Sal by Judith Skilleter, a whisky mac as winter approaches

Sal is now living in a retirement complex. It had not been an easy decision to give up the home she had lived in for fifty years but it was a necessary decision. The stairs were a problem. Or at least the stairs were not a problem, they were sturdy well-carpeted stairs – Sal was the problem. Owing to her arthritis she was finding them increasingly difficult to go up or down. She went up slowly and came down slowly on her bottom and then heaved herself upright holding on to the banister. All this was neither comfortable nor dignified. She had thought of bringing her bed downstairs. There was room for a single bed in the dining room but the shower was upstairs, as was the bath although it had been ages since she managed to get in or out of her bath. So alternative accommodation had to be found. She had no wish to be found at the bottom of her stairs by well-meaning firemen or policemen.

Sal looked at retirement homes where she would get a bedroom with an en suite but she reckoned she would find existence in one of these places too restricting. She liked to get out and about with help and someone to push a wheelchair and she still had all her wits about her. The homes she looked at seemed to be overflowing with old souls who had dementia. Sal knew she would need that sort of care one day – but not yet.

She eventually chose a retirement complex where she would have her own small flat – a combined sitting room and bedroom, small kitchen and bathroom – and where she could also mix and mingle with the other residents if she chose to. It also offered extra care for later on should Sal need it. Sal could take the accommodation furnished or unfurnished. She chose unfurnished and her move was accompanied by familiar furnishings and her favourite things.

A downside was that this level of care was expensive and Sal felt she had to discuss this extra outlay of money with her two grown up children. She had the money but she hoped to leave as much money as she could to her children and if they neither needed nor wanted it, it could be shared amongst her grandchildren. This care would, unfortunately, eat into the money she had saved, should she live a long time, and she felt she had to have her children’s approval for this. If only she knew how long she had to live, approximately would do.

Another reason to find good care was Sal’s determination not to become a burden to her children. They had their own lives and she did not want the care of and responsibility for an elderly and infirm lady to be theirs. As far as Sal was concerned in no way would she move to be with them or nearer them and, as she aged, in no way would she expect them to visit her more than they did at present. So, although both children would have had their mother to live with them, they knew it would not be a happy move for any of them, especially Sal. Hugh and Helen were delighted she had found something that might suit her

Furthermore, her children said she must go for the right sort of care for her and that their inheritance should not be a factor in her decision. Her son, Hugh, lived in Brussels with his Belgian wife and children. He was a Russia expert having studied Russian at university and had spent a year there for his degree.  In those days, nearly thirty years ago, Russia was a different place, a safer place, and Hugh had a few happy years working in Moscow after he graduated.  He now worked in Brussels, having returned to Western Europe when Vladimir Putin came to power.  Sal can remember a conversation she and her late husband, Hugh’s dad, had with Hugh in his early years in Moscow. He had said that it was a great place to be, he was very happy there, the people were very friendly but there was this new guy on the scene  who Hugh, and a few others, did not trust him one bit. He was ex-KGB and clearly had plans for his and Russia’s future. She remembers Hugh saying “We will have to keep a close eye on this chap.” Hugh was kept very busy these days following this chap.

Her daughter Helen lived in South Wales with her vicar husband. Helen had been ordained as a minister too and, of course, the usual times when elderly relatives would be visited such as weekends, Christmas and Easter were their busy times. But Sal did not mind this. She was pleased and proud that her children had happy families and interesting careers and that was good enough for her.

So Sal is in her new place of abode. I will call it “Dunroamin” she said to herself. It was OK. She figured that contentment would come eventually but for now she was happy to feel safe. Also she had not been completely happy at her old home since her husband had died; there were too many memories, mostly happy ones, but some nevertheless took her back to the bad days of her husband’s long illness before he died. This was definitely the time to move on.

And there were things to keep her busy in “Dunroamin”. A delightful volunteer took her and a wheelchair out shopping every Wednesday afternoon where she bought the things she needed to cook for herself and whatever else she might need. A couple of times a week Sal ate with the other residents but she was determined to be as independent as possible for as long as possible and these shopping outings and cooking for herself were very important to her.

Quite often she made her way to the residents' lounge helped by her Zimmer frame with basket on the front where she kept her books, her knitting and her puzzles. She kept busy there and made friends. There were a few ladies and gentlemen who were in the same position a she was – still as sharp as a tack alongside physical failings.

