Long covid

 Hi Everyone,

I realise that I've been a bit quiet for a while. Tbh, the pandemic really scared the life out of me. Having been told by my doctors that if I got the flu, it would kill me. I was convinced that if I got covid, I would die. Can you imagine the relief I felt when I got covid, and it was just like a mild flu? Fast forward a year, and I'm now using a mobility scooter as my leg muscles have become incredibly weak. Apparently there's a long covid syndrome where the virus has damaged the muscles in the legs. It takes 12 weeks to manifest itself, and that's exactly what happened to me. I had covid, mildly, in July last year, and in October I left my house to walk to Cogges, and my legs felt like they'd lost all power. 

I tried physiotherapy, but my legs got weaker. I also tried pushing myself, by trying to keep going. But my legs got worse. Eventually, the physiotherapist referred me to the long covid clinic. My gp is sympathetic, but has offered no help, even my Lupus consultant has offered no help. 

There's at least a year's wait to be seen at the long covid clinic. Meanwhile, I'm trying my best to keep going and live the best life I can. 

I'm aware that the longer I don't walk, the harder it can be at my age, to get it back. But what can I do? I also know that I'm only one of a very large list of people suffering from long covid, in an NHS, that is struggling. 

I'm lucky really. I can afford to buy a mobility scooter, albeit a reconditioned one, and I have a very supportive network. But I just wanted to write this to highlight that, covid is not just like the flu. It can have serious implications for the future. 

I don't know what else to say. Except, please think twice about getting your jabs, and doing all you can to protect your vulnerable friends and relatives. 

A New Short Story

A few weeks ago, before the coronavirus hit, I wrote this short story. I sent it off to a Writer's Magazine short story competition. The same one that, A Twist of Fate, had been short-listed in previously. I wasn't as successful this time, but as it's the first story, or even anything, I've written apart from assignments, in over two years, I guess it's not really surprising. The story is based on a strange encounter I had on a cruise. But the characters are completely fictional.

But I thought I'd share it here anyway. The feed back I got was positive. I'd made a few grammatical errors, but she said the dialogue was, 'well crafted', the opening had a hook that made you want to read on, that she enjoyed reading the story. She concluded that, 'it needed work, but had potential.' I'll take that. So her it is. Grab a tea or coffee, sit back and I hope you enjoy it.

The Promise.

Harriet sat huddled in a deck chair, a light breeze ruffled her short, auburn hair and her hazel eyes stared towards the horizon. The early morning sun warmed her pale cheeks, bringing the promise of another glorious day. Lost in thought, she was oblivious to the beauty of the Mediterranean Sea, calm now after the previous night’s storm; the haunting cry of the shearwaters following the ship the only sound breaking the silence. Harriet knew the peace wouldn’t last for long, but she was making the most of this moment of solitude. She was slowly getting used to being on her own, but the feeling of emptiness deep in the pit of her stomach seemed just as strong.

‘Good morning. Another glorious day and the air feels so fresh after last night’s horrendous storm.’

Startled, Harriet looked up. Standing in front of her was a woman of about sixty years old, the beaming smile on her round face matching the twinkle in her blue eyes. Her white hair was cut in a short pixy style. She was dressed in a white t-shirt, emblazoned with the face of a black cat which stretched over her ample bosom, white Bermuda shorts and matching white trainers.

‘Yes, I suppose it is,’ she replied, turning her gaze to look up at the cloudless sky.

‘I’ve never seen anything like it; both sheet and fork lightning at the same

time. It was like a grotesque theatrical show where Zeus and Poseidon were fighting for dominance of the sea. It was quite breath-taking. Oh listen to me prattling on. My husband tells me off for boring complete strangers. I’m Jean by the way.’

‘I’m Harriet,’ pleased to meet you.’

‘Well I’d better be getting on. I’m trying to do several circuits of the jogging

track before the serious runners appear. Lovely to meet you, Harriet. We’ll probably keep bumping into each other now,’ laughed Jean, as she started to jog on the spot, before setting off towards the stern of the ship.

‘Bye,’ called Harriet, as she watched Jean begin to power walk, her plump

arms jiggling as she swung them backwards and forwards. Harriet couldn’t help smiling.

Later that evening Harriet walked into the piano bar. She loved the smell of the polished wood of the bar. The walls, with their round, bottle-bottom shaped glass pretend portholes, made her feel as if she was on an old fashioned clipper instead of a modern cruise ship. She ordered a gin and tonic and made her way to one of the small round tables set back against the wall. The evening quiz was about to begin, but Harriet was quite content to just observe.

