Friday, 24 February 2017

An Evening Journey Home, In Pictures:

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B.C.B.F.B x

During Choir Rehearsal Last Night -

- I must've sung the phrase "let him repent" to myself - during periods when the Sopranos were taking a backseat - a hundred times in the space of thirty minutes, trying desperately to get it right

It wasn't that hard, or at least not at face value: just B, C, A, then a beat and a half of F. But no matter how many times I warbled it under my breath - and got it spot on - when the time came for the entire chorus to sing it together, my A invariably became a G.

=SIGH=.

It's not a major problem in the grand scheme of things, obviously, but at the time, it really bothered me.
     It's always been a matter of quiet (and not so humble) personal pride, you see, that I have a good 'Ear', as it's known in musical circles. It allows me to harmonize almost effortlessly either with or without music – which always sounds impressive even when it isn’t really - and makes up for my frankly quite dire sight-reading skills enough that when under (unprofessional) scrutiny, I actually look relatively competent.
     So, as you can imagine, having it suddenly fail me like that - in front of other people - is a bit of a knock, ego wise.

Ne'r mind.  With practice, it'll come good.

You watch, though.
     That phrase is going to haunt my dreams now, whether in tune or not, for weeks to come.

..."let him repent"... ..."let him repent"... ..."let him repent"...

B.C.B.F.L.B x

Thursday, 23 February 2017

Having Finally Arrived Home After A Very (Very) Long Bus Ride:

When travelling on a bus (even a practically empty bus), unexpectedly whistling the tune of ‘Who Will Buy This Wonderful Morning’ is not considered to be acceptable.

…and just in case anybody’s interested, by the way; apparently, humming it isn't acceptable, either...

B.C.B.F.L.B. x

Tuesday, 21 February 2017

R.I.P: Flo.

Oh, Flo.

Flo, Flo, Flo…

I only met you twice, in person.

Once was in your flat. Grandmama had saved you a magazine article that you wanted to read. It was during one of the three run-ups to her hip operation, and I was staying with her at the time, sorting out her filing system (oh, what a joy that was). I offered to pop it round.
She accepted. She was confined at the time, on stern instructions, lest she contract an infection, and so sent me on my way.
I remember her warning me, after giving me directions which turned out to be wrong – easy enough to sort out: by ‘left’, she actually meant ‘right’ – that you would talk my ear off in a constant stream of barely decipherable stories and subjects that you had on a loop in your loving and confused 89-year-old brain. She warned me, too, that being soft hearted, I would find it difficult to stop you and tell you that I had to leave, which was why she was going to set her kitchen timer for fifteen minutes and then ring me on my mobile phone with the excuse that “my dinner was ready and on the table”, which would allow me to escape.
Bless her (and you); what she didn’t warn me about was that as well as talking incessantly in a barely audible fast-paced mumble, you would also decide to give me a gift to say thank you for “taking the trouble” of making the (for me very easy) journey from her flat to yours to bring you the magazine that Grandmama had chucklingly confided in me that you wouldn’t with your failing eyesight actually be able to read.
It was with great difficulty that I managed to deter you from handing me a twenty pound note, accepting in the end a little bottle of hand lotion instead just to make you happy, and then sitting down to listen for my dutiful fifteen minutes (which became thirty; Grandmama had the television so loud that she didn’t hear the timer).

