Colette’s Commercial Tips/Guidance

1. I love Moleskine notebooks, they are so robust, last forever and my particular favourite is the ones with squared paper inside.  Don’t ask me why but that type helps me be more creative.  I filled my last book with stuck in leaves, flowers, poems, short stories and could not bring it with me to Malta.  Do you know, I am missing it still and am determined to get a new one fast.
2. I have long copied my mother in using Oil of Ulay as a moisturiser (pink bottle).  She would hold all my children’s faces to her cheek when looking after them and they would return to me smelling of this cream.  I cannot use the sensitive version or even the sunscreen one as they don’t have that gloriously familiar smell.
3. One of my son’s girlfriends introduced me to Donkey/Ass soap.  Don’t laugh, Cleopatra used it after all, and I have to admit for cleaning the skin this soap beats everything else on the market.  Before you laugh yourself silly, try it!
4. Never ever write letters, complicated emails or have deep detailed conversations last thing at night.  It is a recipe for a sleepless night.  Create a bedtime routine that includes calling yourself to account each night.  This should not be a berating self-damaging process.  It just means thinking about the day and how you handled yourself, what you would improve, what you would do better and what you should have neglected.  It should help kick start a better day ahead, not finish you off in depression.
5. Don’t backbite as a principle.  I remember being in a committee meeting with a very challenging person who invariably got everyone’s back up.  One meeting I had a heated consultation with her and said my piece honestly but knowing me bluntly too.  The next meeting the lady did not show and suddenly the other committee members launched into verbal assaults of this missing member.  I was furious and told them that if I had a problem with anyone they would know about it and I certainly was not willing to attack a person who was not there to defend themselves.  Besides being a waste of time I have long felt that what people do to others they eventually do to you.  So, if they are running someone down be pretty sure when you are not around they are doing a hatchet job on you!
6. Be with good people as much as possible.  My neighbour on Rhodes was an architect, when not feeding the local stray cats with huge bags of food that he bought, he was on the slopes of the island planting trees for the environment.  Apart from that he was an exceptionally kind person who was a joy to our entire apartment block.  He and his wife just improved the neighbourhood somehow and raised the bar on what a real human being should be.
7. Be grateful, it has nothing to do with what you have, own or are.  It is a state of being and as such should be aspired to.  Be grateful for health, if you don’t have that be grateful for loved ones, if you don’t have that be grateful for all those who you once had, if you have never had anyone be grateful that in the days ahead you will have an opportunity to love someone you have yet to meet.

Doing a demented version of Morris dancing

Today I passed an unusual sight.  There was an English tourist stamping his feet as if doing a demented version of Morris dancing on a sea path.  As I grew closer I realised that there was a huge lizard trapped on the path between him and his young wife.  By jumping up and down he was herding the lizard towards his terrified wife who was cringing fearfully and shouting at him simultaneously.  I know it was cruel but it was also funny.  Eventually, the lizard, the piggy in the middle, grew tired of this game and raced up a nearby wall to safety.  I passed the young man bent double and weeping with laughter, while his irate partner beat him over the head with her handbag.  I have no idea why this whole event had me smiling all the way home but it did.

Perhaps our sense of humour is created at a young age.  One April the 1^st my mother shouted up to my sleeping father that the next-door neighbour had fallen down a hole in the garden.  My dad raced out the front door, to the rescue, wearing only a hastily thrown on shirt and nothing else.  We laughed happily at this for the rest of the day.  I rest my case; humour is cultivated and in my case has always been watered with a bit of cruelty.

Being with her was enough hell for any reasonable man

I can remember my heart sinking at various moments when visiting some friends.  Invariably, you would be having a lovely cup of coffee and a nice chat when the door would open and two things would happen.  The hostess’s hand would start to shake so much that her coffee cup would rattle against the saucer and her face would portray that look of frightened horror that I have come to dread.  It usually meant that the person coming through the door was their husband and to be found having a cup of coffee relaxing with friends, while they worked, was a provocation that they felt inappropriate.  Had they been ironing, dusting, cooking or cleaning, it would have been fine.  Nothing much would be admitted as introductions were made to all there but beneath the surface you could feel the strain.  Someone would pay for this indiscretion and the hostess knew it was probably her. 

Not, that this was always the case.  Far from it, many friends had no such reaction and would joke merrily with a steady hand on their coffee cup.  I grew to love that solid stability it felt robust and healthy.  Mind you at times you did feel sorry for husbands.  One friend, Ellie,  would smuggle her many purchases home and hide them in a friend’s apartment for a couple of weeks, so when her husband asked was that a new dress she could answer confidently and truthfully, “No, I have had this weeks!” 

