Grave matters
This morning Mum had arranged to see a relative called Roy in La Criox Guerin, a nearby cafe. I had opted out of this encounter as the conversation was mainly about the deaths, and how a distant cousin of mine had just had a double amputation.
Had an email from Jane detailing her and Richard's end of the famous poetry evening. Apparently Richard bruised his ribs falling into bed, a fact which makes me feel curiously comforted.
As a preparation for her meeting I went with Mum to the graveyard. Here we looked at several graves of family members, including a fresh one for Sadie, my grandfather's sister-in-law. I'd not seen Sadie for some time, but she had been kind to me as a child. Especially when my Grandmother had been summoned to England one year when I was 12 as her sister had died suddenly. My grandfather refused to cook, so I was promoted to chef and cooked for him and Toby. Sadie came around once or twice to see if I was coping, and offer advice on the finer points of cooking of potatoes.
I want my ashes to be tipped off Icart point when the time comes.
Mum and I ended up having yet another walk, this time threading behind St Martin's parish church through the back lanes to town. I again found lanes I'd never been down. Once in town, at the bus station, I kept a keen eye out for the bus with my poem in it, which Betty had spotted the other day.
In the evening went out to La Bella Luce for a nice meal. Really good duck starter served with chives and mango, and black bream main course. The puddings were not up to the same standard however. Mum and I were talking about my Grandmother and the war, and about Norah who had been in London with my mother and grandmother during the war, and were in an air raid shelter when the shop my grandmother ran was bombed.
Mum insisted on another walk to Icart point in the dark. I love walking in the dark as a rule, and it was great to hear the wind seething like the sea through the pines, and then stand (carefully) at the edge of the cliff and look out to sea towards the Crapaud's isle.
Once in a blue moon I wonder what Jersey is like. For while I have lived in Guernsey and have visited Guernsey more than 100 times, I have never set foot on Jersey apart from half an hour on its airport when I was a kid.
But Mum went there for one day once and didn't like it, so that's good enough for me.
Email from Kate Shaw asking me to go to events before interviewing Pete Posthlethwaite this Wednesday. Typical.
Spoke to Lorraine late, as she had been out to listen to a night of music written by Leonard Cohen and others in which she fell asleep. Sam is catsitting Calliope well, and he has trained her not to wake him up before 9am, which is splendid.
Below a Guernsey lobster on the board outside The Captains, and some falling down glasshouses round the corner from La rue des Grons on Saints Road, which were full of Guernsey tomatoes and weird gourds when I was a nipper.
This morning Mum had arranged to see a relative called Roy in La Criox Guerin, a nearby cafe. I had opted out of this encounter as the conversation was mainly about the deaths, and how a distant cousin of mine had just had a double amputation.
Had an email from Jane detailing her and Richard's end of the famous poetry evening. Apparently Richard bruised his ribs falling into bed, a fact which makes me feel curiously comforted.
As a preparation for her meeting I went with Mum to the graveyard. Here we looked at several graves of family members, including a fresh one for Sadie, my grandfather's sister-in-law. I'd not seen Sadie for some time, but she had been kind to me as a child. Especially when my Grandmother had been summoned to England one year when I was 12 as her sister had died suddenly. My grandfather refused to cook, so I was promoted to chef and cooked for him and Toby. Sadie came around once or twice to see if I was coping, and offer advice on the finer points of cooking of potatoes.
I want my ashes to be tipped off Icart point when the time comes.
Mum and I ended up having yet another walk, this time threading behind St Martin's parish church through the back lanes to town. I again found lanes I'd never been down. Once in town, at the bus station, I kept a keen eye out for the bus with my poem in it, which Betty had spotted the other day.
In the evening went out to La Bella Luce for a nice meal. Really good duck starter served with chives and mango, and black bream main course. The puddings were not up to the same standard however. Mum and I were talking about my Grandmother and the war, and about Norah who had been in London with my mother and grandmother during the war, and were in an air raid shelter when the shop my grandmother ran was bombed.
Mum insisted on another walk to Icart point in the dark. I love walking in the dark as a rule, and it was great to hear the wind seething like the sea through the pines, and then stand (carefully) at the edge of the cliff and look out to sea towards the Crapaud's isle.
Once in a blue moon I wonder what Jersey is like. For while I have lived in Guernsey and have visited Guernsey more than 100 times, I have never set foot on Jersey apart from half an hour on its airport when I was a kid.
But Mum went there for one day once and didn't like it, so that's good enough for me.
Email from Kate Shaw asking me to go to events before interviewing Pete Posthlethwaite this Wednesday. Typical.
Spoke to Lorraine late, as she had been out to listen to a night of music written by Leonard Cohen and others in which she fell asleep. Sam is catsitting Calliope well, and he has trained her not to wake him up before 9am, which is splendid.
Below a Guernsey lobster on the board outside The Captains, and some falling down glasshouses round the corner from La rue des Grons on Saints Road, which were full of Guernsey tomatoes and weird gourds when I was a nipper.
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