Lofty things

Well, that's it. The Rains have arrived. Last night I was no sooner in bed than I heard it - an impressive downpour, not battering windows, for there was no wind, but just bashing down. This morning it had more or less stopped for my early supermarket visit, but the fully--laden hydrangea bush looked rather weighed down and the back path was a no-go area for drooping plants. All this meant that I didn't go out again until 5pm, and then only for a duty walk so's to be able to enjoy dinner. 

Instead, we embarked on the surprisingly stressful task of defrosting the freezer. I guess it wouldn't be so traumatic if we did it more often, but there you are. A corollary to the stress is the unconscionable length of time it takes to reach the desired temperature when you're finished - almost 11 hours on it's still got the red light on. I console myself that this happens every year ... I think...

Other than that, I spent some time in my corner of the loft. It's becoming fascinating, the range of things we unearth. My collage shows a view of one corner still to be ... organised, two examples of work from my S5 homework jotters, and the beloved set of stencils from my early childhood. I spent hours drawing sailing ships and horses with them; it made me feel very odd indeed finding them as I had no notion they were there. I was also fascinated by the glimpse of my 17-year-old self afforded by the jotters. Look at that conclusion to an essay entitled "Crabbed Age and Youth cannot live together" (from an old Higher English exam paper!):
Nevertheless, however much young and old may disagree, they are bound together by the inescapable fact that the old have once been young, and that the young, alas, will one day be old. 
I see that my disliked teacher gave me 22/25 VG, and part of me still feels sure she gritted her teeth writing it (she didn't love me much either). I am amazed at the assured writing of my young self. But what is really odd is the sense that this is still me - the me that wrote that is the same me that is writing this now, and I recognise her and own her. 

As for the translation into Latin, I'm in awe. I loved my Latin teacher, the head of department who looked like Julius Caesar minus the laurel wreath, and I worked hard, much harder than I ever did at English, so that he would look favourably on me. I see that he gave me "Excellent", but that he disapproved of my rather idiosyncratic handwriting, which, now that I look at it with a critical eye, was capable of ambiguity ... I wrote with a little green, gold-nibbed fountain pen, one of the traditional kind with the lever on the side, and I always used turquoise ink, of which I had a large bottle at home. Pretentious? Moi??

Before you ask, no. I'm not throwing any of this stuff out. I'm reorganising it so that it's tidily filed for my children to chuck - or not - when I'm gone. I have filled a big sack of papers - and flaking plastic - already, but this is not going in it. 

After all - what are lofts for?