            ‘Coo-ee, Harriet. Don’t sit there on your own. Come and join us.’

            Harriet’s heart sank at the sound of the shrill voice of Bronwyn, one of the guests at her dinner table. She was one of those people who complained about everything and Harriet just wasn’t in the mood to have to listen to it. She thought about making some excuse and leaving, but struggled to come up with anything plausible.

            ‘Oh there you are, Harriet. Sorry I’m late. I had a bit of a wardrobe malfunction.’

            Startled, Harriet looked up into the smiling face of Jean. ‘N-no problem, I’ve just got here myself. What can I get you to drink?’ she replied, shooting Jean a smile of gratitude.

            ‘I’ll have what you’re having.’

            ‘Gin and tonic?’

            ‘Perfect, with a slice of lime please.’

            Harriet stood up and glanced over to where Bronwyn was sitting, her dyed black hair, shaking as she talked to the lady on her right. Harriet smiled in sympathy at the glazed expression on the woman’s face. She had intended to apologise, but Bronwyn had clearly moved on.

            A few minutes later, Harriet placed Jean’s drink on the table and sat down opposite her.

‘I hope you don’t mind me joining you. But I had a feeling that you might need

rescuing,’ whispered Jean. ‘I’ve come across Bronwyn before.’

            Harriet laughed. ‘I don’t mind in the least. In fact, I’m very grateful.’

            ‘Well don’t be too grateful yet. You don’t know what kind of company I’m going to be. It might be a case of, “frying pan and fire”,’ laughed Jean.

            ‘Somehow I don’t think so. I think we’re going to get along just fine.’

Harriet and Jean fell into the habit of meeting each night for a drink before dinner. Jean proved to be very entertaining company. They discovered a shared passion for mythology and Downton Abbey. Jean made Harriet laugh with her tales of some of the people she’d met on previous cruises.

            ‘The worst ones are the frequent cruisers, the ones who’ve “been everywhere and seen everything“, and don’t mind telling you all about it,’ explained Jean. ‘My Fred and I made a promise to each other that we wouldn’t allow ourselves to become like that.’

            ‘And have you? Managed it I mean?’ teased Harriet.

            ‘You tell me. Have I bored you with my tales?’

            ‘Not at all, I’m really enjoying your company,’ smiled Harriet. ‘And you did save me from Bronwyn, so I owe you one.’

            ‘Fred and I became very adept at avoiding the Bronwyns of this cruise world,’ chuckled Jean. ‘Stick with me and you’ll learn a trick or two.’

            Harriet picked up her drink and took a sip. She’d been wondering about Jean’s husband. He never joined them for a drink and she hadn’t seen them together on the ship. She didn’t even mention him when telling Harriet about the shore excursions she’d been on. ‘Perhaps Jean’s just being thoughtful as she knows I’m on my own?’ she thought. One thing she’d learned was that Jean had a heart of gold. Besides, he was probably one of those guys who preferred a pint in the sports bar watching the football, rather than a gin and tonic, and she wasn’t one to pry.

The next day was a sea day. After a light lunch of soup and salad, Harriet decided to sit outside and read her book. All the loungers around the pool were taken. But it didn’t matter as Harriet preferred to be somewhere quiet. She’d discovered a spot to the front of the ship, looking down onto the helicopter landing pad. It was in the shade, but she didn’t mind as with her fair skin she preferred to keep out of the sun. There was a small pool alongside the pad which was reserved for the crew, and a lone swimmer was steadily ploughing his way from one edge to the other. Harriet began to feel drowsy. But just as she began to drift off to sleep, she became aware of some new activity down below. The captain and several of his officers, their white uniforms gleaming in the bright Mediterranean sunshine, were making their way to the bow of the ship and in among them she could see the short, white spiky hair of her new friend, Jean. She was carrying something, but Harriet couldn’t make out what it was. The captain stopped in front of the bow and he and his colleagues removed their caps and bowed their heads. Harriet watched as a few minutes later Jean stepped up to the bow and, after a short pause, threw the object she’d been carrying over the side, followed by a red and white floral wreath. The object bobbed on the surface for a moment before disappearing in the churning white foam. Harriet clasped her hands to her mouth, tears pooling in her eyes as she realised what was happening. Now she knew why she’d never seen Jean’s husband.

That evening Harriet felt apprehensive as she made her way to the piano bar. The night before Jean had said that she would be there as usual, but Harriet wasn’t sure what she should do. Should she say what she’d seen, or should she wait for Jean to mention it? ‘I guess I’ll leave it up to Jean to tell me if she wants to. After all it’s not really any of my business,’ she decided.

