The raveled sleave of care

 I've reached a stage in my life when a reasonable night's sleep is not a luxury.

I simply don't function well without it.  I suspect I never did, but now I know it. Call it wisdom if you like; it really feels more like surrender and resignation, in my case.

So the Resident Fan Boy snores from time to time.  This past weekend, he snored big time.  Every time I felt my body relax and my consciousness drift down, a huge motor-like buzz pulled me back from the ocean of slumber.

The first couple of times, I was gentle and courteous:  "Darling, can you roll on your side and elevate your head?"

The response was a "Wha-a-a-?" and an audible slump.

The second couple of times I resorted to gentle pushes and pokes.

By one a.m., ninety minutes after bedtime, I was murderous.  I made my way out to the living room, setting up my pillows, water, and a herbal sleep aid.  The last time I did something like this (apart from when the RFB got COVID last summer), was after a fight early in our marriage, a couple of decades ago.

The Resident Fan Boy remained in blissful, noisy repose.  He also remained alive.  I am capable of self-control, in a crisis.

Fortunately, these snore-fests are usually far between.  I mean, the RFB has snored for years, but I can usually manage a decent rest.

But I need a head-start.

So I'll bid you goodnight.

Cutting it fine

The Tea Table (1920) - Harold Harvey

I had a pretty lousy night last night, and found myself blearily scrolling through social media early this morning, having tried, unsuccessfully, to get back to sleep.

This was how I stumbled upon this tweet from journalist and art historian Richard Morris, asking for feedback from his followers on the practice of buttering the bread loaf before slicing it.  It seems that he was aware of the practice (it's mentioned in Charles Dickens' Great Expectations), but thought it might have been a more local tradition, limited, perhaps, to the West Country, where he had documentation.

Wha-a-a??  I said to myself (silently, so as not to disturb the Resident Fan Boy -- which was damned nice of me, considering that it was his snoring that was partially responsible for my sleep deprivation).

First off, it's not that clear from the painting how this buttering was managed.  Fortunately, Morris got hundreds of replies, which you can read if you follow the link.  The followers writing in were remembering mums and grans from all over Britain, but especially the West Country -- and Wales. Many said that it was for economy; the butter made it easier to slice the bread thinly, and that today's bread, made by the Chorleywood method, would fall to pieces, if buttered or sliced in such a way.

I quizzed Demeter when I went over to set up her lunch.  She didn't remember her Welsh grandmother or her Wolverhampton grandmother buttering a loaf in that fashion, but did say that the Welsh loaves were startling:  large with rounded tops.

I went home and questioned the Resident Fan Boy, because I wondered if the technique made it to Canada, and if his grandmother, a farmwife in Alberta, buttered the bread this way. Not only did he not recall the women in his family doing such a thing, but, damn his eyes, he refused to believe such a thing was done!  Showing him the painting did not convince him, but when I had him read some of the Twitter replies, pulled up the passage from Great Expectations, and googled "buttering loaves before slicing", he came around.  (How very dare he!  He knows me well enough that I would have checked!)

I came to the sad conclusion that the generations of our respective families who would have known the answer have slid beyond our questions.  If yours haven't, ask -- and write it down.

Instead of sheep

I've actually been sleeping quite well. Early on, when this country-shutting-down business began, I'd wake up, hoping I'd imagined it, but, for the most part, I drift off easily.

Should it ever become a problem beyond the occasional Valerian, I could always take Bing Crosby's advice and count my blessings. I have a baker's dozen, at least.

1) I am at home with all the comforts thereof, enough food, and a safe place to sleep.

2) I am with my family, including both daughters, and we all are, at the time of writing, comfortable and healthy. I get the occasional uneasiness when I'm stuffy, sneezy, or head-achy, but opening a window usually is enough.

3) We have electricity and WiFi.

4) Demeter is a two-minute stroll (a one-minute panicked dash) away, and she is reasonably comfortable and very healthy.

5) I can still venture forth and get things for my family and particularly Demeter.

6) We are on a beautiful (unusually quiet) street, and our windows afford views of flower beds, trees, and, up until recently, a steadily diminishing number of passersby -- also the occasional delinquent deer. It's spring, something at which Victoria excels.

7) I am actually hearing more from friends than usual, due to, no doubt, their own senses of isolation, but heck, I'll take it.

8) Marie Phillips, due to her own sense of isolation, is blogging again. I'll take it!

9) These days, we have free access to theatre and ballet, courtesy of the Globe, the National Theatre, and the Royal Opera House, among other sources.

10) I have opportunities to pursue family research, my go-to mental health activity in the best of times and the worst of times. I just demolished a major brick wall in the Resident Fan Boy's side of the family tree a couple of days ago. I did lose some sleep over that - due to excitement. Don't say it.

11) We still have access to take-out from several of our favourite eateries, which we support for entirely selfish reasons.

12) Miraculously, some of my favourite shops are offering limited, and very personalized, service: book stores, stationers, hosery... It's my bounden duty to help keep them open, right? And I'm shopping local.

13) I'm not in Hades. Sorry. It had to be said.

Some Canadian content for bedtime

This has been been an ear worm for me.  G'night. 

Face the face

We knew winter was coming back; it's way too early for a Hadean spring. Snow today, freezing rain forecast for tomorrow. Maybe that's why I found myself feeling suddenly achy, and chapped.  I hope so, because otherwise, it means I'm coming down with something.  Either way, I need to get to bed early.

Anyway, I posted a rather maimed version of "Face to Face" on this blog seven years ago.  I suppose I've been thinking about Pete Townsend because of including a video featuring him last week, so I wondered if someone had found a more complete version of what is, after all, one of my favourite Pete Townsend songs.

There are now about five.

They're all interesting, most recorded in different years.  One particularly intriguing take is a slightly more laid-back performance, heavy on the bongos and featuring Dave Gilmour of Pink Floyd, of all people.  Great footwork by Townsend, but it's difficult to fully appreciate it with the irritating camera work.

But they do have the original "official" video featuring Townsend's daughter Emma (now a Cambridge graduate and a journalist) and all of the first verse. And yes, it's supposed to end like that.


I'd dance myself to bed, but I'd probably break something.