Cats – Jenny May

Unravelling

Before six on a Sunday morning in December; I stand outside in the dark, a gentle drizzle cooling my still bed-warm face. Between a hideous cough and cold and a head full with a maelstrom of thoughts, sleep has proved to be, once again, elusive.

Only an hour before, warm and snuggled next to my darling husband, despite the lack of sleep, everything seemed possible in that fuzzy way of being not quite fully conscious to the world. But with each minute that passed, unbidden and an unwanted thoughts arrived – as they so often do.

In the pre-dawn, in my pyjamas and in the morning air I feel the softness of those moments when most of the world is still asleep. A gentle susurration shakes whispers in the tree tops. I say out loud to the dark, ‘I don’t want to leave. Please, let me stay.’

Last summer, I was at the point in the previous cancer recurrence, where I thought treatment was coming to an end. I had done five months of chemo, had surgery to remove all of the lymph nodes under my right arm and was nearing the end of radiotherapy. After what I thought was just another routine scan, I was told that the cancer had spread further than they had first thought and that I would have to do another six months of chemotherapy.

I did not deal with this well.

Since then, I have had regular on-off feelings that drop into the pit of my stomach at such random moments that they can completely knock me off guard, that I am going to die young. Standing outside on this December morning, that feeling lands again.

I head in. I feed the cats, because, let’s face it, there’s nothing like cats to bring you down to earth and tell you quite clearly where priorities lie.

I light candles around the living room, and think. It has become hard to know which thoughts are real, which are anxiety or fear driven, which ones are intrusive and completely untrue, which are hope, which are gut feeling – which ones to believe. And mostly, there isn’t really time to actually think about them when they happen. Life forces a relentless churn of hurried onwards motion.

By candlelight, and to the sound of cats chomping down their breakfast and the incredibly annoying ticking of two clocks and an orchestra of tinnitus, I try to unravel the knotted ball of thoughts and feelings. But it doesn’t work today.

I believe very much in both following with curiosity thoughts and feelings, examining them and giving time to try to get to know their origin and demands – as well as not giving over too much time to runaway thoughts that are often impishly playing games with you. Today it seems my brain has decided on the latter, and besides which, the hot water I’ve been drinking becomes pressing and is edging me to get up off the sofa – the spell is broken.

But, I have been left with this. I read recently that, as children, we cry when we are upset but, as adults, we cry more when things are beautiful. This is because, as we get older, we experience more of the difficulties of life, we know how deep hurt can feel and have known far more pain and grief. When something is beautiful we can truly feel how far it is from these sorrows and it touches us more for its distance from these things.

In a candle lit room, cats now gently snoring, my darling husband asleep upstairs, flames flickering shadows on the walls of the leaves of houseplants, silence, warmth – I cried. Big fat tears of love and joy, stratospheric in distance from the thoughts in the pit of my stomach. And while I still cry with heart breaking love – I know I am, for now, okay.

P.S. Oof, bit of a feels one there, wasn’t it. If it helps to lighten the mood, I am now writing this last bit while, for the second time this week, eating apple crumble for breakfast. I thoroughly recommend crumble by candlelight for breakfast – try it.

P.P.S. Re treatment, after much tormenting back and forth between options, I have decided to try for the genetic PARP inhibitor trials with Addenbrookes. This is both hopeful and terrifying. I have to pass some very intense medical screening first and while this is happening, I have to somehow come to peace with knowingly letting the cancer grow and potentially spread while doing so.

P.P.P.S. If anyone knows of any cough remedy that ACTUALLY works and will allow me to get some sleep for the first time in a week – let me know. No, Mum, I am NOT going to drink onion syrup.

Choices

I have cancer and I’m considering saying no to chemotherapy.

Ooh, now there’s a click-baity first line. But, I am.

I mentioned in my previous blog that it was all a bit complicated this time and because of this, treatment still hasn’t begun – or been decided upon. I am however, having ALL of the hospital appointments in ALL of the departments with ALL of the specialists.

How to summarise: I have the mutated BRCA1 gene which (in absolute layman’s terms) means that my body’s ability to stop cancer developing doesn’t work. We all get many tiny cancers all of the time, but most people have a body that can kick them to the curb before they get up to any mischief. Mine can’t.