She was pleased to report to Hugh and Helen that it had been a good move – and it was. And Hugh and Helen both breathed a sigh of relief for all the right reasons.

About the author

 Judith Skilleter is new to writing fiction after a long career in social work and teaching. Her first children's novel The April Rebellion, has recently been published. Judith is a Geordie, who settled in East Yorkshire forty-five years ago and is married with four grandchildren 

 

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Fay and Xmas Gifts by Judith Skilleter, whisky mac

Fay is going through her Xmas gifts. It is something she does each year, usually sometime after Boxing Day, and she decides which her favourite presents are, which were given with thought and love and which were given with little thought or little love.  Nobody knows about this little ritual; after all they might be offended and decide to take her off their Xmas present and card list altogether, which would not do. “It is just a bit of harmless fun and no malice in intended” she says to herself in justification.

Top of the list and a close contender for first place is the long thin hot water bottle from her friend Grace. It might take two kettles full of water, which are quite an extravagance these days but, my golly, it warms up the whole bed, a line of warmth from top to toe, and not just a bottle shaped patch near her pillow.  Fay and Grace go shopping and for coffee every couple of weeks and they saw these strange shaped hot water bottles at the same time. 

“What a good idea” they both said. 

“I am having one” said Fay.

 “And so am I” said Grace. And then Grace had this marvellous idea that she should buy Fays’ and Fay buy hers as Xmas presents, then they would both be happy with the choices. Fay agreed immediately and was very pleased when she opened something she was expecting with keen anticipation on Xmas morning. Of course it came with a label from Grace that made her laugh.

“A little surprise you were not expecting. Lots of love, Grace,” it read.

The hot water bottle was tried out on Xmas night and Fay loved it; she loved not having to shift it from her chest to her knees and then to her feet and then back again. It was perfect.

Her daughter in Gloucester sent her a pair of fleecy warm pyjamas, which, of course, were very snug with the new hot water bottle. And her daughter, another Fay, sent it with an extra pair of pyjama bottoms. “How sensible and thoughtful,” thought the older Fay. “The bottoms always need a wash more often than the top.”

The pyjamas also came with cashmere bed socks from the younger Fay’s children, the older Fay’s grandchildren. Together these two gifts were up there with the hot water bottle in terms of thought and love given.

Fay’s son, who lived and worked in Paris, sent her flowers and first class train tickets to Euston and back and then Eurostar to Paris and back for a visit in the spring. 

“Hmmm,” thinks Fay “I hope he doesn’t expect me to walk everywhere, I am too creaky these days for long treks.” 

Nevertheless, Fay looked forward to revisiting the Musee D’Orsay, never The Louvre, far too big and confusing, and enjoying coffee stops in those famous Parisian cafes. This gift was not in Fay’s top 3 but was close.

Then there were the three gifts from her bridge partners. Bath salts from Meg, totally useless as Fay has not had a bath in years. She can get into a bath well enough but getting out is a nightmare. In fact, last year she had her bath removed and replaced it and her shower with a bigger walk in shower with a seat and grab rails and all sorts. And Meg knew this as the whole bridge team had visited for afternoon tea and to admire the renovations. So the bath salts were pretty low down on Fay’s list and they would go into a drawer for “presents to be recycled at the appropriate time.”

Gloria gave her a scented candle. Well, Fay likes candles until they are lit and then just look used. Also her sense of smell is not good so a scented candle was wasted on Fay. The candle also went into the drawer to be recycled at a later date and was not in her top ten of gifts,

The fourth member of their bridge team gave her chocolate – a big slab of good quality milk chocolate from a specialist chocolate shop. This was given with much thought and love as Gloria had remembered that Fay did not like dark chocolate or fancy chocolates. 

“Why meddle with perfection,” Fay had said (and grumbled) on a number of occasions when the bridge team had brought chocolates, usually liqueurs, to eat during their games while she munched through a bar of Cadbury’s Dairy Milk.

