THINGS I LIKE A LOT # 5 & 6

Mr  London Street

instigated this idea and, on my old blog - which has, as you may know disappeared into the back end of Blogland, and which was for a while, withheld to punish me for my stupidity in losing it in the first place – I have already posted 1, 2, 3&4.  Of course I cannot link to them, but thanks to suggestions from bloggy pals, Saz has found the lost treasures and they are all safely tucked away where I can reach them, though not of course in their pristine form.

But this is a new place, not for mourning, so I shall continue as if ‘nowt has happened.

5: I like water, moving water. I prefer a bath to a shower  being immersed in it.
I like to be near the sea, as near as possible; at least five of our homes have been within earshot of splash and slurp and susurration.

 I used to swim every day, from April till September until my mid-fifties and in those days the Bay did not have a very good waste disposal system. There was a long pipe that sent all the nasties a quarter mile out to sea, but nothing to stop it all flowing back inshore. No seaweed grew along our shore and it never occurred to me to ask ‘why not’. I guess I became immune to Staph. and Strep. I was limber and glowing with health.

Then we moved away and the Council built a new Sewage Treatment unit and the seaweed came back and mussel beds grew and the sea lost its dirty brown frown and looked almost Mediterranean on sunny days. But I was older and not happy to frolic in my one piece, hidden panels swimsuit. And the longer I left it, the bigger I grew and I only paddled with Milou once or twice with my jeans rolled up. But the pebbles, which once were as soft as marshmallow beneath my hardened feet now caused me to stumble and prance in a most ungainly manner, as if on hot coals.

I learned to swim and to be unafraid of water in Folkestone during the war. Mother would take my brother and I to the open air swimming pool on the seafront. She would throw pennies into the water and tell us to fetch them back to her, throwing them a little further into deeper water each time.

I would not be afraid to die in water. I almost drowned once, and found the whole incident calming. Silence and the feel of water on my skin like a caress.

6:
I like to sleep alone. Don't misunderstand. I'm as much a fan of bedtime fun as the next woman, and nothing says 'I love you' more than a cuddle, a warm back and a reassuring shhhh! after a bad dream.

But! To stretch and swim on cool sheets, to curl and roll, listen to my radio, speaking out the answers to Round Britain Quiz, read, snore, and occasionally weep, without JP tutting, or shouting out as I disturb the equilibrium of his sleep and he has a nightmare, jumping out of bed, rushing to save the baby, or me, or whatever disaster is unfolding in the nightmarish world he inhabits by night [yet never remembers by day]

We had been married fifteen years or so, fifteen years of broken nights. Of me waking, irritated, not only from lack of sleep but from the wide-eyed and bushy tailed look of my mate. We tried twin beds, and that solved the problem of my movements disturbing him, but not my sounds. A sneeze, a snore, a creak of the bed and he would sit up, switch on the light and stare at me, his eyes red and angry, yet he was still asleep. I quickly learned that shouting at him was not the answer, as it only served to power whatever situation he was living. I had to soothe, gently; 'It's alright Cherie, go back to sleep.'
The next house move gave us an extra room and reluctantly he decided to move into it. We both thought that it was against all the laws of 'happy married life'. How wrong we were.

Added spice, actually.

He still shouts out occasionally. 'I've left the back door open!' or 'What are you doing down there?' Now I just sing out...'Alls well old thing.' and he goes back to sleep and I stretch and roll and swim on my crisp cool sheets and think...Is this the secret of a long and happy marriage?

Well, it is in this house.