ode to getting older (and nothing to do with Tim's post at all, honest)

When the lure of the National Trust

Invades my tired mind

And I think

That sounds nice

A visit to that old heap

And wonder and wander

Amongst the refurbished face of history

Then I know

It’s time 

To say

Good

bye

Lord I must make an appointment for a blue rinse.

ode to not getting old

It has become less* important to me what age I achieve before I die. What has become more important is ensuring that the life I am leading now is the one that I want. And that I live it in the here and now.

The past is gone, so in many ways it doesn't matter how much went before.  And none of us can really know how much is left ahead. Although I concede, some of us have a better idea than others.  Which is a tad unfortunate if it’s not the 50 years you were banking on.

But it can also be a gift, of  sorts; a useful present that you didn't want, but actually turns out to be just the thing you needed. It certainly focusses the mind.

So gone are the long term plans and the working today to live tomorrow. Roll up! Roll up! Living is happening here today.

But it’s a quiet sort of normality of living, not a bucket list of wild and exotic locations, tattoos, body piercings and swimming with dolphins, although ... thinks ... would quite like to do that: more a contentment in the circumstances I find myself, in enjoying what I can still do, while I still can do, instead of bemoaning the fact I won’t be able so to do do do  (de da da da is all I want to say to you). 

Pleasure in small measures if you will, or not so small if that’s champagne you’re pouring ... 

This isn’t easy for me though. I had the sort of mind that was always looking ahead. It was never on what I was doing, but on what I’d be doing next. I always seemed to be waiting for something to finish and something to start . . . ad infinitum. 

And while I was doing that I was also regretting a great deal of what went before even though, here’s the thing, that can’t be changed.

So I’m trying not to do that anymore. I’m feeling the mud beneath my feet and the rain upon my head and appreciating it. And I’m trying not to regret the things I won’t have (like grandchildren) because there’s no guarantee of those either.

But hang it all, I’m not that good, so I’m also buying a brand new car (comes Friday) and taking my girls on a 3 week trip to Canada in the summer!  Yippeeee

*less not un

“Believe me, my young friend, there is nothing - absolutely nothing - half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats.”

The most lovely Mig and her rather wonderful husband Barney, invited me to spend a few days on their narrow boat, with them of course, and travel along still waters.

Three ladies lunching

At times, it was wet both below and above, but it was also beautiful. Spring had sprung in Staffordshire, at least along the canal; and ducklings, goslings and cygnets floated serenely by except the three (stupid ones) that I nearly crushed betwixt the canal-side and the boat (they kept swimming towards the ever decreasing gap) (yes I know I was in charge of making it bigger (the gap) but I was watching them and flapping). I really don’t know who was most panic-struck, ducklings, mother duck or me but rescue came from unperturbed Barney as I thrust the tiller at him with eyes wide shut. 

Horses! 

Mig and Barney were brave indeed to let me loose in charge of steering their boat and I only hit a few things. They’re surprisingly resilient these boats, as of course, are the banks and the bridges if not the ducklings, who were saved by Barney’s swift adjustment in direction.  

I’d never been on a canal boat, or indeed a canal, before and I’m surprised frankly that more death and destruction doesn’t abound around these things.  There seemed many a way an individual, such as myself, with tiller or windlass and an unsteady gait,  could wreak havoc to one and all. 

Some children paddling that I just I failed to hit

And we’re lucky indeed that bridge 80 is still crossable above and through-able below, because I bounced their boat off both sides before abandoning the tiller once again.  It was unfortunate therefore, that we had to cross this damn bridge (by car) four flippin’ times that evening to and from the pub (twice to the pub, I know, ask Mig) and it was pointed out each and every time that this was the bridge to which I had so sadly failed to navigate in anything approaching aplomb or even control. And all at less than walking pace - it’s amazing, even to me.  

A cow

The pub though, served the best fish and chips I have ever had.

Thank you so much Mig and Barney.

When I returned ...

In Oakfrith Wood 

The Bluebells had come out 

... and then this happened!

..." ?@*$%!! " ...

1. it's back
2. fuck
3. bugger
4. bollox
5. shitty shitty shite


I'm surprised to find I don't know that many really juicy and expressive swear words and those above have become rather commonplace and cannot, by any stretch of the imagination,  express how I feel.

It wasn't until my 3rd argument this weekend that it dawned on me that I must be angry.

I don't feel angry though, inside. 
I don't have the urge to throw things or punch things (except ex-husbands) or scream and beat my fists against innocent objects.

But cross me today and I'll tell you what I think - oh yes; and it's you I'm looking at Mr Job's Worth parking attendent; and you, emergency plumber who wouldn't come out on a bank holiday even though I had water coming through my ceiling as it wasn't an emergency TO YOU; and you, you stupid stupid woman in the post office queue, of course the Post Office doesn't arrange cat spaying FOR PETE'S SAKE! (Who is Pete?).

No I can't say I'm taking the news lying down. So something inside me is not happy, perhaps it's me.

the little things ...

1. Sometimes the smallest things can gives us the greatest satisfaction.
2. Quite obviously I’m not talking penis size, but am in fact talking folding fitted sheets neatly. 
3. I can do this now having followed a youtube clip from, I think, Roses. 
4. Before that I sort of rolled them up and my little OCD mind would shudder and beat its tiny fists against my consciousness, but now I can do it and it gives me enormous pleasure. 
5. I am that sad!

where fore art thou Romeo

Today I went to a wedding.

I am really rather sad because the groom is my 90-year-old neighbour J and he has been a stalwart of this village for over 40 years.  When I was less mobile and unwell he planted up my wee garden with pretty spring flowers, cut back things that were over-grown and knew a plant from a weed. He looked in on me most days to ensure I was coping and brought me logs and kindling when it was cold. When I starter to become stronger I helped him in his large and quite beautiful garden by admiring it and also holding great lumps of wood while he wielded a chainsaw, something neither of us did very well, it’s a fair miracle we have all our limbs still remaining.

Then J met M. She used to live in the village but she and her (2nd) husband moved to a town on the south coast some years ago.  J's wife died 2 years ago and it's true he was lonely sometimes, especially in the winter months when he couldn't garden from dawn to dusk and chat to the passers by.

Somehow over the late summer and autumn M worked on J and persuaded him to leave his quintessential thatched and quite extraordinarily beautiful cottage with his prized garden and move south to her. We all asked him why M couldn't move in with him here, to the home he loved with his garden that he'd worked on for 40 years and which kept him fit, healthy and spritelier then many 50 year olds I know.  M lived in a tiny flat on a main road and none of his friends and family could understand why he eventually decided to buy a house along the road from M's flat and leave everything he knew and loved for a town in which he knew but one person and to a house without a garden. 

This last month J has been steadily trying to sort out his very many years of belongings and packing up his home and life.  Only 2 weeks ago we received invitations to the wedding, today, and learned that J was moving out this week.  The removal truck arrived on Monday and J arrived at my door with a rocking chair that M doesn't want. It hardly fits in here but I will keep it because it will remind me of J. He looked harassed and sad and nearly every one of his 90 years.  The move is killing him, and I get the feeling that now they are married M won't mind if it does. 

But today he looked smart and happy and I guess that's what counts.  The small village contingent that had travelled down to witness the ceremony walked passed by his modern townhouse to the reception along the busy main road; as one we looked at each other and wondered whether the next time we met here would be at J's funeral. 

Poor M.  Can one scheming woman withstand so much ill will I wonder?