33. A letter to Terry ✒️ #1
When rain put paid to both walking and writing, but at least I got the grass cut.
Dear Reader,
You’ll find this limited-edition post a little different to my regular offerings!
My fellow Substacker
of and I are starting an informal correspondence about the things that BritsThis is the first in a series of six letters (three each way) over a period of three weeks. My letters to Terry will appear on Thursdays, and if you subscribe to Eclecticism you’ll be able to read Terry’s Sunday replies.
In the meantime, my regular ‘Dear Reader, I’m lost’ posts will of course continue to appear as usual on Saturday mornings.
I hope you enjoy reading our very British exchanges!
Love,
Rebecca
Dear Terry,
Do you even feel like writing at the moment? How does your muse – muse! I never thought I’d say that out loud! – feel when it’s so cold and dark and wet? Have you dared put the heating on? I mean, I know it’s cold enough, but is there a rule at Freedman Towers for when the calendar determines it acceptable to tweak the boiler timer and thermostat to a bearable level? If only bearable temperature equalled bearable cost! We managed without until early November, but now that Christmas is banging on the door I’m afraid it’s a done deal: we’ve long since chosen survival over shivering.
Even when I’m warm enough to feel like writing, I’m sad that I don’t seem to have so much to write about in winter. Until recently my regular newsletters had been fuelled by at least half-decent weather and long hours of daylight, so what am I supposed to do now, when I don’t want to strap on my muddy gaiters and stride out to not get myself lost in driving rain and ankle-deep puddles while I’m trying to find things to write about?
I’ve given up on the chilly office to write this letter this evening – I’m downstairs, sitting on the sofa that’s far too low for me with a fleecy blanket over my knees listening to the squally rain banging onto the walls and roof of the conservatory just the other side of the coffee table. Who even invented the conservatory? Who wants noisy uPVC and glass making up three whole walls and a roof, then some grubby exposed bricks and a sliding door and a concrete floor that’s even more freezing than the rest of the space?
I don’t.
No, that’s ungrateful of me. I mean, it’s lovely to have it, but it’s just not my favourite part of the house in December! Nor in a warm July, come to think of it. I mean, I can mostly cope with the ill-fitting window joints and the woodlice in summer, but at this time of year those joints leak actual water and the woodlice give way to slugs. Slugs, Terry! I really don’t mind most creepy crawlies, but I draw the line at gastropods. In an ideal world I’d win the lottery, knock the conservatory down and rebuild it from scratch with a solid roof, but, well, I’m sorely lacking in vision for projects when it’s so dark and dingy. I’m just not feeling it.
Still, when I looked out of the conservatory windows yesterday morning at least the garden was looking spick and span – lovely, in fact, because we’ve just had the hedges cut. I’d been wanting to cut the grass for weeks before that, after that really warm October spell had sent the grass into lush overdrive, but I’d held off because although it had been warm it was also wet.
Encouraged by the extra space we’ve gained from the hedge trimming I had seized the opportunity presented by an unexpectedly bright afternoon the other day to lug the battery-powered mower out of the shed and onto the soggy lawn. Our garden is small, so under normal circumstances it’s rare that the battery ever runs out before I’ve finished, but thanks to the mower’s insistence in sinking further into the soft ground with every step I had to recharge the thing twice. Each charge took a whole cup of tea’s worth of time to accomplish, so it was nearly dark when I gave up mowing for the day. I’m afraid there’s still a 6ft x 4ft patch that I didn’t get to before the battery conked out for the third time, but there was no way I was going to plug the demanding thing in again! That lawn’s no cricket pitch, but bad light absolutely stopped play.
Still, it’s looking presentable now, and with a bit of luck the promised frosts will mean that I won’t need to cut the grass again now until February, by which time the mower might even deign to be more gracious. Cross your fingers for me, won’t you?
I’m hoping for a crisp-outside, cosy-inside Christmas, like the best kind of roast potato. Do you reckon we’ll get any snow? No, I know. I bet (ha!) there are people who still have a flutter on there being a white Christmas, although I doubt it’s ever worth it these days. I love Christmas – although I’m newly disappointed every year to not still be eight – and this year will be the first time we’ll all have got together since 2019. And gosh, that Christmas had been our first-ever time hosting the family ourselves – don’t repeat this, but I don’t know whether to condemn or thank the festive chaser of the Covid pandemic for having put the kibosh on a second consecutive bash at that game! No, I’m joking - that first Christmas here was rather nice, so I’m actually quietly looking forward to the next time it’s our turn. Don’t repeat that either, Terry!
It’s still raining. The less pessimistic more optimistic side of me is prompting me to go out for a walk in the morning in an effort to generate some ideas for my next post, and even if it’s not raining I’ll be togged up to the nines in wet weather gear. Just in case, right? I’ve only just packed away the ankle gaiters which had been my first defence against squashed flies and prickly grass seeds in the summer in favour of my old knee-high Peter Storm pair, which are great when it’s so puddly out there. It was a job to put my hands on them, actually – they’d sunk almost without trace in that untidy heap of crusty walking paraphernalia by the back door. (I’d hoped to find my gloves in there, too, but I’ve still no idea where those have got to.)
You know, it’s been so long since I’d last worn the Peter Storm gaiters that I’d forgotten what a death-trap they are. It took my first winter walk in them to remind me in dangerous fashion that if I don’t tuck the elastic tightening loops inside them they swing so long and free that I end up getting caught on brambles and sticks and what-not, or attaching one – or even both – of my legs – to whichever stile I’m trying to get over. And it’s not just a safety issue: what about my pride? I swear that passing dog-walker was laughing as she watched me trying to untwang myself from my stretchy prison last week.
Terry, how do I even find something to write about in this revolting weather when the last thing I want to do is get out in it? No-one can write in a soggy notebook.
Today I’ve stuck to writing about the weather from the cheeky comfort of my sofa, but I’m looking forward to the prospect of some decent walking on crisper, sunnier days in the run-up to Christmas. I reckon pretty soon I’ll have the chance to get lost in frost – although I’d better find those missing gloves first, hadn’t I?
Do keep warm (and dry)!
All the very best,
Rebecca
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Thank you for reading this limited-edition ‘Dear Terry’ letter! If you’d like to follow my continuing correspondence with my fellow countryman over the next three weeks as we discuss the British weather, keep your eyes peeled on
for Terry’s reply. My response to his letter will be published here next Thursday.My next ‘Dear Reader, I’m lost’ post will be published as usual on Saturday. See you then! In the meantime, if you’d like to, please share and subscribe for free.
I felt cozy just reading this. Loved this line especially: "a crisp-outside, cosy-inside Christmas, like the best kind of roast potato." Also: I too find myself disappointed that I'm no longer 8 years old!
Er, sorry, Rebecca, do I know you? I don't often receive letters from strange women, or indeed any women. I shall reply on Sunday then. Thanks! <Aside: Though this be madness, yet there is method in't.>