Of Matters Temporal and Temporary

It looks like I am not going to take sensible advice anytime soon.

“I think this could be a lot of work to keep it all going. Are you sure you want to carry on? Do you think you can?”

I had my son and his wife for a visit and a lovely time of almost endless talking it was. My voice was quite hoarse when they left. However, to qualify, we chatted for hours, with the exception of the time they spent clearing up more of those heaps of prunings, choppings down, clearings out and repair man’s leavings that I seem to collect nowadays. Only about six weeks after the previous five trips to the dump another three followed this time.

My daughter-in-law admired what she saw but there was a definite look of concern on her face. She hadn’t been to visit for a year at least and, not only did I become older by a year, but my house and garden haven’t shrunk in that time. Even worse, my gardening obsession has returned and, my knees having become stiffer, my energy levels lessened and my old codgerdom having increased, she had every right to express doubt in my general ability to continue my slightly head-in-the-sand attitude. For the knees I have bought a kneeler: it is not too difficult for me to get down on my knees, it’s the getting up again that’s the problem. The kneeler has two upright handles which allow me to heave myself up quite easily. I combat the energy loss by working for short, hour-long, bursts and taking a rest in between. As for the old codgerdom I try to make a virtue out of it; I quite enjoy looking helpless and asking all those nice men who come to do jobs, and even neighbours, for assistance.

I believe that my d-i-l’s concern is genuine, not the ”let’s-put-mum-out-of-her-misery-and-put-her-in-a-nice-home-for-the-elderly" syndrome. Not at all. She did, however, while we were sitting idly not watching a TV show neither of us was interested in, look around and remark on the ’stuff’ I have. The full book shelves, china and glass cupboards, pictures, rugs, ornaments, CDs, vinyl, DVDs, etc; all the stuff one has around and hardly uses. And that was just one room. I could see she was really bothered, which in itself was unusual for me; nobody has been concerned for me in any way for years, maybe even decades. My own son has only recently started to ask “Are you alright, Mum?"

“What do you want done with it all?” she asked.
I was puzzled. “Done with it?”

“Yes, all this stuff that you value and enjoy and then somebody comes and takes it away, and your whole life just disappears."

I think she was thinking of so-called house-clearers who bring a van, tell you they’ll take it all away if you just pay them a few hundred pounds and skedaddle.

It appears she was worried about the two of them, after my demise (which she hoped wasn’t for a long long time yet), having to descend instantly, sort out and dispose of, and vacate the house almost the day after the funeral. Come to think of it, the funeral too was a problem, had I made any arrangements?

Poor d-i-l, she was thinking of her own parents after their death, when she and her sisters laughed and cried and reminisced while clearing out the former home. There are three of them to support each other. I think she was comparing their situation with mine, as she imagines it, solitary, unregarded and neglected and unloved by the very few family left. She only relaxed when I told her about the facts and procedures of probate (which I also hope won’t be necessary for a long, long time yet) and that there will be no need to vacate the house until after that complicated process has been finalised.

Her visit has made me think. She is quite right, I must go back over arrangements made years ago; I have actually been meaning to make changes to my will for some time now. Then there are unofficial bequests of bits of furniture, jewellery, books, etc. Charitable donations need decisions. And maybe I should appoint a second executor, the one named now is getting a bit old himself. And as I am going to live for a long long time yet, he might be senile by the time I pop my clogs.

However, regarding what started this all off, my daughter-in-law’s musings about house and garden and all things temporal and temporary, I say this: good advice is always welcome, but what you do with it is up to you. You only ever ask for advice when you already know the answer, having already made up your own mind anyway and all you are really asking the other person is to confirm your own decisions.

Having ordered a load of large plants like two Italian cypresses, a couple of bamboos, a mahonia, and a hydrangea, from a wholesale supplier on the internet, would confirm my decision: I am not giving up gardening and garden designing anytime soon.

IF ONLY......

...... I can stay abreast of developments in technology, politics, current affairs, fashions and whatever else the modern world throws at me;

...... if only my mental faculties stay sharp(ish) as at present;

...... if only I can stay on top of all physical work required to make life acceptable to me and pleasant;

...... if only my finances last, what with the global economic downturn,

well, then I will never have to grow old and retire from active life.

If only.

Fat Chance.

This bunny has still not been very happy; in fact, I’ve been feeling a bit lost and lonely. At first I welcomed the rain, both the garden and I gave a sigh of relief that the heat relented and gave me a breather and the garden a good drink; after more than a week of on-and-off thunderstorms and showers I am ready to say ‘thanks' but 'no more, thanks’. I should be patient, the rain is still needed, but lack of opportunity to get myself good and dirty and exhausted doesn’t do my mental health any favours.

Hence the opening lines; my recent birthday has given me much to think about. I’m doing a bit better today, having spent the morning carting around watering cans, feeding hydrangeas, clematises, a little olive tree and a couple of lemon trees, the latter three in pots. Indoor ferns have had a good trim and been allowed to come out. Ditto the winter flowerers. They all enjoy a few months out of doors. With me all the while dodging heavy showers, of course. At least the rain is warm.

Paul has forsaken me. He was ailing for about three weeks and the last time I enquired after his progress he emailed to say he was lots better but not coming again. "For personal reasons". No notice or further explanation. Just bang, like that. Fair enough, I have not been very happy with his efforts, but he was a nice chap, nice enough for me to think of keeping him on for the jobs he could do and pairing him with somebody better able to cope with longer hours and heavier work.

However, he has taken the decision for me. Good luck to him.

Since then I have been asking around for recommendations; several friends have mentioned several gardeners, mostly garden labourers without great knowledge but plenty of brawn; I have chosen to interview one chap not so much brawny but wiry and willing and one muscled handsome hunk. If either or both stay the course, one will become WW and the other HH. They will do different jobs. Both are more expensive than old gardener of blessed memory and recent Paul; but I am becoming reconciled to the idea of spending money on the garden, if I want to stay here. Besides, I am planning to reorganise the beds and do away with at least one, maybe two, of the more labour intensive areas. One is to become an area for conifers and junipers instead of herbaceous perennials.

Here’s hoping.

Writing this I have become aware that I am behaving like someone who has endless years of gardening ahead of her. Of course, I don’t. If I had any sense I’d pack up and sell up and go into retirement and withdraw from active life, exactly the opposite to what I am hoping to do above. But while the bullet points above hold true I might as well ignore old age and incipient decrepitude and enjoy what’s left. Like I told my Mum, when she dithered about buying herself a new dress she liked because “I don’t have enough time left to enjoy it”, : "even if it’s a day and no more the new dress gives you pleasure, it’s worth it.”

Getting to know myself during Covid 19

It’s hard to find something to post about when you do nothing but spend time at home. We’ve had glorious weather and I’ve been working like a madwoman in the garden, physically exhausting myself in the process. The more I work the less there is to see, the more dry brown earth emerges. The more I dig the bigger the piles of plastic sacks filled with weeds grow, ditto the piles of brush, shrub prunings and whole uprooted shrubs lying in corners which should, by now, be attractive and tidy areas for sitting and watching the garden grow. I shall be ever so cross if I die before I can replant everything next autumn or spring; all that work for nothing.

There is a good thing about being physically active outdoors: it makes for a cheerful and happy state of mind, so maybe it’s not all for nothing. Paul still comes once a week, but now only for two hours, his energy doesn’t last for longer. I almost exclusively reserve the jobs which are too hard for me to do, nothing routine like weeding, he still has strength, even if his stamina leaves much to be desired. Agewise, I could be his mother yet I work harder than he does. I am glad that he officially stops work after two hours and doesn’t drag out his time with me to three hours, as previously, with a rather long tea break in between. There’s no tea break now and I only pay him for two hours. I like Paul very much, he is a nice chap and knowledgeable about plants and I certainly hope he continues to come.

