I’ve been in a funk most of the week. I know I know, all my ideas of starting 2020 with an open mind and verbal alliterations of exciting futures ya da ya but now I’m feeling cartoonish lady with black cloud overhead and wet anorak. One minute I was feeling the positive vibes of finally having the house on the market and a steady stream of viewings and the next, splat! Headfirst into the moody puddle. And it took a few friends to tell me why. I’m impatient apparently.

Here’s the thing about selling your house, you have no control over how long it will take. Not only that but your future is entirely in the hands of a stranger who runs a skeptical eye over your decor. And I’ve become quite an expert on reading human body language (dogs are my expertise and they rarely comment on wallpaper), the “I can’t really afford this but it’s nice to compare” to the “perhaps she’ll take a really stupid offer as she’s a widow” facial expressions. With family and friends telling me the house will be snapped up, I’m feeling a bit deflated. I know it’s only been on the market for two weeks and let’s face it, I’m making a seriously big move but I hate the standstill.

I know I have to be patient and keep to my resolution to take life as it comes but it’s not easy. And I know I’m an impulsive sort but flying solo for the last 18 months has made me yearn for calm and balance in my life. Not just in my life, the dogs and Callum need it too. Rollercoasters make you queasy after a while. And if the house did sell tomorrow, I’d be a full blown panic mode getting the pack et al ready to shift across the Channel. Thank God for yoga.

Having dismissed my 2020 horoscope warnings of not spending any money, I decided to go and look at a couple of flats to buy as an investment and also to get me out of the house. Apart from the shock at the price of a minuscule studio “can’t swing a cat but the rent is fabulous” abode, I did find a rather nice ex-council two bedroom flat in Battersea that had me feeling quite the investor. That was until an anti-terrorist van blew into the estate, dropping its commandos as it whizzed passed. I think I read the estate agent’s body language pretty well….

“I have found that when you are deeply troubled, there are things you get from the silent devoted companionship of a dog that you can get from no other source.”  (Doris Day)

I have had more than a few moments of panic, the “what the hell am I doing?” kind, this week. The house viewings have started. The dream and chit chat about moving to France might soon be a reality and I’ll actually have to do something with all the books, records, loft litter and furniture. And the dogs travel arrangements. For all my blog writing about how exciting the future is going to be, the reality is frankly more than a little scary. 23 years of memories and clutter are here within chez Knollys’ walls and whilst I really really am excited about moving, I’ve never done it on my own. For the first time in my 53 years, every decision is mine and so is the responsibility.

Yesterday 2 families with young toddler aged children viewed the house. It was oddly emotional seeing a new generation move from room to room. Flashbacks of bringing a tiny baby home from the hospital to a newly painted nursery, all the dogs that have wandered the garden, the crazy summer parties, the “how’s your day been” hugs. They are all here at chez Knollys. And now, for another family, it will be their turn to make this house their home for the next twenty years or so. It would be nice if they had a dog too.

Speaking of dogs, I really need to pull my finger out and get their travel requirements sorted. I rang the vets and left a message asking for the total cost of vaccinations in case I need to sell all the loft litter to afford such a task. Thankfully the pack are blissfully unaware of the impending relocation, can you imagine how impossible Arry and co. would be if they knew what an amazing life was ahead of them? I mean, they go crazy every morning when we get to the park! I wonder whether the idea that acres will be outside the back door will confuse them? And how does one extradite 10 dogs 750 plus miles? Someone suggested a camper van until I told them it wouldn’t be big enough. Luckily a friend said he’d love to help so that’s one tick in the box.

This journey of ‘going it alone’ is daunting, I can’t lie. Tony was always the organised one, I tend to bury my head in the sand until I can’t breathe. Yet it’s strangely liberating at the same time. Yes, I need to look for a flat for Callum to dump himself but that’s something we can do together, the rest is up to me. And 10 very ill-informed woofers…

“My husband and I are either going to buy a dog or have a child. We can’t decide whether to ruin our carpet or ruin our lives” (Rita Rudner)

We had a visitor this week. Having been contacted by the estate agent to say said visitor was coming by to view Chez Knollys on Thursday evening, I scrubbed, aired and polished the ol’ homestead to sparkling perfection. Okay, maybe having 10 dogs makes that somewhat futile but at least there weren’t any paw marks on the walls or hair in the fridge (how does dog hair get in there?). I even built a sort of avant garde rockery in the front garden where Steven had piled up all the old driveway concrete and bits. That’s where little plant is by the way. I added some illegitimate pot bound greenery (lost their tags so parentage unknown) plus a couple of bags of compost and voila! Mind you I’m not sure Monty Don will be oohing over it any time soon.

