Tuesday 16 November 2010

Making friends at the end of the world

They're not wrong when they say that moving house is up there with stressful incidents like bereavement, changing your job, and getting married, or getting divorced.  It's not so much the impact of the upheaval, the packing, the lists, the phone calls, the being put on hold to the insurance company for an hour, ignored my your ex-council when you advise them you have moved, or the financial impact of 2 self drive hires 300 miles plus a few car loads.

No, I have realised its what comes after that has more impact.  The getting used to it. 

I am someone who, having been a bit lacking in the self esteem resources, has always associated 'who I am' with 'what I do'.  I would described myself as an idle workaholic.  A what?  Well,  I love sleep, I can't get enough of it, my natural day runs from about 10am to about 1 am.  Which means that I am perennially late for work, and ALWAYS working late.  When I worked in theatre I was pretty much like everyone else (an 'early' meeting was 10:30) and I never really noticed it.  

In the office before I moved here I stood out a bit like a sore thumb with my regular half 9 starts and 7 pm finishes, and if it wasn't for such understanding management (and the invention of a flexi sheet) I would have been verbally warned pretty much every week.  3 strikes and you're out  would have rendered me jobless before a month was out.

Anyway - I digress. These days I work for myself.  Which means that my daily routine consists of precisely what is natural - wake up about half 9, breakfast at 10.  Check emails, wash up, bit of housework, walk the dog, lunch. Off to the studio, work. 6:30 (after the Truro rush hour - where DO all these people live down here - in hedges?)  drive home (via supermarket sometimes)  Pretty much ALL accomplished to the soundtrack of Radio 4.  Light the fire and work some more, maybe.

I used to loathe spending time on my own - the very thought of it rendered me a wobbly wreck - but these days after quite a lot of therapy apart from anything else, I know how to deal with it.  Which is just as well as I spend most of my time alone.  It gives you a great deal of time to think - something which, not just once, have I been accused of doing too much of.  And I have found, over the last two weeks, that having this space has been at once a scary and wonderful thing. 

It occurs to me that I have finally understood what holidays are for.... only this isn't holiday this is my life!  I am a bit stressed by the lack of stress.  I am surprised by how 'un-worried' I am about things.

Lonely, yes.  Worried - not really. Anyone that knows me will probably have laughed out loud at that last sentence.  I am not even worried about my loneliness - knowing that it's par for the course when you relocate.  

Anyway - as always I learn much from the wise Shaman-ess that is our daft dog - Tilly, who is the one living creature I do have daily chat with (apart from the Mr of course!)   Husband and I, it seems, are both feeling a bit vulnerable, churned up, lonely. So -This weekend we embraced the changes and went on a mini adventure.  What does one do on a Sunday when one lives in the Duchy?  Why, my dear,  one goes to the beach!  Being who we are of course it wasn't just any old beach - it was the furthest most Westerly beach and being Cornwall it was wild and rugged and utterly breathtaking.



We started to find each-other again me and him, after the tumult of the last ? months - year? (I realise as I write this the last 12 months has brought us 4 out of the 5 aforementioned stressful events)  And then - a little moment of magic as Tilly's genetic code resonated with that of another canine beach companion - equally looney and energetic as she.  It was amazing - a totally different relationship between them than that she has with any other non breed related dog on the daily walk.  They knew each other  and hilariously they didn't know why - so they just ran and ran and played and boxed and barked and ran some more.


Well what did this idle-workaholic-queen-of-procrastination-over-analytical-creative-in-Cornwall take from that?

Stop thinking, start walking, and sooner or later you'll run into a kindred spirit - it's happened before, it will happen again! After all it is said that apparently at least 50% of the population of Cornwall has emigrated here from 'upcountry' - just like us - so there's got to be some genetic code resonation to be had somewhere in this incredible place.


Thursday 4 November 2010

Cows may safely graze

It's been an eventful couple of days which began yesterday with a visit to Farmer Chris and his new calf, Barney.  Barney's Mum, Marge, is having a spot of bother following the birth of her second (elder brother Harold is a beast now at 6 months old) and Chris is feeding Barney by bottle twice daily, in the barn.

Spotting a sucker for anything small (ish) and furry, he very kindly invited me to help with the feed when I popped up to meet Barney and Marge.