There’s a chill wind today, I’ve allowed myself a day off. Once or twice, during the hot and sunny days, friends have come to call, by invitation, one or two at a time, and we’ve sat in the garden in late afternoon, at a distance of no less than 2 m and enjoyed a glass of wine over a natter. We are all very sensible and do not meet in each other’s houses yet, as per government directive. The incidence of Covid 19 in Valley’s End is minimal, less than a handful of cases and no deaths. Many of us are of retirement age and therefore vulnerable. There is one dog walking acquaintance who turns up once a week or so, who explains her uninvited presence by saying that her dog has wriggled through the bars of one of my gates and insists on raiding my garden. So, naturally, she has to follow him, scoop him up, apologise for her invasion by blaming the dog and look longingly at the chairs on the terrace. I must ask her to come on a specific day, she is obviously lonely.

Which brings me to a question I’ve been puzzling over. Ever since I’ve understood the meaning of the terms introvert and extrovert years ago I’ve thought of myself as an extrovert. I am not shy in company, I face meeting new people with equanimity, I am lively and chatty at parties, I talk to people before they talk to me. At the same time I can take or leave people and find solitude nothing to be afraid of. Sometimes, I am lonely because I lost my soulmate but, otherwise, my own company is sufficient for my needs most of the time. I even talk to myself.

But that is surely not how an extrovert reacts to the present lockdown? I am always reading about people who are terribly unhappy and longing for hugs and face to face conversations, whose loneliness cries out for human contact and who are in danger of becoming mentally ill. These people have all my sympathy, so many are old and alone, feel abandoned and shut out, but I simply do not feel that way myself. What is wrong with me?  When I read these sad stories I question my capacity to empathise, I have no idea what it feels like to be in their shoes. Solitude to me is something good, something to be welcomed. Does that mean I am an introvert after all? Or even more fortunate, I am an introvert/extrovert whenever either state suits me?

Considering that I’ve had nothing to post about I have used an awful lot of words to post it. That’s what Covid does, it makes wafflers of all of us.

The Taxman, Viruses, Kindness and Otherwise

There is just about still time to wish you all a happy and peaceful new year. Had I waited until tomorrow, being February, it might have been both embarrassing and possibly even offensive. If only we could all assume that 2020 will be less harrowing than 2019 was, what with the horror news from so many parts of the world. Although the WHO’s warning of a global epidemic caused by an unknown strain of coronavirus doesn’t give cause for much optimism for the next few weeks.

Talking of the virus, one of the Ladies Who Lunch brought it up as a subject and the oldest member of the group, at 92 at least a decade ahead of the next oldest member, instantly remarked :”Well, I hope it doesn’t come here.” And, I am certain, she was definitely not thinking of anyone’s wellbeing but her own. It surprised me, I would think that at 92 continued life is precarious anyway. There was no empathy for anyone suffering the effects of the virus, which one would consider to be the automatic response to start with, just “not me please,” Does one get more selfish the older one gets? Of course, nobody, me included, welcomes any kind of illness, world-wide or localised, but a little of the milk of human kindness towards others goes a long way to make life pleasant. Or am I wrong? Too much rose-tint?

After two months of silence from me there may not be anyone interested in my thoughts. I developed a positive aversion to using my computer. I spent hours on the iPad and my phone, checking up on news and opinion pieces, but couldn’t bring myself to open the Mac. The reason is positively weird: I had the greatest trouble accessing the taxman’s site. Since October I have struggled to convince HMRC (Her Maj’s Revenue and Customs for those of you lucky not to have dealings with them) that I exist, that I have lived and worked and paid taxes here for decades, and that all I wanted was to be allowed to continue with the latter part in retirement. Do you think they believed me? Endless repeats of trying to gain access, endless rebuffs; each time I was told : you have tried to prove your identity too many times, come back in two days’ time. I sent emails, requests for assistance, even a long and heartfelt letter, all without success. So, since I use my Mac for official communications, (as well as blogging), it became my enemy, because HMRC remained closed to me. In the end I rang them. In an hour long call the first person I was referred to couldn’t help; the next person, a superior tax adviser person, scratched her head and was willing to cut me off when she was equally as flummoxed as the first.

I have to say that I am very good at begging and pleading and announcing my great age, and therefore great need, to all and sundry in the cause of soliciting assistance. Quite shameless, that’s me. So, once I had a real life person on the line rather than an uncaring computer, I begged and pleaded for all I was worth, even explaining that I was quite likely to be deported if I couldn’t prove my willingness to pay the correct taxes. I forgot to say that one of the questions the soulless computer threw at me many times, was, “do you have a valid British passport?” I don’t, but what has that to do with the price of fish, i.e. tax payments?

The superior tax adviser person softened and, during a further hour long phone conversation, dreamt up a whole new persona for me, going back to my tax records of years back. In the process she and I discovered that I have two “Unique (yes, unique) Tax References, two addresses, and two names. I think I am going to start next year’s tax returns right at the start, i.e. next April. And perhaps I’ll use a paper return. Last year I paid my accountant £600 to fill in my tax return, I am not willing to be fleeced again for work I have already mostly done myself, so now that this year’s return is done I am hoping that next year’s will proceed more smoothly.

I should mention that Christmas was fun. Ten days beforehand my son came; he put up the tree, with me giving instructions. We had  Christmas music, a festive dinner, some convivial family chat and rekindled old memories. This visit, on his own, is becoming a tradition I love. He also took me to the county town for a shopping trip; he carried my purchases between shops and car, which makes it all so much easier for me. I quite dread having to stumble my way through crowds, burdened with bags.

My friends were the real stars of my Christmas. Sue said I might as well come for Christmas Eve dinner as well as Christmas Day itself, which was really kind of her. She had some houseguests too and we all got on very well - no Brexit fallings out - and after a lengthy and leisurely dinner we read ’The Importance of Being Earnest’ with me taking over the role of Lady Bracknell. Halfway through the read-through my voice started to go which made it all the more grittily posh, just what is needed for the part. It was great fun and so much more so than slumping in a chair, replete with overindulgence and half drunk as well.

My voice going was a harbinger of the chest infection to come, which started more or less on Boxing Day and only stopped when the practice nurse forced me to take a course of steroids after New Year. I was really quite poorly with a cough to rattle every tooth in my head. The infection was doubly disturbing because I have recently been diagnosed with a recurrence of my childhood asthma. Apparently that is not uncommon, childhood asthma will frequently show itself in old age, when we become more susceptible to allergies. Strange that, you’d think we’d have become inured to many infections because we’ve had and survived so many of them through life. Not so, it seems.

I have mentioned Brexit but once today; in common with many friends I am sick and tired of the whole business, depressed too. In an hour’s time I am off to a Brexit wake party for remainers only.
I’ll be back here soon, unless we all throw ourselves off the castle battlements.

Looking back , looking forward

My darling Millie has died. In her last days she could barely make it to the lawn and often poo'd on the flags of the terrace. She deteriorated quite quickly and I finally had to make the decision to call the vet to the house. Lovely Marzena, my Polish cleaner, was here. She too loves dogs and she sat with Millie, cuddling her and scratching her neck while we were waiting for the vet to arrive. I gave her her afternoon feed hours early, which she ate with visible enjoyment in spite of her wobbly legs. Without Marzena I could not have done it; as it was, I cried and cried and was ready to change my mind again.  The vet knows me for the wimp I am and she and her nurse came within the hour. So that’s that.

