Bearing Up

Well hello to you!

Now before you start, yes, I know I said Thursday. What I hadn’t accounted for was being ridiculously upset on said day and feeling lower than an ant’s trouser department, which made me not want to do anything, least of all blog. I’m still far from chipper, but in logging last night’s minor adventure for myself, I thought I might share it with you:

I’ve had two late nights in a row now. Wednesday night was extreme crying until at least 1am, so much so that my nose got all swollen, and I had to get out of bed to sort myself out and calm down before I could breathe properly. Last night I toddled up at 10.20pm, wanting the oblivion of sleep to wash away the pain of the day. The chap next door is in his eighties and quite deaf, so he does have his TV on a bit loud most of the time, and (respecting his age) I tolerate it. Yesterday he seemed to have cranked it up to eleven. There isn’t a room in the house that I can escape it! As I work when I feel like it, (late nights; weekends; late nights on weekends) it can be a distraction, but it’s generally over by bedtime. On this occasion it was blaring through the bedroom wall and I could not relax. I applied earplugs to no avail. Bits of foam wedged into each ear that vaguely block the noise, but make your internal workings all the louder are not conducive to sleep either. An hour later and there was no sign of movement nor decrease in volume, I began to think. He is usually quiet by now. Why hasn’t the sound stopped? Has he dozed off in front of the telly? Or worse…

Egged on by a mate I was texting who has an elderly parent in a similar situation, I levered myself away from the soft, warm duvet and put some day clothes over my ‘jamas. I tried to get a better idea of the situation by jamming my ear against the wall. Though loud, I couldn’t hear exactly what it was. It sounded incredibly dull, with lots of arguing. From my shower room, I got that it was BBC One, which means I had endured the news and then Question Time. The programme ended and another began. Now Millicent Martin bounced off my eardrums clearly, singing “That Was the Week That Was”, heralding not a cheerful retrospective but another boring debate, this time about This Week. I listened carefully – no movement. No change of channel. I was going to have to go outside.

Typically it was peeing down with rain and windier than a baked bean eaters’ convention. And me, all squashy and vulnerable. Not ideal conditions.

Make it stop!

I checked the front of his house – all was darkness. I went round the back of my house and onto the treacherously slippery decking, and yes, there was one light on in what I assume is his sitting room, though it could be the kitchen. I could also hear the TV through the double glazing. Back at the front, I noted that the outer door was slightly open. I let myself in and further noted that the bag of goodies I’d left on his mat earlier that day (when he’d not answered the door) had gone. This was a good sign. All the same, I needed to attract his attention now.

The problem was that I was worried - was I doing the right thing? If he had indeed fallen asleep (which I considered most likely), would he thank me for disturbing him? If it was more serious, well… was it my business? Was I being snoopy or over-sensitive? With the usual deluge of self-doubt pouring down, I executed two bouts of knocking and three of hammering, leaving a good couple of minutes between each to give him a chance to respond. I was aware of how late it was, and how I didn’t want to disturb anybody else either. All this held me back from really pounding on the glass.

With no response here, I decided to try the back. Back garden access on my street is made through the house itself. (Mine is an exception, with a gate at the side, but even then, you have to go down to the front of the house first, so it’s not that discreetly done.) For the second time, I skated about on the decking, now armed with a hastily-grabbed torch. I slid down the slimy steps, and onto my gravel for the first time in months. (Good grief, I need to mow that lawn...) I wouldn’t have been able to get to his back door had it not been for the gap in our adjoining fence. I had to take lots of deep breaths as by now I was going into Scaredy Lizzie mode, but I managed to brace myself enough to squeeze through and plop myself down into the strange garden. Because we’re all on a hill, the window of the room I assumed he was in was too high for me to knock on it, so I went up the stairs and hammered on yet another door.

There's A Light (Over at the Mutton Chap's Place)

It felt futile. I was probably just as far away as I had been at the front. By now it was past midnight, and here I was standing outside someone else’s home, exposed to the elements, unable to feel my fingers and very mindful of the fact that I was carrying a torch and making lots of noise. Would I catch some other apprehensive neighbour’s attention? Would I end up ruining a night’s sleep for someone else? And still the voices from the television droned on through the window. Was the man behind it asleep for the night, or for eternity?  It was all too much for me. I had been quite strong so far. Now I gave in, and had a good blub all the way back to the bottom of my stairs, where I plonked myself behind my telephone and dialled 101.