I can only hope it was ‘first viewing’ nerves that had my stress levels hitting the red zone. As much as I tried to reason with myself that whoever wanted the house would expect to put their own stamp on it, I started to see flaws everywhere. The new extension (have I got too much furniture in there?), those scrapes on the bathroom counter (let’s face it, one quick paint job), the gardens (why did I get replace the artificial grass with the real muddy stuff?) and so on. By 6pm I deposited Callum and the woofers in the annexe (that’s what the former garage come gym is listed as) and cleared up the last minute deposit Mo left on said gym floor. And there they were on my newly washed porch step.

Well I think the viewing went okay. At least he didn’t comment on my decor or laugh at my landscaping, it turned out he even owns a dog. Just the one, odd people. And he did say “I like it” several times but as yet, no feedback. Am I upset? No actually. After all, it’s only the first one. Every one including the postie tell me the house will sell quickly and I’ve got it on the market too cheaply and how much they don’t want me to go so I’m telling myself to relax and go with the flow. Yup, try moving 10 dogs up the side of the house and through the back door whilst agent and potential homeowner are leaving through the front door. Think counting school kids back onto a bus post outing, at least one is always unaccounted for. In this case, Neo, who let’s face it is the only one to avoid and had decided to make a dash for the front door just as they opened it. In a former life, I must have been a rugby legend. I really need outside lighting….

“All his life he tried to be a good person. Many times, however, he failed. For after all, he was only human. He wasn’t a dog.” (Charles M Schulz)

Whilst many of us have made New Year assurances and resolutions, there are some daily routines that you just can’t change. For me, it’s the first dog rush over the local park (they don’t do walkies well, just zoomies). Every day apart from Sundays, I take the 5 minute drive to the local park for the first four hoodlums and the same route home afterwards. Predictable I know but at that time in the morning, it helps not to stretch the brain cells. It was because of this familiar long and winding road (okay so not that long) that I saved a life the other day. What a way to start the new decade!

ok, let’s back up here. I was about to turn left onto a street when I noticed it on the pavement. It struck me as odd since it was still in a pot, generally speaking ‘street plants’ just grow out of the cracks and gaps the city gives them. I drove past but I did feel a bit guilty for not stopping, my excuse was that whoever had dropped the little plant might return for it. Next morning, same route, same plant but someone had moved onto the top of a bin. The pot had disappeared but the little tree thing was there. I did think about stopping but said to myself if it was still there in the morning, I would take it. And I did. Little plant was desperate for water but is now happily ensconced in my newly prepared rockery.

Why was I so drawn to rescuing a 10 inch plant? Those who know me would say I’m a sucker for a rescue. Anything. Or maybe it was a sign from Tony who adored his garden but perhaps that’s pushing it. Either way, I felt a really good feeling for having saved little plant. And to be honest, I think I know why. It’s a living thing and deserved a chance at life as anyone of us does. I’m not one for telling anyone how to live their lives, perhaps making a difference for another whether it be a contribution to the Australian Fire Service or to a local animal charity will give you a really good feeling too. Or maybe just save a little plant.

I’m sure 5 days into the New Year, one shouldn’t say those words any more but Bonne Annee instead. And it’s been a year since the Widow plus Woofers started so thank you all for reading. Don’t worry, I’m not stopping the writing but do keep in touch for the next new venture ahem ahem…..

“A bone to the dog is not charity. Charity is the bone shared with the dog, when you are just as hungry as the dog.” (Jack London author, The Call of the Wild)

I suppose it’s inevitable that as the decade draws to a close, we look to the future with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. Whether it be a small promise to oneself to eat cleaner, give up the booze or in my case sell up and move to a different country, a New Year gives us the impetus to leap into the proverbial fire. It’s no secret that the last half of the 20teens was frankly horrendous for me so I’m definitely looking forward to seeing the backside of 2019. And if you remember reading one of my first blogs recanting a friend’s advice on not making any radical changes in the first year of widowhood, I’m certainly ready to throw everything at 2020 now.