I’ve not been terribly happy since then, in fact, I’ve not been at ease with myself ever since Beloved died. Millie was the last living link with him, she was my companion, a creature I talked to and petted, who followed me around and gave me a reason to get up in the morning, to go out in all weathers, to feed and water, to keep as happy as she was making me. With all of them gone, Beloved and Millie, before them my parents, the goodwill of one child gone for good and only a loose connection with the other, I am truly alone in any meaningful sense. The house is empty and quiet. I have no family here or in Germany.

So now it’s time to come to terms with the remainder of my life. A peaceful existence is what I am aiming for. This should be my time for being, not doing. No more struggle, no more achievement, no more passion. All passion spent. A time for being only myself, in kindness and forbearance rather than trying to make changes, in my life or  that of anyone else.

Old age brings calm, if we are lucky. With so much experience, a lifetime of ups-and-downs, of miserable times as well as deliriously happy times, of ill-health and good health, much like any other human being, why do I still feel that I must be doing, actively go forward, get involved, be part of movements, experience new horizons?

Tuesday evening I went to a restaurant with a friend who is madly active, who has just spent a week in London as a First-Aider during the Extinction Rebellion demonstrations. Once again I felt ashamed that I seem to have lost all fight, all passion. That I feel disinclined to climb on barricades, take up new studies, a new cause, an all consuming hobby. Soon people are going to suggest that I must be bored at home, that I must lack much needed stimulation, that I ought to go on exciting holidays. Etc.

Basically, if I am truthful, I must say that I am rather lazy now. There is a battle going on inside me, a battle between letting go on the one hand and feeling that I must not be seen to have stepped off the treadmill on the other; that my own little bubble, now much shrunk, is where I would like to live without shame or guilt. Being lazy makes me want for the desire for disappearing into my bubble to win. There are so many things right here at home which please me, books, talking to friends, my garden, modest social occasions, tv and visits to see plays or listen to concerts. Instead I seem to be recycling the same thoughts, the same questions, the same uncertainties, over and over again, without ever coming to a decision. I would be happy and contented if I could come to no more than simply a workable resolution that doesn’t particularly lead anywhere except to an acceptance of the status quo.

My friend Jay called this afternoon to help me with my Application for Settled Status in the UK post Brexit. About time too that I got down to that. Having prevaricated for ages is just another sign of my current state of mind. The Home Office still can’t cope with iPhones; my friend uses Android so she very kindly made the application for me on that. Afterwards we came to chat and I told her about my current lack of motivation. I speculated if I should go and see a therapist to rid me of the feelings of guilt and shame at my idleness. I have an inkling where these feelings come from: years and years of being responsible for the smooth running of my life and that of first, my parents, and then my children. My friend said, fine, now we know why you are feeling useless, but, and this is the big but: whose rules are these? Who says you must be doing, achieving? You are no longer responsible for anyone but yourself. Jay became quite heated. “If you want to sit all day picking your nose, you can.” She is right, of course, but how do you change the conditioning of a lifetime overnight?

This is getting to be a long post, I’d better stop now. No doubt I will be pondering these existential questions for some time yet, like many others have done before me. And many who come after me will do. And also no doubt, I will be rehashing them here. For now writing this down is helping.
 

Be Kind to Carers of Dementia Sufferers

A friend of mine felt so upset at a thoughtless remark by an acquaintance recently that she found herself moved to publish a short letter in the village Chronicle. Since then she has had a lot of positive feedback from other dementia carers as well as people looking after sick and disabled people. None of us can be certain that the task of carer will not be our fate too, so it well behoves us to be kind and understanding.

When a diagnosis of dementia is made, the sufferer looks the same as before and in many ways the changes in their mental capacity are not obvious. Careless people think nothing is wrong and query why a family carer has put their loved one into a home.

What the public does not see is the constant drain on the carer’s strength; the accidents that ruin a carpet; the ’nappy’ changing and vast quantities of pads etc. that are required, the persuasion to get dressed and undressed.... 

When you see the person with dementia out for a walk looking perfectly well and smart, you are seeing the results of exhausting and time consuming care. You do not see the angry outbursts, the constant repetitions or the interruptions.

A carer gives 110% of their life and energy to keeping their loved ones well fed, clean and entertained, while getting very little back. A good day is a reward, when there is a response, but this becomes less and less.

So - when you see a dementia sufferer, the carer with them is suffering too. Please do not make thoughtless comments. You do not understand that the carer’s limits have been breached. It is to save our loved ones that they go into a home because, if they don’t, we may well cause them harm.

Another friend of mine has very recently realised, after years of devoted and dedicated care for her husband who is suffering the ever increasing physical and mental effects of Parkinson’s disease, that she can no longer cope without seriously endangering her own health. What is she to do? What else is there but find professional help in residential care?

The carer suffers all the guilt and torment that ‘failing’ at continuing personal care causes without some thoughtless remark by a chance acquaintance to add to the pain and anguish. So remember, if you feel inclined to sit in judgement, it might be you one day.

When did I become this irritating old person?

There is nothing easier than becoming a recluse, by accident or deliberately, they say. It doesn’t require action, no effort at all, in fact, it just happens and before you know it, you live in a world of one-and-a-half, the half being an elderly dog suffering from dementia. The dog doesn’t know that she is lacking in mental agility; so what if her circadian rhythms have changed, she is fed on demand and let out on demand.

But nobody feeds me and nobody lets me out when I scratch at the door and howl in frustration.

Back to me, the recluse-in-waiting. Loneliness can kill you apparently. It can cause heart disease and depression. Lonely people are more likely to develop Alzheimers. The UK now has a Minister for Loneliness although there is no pill yet. Just give it time.

So, reading about the dangers lurking in solitude I reluctantly made my way out of the house. It’s been cold and windy, not conducive to being out of doors. Besides, I like my own company. I accepted an invitation to join a ladies’ luncheon club, went to a supper for two at the pub, a birthday luncheon at a very nice cafe which was new to me, renewed visits to the gym, ad hoc chats with neighbours and dog walkers. Fine, all fine. By the end of this mad whirl I was searching the diary for an ‘empty’ day, a pottering day I call them. I am truly my Dad’s daughter, he too found the delights of company palatable only ever in small doses. Still, mindful of the dire warnings, I persevered. The ladies’ luncheon has become a fixture. One has to eat, after all, and not cooking my own dinner one day a week will be a welcome change.

Except, there’s a snag. There I was, having enjoyed eating what the waiter called “Spanish pork casserole” - rather tasty, the Spanish part being black olives in the sauce - I made my way to the cashier. A cane, a bag, my gloves, my purse, all in my hands, dressed in a bulky winter coat, I navigated through a narrow aisle and came to a full stop at the till. Well, maybe not a full stop. Momentum took me a step further than the counter and I tottered uncertainly. This caused me to a) drop the cane, b) my gloves. The cashier came out and picked them up for me. I then opened my purse and took some notes out. English notes are now made of plastic, very slippery. Obviously, I dropped the notes next. There was a fire close by and one of the tenners floated gracefully towards it. I snatched it up just before it hit the flames, again dropping my cane. I had stuffed the gloves into my coat pocket. The cashier didn’t bother to come out to pick it up this time, I imagine he was leaving that until right to the end of my transactions. My bill came to a tenner plus coins. I did that thing that old people in queues always do, I rummaged around in a separate little coin purse to find just the right change, promptly dropping several coppers. Picking them up - with difficulty - and handing them to the cashier he said “sorry, we don’t take coppers, there’s just not enough room in the till for them.” I resumed rummaging for silver, and found exactly the right amount. The problem of disposal of the coppers remained. I suggested he should put them into one of the charity boxes. Unfortunately, they were located behind me, in the narrow aisle, not easy to get at. By now there was a queue, naturally. I am not sure but I may have heard the faintest sigh from the person behind me, who took the coppers, turned and deposited them in the tin, all in one fluid movement. I really need to practice that.