            Jean was already at the table, a bottle of champagne sat in an ice bucket, with two flutes on one side. Jean smiled at Harriet as she sat down. But she looked pale and her eyes lacked their usual twinkle.

            ‘Are we celebrating something?’ asked Harriet lightly, determined not to let on what she’d witnessed that afternoon.

            ‘Yes, life, we’re celebrating life’ replied Jean, as she lifted her hand and gave a little wave to one of the waiters, who hurried over and opened the bottle.

Harriet watched as he poured expertly, just stopping before the bubbles spilled over the top of the glass.

            Jean picked up both glasses and handed one to Harriet. ‘To life,’ said Jean clinking her glass against Harriet’s. ‘Life in all its glory; good and bad.’

            Harriet sipped her drink, the bubbles tickling her nose. She didn’t really know what to say. But Jean seemed lost in her own thoughts anyway.

            For a few moments they drank in companionable silence. Then, Jean placed her glass on the table and looked directly at Harriet. ‘I haven’t been completely straight with you,’ she began. ‘I’m not just on holiday. I came on the cruise to scatter my husband’s ashes and I did so this afternoon.’

            Harriet leaned forward and gently took hold of both of Jean’s hands. ‘I know,’ she murmured. ‘I have a favourite spot just above the helicopter pad and I saw everything. I’m so sorry. I’d have come with you if you’d told me. I buried my own husband a few months ago. I know what it’s like.’

            ‘Oh my poor girl, I didn’t realise. I just thought that you were one of those modern, independent, young women, who liked to travel on their own. Although I must admit I sensed sadness in you, but I put it down to a touch of loneliness.’

            Harriet shook her head. ‘Not sadness, just regret. This was meant to be our second honeymoon. Dominic, my husband, had a brain tumour. They said that it was operable. So we booked the cruise to have something to look forward to after the operation. But there were complications and he died on the table.’

            Jean moved to the seat next to Harriet and put her arms around her shoulders and pulled her into a hug. ‘I don’t know what to say. At least Fred and I had forty years together.’

            ‘We had ten,’ sobbed Harriet, tears flowing freely down her cheeks. ‘Dominic was so positive that everything would be ok. But he promised that whatever happened; he’d never leave me. But I don’t believe in life after death.’

            ‘Fred said the same thing,’ smiled Jean. ‘We agreed on a sign. He said that, whenever I saw a white feather, it would mean that he was near, looking out for me. But apart from the ones on the birds that have been following the ship, I haven’t seen one yet.’

            Harriet wiped her eyes and a tremulous smile hovered around her lips. ‘Perhaps he hadn’t really left you until today, when you scattered his ashes?’

            ‘I never thought of that. You could be right. Let’s have a toast to Fred and Dominic. May they sail the seas together.’

            ‘I’ll drink to that. May Poseidon grant them a safe passage,’ replied Harriet.

            ‘That’s why I scattered Fred’s ashes here you know,’ Jean continued. ‘He wanted to spend eternity "cruising" the Mediterranean, and when it’s my turn, I want to join him.’

            Unsure how to respond to what Jean had just said, Harriet lifted her glass to her lips and drank deeply. ‘I wish I had that kind of certainty, that one day we’d be reunited’, she thought. But she wasn’t going to put her disbelief on Jean.

The last night of the cruise came all too quickly. Jean and Harriet had met for their usual pre-dinner drink, but they agreed to meet again later for one last time.

            ‘I thought I’d treat us to a cocktail as it’s our last night,’ said Harriet, as she placed two boat-shaped glasses on the table. ‘I hope you like Manhattans?’

            ‘I’ve never had one, but I’ll try anything once,’ said Jean as she reached for her drink. ‘Mm, nice. Not too sweet, but with a bit of a kick. Then, placing her glass on the table, she reached into her small evening purse and handed Harriet a card. ‘Here’s my mobile number and email. I won’t give you my address. I’m planning on selling up and moving to be near my daughter in Scotland.’

            ‘How exciting. Do you have any grandchildren?’ asked Harriet.

            ‘Yes, two. David’s three and Emily is a very precocious six-year-old. Heaven knows what she’ll be like as a teenager,’ laughed Jean. ‘I have a photograph here.’

            Harriet grinned at the sight of the two dark haired, cheeky faces.’

‘I have one of Fred too. Would you like to see it?’

            ‘I’d love to.’ Harriet stared intently at the photograph. A man with brindled hair, who was holding a pint of beer and smiling, looked back at her. ‘He has the look of someone who knows who they are, and where they’re going,’ she smiled.

