell me where we were going on Honeymoon. He wanted it to be a surprise. I insisted I needed to know where we were going to plan what clothes to take. He told me to ask Mother-in-Law. Seriously? My soon-to-be Hubby suggested I take fashion advice from his mother? I think on some level he didn’t want to get married.