Warming the Cockles

(Happy Traitors Day to those who celebrate)

It has rained, and rained, and rained. It feels as if the entire country is awash, all of us, hoods up, slopping around the place. Apart from my friend Cath, who lives in Tunbridge Wells and has her water delivered in plastic bottles, thanks to South East Water and the regular outrageous outages. Much of Kent appear to be leaving buckets out in downpours in the hope they will catch enough to flush their lavs so long may it rain for them, and for ducks. I don’t think our gardens need it.

As for here, we have a continual stream running through the village where it shouldn’t be, every dog walk is a squelch and the broken gutter is playing a tune on the bins. I am pining for the frost heavy, alpine blue sky mornings of early January when I didn’t have to hose down a muddy dog. It’s worth risking an icy slip and a sprained ankle to avoid that.

To add insult to soggy clothes, the local cafes are closed for a couple of weeks. Good for them of course, it’s their only break of the year, what with us being a seaside town and rammed from April onwards, but just at the point I need a teeny treat, I have to make my own coffee. Imagine.

Also, no swimming. I love getting in the sea when it is raining, but it’s less enjoyable to come out to a pile of wet clothes and try to get dressed against a gale force. Not only this, but in bad weather the town’s sewage shoots down the river and out into the sea near the clocktower. It’s something we all continue to shout about but who is really paying attention? I’ll stop now because I don’t want this newsletter to turn into a rant about water companies because we all KNOW.

In the brief moments when the sun has come out, I have exclaimed ‘the sun!’ as if this will help it stay around. Today it did for a little while. Luckily there have been other things to brighten the gloom. Mainly Traitors of course (counting down to tonight), but two other nuggets to share.

So, last autumn I was working with a lovely author who was extolling the virtues of Reformer Pilates as we tucked into a plate of eclairs. This is the God’s honest patisserie truth, we had them every time we met, and they ended up becoming a sort of talisman for our work. We couldn’t not have one because what happened if it ruined the magic? Anyway, back to Reformer Pilates. She said it was the ideal exercise for women of our age. ‘Shame,’ I said, looking like it really was, ‘because I live in the middle of nowhere, so a Reformer studio would be a two hour round trip for me.’ I shrugged in defeat.

The following week, I pulled out of the lane at the top of the village and on to the coast road, past the old petrol station that became a café then became a shop then became a café. And there was a sign. Not a spiritual one, an actual one, announcing a Reformer Pilates Studio. My first thought was ‘amazing!’ swiftly followed by my second thought ‘oh shit I have no excuse now.’ What are the odds on that?! I am two sessions in, and I can see exactly why people are raving about it. If they could just reopen the café next door then I could grab a coffee and a pastry on the way out.

The second joy of January has been a surprise I planned for Steve for our 20^th wedding anniversary, which the internet told me was customary to celebrate through the giving of ceramics. Instead, my friend Katy Shields, an incredibly talented potter, teacher and one half of The Milk Room (Sarah Forrest is the other wonderful half) gave us a morning tutorial in their studio. She showed us the basics of throwing a pot, which Steve took to immediately while I clamped on to the clay with too much fervour or too little, wobbling my way to a plant pot (because it had a hole in the bottom so ever positive Katy repurposed it) and a dish which looked suspiciously like a dog bowl. I spent much of the time with my clay slightly off centre which sums up January, but all failings were eclipsed by the sheer joy in my heart.

With the fierce logburner warming the old milking parlour studio, sleeves rolled up, aprons tied and the eternal late middle-aged problem of glasses on or off, Steve and I immersed ourselves in the exhilaration of something new. In a break, we drank coffee and ate croissants - from fantastic Bridport bakery, Rise - that looked like they had been run over before being dipped in melted chocolate and rolled in pistachio chippings. This is how every croissant should be served from now on.

We left, in a storm, dodging land slips and racing back to our desks, with the biggest smiles and grand plans for signing up to a pottery class. So it turns out that the theme of my month hasn’t been my socks drying on the radiator, it’s been new experiences, delicious pastries and a full coffee pot. I’ll take that.