Fay’s brother Wilf had done very well for himself and always provider her with expensive presents sent with thought and love. This year it was a bottle of whisky, a bottle of green ginger wine and a nice crystal whisky glass. Wilf knew Fay enjoyed a whisky mac on cold winter nights. This year his gift came with a note “Please excuse the fact that the whisky is a blend and not a single malt. I just can’t face the thought of you drowning an expensive single malt whisky with ginger wine.”  It was done in jest by Wilf and received with a loving chuckle by Fay.

Her sister in the USA sent her an Amazon voucher. “Very sensible” thought Fay “given the price of postage.” The voucher would probably be above the mid-point on her list as it did not require much thought. Fay had sent her sister, Val, a calendar and Xmas socks and had been horrified at the postage costs and she, Fay, wished she had thought of a voucher or gift token as a present for her sister.

Her neighbours, Harry and Anne, gave her a lovely present. A hand-made glass robin for her Xmas tree. Fay was really thrilled with this as it had been years since she added to the dwindling collection of toys for the Xmas tree. There were always breakages despite very careful packing when they went back under the stairs after twelfth night. This gift was straight up there in the top three, it was delightful to look at and gave Fay a lot of pleasure. (Harry and Anne also gave her home made mince pies which were eaten almost at once. They were so much nicer than those bought in sixes in shops.)

Then there was the present from her husband who was currently enjoying a new life in Malaga with a widow they had befriended at the bridge club. It was a hand embroidered tablecloth with six matching napkins. “Made in Ronda” it said on the packaging and was clearly very expensive. Well, this present did not even get on the list and was already at the Women’s Institute, as a contribution for their next tombola.  The label said “love from Bill”. “He must be tiring of her,” thought Fay. It was not the first time in their marriage that this had happened and she reckoned he would be home before the summer.  “Would she, should she take him back?” thinks Fay. “Probably” she concluded, despite advice from all corners that it would happen again, that he was using her until someone else turned up etc., etc.”

All in all Fay thinks she had a lovely Xmas, she has a lovely family and lovely friends and she is very lucky.

“I think it is whisky mac time” she says to herself.

About the author 

 Judith Skilleter is new to writing fiction after a long career in social work and teaching. Her first children's novel The April Rebellion, has recently been published. Judith is a Geordie, who settled in East Yorkshire forty-five years ago and is married with three grandchildren. 

 

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Snoring by Judith Skilleter, whisky mac

Freya and Tim have not been married long. And they are happy enough apart from one problem, Tim snores. Tim snores from when he first falls asleep, usually when his head hits his pillow, until he wakes up. Of course there is an occasional break in his snoring when the snoring itself wakes him up and he has to get back to sleep again, something he usually manages reasonably quickly. As for the snoring it is continual, with both every exhalation and inhalation, and is continually loud and angry and even occasionally explosive.

Freya knew about the snoring issue before they were married. She and Tim had lived together for some time before their wedding but the snoring had not been so much of a problem as Tim then worked on the oil rigs and he was away a lot, two weeks on and two weeks off with other combinations, depending on the oil rig need. Freya therefore used his time away to catch up on her sleep and recharge her batteries.

But now he is permanently at home and Freya has no respite from the noise in the darkness. Every night she tries to get to sleep before the racket starts, sometimes she is successful but more often than not the noise begins before sleep comes her way.  Also there are times when she is comfortably asleep when one of the explosive snores wakes her up and, very often that is it for sleep for the rest of the night.

I have to say that this is a joint concern, Tim is as upset as his wife with the snoring development. Apart from anything else their intimate life has taken a blow. When tearful and exhausted his wife is not keen on love making.

Together they tried all sorts. Nose strips – didn’t work. Things that dissolve in the mouth – didn’t work. New pillows – didn’t work. Anti-snore pillows – didn’t work. Mouth guards – didn’t work. Masks – didn’t work. Hypnotherapy – didn’t work and ear-plugs fell out. Even moving to the spare room didn’t work as Freya could hear the snoring thunder through the walls. A nasal spray didn’t work – it just made Tim sneeze noisily and a throat spray made him cough. Herbal sleeping pills for Freya didn’t work either, but prescription ones did work but she did not like to fill her body with strange chemicals night after night as she hoped to start a family soon. They were soon stopped.