All the previous treatment I have had: much chemotherapy, surgery and radiotherapy have dealt with the big boy tumours that have developed and shown themselves, but haven’t been able to stop the spread of mini cells of cancer moving about and growing once I finished treatment. Left to its own devices, my body, once again couldn’t stop mini cancers turning into actual cancers with spiky helmets and a marauding spirit.

Therefore, the idea of just going for chemo and surgery again is a bit like, to use my oncologist’s words: doing the same thing and expecting a different outcome. The very definition of madness, I believe.

So, what then? Well, surgery will have to happen at some point, whether now or further down the line. And it is scary stuff. The cancer is in the lymph nodes in my neck and close to several important nerves and veins. The possible risks of what I could be left with if any of these get damaged are terrifying and depressing in equal measure. But, I have no choice. Surgery will happen.

But it is also going to be a long, long stretch of treatment this time; we are talking years now. The options include chemotherapy, immunotherapy and different PARP (yes, yes it is funny – do giggle childishly please, we do) inhibitors. All of which have horrible side effects.

And I have to make the decision as to what to do and when and in which order and if I’m honest, I really don’t know.

I’ve said before, and I’ll say it again, having cancer is a full time job. Between scans, blood tests, consultations, treatments, hospital stays, biopsies, phone calls, travelling etc etc, there is little time for anything else – and that includes having any time to think about it all properly, to look after yourself or to come to terms with it. On top of that there is normal life: work, cooking, shopping… I need a P.A. Maybe I should dust off the old Filofax I know is still hanging around somewhere and get myself a power suit.

Talking of accessories, I have just got myself a walking stick – at aged forty-one!! I am increasingly light-headed and my balance a little off and if I’m going to be on my feet for any length of time, I sometimes just need a little extra stabilizing. I find myself horribly self-conscious about the idea of going out with the stick, I’m not sure it will match my converse and dungarees. Joking aside, it feels a huge admission of just how unwell I actually am because, from the outside, at the moment, I look like there is nothing wrong. And I think, I have somehow still been lying to myself a little about it all.

Meeting one of the surgeons this week, heading off to meet the rest of the team in Norwich next week as well as a trip to Addenbrookes – it’s all settling rather heavily on how big this really is.

It is not often, one genuinely has life and death decisions to make. I don’t feel particularly qualified to make them

As ever, I am sharing this and will keep doing so, to keep the conversation going. We need to normalise talking about cancer, because for those of us with it, it is our ‘normal’ every day and we shouldn’t have to hide away because of it and the discomfort it can bring to conversations. And if that puts you on edge – one of these blogs soon, I’m going to talk about death – because I think that needs a PR overhaul too.

That’s right! Death. As a writer, I have notebooks and notes on my phone filled with thoughts that appear to me either in curiosity or with stark revelation. Let’s face it, some on second reading are absolute twaddle but, some are useful and some resonate. Here is one I happened upon again recently:

Be vivid. If I am to live with the spectre of death at my side, I want to be living in happiness and fun when I am taken. Death will be dressed in scarlet and jewels. I will be dancing. No more bullsh1t or small talk. Live boldly.

I am writing this blog with the wind and rain whipping loudly in the dark outside my window, in which twinkly lights are reflected. I have a blanket on my lap, and a cat on the blanket (having a cute squeaky snore). I am going to sign off, have a glass of red wine and give my darling MOTH a huge kiss. Because despite it all, I am blessed. And I may have moments of huge grief but in between, I am determined to live in happiness.

Onwards and sideways

Strap in, for the beast has returned – and this time, it’s complicated. That’s right, we’re back on the Big C train.

For the third time in six years, I find myself writing a blog to tell people that I have cancer. It may seem an odd way of doing it, I know. I have, of course, already told the people closest to me, which is strangely one of the hardest parts of the whole thing. Then, I have to admit, I get overwhelmed with the amount of retelling, that in the end, it’s actually easier to do this – a big ‘ole announcement to all.

But, as anyone who has read my blogs on all this nonsense before will know, I also write about cancer to try and normalise the topic so people don’t feel afraid to talk to me, or others. Going through cancer is hard enough as it is. When people pull away or start acting differently because they don’t know how to be or what to say, that just makes it all so much harder.

