Raising Ravens

Thought I'd better add something to acknowledge Christmas - even if it's January 5th - last years -the other end of it..

Sunday morning: usual slow crawl out of bed. Saved by Beloved's coffee-making. (To add to virtue he doesn't even drink it.) He of course is a lark. Granny has always been a nightingale - the bad news is that though larks continue to leap happily out of bed as they get older, and nightingales go on propping their eyes open with difficulty, nightingales no longer make up for it by being lively at midnight. Or even 10pm. It's comatose both ends. Not fair.

So what to do? Yet more email Christmas cards, sort clothes, wrap local presents, make bed for Beloved's Beloved Daughter, due to arrive tomorrow, cook Granny's share of lunch, walk dogs, sort out Mr and Mrs Handsome due to come to eat; granny and Beloved back in marriage guidance - Handsomes seem to be at odds again. Oh dear.

Much of yesterday was spent trawling for local presents in shopping centre in tourist trap on other side of island (shivering tourists in shorts and skinny strap tops. Sensible locals in wool. The travel agents - 'islands of eternal summer' - have a lot to answer for. ) Not much bought. Amazon via internet much more useful.

Other blogs I read are full of world, soul, serious issues. What world? Granny has little time to think here, except on domestic issues and, occasionally, lurking manuscript. (Discover straight off that baby, female on page one, has changed sex by page twenty. Preserve as interesting plot twist? Perhaps not.)

Oh and birds. Little brown bees or whatever they were have been and gone. Odd that. Why? Whence? Whither? (Rare chance to use such words). Ravens gather. The only kind of crow-type on this island. The rarest sort back on Granny's other home island. She knows where they come from; in the National Park, where they used to remain mostly, among the volcanoes - now they appear frequently, even have set-tos sometimes with seagulls. Not much food among the lava probably. While granny was walking dogs yesterday, one appeared overhead cawing madly. A minute later there were four of them - Granny wondered hopefully if they had their hungry eyes on Tiresome Terrier ....as usual all too intent on digging up neighbours' newly-growing plants in pursuit of lizards - not good local PR - no such luck.

Raising ravens. Crios Cuervos. Wonderful title of excellent Spanish film -made, I think, by the director of one of Granny's favourites, Spirit of the Beehive. Beloved, alas, unlike her, did not mispend his youth in the Scala in Walton Street, let alone the Academy in Oxford Street, let alone the National Film Theatre, definitely does not share Gs enthusiasm for celluloid, prefers his dramas live. (G once spent a very wearing evening trying to explain/ justify Regles du Jeu to him;- decided in future this was too much like hard work.) So, what else but titles. And falling into every film possible when back in London, whatever time she has left from babysitting. Etc. No films here; no anything except what's on telly.

No, not too much of a moan. Sun out. Stuff - lots of it - is growing everywhere. Potatoes come up, maize, sweet potatoes, etc, etc. Planting here, for sweet potatoes, maize, involves laboriously raising a small pyramid of earth for each one. Fields are little pyramids all over. An old man of 73 does a whole field next door to us unaided.

Old age. Young age. Short spans, long spans. LIFE. GOOD. HERE. Wish it was so everywhere. Happy Christmas everyone.