Night after night, or I should say morning after morning, usually about 2 am, Freya would be downstairs drinking warm milk and trying to stem the tears of exhaustion. It was affecting her work and it was noticed that since her marriage her ability to concentrate and take part in office discussions had suffered. Her colleagues thought it a huge joke and imagined Freya and Tim making love from bedtime till the alarm went. “No such luck” mumbled Freya as another unnecessary comment was made in her hearing. (She was having a nap at her desk at the time and woke up just in time to hear what was not meant for her ears)

Christmas was fast approaching and Freya was looking forward to daytime naps in her planned break. She and Tim were staying at home – to rest after a busy few months. Of course, on hearing this, her friends and colleague assumed that she and Tim would be trying to make a baby. “No such luck at this rate” said Freya to herself as she imagined and wished for more than 30 minutes sleep at a time.

Christmas morning came. Tim had two beautifully wrapped small boxes for Freya. The first was a bracelet. Gold and delicate and tasteful and totally gorgeous. Freya loved it and put it on immediately. The second contained very professional looking earplugs, very expensive and very complicated. Not the usual sort where you warm then and squish the plugs into shape so they fit into your ear. These were a fixed shape with a small semi-circular attachment to prevent them falling out overnight. They came in a neat little box and there were two pairs, two earplugs labelled for the left ear and two for the right ear. Both Freya and Tim were impressed by this attention to detail – and ear shape.

“We can only give them a decent go” said Tim. Freya nodded, dubious but determined and willing to give these two strange shaped plugs her best shot.

Bed time came and Tim said he wanted to be the earplug manager. He would put them in. All she had to do was tell him if they were comfortable – or otherwise. They were OK and they had a thumbs up from Freya. Oddly Freya and Tim found this ritual both amusing and serious. They felt a lot depended on those two small objects.

Freya settled down and when she woke next it was 6am – she needed a pee. She could not believe she had slept seven hours without the need to go to the spare room, go downstairs for a warm drink or scream at Tim. She took out an ear plug and there it was, the loud and rhythmic racket coming from her husband. She peed and settled down again, with both plugs firmly in place and when she woke up for the second time there was Tim looking down at her with such love and desire.

“Fingers crossed this continues” she said laughing and they fell together with delight and relief.

Nine months later they had a daughter – Martha. A healthy, beautiful little girl and Freya found herself once again up at all hours and looking exhausted because once again she once again was not getting enough sleep. But she didn’t mind one bit. 

About the author

 Judith Skilleter is new to writing fiction after a long career in social work and teaching. Her first children's novel The April Rebellion, has recently been published. Judith is a Geordie, who settled in East Yorkshire forty-five years ago and is married with three grandchildren.  

 

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Finding Purpose Again by Judith Skilleter, a whisky mac on cold miserable days

Mary has recently had to take early retirement. No, that’s just not true. Recently she had, brutally, unexpectedly and unprofessionally, been made redundant from a job she loved. A job she had loved for twenty-five years.  It had been decided that the amazing job no longer fitted in with the future of the organisation, it was no longer fit for purpose, and, therefore, in the view of her employers neither was she.

Mary had been distraught, and experienced all the pain of a huge and significant loss following this decision. It had been a job she adored, it gave her purpose and value. It made her think. She had never been reluctant to get up on cold and horrible mornings, and working late had never bothered her.  The strains and stresses of running a team did not phase her. Work had been a joy. Now it had gone and she hated the fact.

Her feelings were not helped when she rang up ex-colleagues and was told that the person who replaced her, with a new job title and job description so that the possibility of constructive dismissal could not be considered, was total rubbish and not a team player and that the work was not of the same high standard as when she, Mary, had been in charge.

Her husband Ted also no longer worked but his time was filled with golf. He played off scratch, which Mary believed meant that he was a decent golfer. He played 3 or 4 times a week, usually after a lazy breakfast where he also read his daily paper from cover to cover and did the puzzles. He called it keeping his brain active and didn’t get down from the breakfast table until all the Sudokus and crosswords had been completed. Ted was particularly good at cryptic crosswords and he used to time himself. He was vexed if he had not completed all the puzzles by 10.30am in time to tee off at 11.30am. Ted’s days were filled to his great satisfaction. Mary could no longer say the same.