So, repeat after me: cancer, cancer, cancer, cancer, cancer. Feel free to insert swear words too, wholly appropriate.

So, where are we? I have known for about two and a half months now and I’ve been savouring a last bit of ‘normal’ for a while by not telling a whole lot of people. But, the machine gears up and I am more frequently than not at one hospital appointment or another. I am also becoming increasingly exhausted and I think showing signs of slowing down, so time to talk it is.

Yep, it’s the breast cancer again/still. A second recurrence, this time in the lymph nodes in my neck. There is also a suspicious shadow on my chest which as yet, remains unidentified. After several different chemotherapies over a total of 15 months, two major surgeries and radiotherapy, it still has not got the hint to leave. Quite frankly – rude!

I have not started any treatment yet because I have turned into a bit of a special case and the normal routes aren’t seen to be perhaps the best choice this time. My amazing oncologist, is looking into multiple different options and I (being so special) have caught the eye of Addenbrookes and am taking part in some research trials with them, alongside. To be honest, it’s all a bit complicated to explain at the moment.

This post may feel a little flippant, but trust me, I have done a lot of grieving over the last two months or so. There is so much loss that comes with cancer; mentally physically and emotionally – but you can’t be in the depths of these things one hundred percent of the time.

Last time I had a recurrence, I first asked on twitter – yes, with a poll – whether people wanted me to write about it again or not. Out of many responses, I had one person say no, they’d rather not hear about such things. I still think of this response and this person. The thing is, when you have cancer, whether you like it or not, it rather takes over your life. And the aftershocks live on forever with you afterwards. It is simply impossible to deny such a huge part of your life, because it would be like trying to hide a huge part of you.

So, I will write about it, but not only it. I will probably be rather irreverent at times, because you can still laugh and joke when you have cancer, as much as you cry and fear and grieve.

Facing the potential of death in such quick succession at what I still feel is a young age, I find myself casting thoughts further to the nature of being human and our place in the world – so you’ll probably get some hippy, wellbeing, self-help, life and universe rambling also.

But sometimes, I will still just talk about cats, worms, trees and my ever increasing melding into a weird nature person.

Because I am still me.

We go on. Onwards and sideways*

*Onwards and sideways is something my bestie and I have been saying for forever for those moments when you just keep going, even if you don’t necessarily feel you are going forwards. For my birthday (and yes, I am insisting that forty one is still quite young) she surprised me with an amazing hoodie, with her design of our old phrase. Brilliant! You can see more of her designs on Instagram @ilonajaneillustration

Rooks, kites and curious bees

Last week I had a conversation about the plague doctor before eight a.m. Oddly enough, it wasn’t brought about directly by the current situation, rather in a more circumvent way. With both the lack of being able to physically meet and the want to find things that can be done ‘together,’ especially if they are a way to boost morale a little, it was suggested in one of our family chats that on national bird day we all draw a bird to then share with each other. Which we did. I put my hand in the air though to admit that I forgot to do it on the day in question and so on the morning of sharing I hastily and with many smudges, scribbled a terrible rendition of a rook. (It may also have suffered the addition of some spilt almond milk.) This was in fact what started the plague doctor discussion as I have always been reminded of such by rooks, because of their lighter coloured beaks. They remind me of the masks worn by the doctors treating sick people during the bubonic plague. These masks included a long hollow beak stuffed with highly scented herbs with the thought that this would purify the air. The rest of their costume was often made up of a long heavy coat and gloves and a stick to keep the sick at bay. There was mention that many or all of these things could be useful when doing the weekly shop at the moment.

I am sure I am not the only one who has found that the first few weeks of lockdown was followed by an almost panicked rush of on-line chats and video calls as well as an inordinate amount of chat groups on various platforms, both work and social. Whilst this has been amazingly lovely and I am entirely grateful that we are able to do so, I have to admit I have found it a bit exhausting, as I know many others have too. It was almost as if, for two weeks I did nothing but chat in various forms.

I read an interesting article on this subject and apparently one of the reasons we find these video calls difficult, is seeing ourselves as we talk. We never normally have this phenomenon, unless we only ever talk to someone with a mirror placed behind them and we are constantly looking over their shoulder.

