The hidden dangers of public transport...

I am suffering from bastard-bus-driver-syndrome. Over four months ago I had the misfortune to be travelling  on a bus where the driver slammed on his brakes, with feckless ferocity, at every bus stop. I was standing, and holding on to the pole to steady myself, when at the moment of braking, a pain like a lightning-bolt, shot up my upper arm.

I have valiantly put up with the pain in my arm, believing in the great healer of time. Yesterday, however, having decided that there had been no significant improvement, I went to see a Physio. Yes, I should have gone months ago and yes, I would take the ten day course of Nurofen, and yes, I would do the simple hand-crawling-up-the-wall-and-down-again exercise, religiously. She also commented on my posture, and said that I am literally sticking my neck out, and rounding my shoulders. By improving the way I hold myself, my neck and back pain would be much reduced.
You should have seen me walking home. It was as if I had a book on my head. I am going to crack this, I thought to myself.

"Are you alright?"asked my husband, as his elongated wife returned from her appointment. It might have been the face of studied concentration that was throwing him.

He needn't have worried. As I walked to the doctor's surgery this morning: a half an hour's walk up a serious hill, I found the habitual tortoise-shape had returned. But in terms of fleetness, I was the hare.

It has, however, taken the rest of the day to recover.

With me it's buy one get one free...

Happy the Whole Day Through Trying to find... (her glasses?)

Not a word from me for days... You probably thought I'd been locked up after my mad idea on Mothering Sunday. Haven't acted on that resolution, by the way. Been too busy. On Tuesday when Gustav enquired as to how I'd been, I said casually,
"Oh, pretty busy."
And as I looked in the mirror ahead of me, I thought I could detect, under the newly blonded highlights, a nose that had grown three inches longer.
"Well, not that busy, actually," I admitted and the nose began to shrink. Wow. I should concentrate on my hair next time and save a fortune in hairdressing bills.
I read an article at the weekend that suggested humble-bragging about being overworked is the most effective way to signal social capital.
What a wonderful portmanteau word. I'd never heard it before. Example I found: "Just eaten umpteen pieces of chocolate. Must control myself flying First Class or they'll cancel my modelling contract. Ha Ha!"
So when I said  to Gustav that I was busy, I wasn't bragging, humble or otherwise. I was merely moulding the truth.
How could I possibly describe myself as busy? Doing what? Directing plumbers and making cups of tea? Look, to be frank, I am currently very content being busy doing bugger-all.

However, I was delighted to see that ordering groceries online and having them delivered is a humble-bragging way of saying that you're too busy to shop in person because your schedule is far too hectic.
So even if the dawn chorus Waitrose delivery suggests a little woman with too much on her plate, (many a true word spoken in jest) then let me assure you, it's only because she was so busy doing nothing, it was the only slot she could get.

Waitrose van before Plumber's van before Electrics Van

What to do with Mother on Mothering Sunday?

I am, I confess, a narcissist. Not a rip-roaring one, you understand. Just the kind who presses the delete button when she sees one chin too many, or her lardy thighs dominating the frame. So really, no more vain than mother and grandmother before her, who would have been quick to whip away an offending photograph and tear it up instantly. Early conditioning dictates you destroy the evidence of images that fail to match up with your sense of self.

When my mother died, I came across a portrait done by some sodden artist my dad had met at The Swan. It was one of four that he'd drawn of our family in 1975. The likeness he'd achieved of me and my father was bang on the button. My younger brother quite liked his: probably because he felt it gave him a slightly haunted, Rupert Brooke look. Not true on either count, for the record.  The one of my mother, whilst capturing her colouring and her general mien, made her look far too haughty. And although she was more than capable of a withering glance that could freeze you at fifty yards, she didn't really look like this. So it was slung on top of the wardrobe; the others were on display.

From sentiment, I have kept it on top of that same wardrobe that I subsequently acquired. There it remained, until the Big Clear Out. 

Now, a portrait is not the same as a photograph. It is somehow more personal. Imbued with a sense of family history.  Yet this one  bears false witness to reality. 

I couldn't give it away to the charity shop; I could not destroy it (despite my mother's voice, egging me on). And frankly, why would any member of the family want a defective portrait? 

