 Today’s blog post is for all the swans who are sitting alone, (or together), in high street (or back street) coffee shops, or at their kitchen tables, nursing huge mugs of coffee, plodding through pastry, and looking out at the rain, and the near-deserted high streets, and wondering how it can possibly be that everyone else is on holiday.
It happens to me every year. I get through the winter and the dreary early months by promising myself that this summer I’ll go on holiday. I look at travel programmes and read travel articles, and subscribe to holiday and travel newsletters and special offer websites, and spend many happy hours choosing where I will go, what I will do, when I will fit it into my (admittedly not that busy) schedule. At this point other swans of my acquaintance are just waiting to see that their children are settled back into college, or that their parents are happier now that can get out into their gardens, or for work colleagues to commit to their holiday weeks, so we can fit ours in, and so on. That takes us to the beginning of June, by which time I’ve realised that I can’t really afford a proper holiday, but if get through this current contract/freelance workload or if I get any of the work I've pitched for so far this year, then I’ll treat myself to a holiday. My fellow swans have accidentally volunteered to house-sit, cat-sit, plant or pet feed for their holidaying friends, families and neighbours, and have offered to drive teenagers to festivals, or to universities. Summer is charging towards us faster than you can say ‘I don't suppose you could possibly get up at four am and drive us to Heathrow, to save us paying to park the car?’ By now I've resorted to looking for articles called things like ‘It’s not too late to get a last minute deal’, and ‘Places which are still hot and sunny in September’. (Note to self, based on memory - nothing is more painful than a biting wind off the Aegean sea hitting the sunburn delivered by the hot breeze coming from the other direction only the day before). And hello it’s August and here we all are, in our cardigans and socks, scrolling through Facebook and looking at pictures of other swans on terraces with pink drinks, on the decks of boats at sunset, strolling along, theirbrown feet in their well-worn espadrilles, through the bougainvillea-strewn cobbled streets of Italian hill towns. And every second tweet proclaims ‘we’re here at last!’ and #heavenonearth. And I sit in the rain and wonder whether it’s too late to become the sort of person who always carries her passport, checks in her bag for a spare pair of knickers, and a clean T-shirt, and heads to the airport on a whim, to catch a plane to ‘anywhere, just anywhere’. Maybe I’ll do that next year. Maybe I’ll go now.  According to Debrett’s ‘the recognised authority in British etiquette’ founded in 1769, “failing to be punctual is the height of bad manners because it disregards the value of other people’s time.”
Personally, whether or not it still counts as the height of bad manners (there are quite a few contenders for the top spot) I’m convinced that we’re divided roughly into two camps - latecomers, and early birds. Of course there are subsets. On the latecomers’ side, there are those who always cut it slightly too fine, arriving flustered, apologetic and confused, often genuinely distressed. There are those who believe that it is quite acceptable to be five, ten or even fifteen minutes late, and there are those who text you just as you arrive at the selected destination, to tell you they've just left their house. On the early bird side, there are those who aways arrive a few calm and efficient minutes early, those who somehow always manage to get it exactly right by working out just how late the host or hostess has assumed you will be, and there are those who routinely spend at least half an hour in various displacement activities, or in moving round all the seats in a coffee shop, gradually succeeding to the best table in the window just as the others arrive. I am in the latter camp. I'm not alone. The marvellous poet Ian McMillan, in his recent Radio 4 programme I’m Here, Where are You? says he actually aims to arrive at least an hour and a half early, for a train, a meeting, even a social get-together. He’s a real expert. By his standards, I'm an amateur, with my usual half-hour window, my immensely heavy sackful of books, papers and other useful things to do to fill the time, and my tendency to look seriously sinister as I lurk round corners or duck down in the front seat of my car, trying not to be spotted by the people I am supposed to meet quite some time later. Why would it matter? So what if I’m early? Debrett’s goes on to suggest that ‘being punctual always scores bonus points. You will come across as someone who cares about other people, and is efficient, organised and reliable.’ Debrett’s doesn't mention how you come across if you are spotted, circling the block for the third time pretending to be taking an important phone call, or crouched underneath a hedge feigning interest in wildlife. Because of course arriving that early would just cause confusion. It would risk you turning up to find your hosts still in previous meetings, or perhaps even talking about you, Or in various states of undress, or in the middle of a blazing row, or just popping out to get a takeaway because they had forgotten you were coming at all until another guest just texted to say that she would probably be five minutes late because she lives an hour away and is just leaving the house. I have on occasion become seriously fed up with being the one fending off all comers at a table for six in a crowded coffee shop for twenty minutes, ignoring the sighs and glares of disbelief as I sit, alone, while they circle, trays aloft. And I have, deliberately, tried to be late. I have stopped myself at every stage of preparation, from the hasty grabbing of the last mouthful of coffee at home, the collecting of the books and papers and phones and pens and everything else I always need. I have unloaded those books because I won’t be needing them. I will be arriving just after - (not long after, but just after), my companion. I wander about at home until my traffic app tells me I have exactly the right number of minutes for my journey, bearing in mind the time of day, probably traffic, weather and so on. And then I have actually managed to leave it a few minutes more before leaving the house. Priding myself on my new, casual approach to timekeeping, I set out. And then I run. I feel tension rising as I carve up fellow motorists, or cut across station concourses, leap bravely onto moving buses, or step out as traffic lights turn. Risking life and limb I throw myself wholeheartedly into the desperate effort not to be late, and I arrive, about fifteen minutes early. With nothing to do because I've left all my reading material at home. And as I sit there, alone at a table for four, reading coffee-ringed copies of Caravan Monthly, or Wedding and Home, my phone beeps and my friend advises me that she's just running a wee bit late. With appropriate sad face, ‘duh’ and running woman emojis. I think, especially as I am not Hugh Grant’s Charlie, in Four Weddings and a Funeral, of whom the fabulous Fiona says affectionately, ‘There’s a Greatness to your Lateness’, I’d rather be on my side of this. After all my earliness is the habit of a lifetime. And if I seriously did manage to be late, to arrive even a minute after anyone else, they would surely call the emergency services immediately. Because I’m never late. So if I’m not there, scowling and gritting my teeth behind my book, something terrible must have happened to me, right?  Yup - I can run and do that..... This is summer. As your lily-white and decidedly unmanicured feet swelter in your year-round comedy-sock-and-ankle-boot combo, you know what’s coming. Everywhere there are pictures of supermodels and celebrity swans in impossibly pretty shoes, their lightly-tanned perfect feet just visible in beaded peep-toe sandals, their well-turned ankles adorned with ribbons and teeny tiny straps, their well-exercised legs glowing with health, and set off to perfection by a pastel-coloured heel or a bejewelled wedge. And you rub your newest blisters, and slosh on some fake tan which will collect later between your first and second toes and darkly tan your toe cuticles, so that by the time you realise it, your feet will look as though you've been treading grapes for a decade, or scuffing the red dust of a cart track chasing chickens across a long-neglected farmyard. And you wonder, as you look at the pretty-footed birds of paradise…how the hell can they walk in those? To save you treading the same path yet again, here’s a handy guide to Shoes in Hot Weather. 1. Sandals (with heels). Pros: your feet look lovely, especially as you stretch them out in front of you while sitting in a chair on a summer lawn. You feel like a princess, as you get in and out of cars. They make your legs look longer. And slimmer. Beads and ribbons are a good way of drawing attention away from less-than-perfect feet. Cons: these shoes demand a pedicure, at the very least. While sitting may be all very well, standing is another matter. Heels sink into lawns and sand, and get caught between patio slabs, all or which are prevalent in a social summer. The lack of ankle support grows increasingly hazardous as the Pimms continues to flow. And for those of us used to a hearty stride, the little careful steps demanded by a fine six-inch heel can take a lot of getting used to. And to be honest, an English summer may just not be long enough. Advice: Handle with care. Book lifts and taxis. Trot, don’t run. 2. Sandals (without heels) See also: Gladiators. Pros: Much more comfortable. You feel like a spiritual high-achiever. You can stride. You can run. Cons. You are now officially six inches shorter than everyone else. And some of them are children. Your legs look sturdy rather than strong. (Remember Russell Crowe?) Your little fat feet will spread sideways a bit. And no matter how fine or sparing the straps are, they will still rub on contact. With the highly fashionable gladiator sandal, this will continue up as far as your knees. (Imagine wearing socks made of chicken wire.) Advice: Alternate between two different pairs with straps in different places. By the end of the summer you will look like a torture victim, but you will have spread the damage. Cultivate wise spiritual sayings. Find short people to stand next to. 3. Ballet flats. What are you, six? 4. Flip flops. Pros. Ever-present. Always available. Cheap. Can be exchanged between friends and family at will. A huge variety of colours and with an alarming wealth of embellishment. Cons: Your toenails are highly visible. The noise. Everywhere you go, you are accompanied by the slap-slap of hot foot against rubber, the whup -whup of a kipper being flung onto a fishmonger’s slab. The ever-present tendency for the shoe to fly off at any point, to sail across the garden in a high arc, threatening all present, summer cocktails and buffet tables with a rubber-and-foot-scented missile. Advice: If flip flops are your thing, there’ll be no telling you. But think of them Ike gentlemen’s evening dress, the classic is the classiest. Comedy extras detract, not augment. 