Another reason is that our brains and bodies are getting mixed messages: the brain says that we are in the company of another person but the body knows that it physically isn’t; this dissonance causes a friction that can make us feel at odds. It has been recommended that when on these talks there are things we can do to minimise the strangeness; we can not look directly at the camera and screen the whole time, allow yourself to look around you, gesticulate – like you would in a normal situation; you wouldn’t usually spend an entire conversation staring directly into someone’s face (weird). The other is to not show yourself on the screen. This is also an advantage when you are ignoring the fact that you haven’t brushed your hair for three days. I wonder if, when all this is over, we’ll only recognise people by their under-chins and will have to ask them to look upwards for confirmation of who they are – having got so used to the dreaded video call angle.

This week has also brought out the curious bees. MOTH and I were digging a new vegetable patch (we may never stop, one day we won’t have a garden, just an allotment – suits me) and all around us we could see bees hovering in the air at about head height. They seemed to be assessing, looking, taking the lie of the land, which in fact is probably what they were doing. Bees do send out scouts either to gather foraging directions or they go out on mass to find a new home when they leave their old hive. Being so many, I wonder if we witnessed the latter. Other curious bees this week include the ones that are impatient to get to any freshly dug earth; perhaps they are also looking for a new nesting site.

In other exciting nature news, we have robins nesting and I am fiercely protective over them. I can see their nest from my study and I have, on more than one occasion, been known to abandon my laptop mid-sentence and bolt downstairs to shoo a cat away if they were getting too close. I also had a lovely few seconds of pure joy when I saw a kite lazily flying overhead in perfect blue sky. We regularly have buzzards circling about nearby, but this was my first kite spot.

With the current imposed lockdown, there has been much talk of nature having a bit of time without our constant interference and there appears to be an upswell of interest in the natural world. I hope this continues when we are all set loose again. It seems to be giving so much to us in terms of comfort, pleasure, interest and lifting spirits; I hope in turn, we will give more back to it.

There’s a monster in my dining room

It is mischief night, the night before All Hallows Eve and so I thought I’d tell you about our very own monster who lives with us. He almost touches the ceiling and with each year that passes, he takes over more and more of the room. When we’ve had guests round for dinner he has been known to poke them in the back whilst sat around the table. He has also made a terrible mess of the paintwork on the walls.

But, we love him and he has certainly become one of the family. Known to us as Edam, he is a Monstera deliciosa (aka a cheese plant). MOTH bought him 24 years ago, little understanding then just how big he would grow. When we first moved in to this house three years past, we initially housed him in the conservatory on the back wall thinking it was the only area that could accommodate him. But guilt set in when we saw that he was not faring well at all. Too cold through the winter and too scorching hot in the summer he began to look decidedly unhappy. So, into the dining room he went and my-goodness, he preferred that. He has since sent forth several new leaves, each bigger and higher-reaching than the last.

It is quite fascinating to watch these leaves come into being. They appear, one at a time, from each previous leaf. A small section begins to peel away from the stem and out of this split comes an unfurled flag of green. As it un-rolls it spreads out and up, to become the leaf from which the next new one will spring.

I have always had houseplants, not only do they look nice but they are very healthy things to have in your home. I have had successes to greater and lesser extents, mainly because I am not one for mollycoddling*. I like a good robust plant that doesn’t demand specialised attention and can just get on with being, without too much fuss. But I never thought I’d have a plant that I could stand under without stooping and it still loom above me.

The thing about Edam though, is that, he seems to have become more than just a houseplant. Perhaps because of his size and therefore sheer presence, I find I feel very kindly to him and even chat to him on passing. “Good morning, Edam.” As I wander through to the kitchen to get the breakfast things out. “Good grief man, will stop growing just for a bit!” Pretty much every time I look at him. I’ve even given him a dust on occasion followed by a spritz of water and asked him if, “that felt better, now?” Is this better or worse than talking to the cats, I wonder? Perhaps I just need to get out more. But to have a living thing take up a quarter of a room and be with you for so long and that you see responding to the care you give it – how can you not treat him as more than just a thing?