Ellie was a character though and her whole block consisted of like minded women, who seemed to be wearing pyjamas all the time when at home.  Then, I realised they would come home from work and change into these comfortable working pyjamas.  They would pop in and out of each other’s apartments and I envied their unity and laughter.  Once Ellie was late, as usual, running her sons to school and raced out the door in her pyjamas and slippers to drive them there.  Her best friend, the neighbour above, apparently leant over the balcony and shouted, “I hope the car brakes down, while you are dressed like that!”  Usually, she could drop the boys off without getting out of the car or being seen by anyone, but one day the car did indeed break down and poor Ellie had to walk in her fluffy slippers, hair dishevelled and pink pyjamas exposed all the way home.  It was highly unfortunate, for Ellie, that of all the people who met her on the road that day her mother-in-law was included.  There are definitely days that go from bad to worse.

Ellie came back from a longed for holiday in Paris unusually angry.  She told me that if her husband went to hell, then she wanted to go to heaven and if he died and went to heaven she would prefer hell!  This was a bit strong, I felt, but she claimed that the whole holiday he had complained about the price of coffees, the shops, the hotel, the roads and even the food.  He’s ruined the whole holiday, she muttered and that was it, no more trips with him.  She was an exuberant character and actually a lovely person but explosive.  When, I eventually met her husband he turned out to be a nice mild mannered man who treated Ellie with a teasing good humour.  They seemed to get away with saying any outrageous thing to each other without causing lasting offence.  Even the comment about heaven and hell was repeated loud enough for him to overhear, he just snorted in amusement when he heard it, and responded that being with her was enough hell for any reasonable man.

It has been said that marriage should be a fortress for well-being. I know it has been heartening to meet those that have created that space within their union that protects and nurtures.  Mighty fortresses indeed.

Are people blind or just doing it to annoy me?

It is so sweet when homesickness bites to have a visit from loved ones.  It is the greatest antidote to that illness.  This week my Mum and aunt arrived fresh from N Ireland to Malta and I am tickled pink.  I even love overhearing them talking to each other in the bedroom early in the morning as they converse from their single beds.  

They talk non-stop about family things, relatives, past incidents, present events and it all serves to remind you that we are connected in so many important ways.  You gain an appreciation of how hard life was in their days.  How much even young children were expected to work, how little they had and how grateful they were for even the smallest gift.  Each week my grandfather, on the farm, would take down the sweet jar and each of his five children would get one sweet.  That was it just one and then they would wait a week for the next one.  They didn’t resent this, they looked forward to this special occasion.  

My mother would get up on a Saturday and cycle all the way to her hockey match and then after a hard game cycle home.  Immediately, she would start on the weekly baking on the old range, which was notoriously temperamental.  Any burnt offerings were given to her eldest brother, Hugh, to eat.  She produced soda farls, buns, cakes, wheaten bread in abundance and did this year after year from the age of thirteen.  Every morning they would start the day with porridge, which had steamed on the range all night, covered with fresh cream.  Then it was a cooked breakfast with a cup of tea.  This was the daily routine and all five of those children thrived on this fare.  What child would get this today?  Who has the time to bake, prepare a cooked breakfast each morning and walk miles to school.  Yet don’t those days sound strangely idyllic compared to today’s soulless snatched biscuit or cereal shovelled down before racing out the door.  Imagine waking up to the smell of food and sitting at a table full of good food and family sitting elbow to elbow round it.  The chats, the laughter, the shared space, without them is it any wonder that most of us today need paid therapists just to get through the day?  So, these mornings when I have breakfast with my lovely visiting relatives round the kitchen table I am so grateful for the abundance of everything.

PS the only thing that bugs me is the number of people along the sea front who stop and ask if we are sisters, my mother, my aunt and myself.  Are people blind or just doing it to annoy me?

PPS yesterday in MacDonalds (they do the cheapest coffee) an elderly Maltese man approached the three of us and said that his wife had died two years ago and he wanted to show us her picture.  He showed the Maltese ID card with her photo on it and I kid you not she was identical to me.  My mother claimed it looked exactly like me, in fact she thought it was me and misunderstood him and thought he’d taken a photo of me.  How weird life can be and how moving too and he said goodbye to me with such exaggerated courteousness.

Heady Imaginary Conversations

A Russian doctor told me that years ago, when in university, the cool look consisted of a bright red suit and carrying a huge mobile phone the size of a brick to his ear.  Mobile phones had just come in and had not morphed into the tiny little things we see today.  He was the first one in his university to own both the red suit and mobile phone and spent many fruitless hours wearing his bright suit with his long antennae phone pressed to his ear waiting for a non- existent caller. 

