Elif Shafak’s fig tree narrates the recent history of Cyprus through its own life and the lives of two star-crossed lovers (The Island of Missing Trees). The tree thinks, it experiences, it talks. The gumtree we plant for my mother says absolutely nothing. As yet, it has no history. It’s life, unlike my mother’s, has barely begun.
At Adrian’s insistence, we create a ceremony around the planting. I’m a little reluctant, feeling self-conscious in front of our children who – as I like to believe – understand me as an unsentimental person. But he’s right about this and they both embrace the importance of the moment and step up to the plate, making little speeches as we shovel dirt and compost around the roots. We look at old photos, we talk and, all too quickly, the weekend is over.
Eucalyptus trees are, of course, Australian and, since its planting, the temperatures have been high enough to make it feel at home. Not ideal conditions for a newly planted sapling. We keep it well watered, but, with no rain, the water butts have emptied and now there’s a hose-pipe ban in place. For the first time, we open up all the windows and doors in the house and I wonder what it must be like for people living in high rise flats in London. The planet is heating up and, as far as I can tell, not a lot is being done about it. The problem, like Shafak’s tree, is being buried and the more pressing concern seems to be how to get the oil out of the Middle East.
Oil is still occupying Trump when Andy Burnham wins the Makerfield by election with a land slide and within days is set up to be the next Prime Minister – our seventh in ten years. ‘I don’t think he’ll open up the North Sea,’ says Trump, the octogenarian toddler, and we all know what he’s talking about. I think the man must drink the stuff. Should we hope for better things with Burnham as PM? In truth, I’ve given up hoping, just to save myself that sinking feeling when the disappointment sets in; when the nasties continue to get their own way and humanity gets just a bit uglier.
Oh, what cynicism. Is this an age thing or is this era just as crap as it seems to be?
Back home, though, we have a very pleasant visit from our niece, Anabelle. We take her on walks, chat a lot and she fits into our routine seamlessly. We invite our new neighbours over for tea and cake. Matt’s wife, Eileen, has finally arrived from California, having sold and packed up their house there. She is great fun. Retired from a career as a costume designer, she has worked with some of the most famous directors in the world. We lap up the stories and laugh a great deal and I realise how much I miss theatre folk.
As the weather heats up, we head to the sea, thankful that we have that option. It’s what everyone’s talking about: the heatwave. I grew up in Australia where temperatures in the high twenties/low thirties were normal, where our school wouldn’t close unless the thermometer hit a hundred degrees Fahrenheit (35C). Inside. But in Europe, we really don’t cope with heat; we’re never prepared for it and it’s always a crisis. And now we know it’s only going to get worse.
Meanwhile the overgrown toddler and his billionaire cronies add more fuel to the fire.
In Venice, a group of protesters are planning to disrupt the US ambassador’s forthcoming visit. Tilman Fertitta (really?) will arrive in his six story super yacht, and park it in the lagoon right where we recently stayed, where it would block our view (and everyone else’s) of the sea. A great big blot on the Venetian landscape. It’s arrogant and utterly vulgar. I hope the protesters make his visit very unpleasant.