The second time was approximately a year later.
            You were in hospital. You had been in and out for some time, now, since your already failing body began to fail so badly that even with nurses visiting four times daily you were unable to cope.
In this instance, you were recovering from pneumonia, and were very much better than you had been; so much so that you had requested that Grandmama bring you the folder where you kept your pads and envelopes and pens, so that you could set about writing the letters you had been meaning to get around to for some time. You also wanted a birthday card for a 4-year-old ‘Great Grandson’ (preferably adorned with a spaceship of some sort). Grandmama was once again confined to her flat, so I agreed – as I was still at a lose end most afternoons then – to walk to the hospital to deliver them to you.
You were thrilled to see me. Even more thrilled when I sat myself down and proceeded to stay for an hour and a half (my standard Duty Visiting Time Span).
I chatted to you, a little, about the dog, and the cat, and the holiday I had booked. Mostly I listened. You were far more coherent, then; less confused and easier to understand. From the few words I had been able to make out then, I knew that the stories you were telling me now were different ones. You talked about the flat you had owned in Wales and all the problems you’d had, and how you had decided to move back to Wolverly even though it was a long way from your Daughter and you missed her. You talked about the fact that she was coming to visit you over the next few days – the day would depend on her husband; he was in hospital himself after having surgery – and that she had promised to sort out the muddle you had got into with your finances. You talked about Grandmama and how you had enjoyed going to the little get togethers in the the conservatory, when she had put films on for you all to watch, and there had been coffee and biscuits.
At the end of the visit, when I stood up to go, you grasped my plump, smooth hand in your thin wrinkled one and kissed it. You told me I was a good girl, and that you would write to Grandmama and tell her how kind I had been.
I told you it was nothing, and that I hoped you’d carry on improving until you were granted your wish and allowed to return home.
            Three days later, Grandmama received a letter, as promised, and inside was a small card for me, containing £30. I was implored to take it, so that I could “go on a boat for a whole day to see the seals and the dolphins”, as apparently your nephews had done. Researching the company your nephews had supposedly used, I discovered that it had gone up an extraordinary amount since then (enough that even with your money to go towards it I couldn’t have afforded it), but you weren’t to know that. It was a lovely gesture, and proved (as Grandmama had pointed out) that you did indeed listen and take things in.

Other than that, the only knowledge I had of you was second hand.

I learned from Mother and my two Aunts that you put upon Grandmama terribly; asking her to fetch and carry for you to a ridiculous degree, which, as she became less mobile herself was passed onto all of us.

I learned from other residents that they liked you, mostly, and you “meant well” but that you were “batty”, you were “materialistic”, that you “didn’t listen” and that you could “talk the hind leg off a donkey while still saying practically nothing”.

I learned from the nurses that at one point cared for both you and Grandmama at the same time that you were a “dear”; sometimes “confused” and “very stubborn”, but “unerringly polite”.

I learned from Grandmama a great deal:
           That while you did indeed “talk the hind leg off a donkey while still saying practically nothing”, it wasn’t true that you didn’t listen, because she knew that you did.
I also learned that you would talk so much when you rang her that unless something rescued her she would end up stuck on the phone for over an hour, unable to bring herself to interrupt you.
And I learned that you were indeed “materialistic”, buying thing upon thing that you had no need or use for and then buying something other needless object days later because you decided you were dissatisfied with the original, you were also generous. Your needless things – good quality, expensive needless things – were rarely returned or exchanged; when you decided you didn’t want them, you simply gave them away to someone, anyone that wanted them. You were also generous with your purse, “to a fault” as Grandmama put it (which I agreed with. £20 for three minutes worth of slow stroll, indeed), worried as she was that people would take advantage of you.
You were definitely “stubborn”, I found out, too. The price you paid (in full; no care benefits for you, as you didn’t qualify) for carers to come several times a day, rather than move somewhere that you could be cared for far better for far less. The fact that you would sleep in your chair when your legs began to pass the point of no return, but would lie to the carers that you had slept in your bed so as not to be readmitted to hospital (you kept this fiction up even during the period that you hadn’t GOT a bed). The refusal to move closer to your daughter, even though you missed her terribly, because; “the Welsh are so unfriendly”. The shock and disapproval people would get when they urged caution on the purchase of yet another needless thing that you would get no pleasure from and end up giving away. The irrepressible urge to ply people with cash if they did the slightest favour for you (Grandmama got round this by asking for a blank cheque and then never filling it in)… The list went on.

It all built up a picture of you, long before I ever met you, and long afterward. 
            A picture of a frail, determined, contrary, maddening, generous, irrepressible elderly lady; a woman that knew her own mind, even when in the throes of yet another infection the mind didn’t quite know her.

I knew you, Flo.
            And I liked you.
            And I am heartily sorry that the world has lost you.

Rest In Peace.
          I thank God that it was gentle, and in your sleep.
         May your dreams go on forever.

And may they be happy ones indeed...