I’m not quite sure where all this will take us. We have recently had to rearrange the whole dining room just to accommodate Edam and I wonder if, one day, we will come downstairs, struggle to open the door and fight our way though to find that there is a jungle to negotiate before we reach the kitchen. And do you know what, if that is the case, I can’t help thinking that we would just create a path through as best we could, gently chastise our ever-growing monster and carry on as normal with the cats prowling about their own personal indoor forest.

*I thought, having written it, I would have a look at the term mollycoddle. It seems, it comes from the seventeenth century and was used as a derogative term for someone, particularly an effeminate male, who has been overindulged and overprotected. The Molly part taking reference from the slang term of Mary which was given to low-status, often prostitute women and the coddled part is, ‘to treat overly carefully,’ often used in cooking, as in coddling an egg – to boil it very gently.

Tales from the kitchen: The Beast

As I write, we are in the clutches of the beast; that is, The Beast from the East, as the very cold weather we are having this February and March has been dubbed. I admit to being cynical about just how bad it would be, let’s face it, it wouldn’t be the first time something was over-hyped, but for once, it seems the predictions were correct.

We are currently snowed in. Not into our house per se, but the small rural village we live in is inaccessible from either side, residing as it does, at the top of a hill. Despite the efforts of the local farmers going out to try and clear the roads, the wind is continuously blowing banks of snow back again This has resulted in a tailback of stationary cars at the bottom of the hill, unable to proceed.

As lunchtime approached, let’s face it there was only one thing to be done: soup. I fancied something thick and hearty and with a good bit of flavour – if only to try and penetrate through the horrible cold I have been sneezing my way through for nearly a week.

So, I set abut a lentil, tomato and spinach soup (a link to my recipe is included below) but, distracted by Big Cat, who is momentously bored due to being stuck indoors because of the snow, I had a false start. Perhaps I should begin the recipe instructions as follows: once you have set your onions softening, do not get distracted trying to find various bits of string, elastic, beads and the such to make further impromptu cat-entertaining toys to hang from various door frames etc – because your forgotten onions will burn and you will have to begin again.

Big Cat is a very amiable fellow and will often spend hours during the day running around the garden chasing mainly leaves and insects. He is not a natural hunter and when he does catch something, he tends to wander around with it in his mouth, unharmed, looking at you as if to say, ‘This is mine. I don’t know what I do with it now, but it’s mine, yes?’ The general rule of thumb in our house is, if we manage to get a caught critter from Big Cat, it will be happily and healthily released back into the wild. If Small Cat (who is quite possibly 89% evil) catches something – there is no hope for it, whatsoever.

Big Cat has been mooching about, following me around for the last two days, shouting at me as if I were deliberately not clearing the snow away so he can go out and play. Small Cat just sleeps, demands food and occasionally pulls drying washing off the rack to attack it before chasing his brother around the house.

As the soup steamed up the windows and filled the house with gentle spice aromas, it was time to pop the pumpkin seeds. If you have never done this, I suggest you give it a go. Not only does it result in a tasty snack or topping – but it is fun too. As they heat, puff and then split they tend to jump skyward, left and right as they pop. Enthusiastic errant seeds can zoom across the room a good couple of feet if they are feeling particularly feisty. When the outer layers have split and you put them in a bowl with a little seasoning, they make a wonderful crunchy popping, sizzling sound as they cool.

It may be -14 out there with the wind chill today, I may be wearing six layers, plus three pairs of socks, scarf and hat in the house and had to scrape ice off the inside of the windows earlier, but it is all worth it because it made me make this lunch. I love it when food is a pleasure and is somehow fitting to the occasion. There would have been no satisfaction eating this on a hot summer day, but today, it couldn’t have been more perfect.

For my lentil, tomato and spinach soup topped with popped pumpkin seeds recipe, click here

Working nine to five then back round to nine, on to five again, then to nine…

Having cancer can easily be a full-time job. Of course, you have it all the time, it’s not like a shift rota where you can get every other Friday off, but it really can be more than just passively having the disease. Or at least that’s how I’ve found it.

What I mean is that there is so much to do, take in, know, understand and deal with; there is scarcely time for anything else.

In the beginning, when you are in the first throes of diagnosis you find yourself caught up in a whirlwind where you are no more in control than a leaf tumbling over a waterfall.