If I had to accompany me out somewhere, I wouldn’t.

The Valuable Time of Maturity

I counted my years and discovered that I have
less time to live going forward than I have lived until now.

I have more past than future.
I feel like the boy who received a bowl of candies.
The first ones, he ate ungracious,
but when he realized there were only a few left,
he began to taste them deeply.

I do not have time to deal with mediocrity.
I do not want to be in meetings where parade inflamed egos.

I am bothered by the envious, who seek to discredit
the most able, to usurp their places,
coveting their seats, talent, achievements and luck.

I do not have time for endless conversations,
useless to discuss about the lives of others
who are not part of mine.

I do not have time to manage sensitivities of people
who despite their chronological age, are immature.

I cannot stand the result that generates
from those struggling for power.

People do not discuss content, only the labels.
My time has become scarce to discuss labels,
I want the essence, my soul is in a hurry
Not many candies in the bowl…

I want to live close to human people,
very human, who laugh of their own stumbles,
and away from those turned smug and overconfident
with their triumphs,
away from those filled with self-importance,
Who does not run away from their responsibilities ..
Who defends human dignity.
And who only want to walk on the side of truth
and honesty.
The essential is what makes
life worthwhile.

I want to surround myself with people,
who know how to touch the hearts of people ….
People to whom the hard knocks of life,
taught them to grow with softness in their soul.

Yes …. I am in a hurry … to live with intensity,
that only maturity can bring.
I intend not to waste any part of the goodies
I have left …
I'm sure they will be more exquisite,
than most of which so far I've eaten.

My goal is to arrive to the end satisfied and in peace
with my loved ones and my conscience.
I hope that your goal is the same,
because either way you will get there too .. “


Mario de Andrade
Brazilian poet, novelist, musicologist, art historian and critic, lived1893-1945


Although I would like to be firmly convinced, that all the wants, intentions, resentments, deliberations, judgments and realisations go for me too, I ask myself, where do we find the paragons of virtue we yearn to pass our time with towards the end of our life.. Shouldn’t we start with ourselves? It’s all very well to set up no-go-zones for others, exclude people who don’t come up to our exacting standards and consider others boring, mediocre, either overconfident or faintly dishonest. Of course, it would be nice if we could measure ourselves by these wonderful maxims, personally, I can’t quite see it happen. We could strive for perfection, reaching it is another matter. I only know that I have a very long way to go.

Someone brought this poem to my German Conversation group for distribution. At first I thought it worth sharing, then I felt slightly uncomfortable. It makes me feel that the poet has a very high opinion of himself which puts him firmly in the category of self-importance. Still, it is perfectly true that age brings indifference to how others see us and a certain urgency takes over where patience with the foibles of others once resided.

What do you think, am I too harsh?

Onward and Upward

but not looking solely towards the future rather than being in the here and now. Continual learning is an essential part of life. (I looked up the difference between continual and continuous and have plumped for the former, continuous learning might be too headache-inducing).

Anyway, I had one of those lightbulb moments the other day. I took courage and invited three friends to supper, two came and one cried off; the three of us had a lovely evening. These ladies are easy to get along with, chatty, we had a conversation consisting of personal details, a bit of gossip, a few remarks about the state of the world; a friendly conversation in spite of quite marked differences in opinion. There was the first lesson: you can be on good terms even if you are not in agreement about quite serious matters. I had decided to go easy on the work involved, no hours of preparation, slaving over a hot stove; this was the menu:

cold smoked wafer-thin meats 

olives and feta cheese

crusty French bread

ice cold Zinfandel to drink

marinated lemon and herb chicken breast filets

roasted mediterranean vegetables

baby potatoes

Merlot

chocolate fudge brownie and cream

coffee

Looked at quickly it seems quite impressive but none of it was work. Shoving a dish of chicken filets and a dish of vegetables in the oven is no work at all. I burnt the fudge round the edges but as we were only three and not four as planned the middle of the dish was sufficient for our appetites. Second lesson: even when half the food served is bought at the deli the meal can still be interesting and good to eat. Something to remember for my next supper, I might even invite a chap or two, although I may have to put more effort into ‘sparkling’ conversation.

At the moment I am rather obsessed with the near future. I made two appointments with my favourite doctor, just to ask him for his educated guess as to my longevity or otherwise. I cancelled both appointments. You can’t just walk into the surgery and demand “how long have I got”; “what plans should I make” ; what hassle can I spare myself?” Solicitors and legal matters, house renovations, finance plans, even holidays. Round and round in my head they go. No longer having the person with whom you used to make decisions near leaves you a bit breathless. I don’t have family to consult - well, I have my son, of course, but I don’t think that I’d find his advice totally acceptable. He is a lovely man but we differ in basic ways of looking at the world.  

Apart from the damaged leg I am actually quite well at the moment, there is no reason to think that I might not survive for a good few years yet. Which is more or less what one of my friends said. She sounded quite nonplussed at my dithering about what needs doing. “But you’ve decided to stay in the house,” she said, implying that " there are maintenance jobs pending, there are legal matters after your husband’s death to settle, there are financial provisions to sort out". How right she is.

There is no need for advice on the necessity of doing these jobs, just maybe on how to do them. (Just to clarify: this lady is ninety and has been a very active widow since her husband died some years ago.)

So, lesson three: don’t go round and round in circles, look at the actual, current, situation and start at the beginning, in the here and now, not in a nebulous and possibly frightening future. So today I have booked a plumber to change some taps and sort out my aged radiator thermostat systems. 

Decisions . . . . .

and how to make them?

I don’t know how you would feel, but I find it very hard to make any at all since Beloved died. Being the only one to decide on major life changes is complicated; when there are two of you - preferably not more than two, otherwise there will be three or more different opinions - you can talk, sometimes for days, weeks, months, but eventually you will sort out problems and find solutions that suit both of you. With luck and goodwill.

I’ve had an unpleasant head cold since Friday afternoon, which fast turned into a chesty one. The kind of cold that you catch as if it were “thrown at you” as my mum used to say, without warning. All the cold remedies on the medicine shelves are long out of date, I haven’t had a proper cold for two years, but I am using some of the ones whose sell by date was sometime last year rather than two years ago. After all, can aspirin/paracetamol - the main ingredient - or sickly sweet cough syrups ever lose all their potency?

For two days I stayed indoors, barely washed and never got out of my pyjamas. A friend kindly bought my Saturday paper when he went for his own, waddled Millie along the drive - that’s Millie waddling, not my friend -,  and on Sunday a neighbour offered to take her for a quick walk. I was grateful but I should have turned her offer down, because this lady walks at a fair lick and Millie does fifty meters at fifteen minutes. And even then she has to have a little sit down on the way. She came home limping badly.

So Sunday night we were both feeling very poorly indeed. Millie woke me from a light, snuffly, snoring doze when she collapsed against the bedroom door as she tried to turn over. Obviously, I got up and calmed her, both of us lying on the floor. Whereupon, and not for the first time, it hit me. “What if something really serious happened?” You know what I mean, something serious enough to cause an injury which leaves you unable to get to a phone. And even if you get to the phone, whom can you ring for help in the middle of the night?

My mind flips from one side to the other. Do I sell, do I stay, do I find somewhere smaller, less isolated? Nearer a bus service, a train station, the shops, a cinema, a theatre? No point moving closer to my son’s town, he’ll be moving home himself again soon. I’ve even looked at residential retirement facilities, small one or two bedroom apartments, but there I’d probably live in close proximity with people a lot less mentally and physically active than I am.