            ‘That’s my Fred. It was taken in this bar, at the table over by the lifts. It was a tradition with him to sit in the bar on the last night and listen to the pianist until he stopped playing. Mind you, I think it was his way of getting out of doing the packing. But I didn’t mind,’ laughed Jean.

            ‘Dominic was hopeless at packing. I preferred to pack for both of us. It was much easier. You must miss Fred?’

            ‘I do; every day. But somehow being on this ship makes me feel close to him, as if he’s made his home here. Hark at me. I’m getting all fanciful in my old age,’ laughed Jean. ‘So, what about you? What do you plan to do?’

            ‘I’m not sure. I’ve thought about moving too. My old school friend, Grace, has moved to Canada and she’s been asking me to go for an extended visit. But I can’t bear the thought of being away from the home I shared with Dominic for too long. Does that sound crazy?’

            ‘Not at all. You need to do things at your own pace. You’ll know when the time is right.’

            Harriet didn’t reply. She absentmindedly twisted the ring on the ring finger of her left hand as it finally dawned on her that she really would have to face the future, one without Dominic in it.

Gradually the bar began to empty and the time came for them to say goodnight.

            ‘I’m so glad we met,’ said Jean as she wrapped her arms around Harriet and kissed her on the cheek. ‘I’m sure we’ll meet again and remember, you’re not alone, Dominic is with you.’

            Harriet returned Jean’s kiss. A lump had appeared in her throat and she couldn’t speak.

            ‘Everything will be ok, eventually,’ said Jean. ‘It really does just take time.’

            ‘I know. You take care of yourself, and let me know how you get on with your precocious granddaughter.’

            ‘Oh I will,’ laughed Jean. ‘I’ll be fine. After all I know that Fred will be looking out for me.’

            Harriet smiled, but said nothing.

The inspiration for the story.

Harriet made her way to the lift beside the piano bar. The ship was quiet apart from the clinking of the glasses and the cheerful chatter of the bar staff as they cleared the tables. The lights were turned down low as if the ship was putting itself to bed. Harriet glanced over to have one last look. She smiled as she thought of the many chats she’d had with Jean and thought how much she was going to miss her. They’d only known each other for a few days, but they’d become close.

            Suddenly, her jaw dropped as her eyes alighted on a man sitting at the table nearest the lift. She did a double take as she realised that he was the spitting image of the photograph of Fred she’d seen earlier that evening. A shiver ran down her spine.

            ‘Get a grip Harriet,’ she muttered. ‘You’ve obviously had too much to drink tonight.’

            At that moment, the lift arrived and as the doors closed she watched as he lifted his glass in greeting. As the lift swept her up to the tenth floor her mind raced as she thought about what had just happened. She’d never believed in the supernatural, but this encounter had really spooked her.

            When she reached her cabin, she swiped her sea pass card and opened the door. The cabin steward had left a swan towel sculpture on her bed. Smiling, she bent down to pick it up, intending to place it on the sofa. As she did so, out of the corner of her eye she saw something flutter to the ground. Curious, she bent down to have a closer look. Her heart skipped a beat as she realised it was a small white feather.

            She stooped down and gently picked it up, then carried it over to the dressing table drawer, from which she removed the small case containing her pearl necklace. A dreamy expression came over her face as she thought back to her wedding day, when Dominic had first placed the pearls around her neck. She could almost feel the warmth of his breath as he’d leaned in to kiss the back of her neck. She opened the case and gently placed the feather beside the photograph of him she kept there, her heart aching at the sight of his smiling face.

            ‘Hi Dominic,’ she whispered.’ ‘Welcome back. I’ve missed you.’ She reached down and gently touched the photograph. ‘I’m sorry I lost faith. I should’ve known that you’d find a way to keep your promise,’ she smiled. ‘You always did.’

Isabel Johnstone 2020 ©

Photos Isabel's own. 

Covid 19

I'm guessing that, at the moment, I'm not the only one for whom Covid 19, or coronavirus, is never far from their thoughts. At the start of last year if you had said to me that by March, the whole country, indeed most of the world, would be in lockdown, I'd have written you off as a lunatic. But I would've been very wrong. I remember watching the events unfold in China and being appalled at the measures the government were putting in place to try to contain the spread. But never in a million years did I imagine that, barely two months later, we'd be living through the same nightmare ourselves.

There have been times in my life, due to my Lupus, when I've been in my own personal lockdown. I've spent weeks and even months, either at home or in hospital, due to illness. But at least during that time the rest of my family and friends were able to socialise, go on holiday and even just work. These were all just things that we took for granted, and even from my hospital bed, I could dream of what I would do, or where I would go, when I recovered. There were a couple of occasions when the prospect of me recovering wasn't always certain. But then again, I knew that life would go on for everyone else.

