Naming of Parts

I've had this going round my head recently:

LESSONS OF THE WAR

To Alan Michell

Vixi duellis nuper idoneus
Et militavi non sine gloria

I. NAMING OF PARTS

To-day we have naming of parts. Yesterday,
We had daily cleaning. And to-morrow morning,
We shall have what to do after firing. But to-day,

To-day we have naming of parts. Japonica

Glistens like coral in all of the neighboring gardens,
          And to-day we have naming of parts.

This is the lower sling swivel. And this
Is the upper sling swivel, whose use you will see,
When you are given your slings. And this is the piling swivel,
Which in your case you have not got. The branches
Hold in the gardens their silent, eloquent gestures,
          Which in our case we have not got.

This is the safety-catch, which is always released
With an easy flick of the thumb. And please do not let me
See anyone using his finger. You can do it quite easy
If you have any strength in your thumb. The blossoms
Are fragile and motionless, never letting anyone see
          Any of them using their finger.

And this you can see is the bolt. The purpose of this
Is to open the breech, as you see. We can slide it
Rapidly backwards and forwards: we call this
Easing the spring. And rapidly backwards and forwards
The early bees are assaulting and fumbling the flowers:
          They call it easing the Spring.

They call it easing the Spring: it is perfectly easy
If you have any strength in your thumb: like the bolt,
And the breech, and the cocking-piece, and the point of balance,
Which in our case we have not got; and the almond-blossom
Silent in all of the gardens and the bees going backwards and forwards,
          For to-day we have naming of parts.

It's by Henry Reed, and he wrote it in 1942.  It has been much parodied (Cakes, Harry Potter (allegedly, although I couldn't find the link), private parts) but despite that I'm not sure that it's lost, for me anyway, any of the power it had when I first read it, aged probably about 13.

Because, and I'm no literary critic so I may be totally wrong, but I've always felt it was about how we often find ourselves focusing on the stuff that doesn't matter, the transient, the trivial, the just plain unimportant.  And at the moment, I'm blogging about poo, and potties, and breech babies, and thinking about paint colours, and fabrics, and whether wooden door knobs are nicer or less nice than metal ones, and whether I really do have to consult B on what wallpaper I choose, or whether the door should go there or *moves two inches to the left* there.

And I'm ignoring the stuff that matters.  Because while I'm blogging or wiping, or choosing or dithering, in Japan we still have no idea how many thousands are dead, and in Libya people are being shot, or raped, or torn apart by dogs.

And I find myself getting incredibly stressed about the fourth wash of the day, or the exact colour of the skirting boards, and then coming too, getting cross with myself and saying utterly sanctimonious things like "Well, does any of this really matter, when entire cities can be washed away in an instant?", which not only makes me sound like some sort of priggish 1930s Angela Brazil heroine, but is also quite insulting, when you think about it, to the builder, who was only asking if I'd chosen the floortiles, and whose livelihood this is, and who is doing (thus far) an excellent job.

I mentioned this to my mother, who was here last weekend, and she, with the common sense for which my mother is famed, said, "Well, yes, but you can do something about what colour your walls are, and you can't do anything about the people who are still homeless in Christchurch."  She's right of course.  I can't do anything about it, but I still somehow feel guilty that my energy and time is being consumed by something so much less important.

So I sit and I stew and I get cross with myself for getting on with my life as though nothing has happened, even though I know that not getting on with my life helps neither those in need elsewhere in the world, or those sitting in a wet puddle on my kitchen floor.

And really what I need to do is get over myself, find one practical thing I can do, do it*, and then step away from the internet.

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*Such as gather up the monthly donations I have been failing to make since October and make them to the Red Cross in the knowledge that they are doing amazing work in all the locations I have mentioned and many more.

Poem taken from http://www.solearabiantree.net.  Thank you.

The Gallery - One ordinary day of astonishing brilliance and banality

I've found this week's Gallery amazingly emotional. 

Tuesday 8th February 2011.  Scottish Borders.

0000*

0736
I know, I know. I'm going.  Out of bed.  B was up and out over an hour ago.  But just ten more minutes, please....? Oh, alright then.

0747
Oh sod it. I'm sure I look fine.

0757
Sunrise over the bypass.   Going to be a lovely day.

0758
First nappy of the day

0810
Wake up L!  She's overslept. Actually, we've all overslept. Now I've got to get them all fed and out in just over half an hour. How bad a parent would I be if I sent them to nursery with no breakfast?

0825
However bad it is, I'm not that bad.  No time for toast though

0854
Everyone out! In the car! Quick, quick, quick!

0915
Back.  Builders have been here since eight.  Pop round to see how they're doing with our new kitchen.

0922
Back inside. Dishwasher loaded. Breakfast table cleared.  What next?  Laundry.

0927
Five minutes for me. Tunnock's teacake and a cup of tea. Who says Scotland doesn't have haute cuisine?  Very proud of my mug too. Lidl's finest.  £2.99 each. Or £5 for two. We decided two was extravagant. Regretting it now though.

