Lumpy bits

I found a lump.  Last Tuesday I had that lump removed from my breast.  It’s scary to say the least.  I’m waiting on pathology but it looks good,  and the surgeon was happy.

Waiting  is not fun,  but I am keeping my mind off things. I have written   both good and bad.  I wrote some filthy things too cause I’m that kind of girl.

I had enormous suppose from  Sexy Bald Man,  aka Cord,  who walked me though the whole thing.

This week will be  busy, with the little boy back to school, supplies and uniforms, parties and meetings.  That will take my mind off it.

The incision is healing,  the upset stomach from the anesthesia has settled ( I am a bad patient.)    Things aren’t too bad right?

 

Made with Love

The Danish have a word for it.  Hyggelig!  That warm and fuzzy feeling you get when you return home.  It’s comfort and love, warm hotpots and cozy blankets.

Once upon a time there was nothing unusual about a handmade doll. Now, it’s rather rare.  Unlike the plastic tat that seems to proliferate of its own accord and is destined to end as landfill, they will live on as long as their faded fabric holds out.   In days gone by it was unremarkable  to own a handmade coat or quilt. If you wanted a new frock you either turned to a dressmaker if funds permitted or your knocked one up yourself.

That all began to change in the 50′s. A decade after the deprivation of the war years we took full advantage of the mass production that it bequeathed to us. Mass production put consumer goods within the reach of average households.  In the 80′s,  handmade became a badge of shame and labels were the only way to tell the world about your power.

The impact of mass production can not be underestimated. I would never swap my frontloader for a mangle, but if I scratch the surface of the  shiny new,  I see its future in landfill and I feel guilty.  Can things make us happy? The rise of the soul-less mega mall has become our entertainment.

I am swapping my mega mall for my sofa with swatches of fabric found in my garage.  I have a desire to tread lightly on the earth and make rather than buy.

In my resent garage clean up I came across a doll that was vaguely familiar to me. I do not recall much of my mother – a flash of light here and there – the smell of geraniums always brings on a memory,   and this doll smelled of her.  I knew it had come from her hand, I have a picture of myself with it as a baby, blissfully unaware of it next to me because all babies are the center of their own universe.  I think my brother was kicking me in that photo.   This doll was made by a woman with children,  for those children to love;  because she loved them.    Rather than the mass-produced doll that inspires young girls to be thin and beautiful and is made by sourcing the cheapest labour possible,  this was stitched and stuffed by hand. There is no other like it.   After a bit of scrub she’s looking pretty good. 

I look about the house at the things I have made my son.   His name above his bed,  the quilt upon it, the cushions and the painted mural – boys and dolls don’t do well together in my experience.  He loves these things and keeps them in particularly good order.  The polyester blanket is often on the floor but the quilt is always  put back on his bed.  The pillow is tossed rather than washed but the cushions are regularly in the hamper to be spun around the washing machine.  What makes those more precious to him.   Love. Just love.

Twin-ness

My twin brother lives in London. This evening while making dinner, I felt an excruciating pain in my wrist.  I was only flipping a lamb chop,  nothing too strenuous and was surprised at the pain that continued for many minutes.  No swelling, no redness, no tell-tale signs of injury, but the sharp  pain that made me scream and drop the chop ( lucky dog.).  I iced it  and the pain left after about ten minutes.

We ate dinner and the pain did not return.  Weird I thought.

When I came to look at my email a few moments ago there was a message from my brother which is odd because it is very early morning in London.  It said “I think I’ve broken my wrist. I was going to the bathroom and fell over an ottoman my girlfriend  put at the end of the bed.  Bloody hurts.  I really don’t want to go to the ER.”

That explains my pain, I though and  l phoned him.  He was on his way to the ER and I told him I had iced my uninjured hand.  He said  “That explains the cold sensation I had while I was lying on the bedroom floor in agony. “

We haven’t had  twin to twin ESP pain  for some time.  We’ve had emotional ESP,  but  the physical sensations left us a few years ago.  In my twenties I was giving birth and he was in a bathroom doubled over in pain.