B.C.B.F.L.B x

Sunday, 19 February 2017

Conversations Between Choir Members

Scene is set; a seething throng of choristers from various organizations are amassed in the room known as the 'Corn Exchange' within Kidderminster Town Hall. Kidderminster Choral Society members are grouped together in a far corner, as directed, awaiting the arrival of their Conductor and chatting among themselves. During these few minutes some of the ladies of the group take the chance, also, to make last minute adjustments to the pink sash that they are wearing, as usual, pinned over their left shoulders. As usual, muttered grumblings are heard withal...


CONVERSATION 1:
***
~.START.~

CHOIR MEMBER 1: (exasperated) oh, bother it! Can you help me, please? I can't get the blessed broach to hold in place!
CHOIR MEMBER 2: (kindly) here you are...hold still, now...there! All done.
CHOIR MEMBER 1: (gratefully) thank you!
CHOIR MEMBER 3: (bemused) sorry, but this is my first concert. I was wondering, do we always have to wear it like this?
CHOIR MEMBER 2: (glum) yup.
CHOIR MEMBER 3: (bemused) but why? Surely it would be better to wear it around the neck, rather than slung over one shoulder...?
CHOIR MEMBER 2: (spreads hands) it was decided by the committee that this looked best. There were complaints, so it was voted on in the AGM, and it was voted to stay the same, so...
CHOIR MEMBER 4: (interjecting) yes, it was because when we used to wear it the other way we ended up with all different lengths. It did look pretty scruffy. So it was decided that we should wear it this way, to make it neater.
CHOIR MEMBER 3: (doubtful) oh.

Scene ends; with Choir Member 1 crying out with dismay as her broach breaks, clattering to the floor.

~.END.~
***


CONVERSATION 2:
***
~.START.~

VISITING CHOIR MEMBER FROM GERMANY: (irritated) ...what madness is this? I cannot...! Why must we wear it like this? I do not like it at all. It is not comfortable. It is not right.
B.C.B.F.L.B: (soothingly) here, let me help you... There. Perfect. That's a wonderful broach, by the way; very pretty.
VISITING CHOIR MEMBER FROM GERMANY: (gracious but not mollified) thank you. Yours is nice, also. It is a gift from my husband, this. I love butterflies, all butterflies. See here, I have another pinned there. But I cannot wear the ribbon like this, it is awful. Round the neck, that is how it should be. Look, like this ...(she demonstrates)... pinned so. Better, yes?
B.C.B.F.L.B: (delicately) that does look nice, but you see, it has been decided that we must wear it over our shoulders, like mine, see? That way we all look the same.
VISITING CHOIR MEMBER FROM GERMANY: (getting worked up). But they are not the same at all! Look there, that woman, her ribbon is wide, yours is thinner. And that lady, her broach is high, another, it is low! It is a mess! And it is not comfortable! How is this good?
CHOIR MEMBER 5: (hearing the commotion) oh, hello VisitingChoirMemberFromGermany, I didn't know you'd arrived yet! What lovely broaches you have! But my dear, you can't have your sash like that. Look, it needs to be over your shoulder, see? Like mine. Here, let me help you...
VISITING CHOIR MEMBER FROM GERMANY: (stubbornly) I am quite alright, thank you. I shall have it like this.
CHOIR MEMBER 5: (patiently) now, now. Listen, you don't want to stand out, do you?
VISITING CHOIR MEMBER FROM GERMANY: (stubbornly) I do not mind. I like it like this. The other way is not nice. I do not like it.
CHOIR MEMBER 5: (exchanging a helpless glance with B.C.B.F.L.B) but you see, dear, it's been decided that we need to wear it like this...

Scene ends; with B.C.B.F.L.B wandering away, leaving the two of them to it.