Unless there's some sort of miracle, life as we knew it is going to be is going to be very different for a long time to come. We might have to find new ways to socialise and even work. Travel is going to be an interesting one to work out. I'm an avid cruise fan, but I think it's going to be quite a while before I'll feel safe going on a cruise again.

But for the moment, my main concern is that many, if not of all my friends and family, survive this terrible disease. Far too many people have lost their lives already, or are struggling with bereavement or the effects of long covid. This virus is causing problems, financially, emotionally and mentally, for many people, that will continue for many years to come. 

Of course it's not all been bad news. This pandemic has shown both the worst and the best of human nature. We'll never forget the key workers who worked tirelessly to nurse the sick, keep us fed and delivered our necessities. There are countless tales of local heroes, who've really stepped up to serve their communities, in so many different and imaginative ways, and who will ever forget Captain Tom, who at the grand old age of 99 years-old, captured the heart of the nation and raised millions for the NHS. 

I'm sure I'm not alone in admitting that I've struggled, both emotionally and mentally, throughout this time, and I've been one of the lucky ones. I had my daily trips to feed the cats at Cogges to add a sense of normality to the situation, and I've really come to appreciate the simple pleasure of a walk with a friend, and honed my skill of recording myself for the virtual choir videos.

It's not over yet, but there's light at the end of the tunnel. We just need to hold on a bit longer, washing our hands, wearing our masks and keeping our social distance. 

Together we've got this. 

I'm writing again.

Hi everyone. It's the missing blogger here. I've been going through a difficult time, where I've been questioning my ability to do anything. But now I'm back.

In January, I started a Future learn, Start Writing Fiction course, in the hope that it might get my mojo back and it's worked. I've written a short story based on an idea I've had for a couple of years, but couldn't seem to get it started. But I've finished it and I'm planning on entering it in the writer's magazine competition, where my story, A twist of Fate, was shortlisted. I'm not sharing it here yet as one of the conditions is that it hasn't been published anywhere else.

But, just as a taster, here is a short story I've written for the course I'm doing. I hope you like it.

Don’t Tell 

Rhona slowly approached the cold, dark structure that was her home. She took a deep breath and put her key in the lock. She walked into the lounge. The familiar smell of booze assailed her nostrils and made her heart sink.

‘What time do you call this? I told you to be home by ten.’ growled her mother.

Rhona said nothing. All that could be heard was the ticking of the clock on the old fashioned mantelpiece. She just chewed her nails, and stared at the empty gin bottle on the floor.

‘Well! What have you got to say for yourself?’ her mum hissed.

What could she say? It wasn’t her fault that the bus had broken down. But when her mum was like this, red in the face, a pulse beating above her left eye, nothing was going to stop the inevitable.

Suddenly, Rhona’s head snapped back as her mum grabbed her by hair and started pulling her across the room. One of the dining chairs fell as she stumbled into it, biting her lip as she tried to stop the tears that would only make her mum angrier.

‘I’m sorry mum. I couldn’t help it the bus broke down and my phone’s out of credit so I couldn’t call,’ Rhona gasped.

‘Don’t answer me back, you little slut. I know you’ve been with that Ryan,’ Rhona’s mum screamed, lashing out with her hand and striking Rhona so hard that she fell to the ground.

Rhona moaned as her mum’s right foot connected with her stomach.

‘Take that you little bitch, and don’t think that you’ll be allowed out again anytime soon.’

Rhona lay on the floor holding her stomach, softly crying. Her mum had passed out on the sofa and was snoring loudly, her mouth wide open. Rhona had been with Ryan, but the bus really had broken down. Most eighteen-year olds were allowed to have a boyfriend and could even talk to their mothers about it. But not her. Rhona understood that her mum had been badly let down. But surely, she shouldn’t take it out on her own daughter? Something needed to be done, but as a memory from her childhood popped into her head, she knew that she couldn’t ask for help. That would only make things worse.

                                                                ******

Rhona was seven years old. It was the first day back after the school holidays and the teacher had asked them to write about what they’d been up to. Rhona had written about the week they’d spent with her aunty on the island of Arran. She’d been very excited, as she’d never been on holiday before. The weather was perfect and she’d spent her days happily building sandcastles and paddling in the cold water of the Firth of Clyde. It did seem strange that her dad hadn’t come with them. But her aunty had explained that he had to go away for work. Her mum and aunty spent a lot of time talking and Rhona was sure that she’d heard him mum crying.