0936
Tuesdays are a working day (hence the nursery).  This is my orderly desk.  Aka kitchen table. And yes, I did raid the children's chocolate ten minutes after eating that teacake.  Apparently it's very good for the baby. Or something.

1322

Work half done.  As usual.  Leave it til later.  Meeting with builder and architect about pipes and ducts (eh?  Did they really think I'd have anything to contribute?) fully done. Girls collected, five minutes late as usual.  Right you lot, out. Go and play quietly while Mummy has some lunch. And if I hear any whinging or arguing it's straight to bed. Go!

1328 

Lunchtime. I know it looks disgusting but it was left over and in the fridge and not cheese on toast for a change (Nigel Slater Chicken and Bean Casserole if you're interested).  Actually it was delicious. 

Sneak in ten more minutes work before the fighting starts.  Little ones off to bed. Protesting.

1413

Remember the laundry.  And the dishwasher.

1423

Convince L, briefly, that she wants to play a "game".  Finish playing the "game" by myself.

1542

Play L's game.  She is a bird.  I am, apparently, a caterpillar.  I am required to wear the green spiral thing. Not a good look with a bump.

1601

Accede to a request for "big painting".  Wonder where "big painting" is going to be possible when we have floors we actually like.

1628

Big painting lasts about ten minutes.  Clearing up takes rather longer.  "Ticking" now the activity of choice.

1648

Universal whinging indicates imminent starvation.  I attempt to resist the lure of CBeebies and cook with girls hanging off three of my limbs.  Fail. Give in.  This is happening more and more often.  Feel guilty.

1722

Builders gone. Sneak out to inspect their handiwork leaving children eating, unsupervised. Bad parent. Builders still have a way to go but am unfeasibly excited by a big hole.

1725

Three empty plates equals one happy mummy.

1744

Tidy up time. Allegedly.

1837

B home.  Bathtime.  So much easier with two.

 

1854

Dry, dressed, into bed

1855

B is reading L's story.  I have A&S.  L chooses The House at Pooh Corner.  I have definitely drawn the short straw.

1938

All quiet from upstairs. Supper cooked and eaten. B out rehearsing.  Time to do that work I didn't get done earlier.

Decide I am feeling post-modern instead.

2312

B off to Rome at 3 am tomorrow morning (via Amsterdam as apparently you can't fly direct to Rome from either Newcastle or Edinburgh.  Oddly).  Packing time.  This is everything he needs (minus the sponge bage of course) for three days.

 

 

2359* 

All quiet.  So far.

Dull, wasn't it? Very like the day before, in fact. And, if my sister weren't coming to stay, very like today would be.  Very like most of my days, and, I suspect most of the days of many other women (and a good few men) nation-, if not world-, wide.

So why did I find it emotional?  The problem is, taking the pictures made me think about what I was doing, rather than simply getting through, getting by, getting on.  And I realised how mundane my life is. How full of little, unimportant, repetitive tasks.  How full of "must do this" and "no, not now" and "in a minute". And how, when I do have half an hour to spare, how little time I actually spend interracting with my children, sitting down and playing with them, doing what they want to do when they want to do it.  They asked to do painting, but I can't honestly say I'd have agreed if I hadn't known it would be a good photo.

It makes me want to weep.  I'm not sure how I got here.   I'm not sure I'm being the mother I want to be. I'm not sure, sometimes, that I'm living the life I want to live, even if I'm also not sure that being in London, being a lawyer, being stuck on the tube, or in a meeting, would feel any less dull, less mundane, less banal.

But when I stopped feeling self-pitying, I also realised how happy some of this quotidian life makes me. How amazing my children are.  How lucky I am to live in this beautiful place, in this beautiful house (or it will be).  How incredible it is that I have the choice to work when I want to, and am not tied to the nine to five, Monday to Friday.

So although it was dull, and it was pedestrian, it was, and is, also my 24 hours. My day. My life.

*Actually, that's artistic licence.  It was actually about half past ten, but midnight (or indeed one minute to midnight) isn't a time of day I voluntarily see very often anymore. I can't imagine it looked much different to this though.

What's in your kitchen (and what should I have in mine?)

The most expensive thing I've ever bought is a house.

The second most expensive thing I've ever bought, is, you guessed it, the old house.

The third most expensive thing I've ever bought (by a significant distance, I hasten to add) is, I think, about to be a kitchen...

The people were here today. They've got lots of whizz-bangy, exciting, state-of-the-art, hideously expensive ideas.  I've got some too, but not as many as they do.

So, before I look pleadingly at B, sign on the dotted line and head off to seduce the bank manager, I'd love some help:

What's in your kitchen? What's not in your kitchen but you wish it was?  What should I have (and, perhaps more importantly, what should I not have) in mine?

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The picture is not my current kitchen (funnily enough)... in fact it's Mary Berry's and is from the Beautiful Kitchens Blog for which thank you.  Needless to say, it's rather larger than mine.