Mary had tried to do cryptic crosswords in order to fill her some of her excessive and unwanted spare time, and she even read a couple of books about how to do them, something about kneecaps and Pat and Ella but, no matter how hard she tried, her brain just could not understand how the answers were reached.  Puzzles therefore did not last long as a time filler

Before her redundancy Ted had taken all responsibility for their evening meal and he was not willing to give up this role now she was home so much. When he returned home after golf he went through recipe books and found interesting and tasty meals that were always a cosy part of their evenings together. Both Mary and Ted had always enjoyed these times but, now, when Mary had time on her hands she wished that perhaps Ted could let her help now and again. But no, supper was Ted’s responsibility. “Keep out of my kitchen” was printed in large bright letters on his apron – and he followed this rule absolutely.

It would have been so much easier had she and Ted had had children. But, children had not come along. Those were the days before IVF and the clever tests that they do nowadays.  She imagined that had there been children, and now young grandchildren, her time would have been filled with looking after them, helping out generally and taking them for treats and outings. Mary and Ted have nieces and nephews but they are all fit and active parents who are themselves helping out with the next generation grandchildren. They have no need for Ted and Mary. And, anyway, they all live too far away for Ted and Mary to be any use. 

A few weeks after the redundancy and when the aimless days were really starting to get her down, Mary had a chat with a friend who had grabbed retirement with both hands and wouldn’t let go. She loved it.  Mary had asked her how she spent her days. The reply was “Well, I just potter and before I know it it’s tea time.” Mary thought about this answer and asked “Well, what about when you have finished pottering, say about 9.30 am.” Mary had worked out that her own daily tasks and chores were easily done by 9.30am, after which she was at a loss as to what to do next. Her friend just shrugged and shook her head. It had not been a helpful conversation.

So Mary decided she had to try new things, to find things to do that once again gave her purpose and value and that she enjoyed. She did not just want time fillers – she wanted to feel that her days were filled usefully, just like when she had been working.

She tried baking and loved it, especially baking bread.  A bread-maker was bought and Mary and Ted enjoyed fresh home-made bread every day with thickly spread butter and, Mary’s favourite, lemon curd. But then Mary found that her clothes were fitting less well and Ted asked if his best golfing trousers had been accidentally put through a hot white wash. Of course it was all these excess calories that had led to spreading waistlines and the baking had to stop.  The bread maker went to a charity shop.

Mary was a reader, an impatient reader. By that I mean that she was too impatient to wait for her favourite author’s books to come out in paperback. Most weeks would see another Amazon delivery leaving her a pristine hardback just waiting to be enjoyed. Ted suggested she join a book club where she could share her own book knowledge and meet other keen readers. She did so. The book club idea lasted for two sessions. First of all Mary did not like being told what to read, reading was too personal a joy to be spoiled by other people’s choices. But mainly she didn’t enjoy her book club experience because the critical discussion of the chosen book only lasted about 10 minutes. Mary also found that most of the members had not bothered to read the book and the meeting became very quickly became a scone and cake competition and a sharing of tales and photos of children and grandchildren. Neither of these topics were Mary’s choice of conversation. And so the book club was dumped.

She tried art and bought a pad of special paper and a case of special pencils to help her settle in and hopefully progress.  It was OK, Mary enjoyed her time with these very talented people who were always very kind and encouraging. But Mary never got rid of the feeling that there was a breakdown in communication between her brain, which was very clear about what it wanted on the paper, and her hand with the pencil. What appeared on the paper was always a mess, an awful mess. Art lasted four sessions and the special pad and special pencils were now used for shopping lists.

Learning Spanish was a more successful venture. She and Ted were shortly going to Malaga where Ted would play golf and she would potter and have fun until he was back from hitting little balls into little holes. Yes, golf had been a hobby suggestion but Mary could not see the point of it and she did not want to embarrass Ted with her lack of ability. She enjoyed her Spanish lessons and always did her homework so that when they were in Malaga she would have more to say than Please, Thank you, Good Morning, and two beers please. But the course only had two weeks left and there would be no more for six months.