I simply cannot come to any decision; could that mean that decision making is not a good thing at the moment? I’ve been feeling better again yesterday and today, have chatted with people, been to the gym, done some gardening - that always makes me want to stay put. Nowhere else would I get a location like the one I have now, no other home could be as comfortable as mine, the home I’m used to. So why move? Because of the comparative isolation and the larger than necessary house and garden, of course.

So, round and round in circles I go.

If I stay, I must do some decorating. If I leave, decorating will be a waste of time and money, not to mention the upheaval, the mess, the inconvenience. But moving house makes for upheaval, mess and inconvenience. And huge expenditure.

Perhaps it’s time to stop fretting and continue as I am, for now. Or, perhaps it’s time to make lists of pros and cons, weigh up things, get in touch with the professionals for estimates, house valuations, find help like the old-fashioned companions rich old ladies employed. Sadly, I am not a rich old lady. Besides, I am far too young for a companion.

Perhaps the solution is indeed to get organised, collect information, then evaluate and make those lists of pros and cons. How pathetic it all is. Help! I'm beginning to bore not just you but me too.

More Ruminations

Goodness gracious, how lovely to see so many of you return to this tardy blog; it made me feel all warm and wanted. Thank you so much. I shall pick myself up and start visiting and commenting too; what a community we are!

One thing I’m glad about is that I stayed in our house, now just mine. At first I felt that I should move as soon as possible, telling myself that the house is too big, the garden is too big, it’s too empty, too lonely, too isolated. When your partner or anyone else you love dearly falls terminally ill and dies you feel helpless, hopeless. There is nothing you can do to regain control. So you grab at anything that makes you feel in control; moving home being one such undertaking. Rearrange the externals and you’re back in charge. Except you’re not. Less than ever, because now you have upped anchor and lost everything that gives you a grounding, the comfort of the familiar. In my case common sense prevailed, or perhaps it was just lethargy, cowardice, fear of the unknown. Anyway, I am still here and likely to stay here, who knows for how long. Somehow, Beloved is all around me, literally so, of course. I have made a small memorial garden for him with a bench, where I can sit and talk to him. It’s snowdrop time, his long drawn out dying time, has been since Christmas, when the first little bells poked their heads out of the muddy, at times snowy, then again frozen, ground. Once they have faded I shall dig up a clump and plant them in ‘his’ patch, awaiting all future anniversaries of his death.

The problem is that there is work to be done to the house, nothing major, just some painting and maybe rearranging rooms, deciding whether to live downstairs and upstairs or just downstairs, changing a downstairs room into a bedroom. This makes it sound rather grand but it isn’t, it’s just that the original owner of this house, who built it to suit her needs, more or less built two bungalows on top of each other, making it easy to divide the house.

So, what to do? When I asked a friend, idly speculating that perhaps I am too old to go in for great redecorating schemes - the usual thing: is it worth it? will I have the time to enjoy it? how long will I be able to stay? - he recalled an anecdote. ‘Two clergymen met. One of them was wearing a suit which had clearly seen better days, looking rather frayed round the edges. “Thing is, do I bother to buy a new one at my age,” the wearer asked his friend. “Buy a new suit?” his friend replied. “I don’t even buy green bananas.”

The story cheered me up no end. I used to tell Mum to go ahead and treat herself to anything she fancied, no matter how short the time to enjoy it. Now I myself am the kind of ditherer who can’t make up her mind because it might not be ‘cost-effective’. (Sorry about the word, I don’t really speak in such terms, just couldn’t think of anything more apt for our mercenary times.)

Talking of cheering myself up: I have seen a bereavement counsellor who let me talk for an hour, singing Beloved’s praises and going back over the wonderful thirty years we had together. Although close to tears at times it made me realise how very fortunate we were and what wonderful memories I  have. A whole treasure chest of them. I will see her again. Talking really is the best cure for me. My step-daughter recommended that I write to Beloved, a kind of daily diary, I may yet do that too, although I prefer to talk to him.

Another coping mechanism is increasing physical activity, releasing endorphins, happy hormones. "any of a group of hormones secreted within the brain and nervous system and having a number of physiological functions. They are peptides which activate the body's opiate receptors, causing an analgesic effect.” My doctor came up with that one when I consulted her about depression. So now I go to the gym and enjoy it greatly. I do exercises, pound (or rather went from shamble via amble to walk) the treadmill, cycle on a beautiful stand bike  and will be doing weights and other infernal machines by and by, as soon as my personal instructor gives the green light. I have to be careful because of the heart condition which is otherwise fully under control.

Eating chocolate and/or falling in love also produce endorphins; I’ve tried the chocolate cure with great enthusiasm but that had rather sad side effects for my hips. And unless you can show me a sweet kitten or puppy I shall probably never fall in love again.  

Afterwards - 4th and final part

I am settling into my new life, strange though that is. I rarely cry. I am often very sad, lonely and still lost, but the raw emotion is lessening. I don’t suppose I will ever stop missing Beloved. I still speak to him, still ask what he was thinking of when he decided to leave.  Old and lonely people supposedly speak to themselves; yes, I can confirm that. I pretend it’s Millie I’m talking to but really it’s me. My conversations with myself are by no means interesting, for the most part they are questions like ‘now where did I put that key,’ or 'what did I come in here for’. So far I haven’t fallen prey to doing that in public, like a mad old woman mumbling to herself, the kind that carries a huge, shabby bag around with her. Today there was a charity concert in the Church towards the installation of loos in the annexe which included the sale of raffle tickets as well as the modest entrance fee. I paid for entrance, bought my raffle ticket and promptly forgot where I’d put it. When the raffle was held at the 'tea and cakes included’  bit in the Church hall afterwards I frantically rummaged through every single pocket asking out loud where the ticket could have disappeared to in the space of a mere hour.  My table neighbours, being understanding and forgiving, simply found that funny.

I noticed that it was dark outside at 8 pm. I dread the coming winter evenings. I’ve never felt happy during the dark months, I fear that I shall feel even more unhappy on my own this winter. Books and TV are a great help but I must try and connect more with other people. If only I were a joiner. Valley’s End has endless societies, clubs and organisations, very few of them appeal to me. I suppose I could join the more interesting ones, the wildlife and local history groups? Rejoin the gardening club? And write about them and their members? If I could get back into my slightly acid mode of writing? Would that help?

It’s very difficult to change direction midstream. It is also very difficult to change attitude. One evening not long ago I had a special supper, opened a bottle of wine, and put my feet up in front of the TV. There was a programme on I had been looking forward to all day. I sat in Beloved’s very comfortable chair, leaned back and felt strangely happy. Here was an evening which was all mine, to do with as I pleased. All evenings have been free like that for months now, why should I feel particularly happy on this particular evening? Then it came to me. I was unencumbered, not answerable to anyone, with the house exactly as I wanted it.

On two separate occasions recently I had had family staying. My son had come to help out, drive me places, assist with various tasks around the house, none very arduous but necessary. He had brought his wife along. Those two tend to spread themselves and their belongings, leaving things out overnight and carrying on the next day where they left off the evening before. Their conversation is very limited. They are Seventh-day Adventists whose world revolves around their Church, almost to the exclusion of all else.

None of that is blame-worthy. True, I don’t share their beliefs, but we all have our own way of getting through life.

I have mentioned here before that my daughter and I have been estranged for many years. We exchange birthday and Christmas cards which has been the sum total of our contact. I felt I needed to send her an email asking whether she wanted to be involved in what is called my ‘end of life’ arrangements. I also wanted to ask her the Big Question, would she be willing to help me to achieve a dignified end if the need arose. One can ask these questions and make these arrangements when there is no immediate need, when one is fit mentally and physically. I am now on my own, without any close confidante or family, no friends I would wish to burden with undue responsibilities.