The non-emergency operator lady was lovely. I did my best Acting Lizzie voice, pushing the tears to the side for the time being. I explained the situation, seeking reassurance that I was doing the right thing. She said that I was, and that they could send someone round to do a welfare check on him. After taking details, that was how it was left. She’d call me with the outcome; I’d call her if anything changed. I sat on the bottom step, drained and tired. I was just wondering what I was going to do for the next sixty-minutes-maybe-longer of waiting when suddenly… could it be? Yes, I was sure… the debating voices were hushed. The volume had dropped.

I leapt to my feet and into my shower room, where, on pressing my ear to the chilly tiles it was confirmed. I don’t think I’ve ever been so relieved to hear a neighbour coughing through the wall! Before I could dial 101 to relate my news, the phone rang and it was Non-Emergency Lady saying yes indeed, all was well. Apparently, she’d called him and he’d answered, saying he was all right, he’d just been relaxing. (Relaxing rather loudly, but I’ll let that go…) I said I’d be having words with him in the morning, some of which would be “Please can I have your phone number”!

So that was that. An unasked for, unrequired adventure that saw me finally turn the light out at 1.30am, feeling hollow and lonelier than ever. Of course I was riddled with self-doubt, hoping that I hadn’t angered him or anyone else, and still questioning if my actions hadn't been over-the-top. I will go round to see him and ask that he’s mindful of late-night TV loudness. More importantly, I will say that I was concerned, and I might be concerned in the future, and I hope he’s OK with that, because that appears to be what he's stuck with. Maybe we can put something in place should the situation occur again.

Seeking solace in Abbraccio's abbraccio

Many lonesome folk turn to animals for company. The stereotypical spinster is surrounded by cats. That seems somewhat of a cliché, and you know me - I avoid clichés like the plague. (Ha) I also avoid having to look after anything living. I can barely keep myself let alone anything else. Even my basil plants die horrible shrivelly deaths; shivering unwatered on a cold windowsill while I am out gallivanting. (Or in gallivanting - on the sofa with a rug over my legs. Rock and roll.) But yes, sometimes I need company so I have the next best thing to an animate object: an anthropomorphised inanimate one. Ladies and gentlemen, please put your paws together for Abbraccio.

The bear himself. Probably saying "What time do you call this then?" as I roll in at an unbearly hour.

If you parla Italiano, you will notice that his name translates as “cuddle”. (Sounds like “embrace” – see?) We bought him for Nonna (my Italian gran) after she said she’d never owned a ted in her whole eighty years, and we gave him to her on Christmas day 1993. She spent many of the following months in and out of hospital, and eventually passed away in July 1994. I still miss her. She was a wonderful lady.

Anyhow, we had to undertake the difficult job of emptying her flat. For some reason, I was there on my own, standing amid all her possessions, just as she had left them, knowing that soon we would be going through them and making decisions as to their futures. I felt her absence strongly. Looking around, I noticed the big, white bear we’d given her at the start of the year. I grabbed him and held onto him tightly. It turned out that he was excellent at that. So I christened him then and there, and became his new guardian.

He always hogs the selfies...

...but he gives great hug.

Our relationship hasn’t always been as intense as it is now, owing to the fact that I have had other, more human (no comments please) sub-duvet partners over the last couple of decades. The poor thing ended up being relegated to the attic room I sleep in when I visit my folks and remained there, uncuddled, for a very long time. Last year, I popped over to theirs to do some tidying and bringing back of stuff to fill my new abode. I was there on my own, standing amid all these possessions, feeling lost and needing comfort. Looking around, I noticed the big, white bear that I had abandoned years before. True, he was less white, more grey, but who isn’t after twenty years? I grabbed him and held onto him tightly. He came back home with me, on the passenger seat of my car and now (after a traumatic washing machine episode) is who I cling to at night when I need to be clung. He makes no demands on me (other than that can it be twenty more years until he has to go into that nasty, wet, spinny thing again) just lets me hold him and sometimes blub into his fur. He doesn’t contravene my tenancy agreement, I don’t have to remember feed him, and he doesn’t mind being ignored. (I hope.) If it makes me a loony then fine. I can bear it.

Now, I’d love to write in gushing prose about the fun I had performing with my band Bluestone at TMTG’s Twelfth Night Party, but I’m not in the right mindset for celebration, so I’ll leave that for now.

I was also going to write a bit about procrastination, but I’ll do that another time. Maybe. 

Will that ever get written? What does hearing Question Time through a wall do to a person's will to live? Will Abbraccio ever forgive Lizzie for the indignity of his post-wash drying position? And will Lizzie be strong enough to stop hiding away from the world and have a decent weekend? Tune in next week and all will probably not be revealed... 

NB The next Baked Bean Eaters' Convention will be held at twilight on March 21st. Gas masks optional.