Katherine Gregor

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Katherine Gregor (a.k.a. Scribe Doll) is a literary translator and scribbler who has also been an EFL teacher, theatrical agent, press agent, theatre director, complementary medicine practitioner, and one or two other things. Perhaps that's why the literary characters she relates to most are Arlecchino, Truffaldino, Gianni Schicchi and Scapin, and feels empathy with crows, squirrels and cats. She lives in Norwich, Norfolk. (Photo courtesy of Rosie Goldsmith @GoldRosie )

For the Old to Fertilise the New

Get a large, strong bag.

Clean your home.

Wash the floors,

Polish the wood,

Dust the shelves,

Scrub the sink.

Then drop all the dirt into the large, strong bag.

Walk around your home

And collect from the air and from under the furniture

All the hurtful words,

All the tears,

All the despair,

All the dead-end habits.

Then stuff these cobwebs into the large, strong bag.

Open your address book –

The paper one, the electronic one and the one in your phone.

Pick out, one by one, the names

Of all those you have forgotten,

All those who have forgotten you,

All those who have accepted, yet not thanked,

All those who have talked but not listened,

All those who have rushed to support you in your sadness,

Yet not been able to rejoice in your gladness.

Then empty all these heavy names into the large, strong bag.

Run a bath –

Hot water for strength,

Sea salt for purity,

Rosemary for clear thought,

Frankincense for inspiration

And oil of Rose Otto for joy.

Let the water wash away

All fear,

All anger,

All indecision.

Let the steam draw out the word impossible from your pores.

Then drain all this grime into the large, strong bag.

Dig a hole and bury the large, strong bag –

That the Old Year may fertilise the New Year

And help it sprout, blossom and grow into a year of Happiness, Perfect Health, Abundant Wealth, and Golden Brightness!

Scribe Doll

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Recent Comments
Stephen Evans
Good plan - happy new year!
Saturday, 31 December 2016 22:38
Katherine Gregor
Happy 2017 to you, Stephen.
Sunday, 01 January 2017 10:03
Rosy Cole
This is a kind of calendar for the whole year, with its graphic image reminders! So much better than well-meaning but hollow reso... Read More
Monday, 02 January 2017 10:21
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4 Comments

Christmas Eve

"Once in Royal David's City

Stood a lowly cattle shed".

 

I hold my breath.  I always find myself holding my breath for the minute or so between the BBC Radio 4 announcer's voice falling silent and the chorister getting to the end of his solo verse.  An opening verse which, for many, marks the beginning of Christmas.

 

Will the treble make it smoothly across the four opening lines? Will his voice crack? Will he hesitate? Will he stumble and fall flat on one of the high notes?

 

"Mary was the Mother mild,

Jesus Christ her little Child."

 

He did it! As flawless and straight as a moonbeam, his voice floated up to the stone fan vaulting and caressed the stained-glass window panes.

 

On my table, the long, needle-sharp flame of the deep red Advent candle glows brighter as the light outside the windows slowly fades.  The edges of the rooftops grow blurred beneath a sky gradually drained of daylight, across which pink-mottled clouds are gently propelled by the chilly wind.

 

A blackbird is skipping on the gravel driveway, emitting the odd chirp.  It's a commandeering, purposeful sound.  A crow lands on a chimney top and caws, bobbing its head, calling out to its mate until the latter swoops down. 

 

I notice the white fairy lights of our Christmas tree reflected in the window panes of the neighbours opposite us.  Our Christmas tree, that is decorated in gold, silver and glass and, this year, a few deep red baubles.

 

In the distance, the Cathedral bells ring an invitation to the carol service within its Benedictine Norman walls.

 

It's time to put the kettle on.  I decide to use the white teapot with the blue and yellow flowers.  The first teapot I ever bought, some thirty years ago, while doing my A-levels.  It's steeped in memories of afternoon teas and midnight discussions about cabbages and kings.  Memories of stripy college scarves, 1980s haircuts and bicycles padlocked to lamp posts.  Steeped in the youthful sense that nothing is impossible.

 

I spoon Earl Grey then dried rose petals, then pour in the boiling water.  The aroma that wafts out is a blend of citrus and sensuality.

 

The Choir of King's College, Cambridge, is closing the broadcast with the customary "Hark, the Herald Angels Sing".

 

I remember that yesterday, I bought some myrrh gum from the herb shop.  I prepare the stone incense holder and the glowing-red charcoal disk, then drop a couple of myrrh grains into it.  The rich, heady fragrance twists and twirls up then spreads through the room like a phantom creature.  I close my eyes and breathe in its message.  It soon becomes crystal clear that I've used too much myrrh.  Its astringent smoke constricts my throat and I start coughing.  I add some frankincense resin to mellow the concoction.  Its comforting, familiar scent puts its arms around me like an old friend.