I had assumed that my daughter would reply yes or no, and that further contact would continue by email. But no, she wrote to say that she would come and we could discuss things in person. I was very pleased if a little apprehensive.

In the event the visit went reasonably well;  my daughter spent a lot of time recalling the many hurts she had received during her childhood as well as her marriage to her previous husband. I hope it helped, it is always good to clear the air and dispose of burdens and grievances one has carried around for years. I hope that future contact will gradually improve; we have actually exchanged very friendly and chatty emails.

But, and here I get back to my strangely happy evening: neither visit had been emotionally uplifting for me. There had been some stress involved, even if only because of my slight OCD tendency on the one hand and apprehension about possible points of friction on the other. Perhaps I was asking too much, perhaps I was wishing for genuine warmth, less of the dutiful attitude, more of the “you’re not such a bad old stick, we like doing things for you now that we’re the do-ers and you’re the being done-to”.

Howsoever that may be, I realise that my attitude all-round will have to change, from grumpiness at not getting what I had hoped for to expecting nothing, accepting gracefully what is given and otherwise enjoying my freedom, my independence and the years ahead.

Wise words, here’s hoping I will turn them into deeds. And that there will be more of those strangely happy evenings.

Afterwards - Part 1

After Beloved.

Everything is afterwards now.
There was an old lady's funeral in Valley’s End today; I had planned to go, was determined to go; she had been a friend of sorts and I thought I should pay my respects to her and her husband and family. Also, it would have meant joining a throng of villagers for the funeral tea afterwards, chatting, mingling, getting back into village life, rather than clinging for succour to the few friends I have. So, all things considered, surely a good plan?

I didn’t go. Sitting over my solitary lunch - the funeral was at 2.30 in the afternoon - I felt bad. I knew I wasn’t going to go, no matter how urgently I pressed myself to do so. When I finally hit upon the solution I felt great relief. 'I’ll say, I just couldn’t face it’, I told myself, ‘it’s too soon after Beloved’s death’. ‘I shall break down in tears’. That would do for an excuse I thought. ‘Nobody can expect me to attend.’ That’s what I came up with, and all that after I had promised myself that, from now on, I would never feel obliged to lie again for appearances’ sake. Without Beloved’s polite good manners to rein me in I can say what I feel. Not giving offence, hopefully, but not giving much of a damn either. As my good friend Andrew says: ‘It’s brilliant to mature beyond giving a damn’. "When I am an old woman I shall wear purple with a red hat which doesn’t go . . . .” Jenny Joseph’s ‘Warning' may only seem to concern itself with outward appearance but look a little deeper and she’s telling you to take yourself and your disapproval on a running jump from a short plank.

It’s frequently like that: I have every intention of coming out of my cave, blinking in the sudden light of day, joining others, accepting that life goes on. The other day I bought an expensive concert ticket. Some friends were going to take me and it would have been a pleasant evening. I let the ticket go using a dicky tummy for an excuse. True, I had had some rumblings and frequent loo visits during the day but I was feeling much better come evening. “Such a pity you had to miss the concert,” my friends said afterwards, “you missed a real treat.” Of course life goes on, I am here, am I not? At first I didn’t care to survive, alone, friendless, lacking family, lacking purpose. (There’s some self pity in there. ) Now I do. In fact I have made a decision: I want to survive for years yet, becoming a sharp-witted and sharp-tongued old woman. When I told a couple of friends on separate occasions, both said “Well, you shouldn’t find that difficult, you haven’t far to go to reach your goal.” How lucky I am to have friends who feel able to make that sort of comment, don’t you agree?

The wretched problem is that the recently bereaved become vulnerable, naked; being visible draws attention to that state of insecurity. It’s almost as if you have to take baby steps before you can walk out into the world again with any kind of self assurance. And the lack of focus on something other than grief, the lack of purpose that can fill the mostly empty days make survival questionable. I can’t even say that Beloved died too soon or unexpectedly, although the end did come rather suddenly. He was old and very ill and his mind had begun to wander. But grief does not depend on justification, it just sits there, like the elephant in the room, taking up all your breathing space.

Although Simone de Beauvoir was not speaking about grief when she wrote in her study on the ageing process: "the paradox of our time is that the aged enjoy better health than they used to and that they remain “young” longer. This makes their idleness all the harder to bear. Those who live on must be given some reason for living: mere survival is worse than death.” The survivor had better rediscover that life is for living.

Look who’s back!

Yes, it’s old gardener!

Making sense of what has turned into an overgrown jungle.

Paul, new gardener, has been busy doing his own thing.

What with arts and crafts, the odd bit of malaise of one sort or another,

his proclivity for doing himself accidental injury,

and summer visitors, 

he’s cried off many a Tuesday morning, his day for labouring in my garden.

So I took my courage in both hands,

and rang old gardener’s number.

Sure enough, the dreaded dragon, old gardener’s wife answered.

Being a dyed in the wool coward and ever so careful,

I didn’t give her my name, just asked if I could speak to her husband.

(She’d been the main reason for him dumping me.)

He was in, came to the phone and greeted me like a long lost friend.

(Oh dear, watch it, the missus might not like it!)

It’s not that she doesn’t like me personally - at least. I don’t think she does -

but she wanted him to cut back on work. 

As I had stupidly told her how much we like and appreciate him, 

I was the obvious candidate for discarding.

I had the impression at the time that she’s not overly keen on him enjoying what he does.

"Please, could you come and do the edges", I wheedled.

“Nobody does them like you.”

And

“the garden’s totally overgrown, I need you.

Maybe two or three mornings a months, 

"Please?”

"The other chap can do all the hard work, like composting, and digging, and such.

If you’d come and do the weeding and cut the edges, 

I’d be ever so grateful."

He chuckled. He likes flattery.

I carried on telling him all the jobs he’d not need to do, like cutting hedges,

replanting shrubs, clearing paths, lugging stones and pots, climbing up ladders.

“Just maybe two or maybe three mornings?”

“Alright”, he said, “I can do Thursdays”

we’ll see how it goes.”

What? 

After I’d had to screw up my courage and tell myself not to be a pathetic wuss,

and what could she say other than “on your bike, dear”!

It was as easy as that.

I know that he’s secretly nervous about her moods and her sharp tongue.

He’s also bored by inactivity and despite his 71 years he’s an active man, 

who likes to work and takes pride in what he does. So, we’re off. 

He’s already given me two mornings, making a great difference;

also, I’ve enjoyed being out with him.

We’ve got a very easy working relationship and we joke and tease and curse

those damned weeds and getting stung by nettles and entangled with long rose tendrils,

and ripped to shreds by vicious thorns.

It’s all in a morning’s work, and the best thing is that we have tea breaks!

Tea breaks, when, with a little gentle encouragement, I can guide him towards those gardener’s tales again.

I shall keep Paul on too. Between the two of them, I hope to get as much work done in a week as old gardener did by himself, when he still came for eight hours 

and worked like two men.  It’ll cost more, but “there are no pockets in shrouds”, and it makes me happy to restore my garden to its former glory. 

I had lost interest, because I simply can ’t work as hard as I once did and seeing

Enchanter’s Nightshade (in spite of it’s divine name it’s an evil weed with an insidious,

delicate white root system) colonise my precious flower beds makes me helplessly cross.

“Well, it’s not too bad”, says old gardener.

“I thought it’d be worse; sure, you’ve got weeds growing

everywhere, but it’s not too untidy at all."

Happy Days.

New Year New You -- What Happened?

Do the Chinese go in for New Year’s Resolutions?

