The life of Di
A monthly column by Di Wade, the author of ‘A Year In Verse’
DISCREET TAP-DANCERS
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agazine input is not unlike The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. OK so no talking fauns, or Turkish delight (though actually my preferred guilty pleasure is marzipan personally). Nor are there exactly shedloads of lions, witches, or wardrobes come to that. However, I’m very aware that I’m beginning this past three o’clock on a cold and frosty Epiphany morning, and that anyone reading it may well be doing so with bunnies hopping all over the place, and lambs gambolling for all they’re worth – hopefully responsibly. Nonetheless, it was a strange season which catapulted us into another new year. It was in fact so heavy on the unusual and unpredictable that there was actually some comfort to be had in such hardy perennials as the lousy festive TV, and those mammoth letters from distant relatives where they seem to feel compelled to detail their every last burp from the past twelve months. While my mum was reading out one such, I found myself marvelling at the writer’s ability to remember everything they were doing going back to the start of the year. All I could myself remember from the previous January was being mildly impressed that the poinsettia was still going. Similarly, the only detail I could recall from February was my dad and I watching a heron performing a spot of impromptu Dancing on Ice on
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a frozen pond. Ducks were negotiating the surface with apparent unconcern, and a sound like discreet tap-dancers, - but the harder the heron tried to get a purchase, the less it succeeded, till finally, with what one could only imagine was a look of disgust, it was able to ease itself into some reeds. The next thing of note was the haven of peace and tranquillity that was Easter. This included walks up at Nott End, and on Fleetwood prom, lashings of divine simnel cake, and for some reason more flowers and birdsong and of a greater quality than I ever remembered before There was then a gap until the Olympics, on the eve of which my parents and I went to Morecambe and strolled along the prom – with me doing my best to impersonate an Olympic walker – till I fell flat on my face, and my companions fell about laughing. We also checked out afternoon tea at the Midlands, for which we ultimately returned in early September, my parents treating us by way of an early birthday present to me. Something we’d always fancied doing, it didn’t disappoint in the slightest. My birthday itself, two months later, was something I could have taken or left at my age. However, thanks to the generosity of friends and family, it
LANCASHIRE & NORTH WEST MAGAZINE
ended up being a flower-filled, treelined delight incorporating Stanley Park, Fleetwood Prom, The Italian Orchard, the Red Lion, Preston, and the Bell and Bottle. Gorgeous. And then it was Christmas, which was less jingle all the way than coughing for Britain and beyond. However, I DID manage a magical trip to Barton Grange with a friend, plus a couple of lunches and coffees with others. Between Christmas and New Year, my parents and I also walked round the illuminations up at North Shore, which allowed me to get up close and personal with Hawaiian dancers, red Indians, Alice in Wonderland et al, and most thrillingly, a bunch of daleks, one of which obligingly yelled, “Exterminate, exterminate” as I approached. Was in my element. I also had my first ever clear impression as to what the tardis looked like. Brilliant. And that was that for the year. What the new one will bring remains to be seen, but if it contains at least a smattering of good things, that’ll do me – and if it contains more than a smattering, I’ll be over the moon, and writing seriously long letters to everyone come December. Happy New Year, whatever the month.
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