Having blasted the last few years as hideous, the last week spent with my family at L’horte was the ultimate Christmas present. And like all Christmases should be, it was a time filled with reminiscence of times past and way too much food ( I think my tum has booked an all-inclusive at a macrobiotic spa for the next month). And as much as I want to rid my karma of all the bad stuff, the 24 years of life at L’horte which was essentially built by Pop gave us so much in the memory bank. Lives were nurtured there. Nine grandchildren learnt how to manoeuvre a canoe and tip it on a regular basis, some even learnt to swim in the process. Bodies were thrown in gay abandon (can one still say that?) off a zip wire hopefully hitting the correct deep water spot and dogs ran amok on the endless acres of playground until their time was done. Oh and aperitifs on the verandah ahhhhh…

It was only fitting that we should scatter Pop’s ashes on the land he made for his family to come together on. Of course, even this act involved some hilarity on the part of the dogs, namely mine as usual. My younger brother had given a brilliant Christmas present to all with a number of trees, climbers and bulbs to be planted across the property and up the houses in Pop’s memory. I have done the same at chez Knollys by the way with roses for Tony. Off we went en masse to dig up holes and plant various greenery in semi-organised fashion. I would like to point out that such acts of love should really be carried out without an over-excited Border terrier, a somewhat confused Norfolk and three ‘let’s play fetch right now’ German Shepherds. Led by Arry. Naturally. And his pet rock(s). The aim was to drop his pet rock in whatever hole had been dug then lead a musical bark session until the rock was lobbed somewhere. And repeat. I would apologise to Moth for my chaos-inducing canine except for the less than calming comment about using a pick axe with Alice’s presence nearby.

” Careful of Alice, I’m seeing Ring of Bright Water here”

“Oh you mean that book that guy wrote who was responsible for the demise of X whale population”

“Probably but right now I’m seeing the ending of the book in graphic detail”

“Best move your dog then”

I love my family…….

So let’s raise a glass to 2020. I hope for all that it is the start of something big and shiny. Love the Widow plus her Woofers.

” The dog was created specifically for children. He is the god of Frolic” (Henry Ward Beecher)

Last Wednesday I found myself bombing down the A3 to meet my mother-in-law muttering curses at the other drivers as I attempted to beat time. As the Black Rose (my beloved Land Rover) accelerated towards Guildford, I heard a popping noise and looking through the passenger side mirror, saw the rear wheel trim fly off into the traffic behind us. Before I carry on this moral tale, I will admit to the fact that I knew the trim wasn’t secure as someone had damaged it a few days before and I hadn’t got round to getting it fixed. Anyway, as I saw the black bit of plastic tumble into the distance I had a fleeting thought to pull onto the hard shoulder and attempt to retrieve it. Idiocy I know but nevertheless the notion momentarily entered my stressed out brain. Of course I didn’t although I did send a prayer up that no headlines would appear the next day for pile-ups caused by irresponsible Land Rover drivers.

It wasn’t until a few days later as I allowed my mind to wander slightly as the Black Rose took to the autoroute that I realised that the above could so easily be an analogy for my life lately. I’ve spent far too long rushing forward, ignoring the little things that need fixing then wishing I could go back and rectify the problem so it would never have happened. I’m sure this ‘ I shoulda, woulda, coulda’ thinking happens to all of us widows and widowers. We are either looking in the rear view mirror at the parts we’ve left behind or constantly whizzing forward trying to find a settling point. Or maybe that’s just me. It’s very easy to say you only live once so enjoy the moment but as yet I haven’t reached the tranquility zone. Actually that’s not entirely true. Having driven the 10+ hour journey from London to L’Horte, most of it through driving through torrential rain alongside little French voitures doing a hundred miles an hour, the Black Rose carefully offloaded her precious cargo (Callum, myself, three dogs and all the Christmas presents) at the place I call home. And although my back had seized mid-journey and I was beyond exhausted, there was no better sight than the old homestead.

Yesterday I woke up stiff and sore and having had virtually no sleep due the aforementioned plus a very over-excited Arry and Alice ( Yogi I feel, was more empathetic to his Mum’s pain), I opened the shutters to be greeted by a cerulean sky welcoming me back. It has taken a whole day to calm the frazzled mind , mainly due to the dynamic duo seeing the property as some sort of Winter Wonderland that could disappear at any moment but now I can feel the hectic brain cells slow to a lazy crawl. It’s good to be home. So Merry Christmas one and all and I hope everyone gets a chance to sit back and switch off. From the Widow plus Woofers.