 

It's Christmas Night.  And the first night of Hanukkah.  The two coincide for the first time in a hundred years.  I choose to believe that it's a happy sign.  A sign of good things to come.

 

Happy Christmas, happy Hanukkah, happy Yuletide to you all!  

 

Scribe Doll

Recent Comments
Rosy Cole
Truly, magically, Christmassy! :-) I had the same thoughts about the Hanukkah/Christmas conjunction but hadn't realised it was as ... Read More
Monday, 26 December 2016 12:51
Katherine Gregor
Re Hanukkah and Christmas coinciding for the first time in 100 years: That's what I THINK I heard on Radio 4 – but now people are ... Read More
Monday, 26 December 2016 16:00
Jane Phillipson Wilson
Happy Holidays, Katia. xx Jane
Monday, 26 December 2016 14:20
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The Alchemy of Turning Darkness into Light

A text message the day before, signed in both names, gently confirms that H. and I are to go the the Castle museum entrance a few minutes before the ceremony.  

It's a grey morning but unusually mild for December.  We walk over the bridge leading to the Norman keep, where for centuries, those convicted of crime were hanged.  I've always had an uneasy relationship with Norwich Castle.  For one thing, I find its sugar-cube shape on the hill dominating the city rather ugly.  It lacks the charm of Durham Castle's irregular edges, or the Gothic feel of Edinburgh Castle.  There is something eerie about its bland squareness.  I first set foot in it about ten years ago.  I walked in, bought my ticket, caught a brief glimpse of a series of busts on display, and promptly and almost involuntarily dashed back out at full speed, overwhelmed with a totally unfathomable feeling of terror.  I couldn't account for my reaction, which seemed utterly irrational, so the following day, determined to act like an adult, I went back, bought another admittance ticket, and marched in.  I saw the busts again and, as I drew closer, saw that some of the faces had twisted expressions.  I read the signs and only then realised that they were the death masks of men who had been hanged. Men who had been murdered by legal means, by the laws of other men who thought their right to judge and punish was equal to that of God.  Laws that respond to violence with more violence, to evil with more evil, and to despair with more despair.

But this morning, I am here not to visit a museum that keeps the memory of fear and suffering alive, but to attend a wedding.  The Norwich marriage register office has recently moved many of its ceremonies from the beautiful building near St Giles to the Castle.  We are shown into the waiting room and are welcomed by the sister of one of the grooms.  With a broad smile, she introduces us to the other eight or so guests, although I protest I'll never remember everybody's name.  It's a small gathering but international.  English, Polish, French and Italian, among others.  The variety of accents all giggling with excitement at this happy occasion immediately dissolves my innate nervousness at social events and I mentally bite my thumb at all the Brexiteers out there.    

Photos are snapped in various combinations of family plus friends, then more photos, in case some don't come out well.  Everything must be done to immortalise the day and, especially, crystallise its happiness.

After a few minutes, the door to the ceremony room is opened by a tall, elderly lady with a kindly face.  H. and I give a little exclamation of pleasant surprise.  She reciprocates our grins.  "Did I marry you?" she asks. "I'm sorry, I can't remember but when people look at me like that, it generally means I've married them."

She squeezes my hand and hugs me with the tenderness of a dear old friend.

When the two grooms walk in, I am struck by how young they look.  I know they are both in their middle years and yet today, there is a youthful glow about them.   

They stand by the registrar's table.  Vows are exchanged.  For ever. There is a slight crack in the voice, a moment when tears are kept in check. When an overwhelming burst of gratitude, relief and unbridled hope fills the room.  Rings are slipped on fingers.  Gold, like sunshine.  Circular, like perfection.  Like timelessness.  

When the ceremony is over and names have been signed in the large book, the registrar comes up to H. and me, and tells us this castle has a special meaning for her.  "When I was fourteen," she says, "a friend and I came for a walk here one afternoon, to see if there were boys."  She gives a mischievous grin.  "But we got followed by two American G.I.s – it was at the time they were stationed here – and got scared.  So we walked up to two local boys and I said to one of them, 'Can we stand with you until the two G.I.s go away?' Well, I've been with him ever since.  We've been married fifty-seven years." 

And now, over half a century later, she officiates at weddings in this very castle.  "I love doing weddings," she says, and her beaming smile makes it clear that she does, indeed.

