JELLY
This morning the air is fresh and carries a tint of laundry detergent.
If alt text was offering a suggestion I think it would say this week’s photo is a picture of two people smiling. It is a selfie photo of Kath and I at the East Anglia Yarn Festival readying for Day 1. This was the first time the day has completely flown by for me. My second year of proper helping at shows so I reckon I am in the swing now and it can be added to the list of things I know how to do. I have come a long way from my initial wondering of ‘how do I actually manage to be there all day and make good conversation as well as know enough about knitting to be fully reliable?’ I learned by doing, and doing again. I recognised and celebrated my progress even when the steps were tiny. I kept going.
My people haven’t all been in the right places this week and when your people aren’t in the right places everything wobbles. Mix that in with a phone that stops connecting to the car for sat nav and a need to travel to unfamiliar places and it’s like trying to stand up on a water bed to unscrew a light bulb. This week has been a time to think about what it is that steadies the wobble just enough..
It’s all the little things… efficient, friendly service from professionals, forgiving yourself for neglecting the visual check of your tyres, updated playlists, a new phone, three new tyres, remembering to take several deep breaths, keeping calm when you realise it was the settings in the phone not the phone, a compliment in an email, a WhatsApp message of support, hugs in a text, a lift in a car, keeping calm when your tyre pressure light comes on, remembering not to panic when three service stations in a row have dysfunctional tyre pressure machines, your favourite quick grab toastie, someone calling out your tyre pressures at the garage. It’s spending time with your family. And sometimes it’s actual ice-cream and jelly.
I remember my realisation as a child that Mr Jelly was not really Mr Jelly by the end of the book, and then thinking that if writers thought of the titles when they had written the books then perhaps the title wasn’t the right one. I also remember thinking that this thought was interesting in itself, but that the story was all about Mr Jelly and his development. I loved the way the character changed in shape. I loved that this illustration surprised me. I loved how there could be bravery inside even when things were shaky. Maybe this was the beginnings of my learning that emotions aren’t fixed. And now as I scan the titles in my mind I remember that I could taste the sausages when I read Mr Greedy, and I once cut the grass in the back garden with safety scissors which might be a throwback to Mr Neat.
Thinking about Mr Men led me to wonder which character came to mind for other people. I started by asking Tanya, one of the lovely vendors at the wool show, and for her Mr Tickle was first to mind because she could have benefited from his arms to reach the yarn from the van when unloading! The second person I asked also named Mr Tickle, with a cautionary warning around consent. Someone found my question rather random which I totally get since we had only recently met! I myself do like a random question for its “Oooh factor” but recognise it can also generate an “Oh”! There was also a vote for Little Miss Chatterbox and a mention of Mr Bump!
This week I am sharing Whitby’s Old Lifeboat because it fits the theme of holding on when feeling scared and because it honours my grandad.
WHITBY’S OLD LIFEBOAT
Last trip round the harbour!
The sailor announces the end of the afternoon.
Grandad would approve –
out on the water, breathing sea air,
catching spray on skin and hair.
Salt water in his veins, not blood,
Nan said.
Or, on another day,
Always down the bloody seafront!
Pushing aside the smell of fish
and the vastness of that water
we paid our money,
expecting a life jacket as well as a seat.
Silently disappointed, we headed out.
The straight route out of the harbour was fine
until Whitby became a postcard.
One minute the waves were rolling over,
offering us their bellies,
the next they were rising solid grey,
lifting us, dropping us down.
They threatened to throw me out,
fill my eyes with seaweed and brine,
send my lover north, my bag west.
My stomach quivered;
I was the wrong kind of petrified.
I wanted to be a breakwater; ancient wood
salted over time,
aged, steadfast.
The old lifeboat was a fairground pirate ship
and I was clinging on:
fixing my smile,
picturing a hammock
and an Arctic Convoy Star.
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