Another attempt to fill her days well was a walking group. She bought the requisite walking boots, backpack and waterproofs and set off with a lively group of couples and singles. At first it was great fun, she enjoyed the exercise and the chatter but walking came to an end when one of the other walkers, a recently widowed gentleman, started paying her more attention than she felt comfortable with. He always insisted on walking next to her, consequently preventing her from chatting to the other walkers and when they stopped for drinks he always bought her a cup of tea and a cake and he wouldn’t take any money.  Mary’s attempts to make him stop all failed and she could see that the other walkers were aware of his actions and her embarrassment. Their attempts to draw her away from these unwanted attentions were very kind but unfortunately unsuccessful. The whole mess made her feel very uncomfortable and so she said goodbye to another initiative,

When she told Ted what had happened she burst into tears. These tears were not just the result of another failed activity but her unhappiness that she might be thought of as “available” in whatever venture she tried. Ted had been her first boyfriend, there had never been anyone else, and she found the idea of someone muscling in on her wonderful relationship both hurtful and insulting. Ted was reassuring and comforting and as understanding as he could be given that he wanted to talk about the hole in one he had managed that afternoon.

After more frustrating failed attempts at useful and enjoyable activity, Mary eventually found purpose and value in a totally unexpected area. Her local hospice was advertising for volunteer help and she thought she had the qualities they needed - she was friendly and she was happy to work hard.

But despite thinking she had the necessary qualities Mary was reluctant to apply as she thought that hospices were miserable places where people went to die, went in through the front doors and exited through the back doors. She thought they were places where there was no hope and therefore no job satisfaction. She could not have been more wrong.

At the induction process, where she met some delightful, warm and friendly people, she learned about the vital work the hospice did. She learned about the comfort and care the hospice staff gave to not only their patients but also the families and loved ones of their patients. She learned about the importance and quality of life for as long as possible and how patients were encouraged to “live” until they died. And she learned that death, which would inevitably come to all of the patients, need not be frightening or painful or undignified.

To her great delight Mary was accepted as a volunteer and initially she was asked to work in a hospice shop which took in and then re-sold donations. from people who did not need or want them anymore. Some of the things, especially the clothes and books, were as if they were brand new.  Mary’s role was to get these marvellous gifts ready for sale and then be behind the counter re-selling them and, of course, these sales contributed towards the vital funding of the hospice.  All these small sales added up to huge amounts of money.

After not too long, Mary once again felt she had a role in life. She had a purpose and this purpose was helping others, helping others to live a happy and pain free life for as long as possible. It dawned on Mary that this was so much more fulfilling than her previous work. Mary adored her new role. She was happy and contented once again. But she wanted more.

She heard so many hospice stories from those who came into her shop and she felt that she was helping these delightful people when she listened to their experiences.  A huge untapped reservoir of care for others, a reservoir that had so far been reserved entirely for Ted, was suddenly released. Mary decided she would like to be at the heart of things at the hospice, she wanted to be on reception at the hospice to be closer to the staff, the patients and their loved ones. She wanted to give more of herself as well as her brain. She discussed this with her boss at the shop and he was very complementary and said he thought she would be very good in this new role – but he would be very sad to lose her. Wow – this gave her so much delight, it had been a while since she was praised for what she did.

Mary also discussed this move with Ted. “Of course, if I am successful and have to do afternoon and early evening shifts you will have to keep my supper warm”. Ted was slightly miffed at this as he really enjoyed their evenings together but then he realised he would be free for lovely long summer evenings on the golf course so perhaps the prospect wasn’t so grim after all.

Mary applied for a receptionist post she then learned to love her work on reception even more than in the shop, even though a lot of sadness came past her desk. Anything she could do to ease and support that sadness was  her aim for every shift. Her life was once again good – full of purpose and worth and she was contributing to helping others in what be the most difficult times of their lives. In fact in a most unexpected way life was once again very very good.

 

About the author 

Judith Skilleter is new to writing fiction after a long career in social work and teaching. Her first children's novel The April Rebellion, has recently been published. Judith is a Geordie, who settled in East Yorkshire forty-five years ago and is married with three grandchildren.

 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

What did you do during Covid 19 Nana Jude?

 by Judith Skilleter

a whisky mac - for cold dark days

Jigsaw puzzles. I did lots of 1000 piece jigsaws. I was bored during lockdown one and I started by getting old jigsaw puzzles down from the dusty depths of the loft. There was no thought of them becoming a habit at this stage – they would be a time filler, a thinking process, until something better came along or, ideally, Covid 19 went away. These rediscovered jigsaws had been bought for my children 30 years ago and used possibly only once – if at all. My kids never seemed to get into jigsaw puzzles but I have to admit they were always an easily wrapped present for others. Perhaps that is why we had them – we had been given them by unimaginative wrappers.