5. Converse (other brands are available) Pros: Comfortable. Hell, you can even wear them with socks (although the foot-sock (almost invisible) is preferable to the ankle sock (primary school) or heaven forbid, the knee-sock (Morris dancer).The look is sporty, girl next door. Think, Olivia Newton JOhn, Cheryl Tiegs, Meg Ryan. Cons: Your feet will never tan if they’re covered up. Comfortable is rarely sexy. Advice: On the young chick, canvas plimsolls say ‘I’m just running about with the joy of being young and fit and in a hurry to get the most out of my wonderful life’. On the old bird, they say, ‘what, these? I’ve had them years. I didn’t even realise I had them on’. On the swan however? Proceed with care. The navy or white Converse says ‘classic, fit and healthy, happy outdoors, and comfortable in my skin. Oh, and by the way if anybody needs me to run up and down some steps or half a mile back to the house to get the potato salad, or to blow up a paddling pool, I’m your girl’. Don’t be surprised when people expect you to do those things After all, Hermione can hardly be expected to walk all that way in those fabulous beaded six-inch sandals can she? 6. Deck Shoes. Do you have a boat? If yes, this post isn’t for you. You don't care what you look like, you just want to feel the wind and the rain and the swell of the ocean, and the pull of the tide. If no, why did you buy deck shoes? 7. Trainers. See Converse. Ad to some extent Deck Shoes. Pros: Very comfortable indeed. Also possible with socks. Cons: Don't be surprised when someone signs you up for a charity fun run. And you run the ever-present risk of appearing to have tried too hard to look sporting. Advice: There are right trainers and wrong trainers. Ask a teenager before you buy, and check again before you leave the house wearing them. Things change overnight in the world of the cool trainer. Crocs: Sorry? No. Didn’t hear you.  Your house is just the way you like it. You've lived in it for ten years. The things you thought you couldn't live with when you moved in, have become the things you love the most. In the meantime you've made small changes here and there, redecorated a few times, been through Cut-price gallons of off-white, through Dulux to Farrow and Ball, replaced wall-to-wall carpets with sanded floorboards and retreated back to rugs because of the draughts and the noise. You have celebrated ten New Year’s Eves, worked out where the Christmas tree goes, and where the drinks and the buffet tables need to be, to ensure a good through flow of guests at a party. You made this the perfect family home.
But now it’s just you. And the boiler needs replacing and the roof needs a bit of attention, and dust collects in the spare room. Not the one you use for guests, the one you never use. The bills are as big as ever but there seems to be less money around to pay them. The thrill of sanding windowsills and skirting boards has somehow dissipated. You find yourself looking at Homes and Gardens and House Beautiful, and marvelling at how ingenious people are with really small spaces. The many benefits of decluttering, as demonstrated by article after article by happy, dancing, freed spirits, are not lost on you. The weight of the contents of your cupboard under the stairs presses down on you. And so to Right Move. You know you want to. It becomes your new hobby. Candy Crush and Twitter take a back seat as you search and filter and type in ‘Orkneys’ and ‘Cornwall’. Just to see. And you are amazed by what you can get for the money in Hull or Newcastle and horrified by what you can't in Surrey or Sussex. You Zoopla your own house and see that it might be worth more than you thought. You get an agent in. And he sighs, and looks regretful and tells you that the market is a bit flat and he can’t get enough houses to meet demand in all the other price brackets, but yours, well, people just don't seem to be paying the prices at the moment. So he gives you a figure, and you are insulted on behalf of your house. And one afternoon you come home to find strangers standing in your bathroom saying to each other in loud voices that they would absolutely have to rip all that out and start again, and they couldn't live with your stair carpet. And you draw the curtains against the night and the draughts and the cobwebs in the corners and shut out all the people from outside who just don't appreciate the beauty of a real home. And you decide not to downsize just yet, and think that maybe you'll turn that second spare bedroom into an art studio. More of me and my house move soon.  Welcome to the world of the Swan.
You know who I mean. It’s me. And you. No longer a chick, emergent from hen (for those of us blessed with a brood) and way WAY away (years) from being an old bird. Serene, graceful, still glamorous on a good day, calm, ideally, not easily riled, (but when we are…) Independent, strong, and yet not averse to the idea of a mate for life. And probably, if we’re honest ( and why wouldn't we be, we’re not that bothered about what people think of us any more) we are paddling a bit, (a lot) underneath. But look! how beautiful we are. |
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