Odd…absolutely.  We have no explanation for this, but most twins will tell you they have something similar happen to them from time to time. I just hope he remembers where the ottoman is next time.

PS. I haven’t heard back as to whether his wrist is broken yet.   My own experience with the British NHS reminds me he’ll be waiting awhile in the ER.

 

The winter sea by Susanna Kearsley

( I understand this book was published as Sophia’s Secret in the UK.)

The Winter sea was my book for the last 10 days in my book every 1o day challenge. (yes  few days early.)

Susanna Kearsley has written a part historical, part present day novel set in Scotland. It may just be that I was born in Scotland and spent quite a bit of time sitting in a class room listening ( sleeping) to the history played out in this book or it might be that Kearsley didn’t read   As you know, Bob

I’m not sure which applies but The Winter Sea is loaded with Historical information. Pages and pages, that go on for chapters and chapters. There is little white space as in dialogue and a great deal of time spent reading historical information so the reader understands the time period. I do mean a lot.

The first few chapters were enjoyable and I settled in expecting more of the same.  That didn’t happen for me.

If you are interested in the Jacobite plot of 1708 to return the last Stewart king to the throne of Scotland this is a good text-book for you. If a great deal of historical detail makes you sleepy  you might not be interested. This novel mentions a few of my long dead descendents and for that reason  held on, but for no other reason. I was bored for the most part. I didn’t care about the love triangle forming and I didn’t care about the historical flashes.

The plot centers around Carrie McClelland, a best-selling romance writer ( how many books have you read recently where the protagonist is a best-selling author)  is struggling with her latest book and on a visit to a ruin on the coast of Scotland feels drawn to the area. The story and people come to her in dreams and she finds herself writing unconsciously. The historical romance she is writing is told to us in historical form by Sophia Paterson,  an ancestor of Carrie’s.

Carrie is falling in love,  just as  Sophia is.  The coincidences are a little contrived and much of the story is guessed before read. There is tragedy aplenty but most of that is told to us with a very cold voice.  There are some lovely moments of prose in the novel  but it fell short for me. The story line of remembering  through some DNA connection wasn’t strong enough. I would have liked more of it.

Thrash me once again for going with popularity and buying this because 200 people on amazon loved it and gave it 5 stars. I have done this before and been dissappointed.

I can not say this is poorly written.  It’s not.  But the mass of information and the slow plot bothered me.  Is it that I have to concede that Romance novels don’t do it for me? I love Sarah Addison Allen, and they are romances.  I fly through those,  but this one I plodded.

Onwards to a new 10 days.

From a child’s eyes.

This afternoon my son and I went to the sea pool for a dip to clear our heads.  I’ve been sorting out the garage and the dust was clogging my pores and brain.

After a cool swim we sat on the side of the pool dangling our legs when a very beautiful women walked confidently past.  She was curvy, with everything in abundance.   She’s what I would call healthy and I did have a pang of jealousy at the sight of her bosom spilling over her bikini.  Mine  in comparison were not spilling anythng.

My son,  ten years old,  followed her with his eyes as well.  He looked at her, he looked at me and then back to her.  I asked him what he was thinking and our conversation went like this.

“How come girls  are so different?”

“What do you mean different”?” I said.

“You don’t have a top half like that.”

I laughed.  “No, but there is nothing wrong with my top half. “

“Then why is her’s so big?”

“Do all women have to be the same?” I asked.

“No, but it would make things easier.”

I nodded and we went back to splashing our legs in the water.  Poor kid.  Little does he know women are different in every conceivable way. I just hope he doesn’t have to conceive those ways too soon.

Love

When you love someone, really love them,  do you ever stop trying to make it work?

I don’t think so,  at least I can not.

I love him and it never ends.  It’s that kind of love. That onces in a life time love that we read about.  The one I fear to write about because of my nice girl tag.

There are so few people who come into our lives that make a permanent tattoo on our heart.  The ones we give birth to,  yes,  but then the one that is drawn to its mate and recognises it as the needle from its compass.

When that person passes by  the physical and mental reactions are impossible to ignore.  When they return, even more so.

I can not ignore my compass.

Get Cape, Wear Cape, Fly!