Her teacher had been very pleased with Rhona’s account. But when she told her mum, she became very angry. The next morning she’d stormed into the classroom and started screaming at the teacher.

‘You lot think you’re so clever,’ she screamed. ‘You should mind your own business and stop poking your noses into others. What goes on in our house has nothing to do with you.’

Rhona would never forget the shocked look on Miss Galbraiths’ face. It still made her cringe when she thought of her classmates turning to look at her, not even trying to hide the smiles of amusement on their faces.

Rhona had learned a valuable lesson that day and she wasn’t about to forget it. If things were to change, it was up to her to make it happen, but how?

A week later, Rhona sat in the lecture theatre idly doodling as the guest lecturer droned on. He was a novelist, who wrote psychological thrillers. It was a hot day and the stuffy room was making her feel soporific. Her stomach was still tender and this was making it hard for her to get comfortable. Suddenly, her ears pricked up as something he was saying caught her attention.

‘There are many techniques for making someone think that they’re losing their minds,’ he said. ‘But writing about it can be tricky. But there are certain techniques that I’ve found work well.’ Rhona felt excited as sat forward in her seat and paid rapt attention as he described ways to convince someone that they were going mad.

Strange things began to happen around their house. Books which hadn’t been touched for years would be found lying on the floor in the morning. The crockery in the cupboard moved, the plates ending up on top of the bowls instead of the other way around. The back door, which her mum had been convinced she’d locked, was found wide open. Her mum would look at her suspiciously.

            ‘It wasn’t me mum. You did it last night. Don’t you remember? Rhona would say, staring directly at her mum, until she turned away, a worried look on her face.

            One Sunday morning after a particularly heavy session, her mum, stepped out of the shower and saw the words, ‘I’m coming to get you,’ scrawled in the steamed up glass of the mirror. Rhona had smiled at the sound of her mum’s piercing scream. She’d had fun doing that one. Not all of her tricks had worked. Her mum hadn’t even noticed when she’d set the pictures on the walls at the same strange angle. But the mirror incident was the one that did the trick.

            ‘This is it, Rhona,’ her mum had sobbed. ‘I’m losing my mind. I need to stop drinking. I know I’ve said it before, but this time I mean it.’

            ‘I’m sure you do, Mum,’ Rhona said, a smile hovering around her lips. ‘It’s probably for the best.’

Isabel Johnstone 2020 ©

A New Career? Another Downton Adventure.

In the past few months, two ladies I know have said to me that, as they've got older, they feel like they've become invisible. I think that's awful. Why should growing older mean that we can't still be an active participant in life and make a significant contribution? After all, with age we gain experience. Not just in how to do things, but also how not to. The sad thing is, one of them was only in her forties.

I'm not sure what makes them think this way. Perhaps they were just having a bad day, that day. Certainly the older one of the two, didn't strike me as being invisible, in fact quite the opposite.

Well, I know one thing for sure. I'm not prepared to drift into my dotage unseen or unheard. Although I think my family sometimes wish I was less visible.

Of course I have my bad days, when I just want to hide away from the world, I think we all do. But the rest of the time I want to grab any opportunities that come my way to have an adventure, and recently, I was given such an opportunity..

Aurore Chiroix

The director of Cogges Manor Farm, where I volunteer, was contacted by a French journalist, Aurore Chiroix,  from the French television programme, Arte, Invitation au Voyage, Le magazine de L'evasion culturelle, a travel documentary programme. She was planning to do a documentary about locations used in the filming of Downton Abbey, and she wanted permission to come and film at Cogges, which was used as the location of Yew Tree Farm, in the series. She'd heard that the volunteers at Cogges were, 'very passionate', and she asked if he could, 'advise her' of a volunteer who was passionate about both, Cogges and Downton, who'd be willing to be interviewed on film for the documentary. Now I wonder who that reminds me of? As one of my colleagues said, "it had my name written all over it". They were interested in the history of the site, along with it's role in Downton.

Cogges as Yew Tree farm

Aurore contacted me by email to arrange a time when we could speak on the phone. When she responded to the email I sent in return suggesting a couple of options, she said that while doing her research on line, she'd come across my blog and that she, "was very glad to be speaking to me". I was chuffed to bits by this. She also sent me a list of the questions that she would be asking me on the day. Some I could have answered there and then, but others I had to do a bit of research on. Not only did she want to ask about the actual filming, she also wanted to know about the history of Cogges and how what we saw in the programme about life of Farmer Drewe at Yew Tree Farm, compared to the reality of life at Cogges in the 1920's. I also had to find out about the Tax laws introduced by David Lloyd George and how they affected the large estates, something I had no idea about. I do now.