Mid-February already, so what’s happened to your New Year’s Resolutions?  Kicked into the tall grass and lost or thrown under a speeding bus and squashed flat? That ambitious contract many of us enter into with ourselves, being absolutely determined to lose weight, get fit, take up the ukulele, travel the world on a tricycle, blog regularly....etc. etc.

What, you are sticking to it? I don’t believe you. For the sake of the vast majority who made rash promises while in the company of others, equally inebriated, I sincerely hope you have forgiving or short-memoried friends; if these friends aided and abetted you in your folly or made similar promises, you are home and dry. Resolutions? What resolutions? Never speak of them again, at least until next New Year’s Eve comes around and the embarrassment at a year-long failure to pull your socks up and finally master Mandarin Chinese brings a hot blush to your face.

New year, new you, entirely new life, was the slogan of an online advertisement sent to me (and a million others) by a  department store with a seemingly benevolent face in early January. I was told that completely remodelling my home, buying the latest colours, hard and soft furnishings, would leave me revitalised, as new a woman as my new home; a woman enabled to stride forth into this shiny, brand-spanking new year with renewed vigour and determination, master of my fate and able to control and overcome all obstacles in my way. I may be exaggerating a bit here, but not by much.

What is it with this new year rubbish? Why do we tell ourselves that a change in the calendar year will make all the difference?

You may recall that 2015 was an annus horribilis for me - as the Queen would say - a year of disaster and misfortune. Towards the end of it things improved a bit but there was never any hope that all would be sweetness and light once the numbers changed. I am no more in control than I was in 2015. I don’t make New Year’s resolutions now. In another life and at another time, there were long years when I promised myself that “next year I will be brave, take courage and make changes” but I never did until my hand was forced by outside circumstances and change imposed itself on me rather than the other way round.

No resolutions for me last New Year’s Eve except the one: I would develop the ability to take what was coming, to accept and, hopefully, be without overwhelming resentment. Well, dear ones, I can’t even do that. In many ways life is easier than last year but my attitude hasn’t changed all that much.

When I ask people paddling similar leaky canoes like mine how they cope they tell me “just get on with it, there’s nothing else you can do” I see the resigned look in their eyes. They’re right, of course.

Resignation and resentment, two singularly unpleasant and unattractive attitudes. Where’s that speeding bus? If any state of mind ever deserved being squashed flat, these two do.

Tipping out, tripping up and going underground

For several days now I’ve been feeling guilty for ignoring my blog; yes, I’ve been busy, but not that busy. I’ve gardened, walked the dog, read books and even, once, a magazine for the over 50s. Take last night, for instance. I was going to come upstairs straight after supper and start composing. Instead I decided to see what’s on TV and 2 ½ hours and a whole 100 gram bar of chocolate later I finally switched it off. And got ready for bed instead of switching my computer on.

Talking of getting ready for bed: when I went to the loo the seat unexpectedly cracked under me and bit my bottom. I knew I shouldn’t have had that bar of chocolate. Whenever I use the upstairs bathroom now, and until we have a new seat, I have to be very careful. Perhaps we should get one of these elevated loo seats they advertise in the magazine for the over 50s. And while we’re at it, perhaps we should check out walk-in baths and showers, stair lifts, Zimmer frames, motorised scooters, beds and chairs that tip you out when you press a button on a cord. The magazine is full of good advice on expensive holidays, investment opportunities, retirement apartments and leisure activities. All interviews are with glamorous and famous people of a certain age, who lead interesting lives. The letter pages are written by smarmy, self-congratulatory pensioners in need of a friendly slap to remind them of the reality of a penurious and frail old age which is the lot of so many of the ancients.

At Friday’s poetry group meeting I was confronted with another side of reality: old people who find themselves not only hard up but also isolated and lonely because of an inability to cope with modern life. When Lorna first mentioned them I misunderstood and said something unfeeling and flippant like: 'well, hadn’t they better learn to live in today’s world?’  It turns out that this inability to cope is not self-inflicted as in unwilling to learn to use digital media and smart phones, but due to EHS, or electromagnetic-hypersensitivity.

We’ve both considered Lorna to be a bit of an eccentric - well, to tell the truth, a regular fruitcake in some respects - but it seems that many of her idiosyncrasies are due to the symptoms she experiences when exposed to mobile phones, for instance. One side of her bungalow is swathed in yellow draperies over walls and windows. It’s like swimming in a murky aquarium. She has a strict rule that no mobile phones are allowed inside. Once I forgot to leave mine outside and after no more than ten minutes she became restless and red in the face. “Someone has brought a mobile in,” she said. Naturally, I apologised and took it outside. When she uses her computer - only ever for a very short time and mainly for emails - she covers exposed skin in aluminium cooking foil.

EHS is not recognised by the medical establishment. Wikipedia says: The reported symptoms of EHS include headache, fatigue, stress, sleep disturbances, skin symptoms like prickling, burning sensations and rashes, pain and ache in muscles and many other health problems. Whatever their cause, EHS symptoms are a real and sometimes disabling problem for the affected person. However, there is no scientific basis to link EHS symptoms to electromagnetic field exposure.

Lorna and the members of her self help group are often unable to go out at all 'because there are more and more masts around' she says, and she won’t visit anyone else’s house because most people have numerous digital gadgets. The other day she fell on her steep and stoney garden steps and hurt herself rather badly but she refuses to use ambulances, doctors and hospitals. “They’d kill me’, she says. 

Shadows of One Sort and Another

I was quite pleased with myself last week. There are few weeks when I can sidestep the black hole altogether, and keeping a black cock hatched in March as a protection against evil spirits - it is said they are terrified of his crowing - isn’t on the cards as I don’t keep chickens, so feeling good about myself and the world around me was surprisingly pleasant. I must try it more often. This week started a little less bright but at least the weather wasn’t all bad. Afternoon sun threw shadows across the field, and the river sparkled. Paul and I chucked a couple of hours' work at the garden too, another first for the year. I’ll get those pesky endorphins moving yet. In fact, I’d better. A winter of sitting on the sofa reading books and eating chocolate has done my shape no favours at all. I got on the scales the other day and took a quick look over my shoulder to see if anybody behind me was putting a foot on; but no, it was all me. A lot of me.

The reason I was feeling proud of myself last week was a very simple one: I rediscovered the joys of going outside my comfort zone. In a previous existence I depended on no one but myself for everything, child raising, money earning, household keeping etc. All the obligations of adulthood landed on my shoulders. Not a state of being I’d wholeheartedly recommend. With Beloved it all changed; the children had grown up and left - that blissful state all of you whining about empty nest syndrome will one day come to appreciate - and I became not only a kept woman but one who found a solid presence beside her at all times. 

And now that solid presence isn’t quite as solid as it was and I am having to relearn being the one who not only does, but also makes a lot of the decisions to do what, when, where and how. It happens. Take driving to town and going shopping. Any kind of driving, in fact. Beloved didn’t feel like coming  along, so I went off by myself.

“I am a bus virgin”, I said to the uniformed driver of indeterminate gender, as I stepped on board the ‘park-and-ride’ in the county town - s/he had a kind of curly halo of dark hair and I didn’t want to stare - “please tell me how this works.” I always find people are willing to teach you anything provided you act dumb and ask nicely. 

Shrewsbury is a lovely town, with steep lanes and smart little shops. Once I’d completed the main errand, collecting a watch from the jewellers’, I decided to roam. I bought some new undies, a lipstick, some smart notepads, a few tasty treats at the delicatessen’s and made various other totally unnecessary purchases, only limited by having to carry them to the ‘park-and-ride’ which would take me to the car park on the edge of town, the supermarket for boring groceries, and thence the hour's drive back home to Valley’s End. 

