I don’t think I’d make a good writer. I only seem to be able to write when I’m in the mood. I’ve read that people who do this sort of thing for a living will sit down at a desk everyday and will not stop writing until they’ve reached, say, 1000 words. I’m not like that. If I’m in the mood the words just seem to fall out of my head through my fingertips and onto the screen. And you get me just speaking to you in the written word, as you can see. And although I’ve done quite a few things over the past week, I’ve not been in the mood for writing anything, so now I’ve got a bit of a backlog. Things will appear out of sync, probably, over the next few days, as I try and catch up with myself.
I was a bit out of sorts I suppose as it had been mother’s day back home in the UK and I hadn’t heard anything from my offspring all day. Facebook is not good in these circumstances as you can see friends with doting children who display their lovely bouquets of flowers, discuss their breakfasts in bed and the fantastic meals they had had with their parents. My family is 6,ooo miles away, and 7 or 8 hours behind depending on whether we are talking about the child who is working in the French Alps or the one who is studying for a degree in London. The latter did remember three hours before the end of Sunday, UK time, so I got a Happy Mother’s Day message when I’d woke up on Monday morning, which although commendable, isn’t quite the same thing. The former had last communicated with a long email (most unusual) the previous week when he was cadging £250 to recover costs for a trip to London for a funeral as he’d missed his flight due to an avalanche in the mountains. (Why he was skiing on the day he was travelling beats me).
It’s my own fault I suppose. I’ve brought them up to be independent; too independent. I didn’t want them to be the sort of children that got to the end of their school days and then set off round the world on a gap year never having been on public transport in their lives. And for a while when they were young teenagers, after my surgeon had described my breast cancer as “very serious”, we weren’t too sure that I was going to be around by this time of their lives anyway, so being able to sort themselves out became critical. Maybe when they get older and have their own children, they might decide that contacting their mother on Mother’s Day or her birthday might be a good idea. Who knows?
In 2 weeks time it’s the Qingming Festival – Grave Sweeping Day – here in China, another national holiday – and people spend time with their ancestors, making a bit of a party of things. Richard’s mother’s ashes were buried in November 2013 in a lovely spot in Hurley churchyard and I know he is going to find it difficult on Qingming, as he would love to be back in Hurley on that public holiday. I too would love to have such a special spot where I could go and think of my mother, but when she died 15 years ago my father refused to follow her wishes for a burial, claiming that after he’d died there would be no-one locally to tend to the grave. He is following one of his questionable family traditions of not getting round to do anything with a loved one’s ashes. He scattered those of his father (and perhaps his mother, no-one is quite sure as when it was up-ended it was her name on the bottom of the urn) something like 35 years after he died and some 50 years after she did. His sister, my aunt, had handed the urn to him as one of her dying wishes as she had never got round to travelling back Up North and scattering them over the moors above Blackburn herself.
Xinhongqiao Central Garden
So after a busy weekend, I was feeling out of sorts and after a pyjama day (a post-cancer thing) all I could manage was a meander down to see what was happening in our local park. It seems that the Shanghai urban planners have really put a lot of thought into providing large green spaces within walking distance of all its residents. And like every park I’ve been to in Shanghai, things were happening. People were fishing in the large lake where I saw quite a big fish being landed. Someone was walking backwards – where did some of the Chinese get the thought that walking (or running) backwards is a good idea? I think two possible sources of this idea are from the UK: The Goon Show song – I’m Walking Backwards for Christmas or Merton College Oxford’s Time Ceremony which takes place at 2am on the last Sunday of October. The proponents believe that by walking backwards (while in academic dress and drinking copious amounts of port) they are saving the universe by
Jogging Track
stabilising the space-time continuum as the clocks go back at the end of British Summertime. Perhaps the Chinese heard about this and the whole process got lost in translation: the concept that walking backwards would turn back time and therefore make you younger. British silliness does end up here, Mr Bean is very popular. The park has its own jogging track – they have just laid a spongy surface on top of part of the ordinary path that runs all the way around the edge of the park.
Coat hook
Badminton
Old People Exercising
There are poles dotted around on which you can hang your belongings whilst you exercise and any number of people can play badminton – you don’t need a net to knock a shuttlecock back and forth. Quite a few old people were exercising – they have a tendency to stand facing a group of trees to block out anyone else around them.
Gardeners Removing Moss
Magnolia
Judicious pruning
The gardeners have been busy. They were removing moss – the only green bit – from the lawns whilst I was there. And as with all parks I’ve been to in Shanghai there has been careful thought put into mass plantings and flowering trees. I even found out what I should be doing with a nondescript shrub in our garden at Fordwich – pruning it tightly every summer means that the new red spring growth makes the plant highly decorative.
Wisteria Trees
There are lilac trees that will be in flower shortly and I can’t wait to see these, what I think are wisteria trees, in bloom.
I ended up at the Park’s cafe where I ordered oolong tea and spent a comfortable hour listening to the birds and watching the world go by – a couple of groups of men playing cards and the lady on the next table knitting the sleeve of a pink jersey – as I topped up my teapot with the hot water provided and felt at peace with the world.
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