One of those weeks

The image is of one of the 3 fates holding the thread of life. I feel like I've been threaded along it at great speed this week.
Ups and downs, and then ups again at work as we plan for how we survive the cuts - arts provision for vulnerable people has its own vulnerabilities. Tuesday night was the opening night of Bert Broomhead's exhibition in Sheffield - I met his daughter, the image of her mother, the most significant teacher of my life. I also met old school friends - lots of memories and some very beautiful and fascinating paintings. Wednesday night took me to a special film night at Haddon Hall. After all the contemporary films made there, the manager had tracked down a copy of the silent film, made in Hollywood, with Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks.'Dorothy Vernon of Haddon Hall' rewrote history as we know it, but was a great historical (even hysterical, very slapstick in places) romantic comedy, with amazing sets clearly based on Haddon itself. The hero broke through the window of the room we were watching in at one point. Some of the scenes in the garden must have been filmed on location, but the theory is that they made faithful sets back in Hollywood for the interior scenes. On Thursday night Lester Simpson, who teaches our singing class in Bakewell, asked us to join with his Wirksworth choir for the launch of the new Coope, Boyes and Simpson CD. A great concert and a privilege to be involved. I also met Georgina Boyes ( selling the tickets) who is one of my heroes for her fantastic book on the history of the folk revival - The Imagined Village.
I have just got back from a concert organised by the Derbyshire Literature Festival - Mills and Chimneys - David Gibb and friends from Fleet Arts. A lovely experience - great songs, talented musicians - a real treat. And I met Berlie Doherty there, another hero, for her wonderful children's books set in Sheffield and Derbyshire.
Lots of ideas and inspiration - watch this space!

Morocco

Last night I went to see Jackson Browne at the City Hall in Sheffield. David Lindley played with him. Charlie and I had great seats. We hung round the stage door afterwards with a mix of middle aged men ( mostly) and women, and the occasional youngster like Charlie. Charlie chatted to him, and gave him his new vistaprint business card so Jackson could see him on myspace. Jackson and David had mentioned Martin Simpson. They were thrilled because they had had the opportunity to go round to his house in Sheffield and have lunch with him before the concert. Charlie and I saw Martin Simpson with John Boden at the Boardwalk a couple of weeks ago - a very memorable night.So I talked to Jackson about Martin Simpson.
When I got up this morning I remembered my friend Cathy in Casablanca - all those years ago - she came back from Essouira really excited to have sat next to Jackson Browne in a cafe there. I was always a little bit envious of that missed opportunity.
So on a rainy night in Sheffield - yes it did rain there briefly - I fulfilled a dream from almost 30 years ago.
I wore the bracelets I bought in Essouira last night - I still wear them on an almost daily basis.
Life does seem to be a spiral.

Memories

Last week at Writers' group we were asked to write about childhood toys. The topic triggered memories of toys lost and thrown away. I asked my son Jamie about his favourite toy, as I couldn't remember . Wisely he said it wasn't the object itself, but the memory of it that had meaning for him. This week our 'homework' topic is Memories - much too big a subject. Most of what I write is about processing, recalling and recording my past - there's so much of it when you get to this age! On Wednesday night I was lucky enough to go to a talk given by someone I used to work with at the Old House Museum. She had worked on the code cracking processes at Bletchley Park. She was in her late teens when she joined the Wrens. They weren't allowed to tell anyone about their secret work until 1975. Everything ( except Colossus) was destroyed at the end of the war, they couldn't make notes. How do you keep the memory alive when you have to bury it for 30 years? She didn't even tell her husband until 1975! It reminded me of another talk given by a member of the Historical Society some years ago. He was one of the last group of 42 men to be rescued from Calais, at the same time as the 338,000 were being rescued from Dunkirk by the 'little ships'. He was 19 at the time, and broke both his ankles in the leap from the quay to the deck of their rescue boat. Both speakers have had amazing lives since those wartime days. This morning I heard Dame Stephanie Shirley on Desert Island Discs, talking about her childhood journey to the safety of a foster family in England. She and her sister arrived via the Kindertransport. She was 5. I have been lucky enough to go to the Holocaust Centre near Newark three times, as a school governor accompanying groups of students. On each visit we have had the chance to listen the story of someone who escaped Nazi Germany, and ask them about their lives since. Those who are able to do these talks are now of an age where they too came here through the kindertransport system, and the memories of their difficult lives before escape are seen through the eyes of a child. As Dame Stephanie said this morning - she remembered the lost doll rather than the lost home.