Then I had this wonderful, crazy idea. I know the people who bought my mother's house. I could ask them to put it in the attic. I could write a note on the back explaining why it was there. If they moved, it could be left there, as part of the house's history (which my parents bought new in 1967).

Now what to write?

"On Mothering Sunday 2017 my daughter has decided  I am to reside evermore in the attic."

Not really. 

When I prefaced a recent conversation with Dearest, with,

"I've had this possibly mad idea.."

I could see him visibly bracing himself. Most of my mad ideas are generally attached to a lot of noughts. This would cost nothing. He smiled and said he thought it was a strange but lovely idea. 

I like to think my mother would have approved. 

"Every day should be Mother's day" GJE

The day after Westminster...

If you are force-fed Daffodils in your formative years you could be forgiven for having a bit of a downer on William Wordsworth. However, many years on, I found myself last night drawn to another poem by Wordsworth  and found temporary solace in its familiarity.

Upon Westminster Bridge

Earth has not anything to show more fair:
    Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
    A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth like a garment wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
    Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
    Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
    In his first splendour valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
    The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
    And all that mighty heart is lying still!


But that mighty heart is still beating strongly the day after, as we continue with our lives in the aftermath of yesterday's new atrocity. A sense of renewed kinship with other countries who have suffered similarly. A grieving for the policeman who gave up his life in his line of duty, and for those innocents whose lives have been snatched away, or damaged irrevocably. Yesterday served to reinforce solidarity between nations and sharpened our resolve never to let hate win.

A Plumb Job?

The best bit about being retired is that I am not assaulted by Sunday night-itus. And Monday mornings have the novelty of a fresh new week as I waive my Dearest husband on his way, trying to look disconsolate that he is labouring  while I am swanning. Yes, swanning is what he believes I do all day. Living the life. Well, no swanning today, my dears. It is the day the plumber is due. 

I do not expect you to recall that the bathroom upstairs has been in need of renovation. We left the subject, with me painting the exterior of the roll top bath. Since then, the height of the ceiling has been lowered and recessed spotlights have been added making it the brightest room in the house. I think I should take up needlepoint, at the very least, to capitalise on this fantastic facility. Whilst I am enthroned, of course. Matriarchal maximisation of time and motion, that's me.

So our plumber's job is to replace taps, and toilet. and to lay a tiled floor. No problemo. All we hope is that we have an Andrex,  not a Thos. Crapper week.

I will, of course, incorporate project-managing into my swanning. If all goes to plan, those Andrex puppies and I will have so much fun..

Nothing to be proud of....

We weren't the sort of house where you were required to leave your shoes in the hall. My parents didn't stand on such ceremony. We had a cream Indian rug in the living room which was the bane of my mother's life. It disgorged mountains of white fluff for the first few years of its life which my crawling baby brother would grab and lift to his mouth with joyful anticipation. For this period of time a white sheet was tied to chair legs so that it became a safer zone for a fluffnivorous infant.

As he developed teeth and walking ability, the sheet was removed but we all exercised due diligence  in the living room. Until the day that my brother came home from school and walked across the rug.
"Don't move! Stay right there," said my mother urgently as if he were just about to stand on a landmine disguised by cream wool.
She leapt across to him and undid his shoes and pointed out the foul-smelling trail of dog's mess that he'd walked in and unwittingly brought into the house.
That is less likely to happen these days because dog-owners are generally more responsible than they were back then. These days, our Granddog, Ted, has only to hear the rustle of a plastic poo-bag and he knows that a walk is in the offing. There are two dog bins on the walk and most people observe the niceties.
Round here, it's a different ball game. I've started to notice on my local walks that there is a proliferation of poo-bags suspended from bushes, or hanging from fences. At first I fondly imagined that these would be duly collected on the return journey, but the tattered remains of plastic bags give testimony to lack of follow-through of my fellow residents. I read  yesterday that ours is not the only area to suffer in this way. It seems everywhere you go, you see trees and bushes festooned with dog-poo offerings. It has been suggested that the age old method of stick and flick would be a better way of disposing of dogs' mess.
More dog-bins are required. Or else a blooming big fan to sort out all the miscreants who give dog-walkers a bad name.