In my case, I woke up one morning in February and felt a pain around my right pectoral muscle and thought that I must have slept oddly; perhaps with one arm above my head fending off one, or both, of the cats who cheekily like to sneak in onto our pillows whilst we are asleep and assume the mantle of a feline deerstalker. Rubbing around the area that hurt I felt something that has irrevocably changed me and my life. A lump. A large, solid lump at that.

Feeling utterly scared and doing what we all know is stupid, I tried to ignore it for the day but by the afternoon it was the only thing in my head and eventually I had to ask MOTH for a second opinion. Yes, he agreed, there was definitely something there.

Unfortunately, it was on a Saturday this happened and so I had to wait until Monday to call the doctor. There were no appointments available but when I explained to them why I was calling they fitted me in that morning. God Bless the NHS and all who work in her! The doctor referred me straight away and the next morning I got a call from the hospital with a date to see the specialist – in two weeks’ time. I’m not really complaining, two weeks is nothing compared to how long some people wait, but for me, at that time, it felt like two years.

I saw the consultant surgeon on a Monday; on the same day, she sent me for ultra sound and a mammogram and did a biopsy. On the Friday, we were back for the results. NOTHING will ever prepare you for being told that you have cancer. I heard the consultant’s words, took all the paperwork, even asked some questions – but I don’t know how – the world had turned to slow-motion fog. Back in the car I swore liberally, fully and for some time, then cried all the way home. Almost as bad as hearing the news – I now had to tell my family.

What followed was a full-on, high-paced assault course of appointments: CT scans, bone scans, mammograms, ultra sound, blood tests, consultant appointments injections and eventually beginning chemotherapy and this intense packed ballet continues as my treatment does.

As well as the physical appointments, there is keeping on top of what medications to take and when and what to then take and do to combat the side effects from those. (Side effects will be a whole different blog, or two or five!) I have a bag and a notebook that I keep my medications in otherwise I dare say I wouldn’t have a clue what was meant to be happening.

Then there is just getting through the treatment. My first three rounds of chemotherapy were with the drug known colloquially as TAX (I shan’t go into technicalities here.) Although there were some pretty horrible side effects I found that I only had two days in each cycle that put me to bed. But, last week I was changed to a different drug FEC (well, it’s three in one really, one of which being a derivative of mustard gas!) and I have found this one much harder to deal with. Sick, sick and sick would describe it only by adding a further; sick. On these days, the full-time job really was just to get through each minute, hour and day.

But there is so much more that can be explored to help you get through what is essentially a deliberate poisoning of your body: herbal help, diet, exercise, meditation. I have been compiling mountains of information on the such and my head buzzes with all there is to know and find out. There are not enough hours in the day!

There must be balance though and when you have cancer – life outside the disease still exists. I try and get bits of work done when I can, I do the shopping and cooking when not having a bad day, I see my darling family and friends when it is possible. I have often said that if it weren’t so horrible to go through, the process, from an outside point of view, would be fascinating. The idea that we have chemotherapy to essentially turn off cells (yes, ‘have you tried turning her off and on again,’ applies to humans as well as IT systems) and then they turn back on without the cancer cells doing so is an amazing, albeit scary, process.

I feel that when my treatment is done and I am on the road to full recovery, I will still be learning about all this and I hope that in some way, I will be able to do something to help other’s going through it.

In the meantime, I would like to ask you all to do something: please regularly check yourself. It’s hard to know what you’re looking for, I know; all I can say is, I, and others I have spoken to who have had cancer, all say, when you find it – you just know. So please, check. If you find something, don’t ignore it. Go and get it looked at. I know it is scary but trust me, life really is too precious to not do this for you and your family. A few seconds check in the shower could save you all of the rest of the years of your life – bit of a no-brainer really, isn’t it?

*MOTH Man Of The House

Sing a song of – well, anything

I was pursuing the peppers in the veg aisle of the supermarket recently when a lady next to me said, ‘you sound in a good mood.’ A nice thing to say but it did make me realise that once again I was singing to myself – out loud – in a public place; and not for the first time either. When I worked in an office it was often pointed out that as I wandered from the photocopier to the kettle, from one desk to another etc I would be humming or singing.