It was nothing, most of you do this daily, but I’ve been leading my life in tandem for many years now and going it alone is a whole new, slightly scary but not unpleasant, departure. Throughout the week I kept up this determination to step out of the twosome. We had dinner guests, a meal which I planned, shopped for and cooked - something usually goes wrong, this time I burnt the roasted vegetables. Prof. Tony was kind enough to say that he preferred his vegetables crispy - ; I drove us to a theatre one night, only a short journey, but I’ve been avoiding night driving for a long time;  going to a restaurant on my own was something I did all the time years ago, now I am doing that again too. Beloved will still accompany me on many outings but sometimes he feels the effort is too much and not worth it.

The shadow of old age encroaching on daily life is something we must all face eventually, but it needn’t be the death knell of all endeavour, singly or jointly.

A Valentine for Beloved

At a 93rd birthday party recently I was sitting on the sofa next to Wendy, a sweet old widow lady, a fellow guest. Nearly all the guests were elderly, the host and birthday boy being the oldest.

“Are you making any plans for the summer” she asked me, probably meaning trips and holidays.

Beloved was sitting at the other end of the room with the men.
I pointed to him and said: “ Not at the moment, my husband isn’t really up to travelling. He feels most comfortable at home, where he can arrange his life to suit his needs.”

Wendy made sympathetic noises. I didn’t want to sound like a woman put upon and hard-done-by, so I continued :”I don’t really mind. He is such a nice man that it is no hardship to spend time together at home.”

I didn’t get any further. “O,” Wendy burst out, “ how wonderful to hear this. I am always listening to women going on about their husbands, how tiresome they are. You have no idea how refreshing it is to hear of a couple who are friends, who like each other. If only I still had my husband; when I hear these women complaining I ask myself how would they feel if they lost them, would they be glad or would they actually miss them.”

Pleasantly surprised by this outburst, and a little touched by Wendy’s obvious sadness at her widowhood, I realised once again: it isn’t how much time you spend together, or how busily you spend this time; it’s harmony in your dealings together, and the pleasure you derive from being with each other, which matter.

As Berowne says in Shakespeare’s Love’s Labour’s Lost, which we saw only Thursday evening:

And when Love speaks, the voice of all the gods

Makes Heaven drowsy with the harmony.

Drinks Party

Saturday morning between eleven and one.
Neighbours, friends, acquaintances,
people like us,
people one knows.
There is wine. 'French only, I’m afraid', says the host.
'Chardonnay or claret'.
I opt for Chardonnay and set my glass down on a handy table.
Soft drinks for those who don’t want alcohol.
Especially in the morning.

The hostess offers nibbles.
Mini sausage rolls, vol-au-vents, cheesy bits, tiny squares of ham sandwiches,
crusts carefully removed.
'How have you been', we ask.
‘Haven’t seen you for ages’.
‘You’re looking well.’ Obligatory.
'Did you have a nice Christmas?’
We talk about computers and IT,
to show that we are by no means past it.

We are all of retirement age,
although some still work at their chosen profession.
Mostly part-time. ‘To keep my hand in’.
'A little extra cash for holidays and treats'.
One says ‘You know how I love 18th century walnut furniture.
I have my eye on a long-case clock. Very expensive, as you’d expect.’
‘Yes,’ I say.
My knowledge of the value of long-case clocks of any century
is limited.

Looking across the room you see someone you don’t recognise.
Could it be? It can’t be! Yes, it is. Michael.
Goodness, hasn’t he aged since last we met.
He felt my stare, we make eye contact.
He smiles. Ah, yes, a smile makes all the difference.

‘Are you planning a holiday’,
once a favourite opening gambit
as you make your way around the room, mingling.
A year or two ago the answer was ‘yes’;
details followed, a warm feeling of anticipation in the air.
There are fewer now who will undertake the rigours of travelling.
There is much rueful commiseration.
‘The furthest we get is the hour’s drive to the hospital for check-ups’.
‘What with appointments at surgeries, dentists, clinics there’s hardly time left
to get away for a few days.
One just about manages to see family’.
But we are computer-literate, we said so.
The world comes to us now, just a click away.

Legs aching, feeling faint from standing,
I make my way to Andrew, who’s been ill; he's sitting down.
Gratefully, I sink down next to him.
Andrew has no time for small talk.
‘How’s the writing going’, he asks.
I tell him I’ve given up.
He rouses himself, is concerned.
‘That’s bad’, he says, ‘you must continue’.
I make a plan to ask him to lunch.

Time’s up. The morning is over and we kiss our hosts good-bye.
Both cheeks.
On the way out I see Colin. A quick word, must have a quick word.

‘How are you,’ he says. ‘Are you well?’
I look back at the room.
‘Sometimes I could weep’, I say.

Meditations On A Rainy Day - II

. . . . . . . . . . but more along the lines of ‘All Passion Spent’;

Men grow too old to woo, my love,

Men grow too old to wed;

physical companionship, friendship and mutual goodwill between two people is a wonderful thing in itself; we leave the highs and lows of unbridled passion to those who have the energy. Peaceful co-existence may not be to everyone’s liking, but having experienced the opposite, this harmonious way of life is the one for me.

But there is something else we are no longer passionate about, something probably far more controversial,

Men grow too old for love, my love,
Men grow too old for lies;

and that is physical protest of any kind. Fighting the same old battles, over and over, to protect the environment, save the planet, take away from the rich and distribute to the poor, stop wars, stop hunger.

Fat chance.

Perhaps this is the unpleasant cynicism of age but, apart from making contributions in monetary terms, joining online pressure groups, and keeping our own footprint as light as possible, we now do nothing. When I watch those with two homes, a flat in the city and a house in the country, families with more cars than necessary, tourists flying to all corners of the world on short breaks and a couple of holidays a year, wailing over that poor polar bear stuck on his melting ice floe, I need to turn my back and bite my tongue. While we want to eat cheap and plentiful beef, the rain forests will continue to be destroyed. While we want to wear cheap t shirts, more and more people will have to work for hunger wages. While we want to own ever more gadgets, natural resources will have to be exploited until none are left. Someone, something, somewhere, always has to pay.

I don’t say that we, Beloved and I, have become indifferent, by no means, but we can do very little beyond what we do and for the sake of our own peace of mind we now leave protesting to the ones who will need this planet long after we have left it.

We accept our limitations.

Food,

Yes, food,

Just any old kind of food.

Pheasant is pleasant, of course,

And terrapin, too, is tasty,

Lobster I freely endorse,

In pate or patty or pasty.

2014 has seen the number of private social events shrinking too. And we don’t mind at all. Large parties are usually pretty boring, with all that standing around and shouting at each other;  small gatherings are less so, but only if the assembled company is easy to get on with. I used to do my utmost to ‘sparkle’, now I can barely muster a dull glimmer. The selfish gene has kicked in and I want return value for my effort. We still enjoy small lunch and supper parties for no more than six, both giving and receiving them. Even so, when we are the hosts the concentrated hard work before and afterwards requires at least half a day to recover.

Health problems come in to it, of course. If your heart is liable to set itself off in violent protest at having to cope with excitement you soon learn to keep yourself subdued. It’s been a good year though, I’ve managed half a dozen  episodes of AFib without having to be admitted to hospital.

Having to remain calm in the face of extreme provocation, i.e. “L’enfer, c’est les autres'', is something I have come to accept.

A thrill of thunder in my hair,
Though blackening clouds be plain,
Still I am stung and startled
By the first drop of the rain:
Romance and pride and passion pass
And these are what remain.

But the year has also been extraordinarily good to me . . . . . . . . . .


continued