~.END.~
***


CONVERSATION 3:
***
~.START.~

CHOIR MEMBER 1: (warning) oh, B.C.B.F.L.B, careful, your broach has come undone.
B.C.B.F.L.B: (grabbing it just in time) thank you! Bloody thing. That's twice now I'd thought I'd pinned it properly...there! I think, anyway. Oh, ChoirMember6, that's such a good idea! You've secured yours at the back, haven't you?
CHOIR MEMBER 6: (pleased) yep! I got my husband to do it underneath out of sight. It saves it flapping about.
B.C.B.F.L.B: (admiring) brilliant! I wish I'd thought of it; it seems obvious now. I'll do that next time. D'you know, no matter where I put my broach, I cannot get this damn thing to stay in place. Almost every time I move, it flips its way to the front.
CHOIR MEMBER 2: (nodding wisely) it's your bust. ChoirMember7 has the same problem, don't you?
CHOIR MEMBER 7: (rueful) not half! I'm thinking of sewing the darn thing in place for next time...Case in point, B.C.B.F.L.B; you've flipped already.
B.C.B.F.L.B: (exasperated) oh, damn it! VisitingChoirMemberFromGermany is right; it's just impossible! I hate this thing!
CHOIR MEMBER 2: (gesturing in the woman's direction, amused) she's still arguing it out, now, look; with the one of the heads of the committee, this time.
B.C,.B.F.L.B: (firm) well, she's right. I know that when this was voted on AGM it was decided to keep the sash as it is, and I'll accept and go along with that, alright: democracy and sop forth. BUT, that doesn't mean it isn't wrong. I know they wanted us to look the same, but lets face it, we don't! The sashes are all different widths, pinned by different broaches in different positions in different ways. VisitingChoirMemberFromGermany is spot on: it's a mess.
CHOIR MEMBER 8: (interjecting, smugly) oh, but the sashes look wonderful like this, don't you think? Swooped grandly over the shoulder as if in a single, defining gesture of our womanhood! It's elegant! It's sleek! It's feminine! It's -
B.C.B.F.L.B: (interrupting, irritated) - it's bloody irritating, is what it is!
ALL CHOIR MEMBERS IN EAR SHOT: ...(stifling laughter)...

Scene ends; with Choir Member 8 tossing her head and haughtily moving away. Other Choir Members exchange smiles, and then turn their attention to the Conductor, who has just arrived.

~.END.~
***


B.C.B.F.L.B x

Saturday, 4 February 2017

A Text From Mama.

~.START.~

Scene is set, BCBFLB is going about her business at work, when her mobile phone bleeps. A message has come through. She doesn't have time to look at it straight away, waiting instead for the time that she sits down in the canteen to take a break. Opening the message, she reads it, then, stunned, reads it again. A passing Store Staff Member notices her expression...

STORE STAFF MEMBER: (concerned) hey, what's up? Is everything alright?
B.C.B.F.L.B: (stunned) um, yes. I've just had a message from Mother.
STORE STAFF MEMBER: (sitting down beside her) ...not bad news I hope...?
B.C.B.F.L.B: (slowly) no, not 'bad', exactly.
STORE STAFF MEMBER: (curious) well, what's it say?
B.C.B.F.L.B: It says: "to my dear son and daughter. I have something to tell you. I have made arrangements for my funeral. I have placed a white envelope with the appropriate details and receipts in the black case in the kitchen, to remain sealed until such a time it is needed. Please respond to this message, when you get it, with 'message received', and WE NEED NEVER SPEAK OF THIS AGAIN. Mom. x"
STORE STAFF MEMBER: (slightly stunned) ...wow. Did she really emphasize the last bit like you made it sound?
B.C.B.F.L.B: (nods) she did. Look. ...(shows it)... I didn't even know she knew how to switch to upper case letters like that. She must have learned it from Brother.
STORE STAFF MEMBER: (slightly disconcerted) ,,,yeah...well...nice of her to let you know.
B.C.B.F.L.B: yes.
STORE STAFF MEMBER: (doubtful) so.,.are you going to talk to her about it?
B.C.B.F.L.B: ...(says nothing; simply looks over the top of her glasses)...
STORE STAFF MEMBER: (shakes head in agreement) nah, I wouldn't either. I was just checking, that's all.

Scene ends with both ladies sitting there in silence, one eating a banana, the other looking out into space. The phone sits in between them; the bringer of news that promises to remain unmentioned for ever, bar for two words: MESSAGE RECEIVED.

~.END.~

B.C.B.F.L.B x