I don’t notice that I am doing it most of the time and wonder if it perhaps stems from when I lived on my own and it was either a case of – talk and sing to yourself or find that you have a gone a whole day – or sometimes more, without even uttering a syllable out loud.

I find that I am not discriminate about what I sing along to either. In shops, where they blare out awful music at far too loud a level (and yes, I am aware I sound like a grumpy old woman here – but I don’t care) I will realise that I am singing along to whatever the latest pop wailing awfulness is – whether I know it or not, and rather multi-taskingly will be muttering about how much I hate it too.

Even our cats get their names sung (I’m not sure how impressed they are neither have provided feedback as yet). Our big cat, Marshall gets his name sung to the tune of Macho Macho Man by the Village People, replacing Macho with Marshall and the small cat, Gibson gets, Gibby Gibby Gibby Gibby – to the tune of Ruby by the Kaiser Chiefs. (I wonder if perhaps MOTH will have me committed but I think while I still cook lots of good food he’ll hold off.)

Singing has been an ever-present thing in my life though, along with all of the usual nursery rhymes that we hear at home and in pre-school, our lives, as children, were full of an expansive range of songs because of the folk world in which we grew up. To this day I can still sing, ‘eeenymeenymingmongpingpongchoweasyveeseyvacaleesyeasyveasyvoweenymeenymacaracarareeyechickarackadominackalollipoppaompompush*’ without even thinking about it. (This, believe it or not was the chorus to a very strange song about a family with very long legs and small feet – puts supercalifragilisticexpialidocious rather to shame don’t you think!)

But it’s not all insane randomness – I do do structured singing too in my singing group The Kettle Girls. There are three of us and we sing three-part close harmony a cappella across a range of styles from folk, to jazz, from blues to comedy. Rather excitingly we are writing our own songs now too (why it took us so long I don’t know considering we have all written songs in other outlets over the years). More excitingly than that though – we have finally got round to making an album – and yes, I am plugging it here and am rather proud that two of the tracks on it are songs that I have written. When you get to the end of this piece there is a link to hear a snippet of some of the songs we have recorded – and you know – if you feel inclined (christmas fast approaching christmas present idea alert) – they are available to purchase.

If I’m honest, I’m never really sure how we, The Kettle Girls, learn or retain new songs because our practices sometimes seem to be equal parts singing to drinking tea, eating biscuits or cake and chatting. We do WI talks and one of the things we always mention is that actually, we are not just a singing group but a support group too. I couldn’t count the times one of us has been feeling down, tired or not well and by the end of the practice feels significantly buoyed – and I think this is an important thing about singing – it is a mood lifter. I would fully recommend to anyone feeling low, put on your favourite album, turn it up and sing along.

And what an opportunity we all have coming up to get our voices into gear – Christmas. Whether it’s carols or the Christmas pop songs – I love them all! From the warm beauty of midnight mass to the fun of buskers or the brash office party caterwauling, it is a moment when we can all join in or listen and enjoy the sound of voices together.

My current repetitive madness is The Twelve Days of Christmas. I am making a lot of christmas stock at the moment and after knitting a couple of ‘calling’ birds I seem to be wandering around vaguely singing this christmas song – completely out of order as I can never quite remember it – and lets face it – the bit we all love and know the most is ‘fiiiive goooold riiiings’. (Incidentally, after years of singing this song and always thinking ‘what are calling birds?’ I finally looked it up. It seems the prevailing thought is that ‘calling’ is an Americanisation of the word ‘colly’ and colly birds were perhaps those of the rook, raven, crow, jackdaw, family or the blackbird – some kind of black bird anyway. Considering some of the other gifts given in the song – a blackbird would not be so unusual.) This does rather put pay to the knitted ‘calling’ birds I have been making, for they are rather more colourful than black, but if you can’t add a bit of colour at Christmas – then when can you!

If you find you are now singing the last five verses of the Twelve Days of Christmas repeatedly then why not get rid of the festive ear worm by having a listen to the Kettle Girls on the link below.

Listen to The Kettle Girls here

My knitted christmas gifts will be available to purchase on my etsy shop soon. Click here to see other things I have made and keep and eye out for the upcoming christmas decorations.

*spelling of this bonkers word/phrase may not be strictly accurate as has been written by memory.

**MOTH (Man Of The House)