My old school

As often happens, something balanced out the misery I felt at being reminded of my schooldays. The letter in the Guardian last week brought back many negative memories and feelings about convent education. Coincidentally a friend who lives in Bakewell asked me if I had ever heard of a local artist called Bert Broomhead, as a retrospective exhibition of his work is being planned in Sheffield by his daughter. It was strange to have any teacher on maternity leave in a convent school, and even stranger that her artist husband should take over her classes. He looked like a classic St Ives idea of an artist - extremely tall and slim, with greying hair and beard,and bright blue eyes. He always wore a long rib-knit jumper and baggy cords with sandals. He was a wonderful teacher, treating us with patience and respect, something we weren't used to in our school lives. His wife was also the English teacher, and she was a huge influence on me. I chose to study English at University because of her, and what she taught me for A level carried me through the literature side of my degree. She introduced us to a wealth of different influences, and whilst I was very grateful that she was my teacher, I knew she was worthy of better schools. When I moved back to Bakewell I tried to get in touch with her, only to find she had recently moved away. We did reconnect, and a neighbour sent her round to see me one day when she was visiting Bakewell. Sadly she died suddenly a few years ago. Their daughter - the reason for the maternity leave - is now planning the exhibition and has set up a lovely website. I was lucky enough to buy one of his paintings at a sale at the local community centre some years ago, and I'm looking forward to seeing more of his work on display. I nearly bought their old house with my ex - wish I had, but glad I didn't in the circumstances.
And talking of exhibitions, my friend Keith who has the Low Horizons blog, is in Finland as I write for his exhibition opening!

Woodstock

Well it wasn't really Woodstock, but it was inspired by that festival - in fact Joni Mitchell never made Woodstock either even though she wrote the song. We did get our own back on the nuns, in that in 1970 my friend and I managed to get permission to go to the Bath Festival, held at Shepton Mallett, in pursuit of our Duke of Edinburgh award scheme. I still don't know how we did it - it was unheard of to get a weekend off in term time, and to be allowed to go to a music festival was surreal. The line up was amazing - Pink Floyd, Country Joe, Jefferson Airplane and the Byrds to name a few. We had no tent, no sleeping bags, no-one knew what to expect - we stayed up for the duration so I know we must have seen everyone on the bill. Magic times.
And the Duke of Edinburgh connection was that our special interest was folk music.......

The Magdalene Laundries

Yesterday's Guardian included a short letter in response to recent news items regarding Catholic priests and abuse of children in their care. The correspondent made the point that nuns at her school were equally culpable but that no-one would believe her. I too went to convent schools. The first two schools I went to were run by nuns from an order based in Manchester, but founded in France. They were worldly wise enough to provide a good education at school and teacher training levels. One elderly nun did have the habit of throwing her scissors across the room to make a point ( too many puns), and once threw my needlework out of the window and into the River Irwell, but we knew she was passionate about her subject and I forgave her. My parents then went to live and work in SE Asia and my sisters and I were sent to convent boarding school, in the next town to where I live now. I never imagined I could live so close to the scene of my teenage misery. This school was rooted in 1950s Ireland, even though this was the late 60s.It was academically challenged - my mother still regrets the fact that none of us became doctors, ignoring the fact that the school didn't offer science A levels - we no longer have the heart to remind her. The nuns generally had a cruel and sadistic approach to dealing with hormonal teenaged homesick girls, trying to find their way in the early days of women's lib and the swinging sixties. Personal hygiene and laundry and communication with friends and family were all areas of power and discipline for them. Baths and hair washing was restricted ( and this was enforced), letters were intercepted though we found ways of sneaking them out with the help of the day girls. Tampax and drying underwear were confiscated ( honestly!)
I was 13 when I went and left when I was 17. My best friend had been at the junior part of the school - ironically now a residential care home. There the nuns used an iron bar across the legs as a punishment, and put naughty children to sleep in a room they believed was haunted. Whether they ever really did this is debatable, but the fact that it was used a threat for the pupils says it all. No internet, no mobile phones, censored Sunday letters - it took 2 weeks for letters to reach my parents and the last thing they wanted to hear was how desperately unhappy we were. And this was a supposedly priviledged education.
The song 'The Magdalene Laundries' describes a particular type of convent life that I feel has a lot in common with my experiences.
Ironically I now find myself leading a secular but nun-like life- with duties and responsibilities for others, working for a charity, spiritually seeking, trying to lead a 'right' life, toying with the idea of living within a community in the next ten years as work and family responsibilities change.No love life since the terrible betrayals of two years ago.
A representative of the Catholic church was on the radio this morning commenting on the furore over the emails a junior civil servant at the Foreign Office had written about the Pope's forthcoming visit. Jokes abound about nuns and convent schoolgirls too - humour can dissipate horror! He made the point that it is part of the Catholic culture to forgive and move on. And no wonder.......

The circle game

Everything seems to be coming round again - astrologers would say it's my second Saturn return, when life is reassessed, in preparation for the next 28 years! On the 8th Day, where I used to work in Manchester, is celebrating its 40 th birthday this year. My time there was an enormous influence on my attitude to life, work and friendships, and I'm really looking forward to being involved in the preparations for the celebrations. Last weekend I visited a friend I have known since those days at her new home in Bath. It was wonderful to see her and her husband ( and cats) in their lovely new home in such a beautiful city. Old bonds.Lots of past but plenty of present too in our relationship. This week I went to Radio Derby to record some more stories - anecdotes about things that have happened to me, and again I was reliving some special times in the telling. The interviewer's response made me appreciate that I have had an interesting and eventful life, and that while I sometimes get frustrated with the limitations of my days here in the Peak District, it still presents opportunities. Great bus journey home from Derby - the frustration of the bus not turning up, the classic scenario of two Transpeak buses turning up at once, but the most surreal explanation for lateness from the driver - the air filter on the bus was full of volcanic ash and had to be changed. There wasn't the hint of a smile....