“The dog lives for the day, the hour, even the moment.” (Robert Falcon Scott)

I’ve had to bite my tongue a lot this week. And that’s difficult for me, a Scorpio who more often than not, stings first and thinks later. My gripe? Other people’s opinions on my future. From putting my house on the market (apparently not a good time to do so but my retort, when is?) to moving myself plus the woofers to France (apparently never been done before and therefore impossible for a 53 year old). Whilst I am open to advice, why do so many have to be negative about it? Or worse, see me as incapable of doing it? I doubt the same would have been voiced if I was a man by the way. It seems that being a widow and wanting to start again means you need to be advised against your own decisions by some. Thank God for my cheerleading ‘amies’ who let me vent my frustrations at the above and keep me on the path forward.

I’m not going to lie, there are times when I doubt myself and my decisions. “What the hell am I doing?” is a regular earworm but then little reminders pop up and I’m getting the rollerblades on. Last Thursday, Election Day of course, I sat in the London evening traffic for 3 hours on a less than 10 mile journey. And whilst I sat twiddling my thumbs looking at a sea of red lights, I could hear Pop complaining about the number of idling engines going nowhere. When once I would call Tony and he would make me laugh until the traffic eased, there was just Arry and I. And he was asleep. I realised that this was what staying in London was, a boring, static life with nothing but red lights ahead. Why should I settle for that?

So Callum and I plus 3 woofers (Arry, Alice and Yogi Bear) will drive down to the old homestead for the last Christmas at L’horte and I can’t wait. Ok so the drive is a long one and Callum is averse to any form of kitsch Christmas songs but the destination is worth it. And I’ve done all my Christmas shopping, made the cake, bought the pud (does anyone still make these?) and checked the dogs’ passports. A week in the place I love the best with those I love the most is how us widows plus woofers silence the bah humbugs…..

” The reason why dogs have so many friends is because they wag their tails instead of their tongues” (Anon)

Only my father would orchestrate his funeral to be during the French air traffic strike. A sort of endurance test for his children and grandchildren. The aim was to get all of us to L’horte on the one day Toulouse airport decided to be picky about which planes were going to land. The family Whatsapp resembled a sort of air traffic control centre directing siblings from New York, London (one of those went via Frankfurt), Bristol and the Shetlands. My sister became somewhat addicted to watching Flight Tracker, thankfully no games console was involved. Even Callum and I didn’t escape the hurdles. Having got a cancellation text the day before flying and nowhere near a computer and unable to disturb Cal at college, I forwarded the dreaded words to my internet savvy son. By the time I got home, he’d booked the only available flight which was leaving in about 5 hours. We stuffed a suitcase, got in an over-priced taxi and sped to the airport and L’horte.

Well Pop, we did it. Thanks to the Collins fortitude and adventurous spirit, the last one of us was picked up as dawn rose Friday morning. And despite the hours and for my younger brother, days, of check ins and queues going nowhere, suited and booted we stood together to say goodbye. Well, you have to excuse Kate. Her style is uniquely Kate and you wouldn’t have expected anything else. The ceremony was short and full of your favourite music just the way you like such occasions and we made healthy in-roads into your wine collection afterwards. Ok, maybe that was less approved of but you have great taste as do we. Obviously.

Luckily we all made it back to our various global residences yesterday, eventually. I mean, what is a little strike chaos between the Collins’? And we’ll be back in a week or so to celebrate Christmas with the brood. Although this time I’m driving…..

I wrote a poem for my Pop and read it at his funeral. I titled it

“Always There”

In the dusky early morning light,  
Dogs weave through trees just in sight.
On ground so green through years of care,
A man in thought, I see you there.

Diamond sparkled water in evening sun,
A man and river unite as one.
No sound but that of the heron's cry,
But I hear you through L'horte's lazy sigh.

Thus as the days and evenings fade,
On land so loved, your ashes laid.
Your presence in our hearts to keep,
So rest now our Pop in peaceful sleep.                                                                             

A little after 1 p.m. yesterday afternoon, I got the phone call from L’horte to say our Pop had passed away. The man who cradled me, held my hand down the aisle and rocked my newborn son in his arms, went peacefully in the place he loved the most with the woman he shared more than half a century with. His eldest grandson Louis close by and of course, his adored German Shepherds Chrissie and Gunner. Beloved husband, father, grandpop, step- grandpop, animal lover, passionate environmentalist and an engineering genius.