Its a fine mantra I think.  My son put this up as our screen saver on the old clunker ( shiny lap top still at the laptop hospital)  and I enjoy seeing it when I power up.

Life can be so complicated if we let it and this to me, says it doesn’t have to be.  Get the thing you want,  wear it about you and use it to fly.    In other words,  write  kate, just write.

Things I covet

So many,  but when I was out and about  before the Great Bug of  2012  I saw this winking at me from a shop window.

Steampunk Poe

Lovely isn’t it.  I don’t linger at jewelry store displays,  never have.  Rather I salivate in bookstores.  Should I ever marry I think a book over an engagement ring would suit me perfectly.  This one was beautiful.  Thick glossy sheets of images along side the words of  Poe.   What a brilliant idea.

I must have it.

Blast this pledge to read the books I have  before buying more.  Blast and double blast.

I have book envy and will pass the bookstore at every opportunity now.  I shall be a book stalker.  There will be a poster of me on telegraph poles warning others about my predilection.  Children will hide from me,  women will shield their husbands lest I tempt them away with my sirens call.  Little do they know  it is only for the book.

I must have it.

Curse you New Years Revolution.  Curse you Peter Walsh for talking me into being happy with less.  What a crock.  If I’d know Steampunk Poe was about to lure me in, I’d have plucked you off my shoe like a piece of gum.  Now I shall shake and shiver, going cold turkey as I dream of wind up Ravens and a clock work  Annabel Lee.

Being a book lover can be oh so painful.

Stomach bug philosophy?

 

Are there many things worse than praying to the bathroom gods while you battle a bug?  I can’t think of many right now but I have just spent  48 hrs in the bathroom and my mind is  fuzzy.  At the time I was thinking this is the reason you don’t have a gun in the house. I would have gladly put me and anyone with in hearing distance out of  misery.

With my head resting on the cool tiles,  with the energy to check on my son once between bouts of throwing up,  I thought of a  few interesting plot lines i shall try in the near future.   I reminded myself doctors make the worse patients,  and I remembered I hadn’t turned the water drippers off in the garden.

Be right back……

OK, back.  had to turned the water drippers off.

I thought about the school supplies I needed to replenish for my son before the new year starts. I tried to hold down a glass of water and failed and then thought about cleaning the grout behind the toilet when I felt better.  Now that I feel better I have no desire to clean the grout behind the toilet.

So being ill was both revolting and thought-provoking.  I don’t suggest it though.  A coffee and  15 minutes peace will serve you so much better.

 

 

 

 

 

Perceptions – aka – what will you think of me?

There is an idea in my head that has been pumping for some time.  It’s a big idea and a risky one.   For many years I have fought the problem of writing things that might make me seem like something less than a nice girl.  How could she think such things let alone put them down on paper? Terrible!

It’s a hard tag for me to get away from.  I spent so many years as a youngster being different and strange but now when I express those strange ideas I feel very self-conscious about them.   I’ve manged for the most part to shake off that strange Kate past.  I’m a mother, a doctor, a woman but  I’m hiding behind those nice sensible, acceptable tags.  Behind them, pushed into the corner under the stairs, is a girl with a past and dark things to say.

Tonight while I was finishing up  Wilde’s  Earnest it struck me how very safe I have become.  In the late 19th C,  Oscar flaunted his real self to the word and paid for that behind bars,  with ridicule and real  danger.  I sit safe in my lounge room in the 21st C writing pretty things.   Oscar wouldn’t be pleased and neither would the much to be  admired Miss Austen or the Bronte women.  I don’t want to think what Mary Shelley is doing in her grave. ( or maybe I do and just haven’t admited so.. )  Would any of those forward moving woman who wished they could be so fortunate to have the freedoms I take for granted admire anything I have written?  The ability to say what we wish with our mighty pens is a war still being won.  With very little risk to myself I am in the enviable position to say what I like and think and feel with authenticity.   It’s a crime not to do so.

With some reflection  it shall be a new goal.   It shall not come easily, as layers of  normality will take time to peel away, but I shall peel them and expose the inner Kate.  She’s not so subtle.

“I like men who have a future and women who have a past”  Oscar Wilde