The penalty of being the first was, none of his friends had a phone so absolutely, no one called him.  In desperation, he set the alarm setting to go off regularly and had intense fake calls on his beloved phone.  He said he became quite a performer having deep intellectual conversations, loving romantic chats and on one memorable occasion having an imaginary venting shouting match with his mother.  Years later, he longed for those heady imaginary conversations instead of his present bombardment of soulless sales calls.  

Unusually Perfect

There was a moment that happened in this year’s Olympics where I discovered my own prejudice and was floored.  I’d thought of myself as a fair sort of person.  Believing in free speech, anti racist, pro humanity generally a sort of “one people, one planet philosophy.  Then, this year while watching the Para Olympics there were endless close ups of disabled athletics competing and I found myself admiring the perfect physic of these highly trained Olympians.  Perhaps it was seeing for the first time a disabled athlete also in the main Olympics that reinforced the thought. 

I was aware that all too often my mind would be uplifted by their talent and strength and then register that missing limb and think, what a pity.  Perfection spoiled, as if a work of art had been damaged by a vicious assailant and lost the beauty that it possessed by right.  But this year their enthusiasm and talent suddenly blew that out of the water.  I don’t even know exactly when it happened but I remember the realization that this human is in better shape than you, faster, stronger, more talented and has made more effort in their short lives than you will in your entire life span.  I found myself seeing them as incredibly, beautiful, inspirational human beings, full of life and laughter and unusually perfect. 

Monty

He was the runt of the litter, that was obvious.  All the rest had already been sold and here was the remaining pedigree black Labrador puppy, a little smaller and a lot less smarter than his siblings.  But we were ecstatic.  For years my father had stopped on innumerable journeys and announced that he was going to see a man about a dog and my juvenile heart had soared in happiness every time.  Perhaps we were going to get a dog at last, but of course it was a euphemism for taking a pee.  Such was my longing for a four legged pet, that my heart still hoped that just maybe this time my Dad was actually stopping the car to see a man about a real dog.  So to find ourselves looking at this real little fellow was heavenly.  We didn't mind if he was the runt, he would be our Monty.  And so it was we took him home and into our hearts and he filled our hours, days, months and years with glee. 

His stupidity was legendary.  All it took was my Mum to go to the hairdresser and he didn’t recognise her.  He either forgot when he’d been fed or just remained ever hopeful because he invariably greeted you with a huge empty biscuit tin in his mouth looking both mournful and yet eager.  When we left him at my grandfather’s farm he consumed an entire bucket of pig meal and swelled up like a balloon and had to be raced to the vet to be saved.  For years after that, my grandfather shook his head and muttered that he’d never met a more stupid animal, every time Monty’s name was mentioned. 

He was also the smelliest dog and I remember using roll on deodorant on him to cover his natural aroma.  Washing served only to urge him into a sweat of feverish excitement, as Monty found water second only to food on his list of favourite things.  It could be a puddle, a river, the sea, an inflatable pool, a bath of soaking sheets – he was not fussy.  He loved them all and would throw himself in head first in total abandonment.  Despite threats and shouts and curses hurled at him he would jump in with a yelp of, “I know you don’t want me to, but it’s gonna be so great!” 

His good nature was equally legendary.  He forgave everyone anything.  He was simply incapable of holding grudges.  Either that or his brain capacity was such that it could not hold on to information for long enough to remember the offence.  His approach to the world was a combination of ecstasy,  “there is my food bowl” and complete abandonment to the moment,” here is water, it’s a river and I’m diving off this bridge”.  Restraint was just not in his vocabulary.  Even when told to sit he would do so at an angle with his hind leg hanging out and his tail beating furiously.  Come on you are killing me with laughter, he seemed to be saying, and gradually the shaking tail would become a moving body and then he’d be on the move towards you, so grateful that you were speaking to him.  Then, he couldn’t stop himself jumping up on you, to show how much it meant to him that you spoke.  Sports were also popular with Monty.  He took down my uncle Junior with a flying tackle during a fun game of rugby.  Poor uncle Junior was fly swatted by six stone of flying Monty and lay winded and bruised in the long grass. 

You know, when it’s said that animals are better than people, I get it.  Monty was by far the most good-natured member of our family.  Heads and shoulders above any of us.  He bestowed his love lavishly, slavishly.  If you were not careful you could indeed drown in the saliva of his love.  I am grateful that just once in all the car journeys and stops we made, one memorable day my Dad actually did stop to see a man about a dog.  A really lovable dog called Monty.