Ann, me and Aurore

So, one Friday morning in October, I met Aurore and her camera woman, Ann, in the old ox byre, which now serves as our reception and shop. I thought that I would be very nervous. But for some reason I wasn't. After all, I was at Cogges, talking about two of my passions, and as a tour guide, it was something I was used to doing.

Aylesbury ducks, with Call duck in middle.

After showing them the house and the areas of the site where filming took place, the interview began. But first we had to remove some items in the kitchen out of shot. The house had been decorated for our half term Halloween events, and Aurore didn't really want bats, pumpkins and spiders in the film.  We started the interview on the Dairy lawn, with the house in the background, then we went back into the kitchen. Aurore, who was a few months pregnant, stood off camera and asked me the questions. Most of the time it was fine, as I'd prepared my answers. But a couple of times she went off script and asked me a question that wasn't in her original email. So we had to stop filming while I had a think about how to answer it. Fortunately, it was mainly my opinion she was after, so I can be forgiven if my answers weren't exactly 100% accurate.

Once the interview was over, Ann, asked me to do some shots, where she filmed me walking and looking around, pretending that there was no camera there. At last my chance to act had arrived. Outside, she then walked around the site taking footage of the buildings and the animals. I won't be in the least surprised if there's more footage of the animals than me in the final cut, especially the ducks and, Bonnie, the cat. Aurore had a cat back home, and she was delighted that both. Bonnie and Patsy, the Cogges' cats, kept following me around. Ann managed to capture a fantastic shot of Bonnie running towards me as I stood beside Ann, with the Aylesbury ducks, plus the little Call duck, which they thought was a duckling, running in a perfect straight line behind her.

Farmer Drewe, Lady Mary and Tom

Finally, we were done. I had such a great time. I asked her where else they were filming, and who else were they interviewing. They'd been to Highclere Castle, where they'd interviewed the Countess, and Bampton, where they spoke with the head of the archives there and then there was me. It made me laugh.

It's going to be aired in January or February. As it's a French television channel, I won't be able to watch it live. But Aurore is going to send ma a link, which she said I should be able to download and keep, and naturally I'll be sharing it in a blog. I'll probably spend my time cringing when I watch it. But who knows? Maybe this could be the start of a whole new career for me?

One thing's for sure, I can't say that I've become visible as I've got older, can I?

Isabel Johnstone 2019 ©

Photos, Isabel's own, or courtesy of Aurore Chiroix.

Arte Invitation au Voyage website.

https://tinyurl.com/y48omgml

Blog on Downton Abbey.

https://tinyurl.com/y5lp9xj6

Red nose day

This cartoon was shared on Facebook, and I think it's a wonderful motto to live by. It's what my blog is supposed to be about, Making life an adventure. Now that I've had cataract surgery and can read and use the computer, I've decided to take up writing again. The problem is, because it's been so long since I've done any writing, I'm not sure what I want to write about. So I've decided to just start writing and see what comes out. One of the reasons I started this blog was to find my 'writer's voice, so as part of this strategy I decided to look back at some of my older blogs and when doing so, I came across the draft for an unfinished one. Well I say unfinished, but in actual fact all I'd done was create a title and added a link to a You Tube video.

Recording video for Oxfam.

This blog is about my, 'adventures', i.e. anything that comes along that I can participate in that, in terms of day to day life seems, 'out of the ordinary'. Being part of the West Oxfordshire Academy of Arts, (WOAPA), Adult Singing group, has been a source of quite a few of my adventures, including doing a flashmob, making a comic video for Oxfam and it's also given me the opportunity to participate in the Big Chorus, Messiah, in the Royal Albert Hall, in London.

The unfinished draft, which I've now decided to finish, was to be about another WOAPA adventure. Brian and Lou, the couple who run WOAPA, had been approached by Radio Oxford who, as part of their Red Nose day celebrations, wanted to create the largest choir in Oxfordshire, to made up of several choirs in the area, and they wanted WOAPA to be part of it. Naturally they said yes.

So it was that myself, along with the rest of my fellow WOAPs, gathered at 7.30 am in the Corn 

Exchange in Witney. The hall was packed, as not only were the adult singers taking part, but the children from the WOAPA Saturday school, the Show choir and also the John Blandy choir, recently started by Brian and Lou, were participating.

There was a great buzz of excitement in the hall, plus a few yawns (mainly from me). Fleur Ostojak, a young journalist from Radio Oxford, was in charge of the proceedings. She explained that we would be recording three songs. The first one, Good Morning Baltimore, from the musical, Hairspray, would be played live on air. Then the other two songs would be recorded to be played later on that morning. The third song, the comedy hit, Always Look on the Bright Side of Life, was chosen by the BBC as the one to be sung by all five choirs, and it would be played at the end of the show.