James Edward Collins was born and raised in Highbury, Islington. From his early ‘blitz boy’ years to travelling all over the world, family in tow, building vital structures in countries most wouldn’t touch, he loved being active. As kids, we led a charmed life from the jungles of Borneo to the Kenyan wilderness thanks to Mumo and Pop. It is a testament to both of them that the friends they made 50plus years ago still get together every year. He never pushed any of us into a career but was always there when we needed perspective and direction. I have always had a habit of turning left when everyone else went right. And he never failed to tell everyone how amazing his children and grandchildren were.

To say our Pop was opinionated would be an understatement. He was a fervent environmentalist long before it became newsworthy, L’horte’s solar panels and irrigation system were some of his proudest moments in rebuilding the old mill. The self-sufficiency seen in his grandchildren is thanks to his ‘on site’ education (whether they wanted it or not). And I think all of us know how to rewire an entire house by now. His legendary rants about eating beef (none of us touch the stuff), the state of his adored London (although he loved returning Norf for his 80th) and the demise of the English cricket team made for many a dinner debate although some of us did switch off part way through. Something we obviously learnt from him, he perfected the art of falling asleep mid way through a conversation.

Pop loved our Mumo. I don’t think I ever saw them argue big-time. He was fiercely protective of her and we were never allowed to swear or disrespect her in any way. Not that we ever would, she’s Mumo after all. He once told me that he had to ask her more than once to marry him but he was never going to give up until she did.

Pop and I bonded on one thing in particular, our love of dogs. Especially German Shepherds. Chrissie and Gunner were his constant companions as he took his daily walk around the property although the routine would never be complete with at least one shout of “Gunner, come here!”, followed by “What are you doing?!”. We just prayed that Gunner hadn’t taken another joggers pants off. . He loved Ming and Pong, the now-departed cats, I assume they will be waiting for a head scratch up there.

So Callum and I will fly to L’horte next week for the funeral on Friday. The French are swift on these things for which we are all grateful. Us kids and our kids will be there to hold Mumo’s hand and say goodbye to the man who held our hearts. I love you Pop. I know I should have said it more often but thank you. Thank you for always being there even if I wasn’t grateful at the time, for pulling me up when I was falling flat, for believing in me when I didn’t believe in myself, for showing me the straight and narrow when my path bent, for letting me make mistakes and showing me how to fix them and the 1986 New York Mets baseball season. I shall look out for you one evening swimming down the river…….

James Edward Collins September 1st 1938 – 30th November 2019.

I had a meeting with a branch representative at the bank this week. Apparently managers are too busy these days so they have understudies. For some reason best known to such financial institutions and my loyalty to one for 30 years, I had been classified as a V.I.P customer and therefore qualified for a private tete-a tete. Bless the young chap, he was incredibly enthusiastic about what the bank could offer me as such an important customer, yet I couldn’t help but wonder if he was looking at the same computer screen as I was. And after an hour of numerical mumbo jumbo and illegible finger signatures (because no one uses a pen and paper anymore), I walked out with a lump in my stomach that could only be described as fear. I am clueless when it comes to finance.

En route to the afore mentioned confab and having dropped off my car for it’s winter health check praying that I wasn’t going to get a hefty bill because something had or was about to fall off, I stopped by the estate agent next door. Might as well get a valuation on the house done so I booked one for next week. However, once the eternally dull session with Mr Optimistic was over, I almost cancelled the agent. What do I know about selling a house let alone buying one? Is there a course I should enrol in? What happens if the house sells quickly and I haven’t found somewhere for the widow plus woofers? What happens if no-one likes it? Ha, it’s a beautiful house so I would be very affronted if anyone offended i and the ‘hoo’ would have something to say no doubt. Actually the ‘hoo’ has been quite active of late. I lost my keys in the car (don’t ask), I had an argument with the found keys as replacing the battery involved elfish fingers, I got a stye in my eye (I spent the entire week with teabags dripping down my nose) and to cap it all, Arry head-butted my right hand. I surprised it’s not broken. My hand that is, I don’t think anything is capable of breaking bone head’s skull. And I’m lacking sleep because due to all of the above.

Whoever said sleep was over-rated lied. After a week of punching pillows and rearranging the duvet, I was actually worried about my ability to drive to work yesterday. Once again, Sundays to the rescue and a full 9 hours sleep last night for me and the bed hog dogs. Why? Because banks and estate agents have Sundays off and hopefully the ‘hoo’ too…..

“If you think dogs can’t count, try putting three dog biscuits in your pocket and then give him only two of them.” (Phil Pastoret. Author)