'Put your wellies on' he said. 'You do have wellies don't you?'

Funnily enough my brown wellies with retro sprig flower print are the most sensible thing to actually have made it out of the garage (where all the sensible things are still stored in boxes) and into the house (where all the ridiculous things are spilling out of the boxes struggling to find a home and generally causing a health and safety hazard.

Wellies donned I head for the Barn at the appointed time. Chris doesn't use gates, he climbs over them - which I duly do to, thinking 'when in Rome' and proceed to sink up to my ankles in the mud.  His caravan sits in the middle of this mud and I can see why he prioritises the large screen tv and not the house work!  I wouldn't bother either if I lived in a tin boax floating in the middle of a swamp!

Barney and Marge are asleep.

I hold the milk while Chris climbs in and gently lifts the calf and moves him away from Mum.  It seems that, especially with a stranger in the pen, Marge might get a bit protective of the bottle feeding.

At 4 days old Barney is still a wee bit wobbly on his feet and stumbles on his long gangly legs to get to the bottle and get his breakfast.  It went down very quickly and when he'd finished it he started head butting my tummy.



' He's looking for the teat' says Farmer Chris.

I remember a trick I used with my god-son Ted when he was also tiny and frustrated at the end of the bottle and I held out my fingers.

It struck me the power of nature - how exciting it is to be living so close to it - this 4 day old creature just following his instincts, and how much we could learn from following ours too.

There's so much frustration in our lives - too much food, too little exercise, not enough sleep.

Cows just eat when they are hungry, sleep when they want to, and spend their days minding their own business.  They just get on with it.  I'm glad I am human, that I have the capacity to think, and reflect and take something new from each day.  And today, among other things, I have realised quite how far I have come from a darkish place I was in a few years ago.

Today I have made two batches of apple sauce, cleaned out the fireplace, taken Tilly for a long walk, and now the Mr is lighting a fire and radio 4 is chuntering the background whilst she tucks into a bone (on the newly hoovered carpet....) and the rabbit is hopping about hopefully hunting for a cable he hasn't yet had a go at chewing.

Yes, I think, I am going to like this new life.

Monday 1 November 2010

Life begins.... tomorrow!

Its funny how distance distorts time - a major life shift changes your perception of the world and suddenly the familiar disappears into the ether and you find yourself in a surreal dream 300 miles down the road.

The characters are the same - it's definitely you, your clothes, your toothbrush, your favourite mug.  Yup,  its definitely Tilly-dog - and absolutely the correct husband (do I really have one? Was that really 5 months ago?)

I remember Saturday morning - a van load, a house clean, a day at work. Getting used to being a white van man (loving the bouncy seat!) a long drive home to the mater, a bit of a catastrophe with an up-turned paint can in the van, 6 rolls of kitchen towel and 4 hours of cleaning, fireworks, halloween, a job application, collection of atable, delivery of a bed and a 300 mile drive...

Arrival.  A cup of tea.  Yes.  Much needed.

A trip to the new studio to deliver the van load (in the dark).  The empty Victorian Bakery, the long corridors - signs of life in the day and yet just me and the Mr, secretly unloading through a side door.  Its raining.  I feel like a burglar - trespassing.  A long walk down the corridor - and we get to the studio door.

And there it is - my name, my logo, a freshly glossed crisp white door.

Original floorboards re-invigorated - a bespoke desk long enough to keep my machines up ALL THE TIME (this is tremendously exciting).  I go in.  I turn around - the most beautiful shade of duck egg blue on the wall (matched to my logo I later discover).  Hours and hours of work - and I get a flood of mixed emotion.  He's worked so hard - he's done this for me and this is it!  The place where its all going to happen - Annalise Harvey Bespoke Bridal Design  is born.  I catch a glimpse of clients to come - my mind is filled with where to put shelves - how to un pack - and tingling excitement at just having my own space - in which to be, and make, and create.


And then a tinge of pressure - of fear, of what if? and how can I? and will I be able to?  The terror of knowing I have to.  Failure is not an option....


Well I must say that was enough for one weekend.  I have spent most of my first day asleep - well I must have needed it!


Life can begin properly tomorrow.