At last Fleur was given the signal that we were about to go live. She introduced us, then gave the signal for us to start. There must have been about two hundred children and adults singing and the sound was amazing. There were cheers all round after we'd finished singing and had been given the all clear. Fleur was very impressed with the sound me made, as was the presenter of the show because, instead of us recording our second song, a mash up of A Million Dreams,  and, From Now On, from The Greatest Showman, he decided that we should sing this one live on air too. Fleur also asked Lou if Radio Oxford could use us again in the future; and of course she said yes. So a few minutes later we sang live again, although it was also recorded to be played later in the day. After recording the final song, we went outside and sang the third one again to our proud family and friends, who had to wait outside while we were recording, and to people passing by on their way to work. A passing bus even tooted us in support.

Us on the local news.

£63,548,668 was raised for Comic Relief that day. It was a privilege to have been a part of it. The largest choir in Oxfordshire was featured on the local news that evening, and it is from this footage that I've sourced my photos. Brian, from WOAPA, has put together the You Tube video footage on the link below. A lovely reminder of a wonderful morning.




You Tube video of the morning. courtesy of WOAPA, https://youtu.be/WvzHnwAInwU

Photos Isabel's own, plus.

Snoopy cartoon, courtesy of: https://www.facebook.com/purpleclvr/photos/a.375609882543951/3006363792801867/?type=3&theater

The Future is a Blank Page.

"The future is a blank page. That's the best thing. It's also the worst thing. " Adele Sullivan, October 2019. 

Finally, after two years of struggling with my sight, I can see clearly once again. I now just have to wear spectacles for reading. But then again, so do most of my contemporaries. I am a, 'lady of a certain age'  after all.

For anyone who doesn't know what I'm talking about. Two years ago my vision became very blurry, especially when I tried to read or use a computer. A bit of a problem as I was currently in my final year of doing a Bachelor of Arts (Honours) degree, in Humanities, with Classical Studies, which required a great deal of reading, in both books and on the computer. Somehow I managed it and was extremely proud to graduate in October, 2018.

Initially, the doctors thought my problems were due to excessive dryness, caused by my Lupus. But when I developed double vision in my left eye, further investigation revealed that, although my sight was being affected by the dryness, I also had cataracts in both eyes, with the left eye needing surgery as soon as possible. Six months on from this diagnosis, I'm pleased to say that both eyes have been successfully operated on and with the aid of several types of drops and a minor procedure, I can now 'see a future', (forgive the pun).

While I was studying, I had to put on hold my plan to explore whether I could become a serious writer, and it was my intention to pursue this course of action once I'd graduated. But because of the problems I was experiencing with my sight, I've haven't been able to do so; until now. The trouble is, because I haven't written anything more than a Christmas card in over two years, I'd even stopped writing my blog. I've been suffering a crisis of confidence. I even found myself not enjoying reading other people's work as I spent the time convincing myself that I could never write like them. Well of course I can't, because I'm not them.

One evening after a couple of glasses of wine, I posted about my concerns on Facebook. My lovely Facebook friends responded with some very encouraging comments. The quote at the top of this blog page being one of them. This was all very encouraging, although the little voice inside was still whispering away.

But the universe wasn't about to let me get away with it. Since that evening I've been 'visited', like Scrooge, by three 'ghosts'. What do I mean by this?

The first, 'ghost' was in the guise of an author who was speaking at a University of the Third Age, (U3A), meeting I attended. He'd always wanted to be a writer, but had waited until he was 38 years old before starting to write. He said that the only way to become a writer was to simply just start writing.

The second 'ghost' was Julian Fellowes, the writer of Downton Abbey, one of my heroes. I watched an interview in which he said, that people seem to wait for that warm feeling inside to tell them when it's time to start writing. But that doesn't happen, you just need to sit down and start to write. Sound familiar?

Finally, the third 'ghost' was something I saw on a Facebook friend's page, who felt compelled to share a post from Writer's HQ, saying, 'Write your f*****g novel ffs'.  The language may be a bit choice, but I got the message.

So here I am. Writing my first blog post in months. Inside I'm dancing like Ebeneezer Scrooge on Christmas day, because I too am glad to find that it's not too late.  Thanks to Adele, my Facebook friends and the three 'ghosts', I'm going to just get on with it. After all, 'The future is a blank page'.


Photographs and images, Isabel's own.

Isabel Johnstone 2019  ©