So from the loft our first jigsaw attempt was a French market scene, all very jolly and colourful, and cheerful until we discovered that one piece was missing, possibly eaten by a dog now long dead. When a picture its incomplete it takes the edge off the achievement somehow. I remember when I did jigsaws when I was young with my much older brother he would hide one piece so that he could see my disappointment because the picture was incomplete. He would then double my disappointment by producing the last piece as if by magic, a piece that had been hidden in his pocket all the time.  Of course, he would then have the pleasure of inserting the last triumphant piece. He always was a git- and still is. Therefore we have jigsaw requirement one - they should not encourage unhappy memories.

The loft also produced a puzzle of a posh lady wearing a posh frock sitting in a posh chair in a very posh interior.  This was very boring and I think the long dead dog must have also found it boring as there were no pieces missing.  The colours were pale greens and lemons and beiges - yuk. There were no themes that made us want to dive into the box of pieces to find certain colours so we could make a solid and confident start. Is this my second requirement for jigsaws?  They need to have colour, lots of vibrant colour,  lots of vibrant colour in reasonably identifiable blocks but not obviously so as there also needs to be splashes of those vibrant colours scattered throughout the picture to continue interest and the overall  challenge

Then we found a Van Gogh - a real challenge. I think I bought it years ago after an inspiring exhibition probably at the National Gallery in London or even in Amsterdam at the Van Gogh Museum. The challenge was that the bottom six or seven rows were all wheat, all yellow wheat, all patience-draining golden wheat. There were no easy ways to do this bottom strip that probably added up to one third of the entire picture. One by one the pieces had to be tried and then discarded and so on until success and then you start again.  It was a test of patience. It was one by one trial and error. But oddly enough there was a lot of satisfaction in completing this jigsaw. It was something familiar, a painting I knew and loved, and I have to admit to a personal thrill when the last piece of yellow wheat was put into its allotted place. This VG was VG in every sense.  Requirement three, the final completed picture needs to have given pleasure both in the doing and the completing, pleasure in bringing back happy memories of holidays and experiences long ago. I include here also pleasure in the areas that you think will never be finished and you get so fed up you could quite easily put this jigsaw into the dustbin rather than back in the loft

A MC Escher was opened and tried and we completed the frame. But it was all black and grey and white and there were similarities in pattern throughout the picture, similarities that would baffle and frustrate rather than satisfy. It was complicated but boring. It was doable but not happily doable.  Each piece would have required endless time and patience and the final result, had we ever got there, would have been a tedious black, grey and white pattern. No completion satisfaction and MC Escher went back upstairs without completion. So we have another requirement for jigsaws.  Number four is that they need to tell a story where slowly but surely the story emerges. Do not buy jigsaws that do not tell a story – they are meaningless.

Then we found a view in the loft’s murky depths. It was a rather lovely view of Lake Como, a gorgeous picture, a lake-scape with tricky reflections in the water and lots of trees and greenery. This puzzle was both fun to do and pretty to look at during all stages of its completion. Requirement five – the final result has to be aesthetically pleasing to the eye. Although I dare say it would have been even more pleasing had George Clooney made an appearance in the top right hand corner next to the large but very elegant building that I am sure he would be happy to live in if he didn’t live there already.

Will this lockdown ever end? We have run out of loft supplies. The jigsaw collection has been found, and all completed successfully apart from the MC Escher. And they have all been put back in the loft to be re-rediscovered in thirty years’ time.

So I had to buy some.

I am now in charge of the jigsaw puzzle buying. The husband bought one - never again. He chose a battle scene, Napoleonic I think, all browns and greys with the occasional burst of fire as the dead, dying, injured, and maimed and healthy soldiers waiting to be dead, dying, injured  or maimed tried to take control of about three square yards of ground.  Is this requisite six -the story has to be reasonably happy and certainly not one that will suggest the frailties and weaknesses of man and the futility of war. Also this jigsaw was a nightmare to complete as all the soldiers littering the bottom two thirds of the picture were all wearing the same uniform and were all, more or less, facing in the same direction in their dead, dying, injured and maimed conditions.  It was not a fun jigsaw to do and it most certainly did not meet requirement five.  The final product of weeks of work was not an aesthetic delight.