It truly is a Good Day.  Into this Norman castle, a building scarred by violence, fear and despair, these two beautiful humans who have just embarked on marriage are bringing love, kindness and hope.  And all of us in that room help shine some light where darkness has lingered for centuries like a sticky cobweb.  It's time to infuse joy and love into these tear-soaked Caen stones.  Little by little, one wedding, one promise to love and be kind at a time.  One beam of light, then another, and then another, until the shadows have faded away.

Scribe Doll

Recent Comments
Ken Hartke
Katherine, Well, I had to Wikipede (is that a verb? Like Google has become?) Norwich Castle and, far be it from me to criticize, i... Read More
Monday, 19 December 2016 00:12
Katherine Gregor
Thank you for commenting and researching! There is no white stone in Norfolk, I don't think. Our local stone is flint, which clad... Read More
Monday, 19 December 2016 11:03
Rosy Cole
It's so important not to feed dark, or any kind of negative, energy by 'buying into' its theme, but to transform the 'vibes' by ac... Read More
Monday, 19 December 2016 12:02
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Sunday Concert

It's a string quartet today.  Beethoven.  It's what people enjoy.  The folding chairs have been put out.  The seat cushions have aged flower patterns and were last washed probably sometime at the end of the last century.

 

Audience members, mostly in their sixties and seventies (though the odd fifty-something can be seen, too), and regulars at this venue, collect their tickets and photocopied programmes from the table at the entrance.  Glances scan the room, lips on smile alert, in search of familiar faces to greet or impress.  In all the rush of opening their handbags and manoeuvring their purses while paying for their tickets, many women have forgotten to put away their car keys.  These jangle in their fingers, the pendant with the car manufacturer's logo swinging prominently.  A homage, perhaps, to their husbands' career – or financial – achievements.  

 

The room begins to fill with block-coloured jumpers and block-dyed hair, faux-silk (a.k.a. polyester) floral scarves, large pearl, plastic and wooden beads around necks and wrists, as well as smiles that bear witness to the uncommon bliss of self-approval.  Many have known one another since their children were small.  Children who now have children of their own.  Some wave at other people who, just like them, have a holiday home in South-West France.  They did consider Italy and Spain when they were younger, but they already had some school French, and with so many other Brits already in that area, it was practically home from home.

 

There is a predominance of chequered and stripy shirt collars peering out of the men's crew-neck woollen jumpers that look like old favourites.  They trudge with modest, respectable stoops behind their wives.  It's as though the latter know best, after all.  They're the ones who always organise everything.  They're amazing, really.  What with keeping track of the children and grandchildren, remembering birthdays, getting the wallpaper replaced and volunteering one day a week at the charity shop, and lunch with the other female friends every second Tuesday, of course they've never had time for a job.  Many probably have a very uninhibited relationship with their husbands' credit cards, even using them to buy their spouses' birthday presents.  

 

Before the music starts, I take out my little notepad and scribble away furiously in atypically for me small handwriting, so nobody can read it over my shoulder.  I look around.  I am not a huge fan of 19th-century chamber music, but an aficionado of people watching.  I giggle to myself.  I wonder what these people make of me and if they've made up an entire backstory for me, as well.  H. asks me what I'm finding funny.  I share with him, sotto voce, a few of my observations.  He frowns.  He doesn't like my social generalisations.  

 

He is a kind person.  

 

I am less so.  I, like Mr Bennet, think, "For what do we live, but to make sport for our neighbours, and laugh at them in our turn?"

 

Then the members of the quartet walk onto the stage area.  Four young people.  Much younger than anybody in the room.  They bow and take up their instruments.  They start playing and the music, uncompromisingly Romantic, speaks to each and every one of us equally, yet with different words.  I stop writing, and think that, actually, 19th-century chamber music can speak to me, too.

 

Scribe Doll

 

 

Recent Comments
Rosy Cole
Never mind the performance, just write a mischievous review of the audience :-) Remind me never to send you a pair of opera glasse... Read More
Thursday, 15 December 2016 11:27
Katherine Gregor
Oh, I bought my first pair of opera glasses for my sixteenth birthday! :–)
Thursday, 15 December 2016 15:38
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2 Comments

Latest Comments

Stephen Evans Going to the Dickens
14 January 2018
Thank you! That sounds just my style
Katherine Gregor Going to the Dickens
14 January 2018
I haven't yet been able to read a Dickens novel in ful (shame on me).May I recommend a wonderful New...
Katherine Gregor Four Wishes
14 January 2018
Amen to this.
Stephen Evans Four Wishes
11 January 2018
Devoutly to be wished.
Stephen Evans Going to the Dickens
05 January 2018
Thank you! Ken has reminded me that I read A Tale of Two Cities in school. I am moving on to Carson ...

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