Requirement six therefore is obvious - choose your own, do not let others interfere with jigsaw choice. And I did.  Three Breughel’s – Children’s Games, the Fight between Carnival and Lent and the Census at Bethlehem - all made in wood. Requisite seven – buy wooden jigsaw puzzles.  Each individual piece is so solid and lovely to feel and place in position with a very pleasing thunk.

And Breughels meet all the above requirements.  I have wonderful happy memories of visiting galleries in Europe, and the US to see these wonderful masterpieces, (requirements 1 and 3), they are full of colour (requirement 2), they gave pleasure (requirement 3 again) throughout their assembly. They told a story (requirement 4) often a story of real life all those years ago and it was lovely once an area was complete  checking up on Google  what was happening and seeing the picture (requirement  4b they can also have an educational and intellectual function). It goes without saying that the three Breughels were pleasing (requirement 5) to look at once completed, there was just so much to see and try to understand that it was so sad to break up the finished product and put in back into box ready for a trip to the loft. That end process really did not seem fair with the Breughels. And as for requirement 4 there was always a darker side within these stories waiting to be discovered, but it was never overwhelming or detracted from the pleasure of the story within the picture. My next Breughel purchase will be Dutch Proverbs. I have looked at other paintings including The Night Watch by Rembrandt but it was too dark. Any suggestions?

As for requirement 6 where I decided that I would always buy my own jigsaws from now on, I have to admit that we were given two jigsaw puzzles for Christmas. One was a snip – only 500 pieces. It was a cartoon view of the Lake District and was really nice to do – nice in the sense that it was not challenging during the Christmas period when there were so many other things to do and good TV to watch.  It was easy enough to put in a couple of pieces and then leave it for a couple of days and then start again. Christmas jigsaw puzzle 2 was a view of Paris, 1000 pieces and lots of lovely colours and bars and flowers with the Eiffel Tower in the distance. Gorgeous – a careful composition. Both of these presents met most of the above jigsaw puzzle requirements and were really nice surprises even though the mean thought crossed my mind that my family is made up of unimaginative wrappers.  But I will give them the benefit of the doubt; the puzzles were bought because they thought or even knew that we would like them – which we did. So instead of always buying our own jigsaws perhaps we could have a list of approved jigsaw buyers - people who could be trusted to buy well and sensibly.

So our secret it out. The husband and I enjoy doing jigsaw puzzles and we have Covid 19 to thank for this.  We have coped much better with the restrictions and imposed lockdown knowing that an interesting challenge was taking place on the dining table. Where on earth would the guests have sat had we been able to have dinner parties? And worse still would they have seen what we were doing and sneaked in pieces of the puzzle without asking permission. The bounders!

I have to say though that had we not been doing jigsaws the husband and I would have visited Australia, Croatia, and France.  These were last year’s plans and do not include the spur of the moment getaways.

My daughter would have been married in sunny Australia and I would have been the proud mother of the bride in my new m-o-t-b outfit. We would have visited a dear old friend in Croatia who is in her late 80s. She might not be around when we can all fly again. And the husband and I would have started our long planned drive round the whole of France.

I would have seen my grandsons in the flesh. WhatsApp is all very well but it is not the same as a proper cuddle and knowing that when you stay that the youngest will come into your bed at 2 a.m. in the morning and you then end up on the edge of the bed with one hand on the floor so that you don’t fall out.

And not forgetting the real impact of Covid 19

• ·         children and young people would not have had their education so badly interrupted.
• ·         economies throughout the world would not have suffered.
• ·         families and individuals would not have lost their livelihoods – their homes, their jobs and been hungry.
• ·         more than 100.000 people in the UK would not have died lonely, painful, unnecessary deaths.

So despite the delights of jigsaw puzzles and whatever else people have reluctantly filled their time with over the past year, I think that I and everyone else in the world have much preferred a world that had been Covid 19 free.

P.S. We have just discovered that a visiting dog has polished off two pieces of the Paris scene. Requirement 8 – do not let dogs anywhere near jigsaw puzzles.

 

About the author

Judith Skilleter is new to writing fiction after a long career in social work and teaching. Her first children's novel will be published shortly. She is a Geordie, who settled in East Yorkshire 45 years ago and is married with nearly three  grandchildren