Paint me a pair of denims....

I get it from my mother. She liked clothes with a bit of room. I too have gone for clothes that create air and space around a frame that has self-upholstered with each passing year.   Swathes of upper garments have concealed the waistbands on jeans which have been incontrovertibly tight. 

So when I found my trusty denims sliding around my waistline, I embraced the rosy glow of a plan that was taking shape. 

For a month I enjoyed the strange phenomenon of my jeans sliding down so that I resembled a geriatric hoodlum with my crutch creeping to my knees. No visible Calvin Klein waistband visible, however. Not even the famous granny pants in evidence, as they too joined the inexorable slide down. I'd hoik them up, of course, dismissing friends' claims that they were now far too big. I savoured this process until Dearest who NEVER notices anything, remarked pleasantly about my builders' bum. 

Well, that did it. I cannot be having that at this time of life. So I said farewell to my Plumber's Bum ( I prefer the assonance...) and accepted the offer of some smaller, tighter-fitting jeans, from my daughter.

The ultimate thigh corset (not my body)

So now, safely sausage-skinned back into a pair that does not allow deviation, or donuts, I will remain focused on my pursuit of the mini-bum. 

Saturday Night Delights...

Put a Tiger in your Tank ran a successful advertising slogan for petrol in the sixties.  So it came as no surprise, when  Dearest produced a new bottle of gin, Garden Tiger, that it packed one hell of a pounce. Er, no, one hell of a punch. First to assault the senses is a grab-you-by-the-throat orange (blood-red, according to the makers) and then a bouquet garni of herbs and spices. The only one of which I could, with any authority, identify was coriander. Now, I am a big fan of coriander but wasn't quite ready to find it in my gin.  So it was an interesting gin, a hefty potion, that I spent the rest of Saturday evening acclimatising to. By the third (small measures, natch) I was beginning to get the hang of it.

Saturday night also saw us take up the recommendation of Delegated Survivor on Netflix. It was good to see our old mate, Keiffer. You know, Keiffer Suvverland, as I like to call him. Not to his face, obviously. Our introduction to this actor coincided with our first experience of Boxed Sets (I have such a problem with articulating that phrase. When I say it, it always comes out as something sounding vaguely tantric. Whatever that is.) So as first experiences often go, Keiffer is special. We went through a lot with him in 24 and couldn't understand how he came out of it looking fitter, sexier and toned while we, mere onlookers, looked ragged, bleary and in need of several nights' sleep.

So here he is, back on our screens, as the President of the USA. You can tell he's no longer Jack Bauer because he wears a suit, sports a pair of glasses for gravitas, and rarely breaks into anything more than a statesmanlike stride. Early days yet, of course; the inner Jack could yet break through.  There is still, however, the same low, gravelly doom-laden voice which means that if you closed your eyes (As Dearest frequently does, TO REST THEM, he says) you would be transported joyfully back to the high octane drama of 24. 

On Saturday night I slept like a baby. I think it was because I believed that Jack Bauer was in charge of the Presidency and that all would be well.
Or it could just possibly be that there was a lot of Tiger in my tank.

                                                                                             

Best of Both...

My neighbours think I've lost it. They've seen  me several times this week setting off to the High Street with a little red suitcase. The poor old dear at No. 27 thinks she's off on holiday again, I'll bet they say. Heavy, that little suitcase of hers, she must be going for a week. Then, Whoops, there she goes again....

Excuse me, marbles all fully counted, I am going to the Charity shop with the spoils of my grand re-organisation. My loads are far too heavy to lug without the aid of wheels. It says a lot about me that  I would rather appear to be sadly off my trolley than subject myself to the instant grannification of a shopping-trolley. So the little red suitcase is my stalwart. Battle-worn, shabby and with squeaking wheels, it has done me proud this week.

But it has been books rather than CDs that have been in the bag. I was all set to cull the CD collection when for the second time this week, I have failed to work the internet Juke Box I mentioned to you, way back in January. Internet connection weak. Try again later.  What sort of system is that? I wanted music there and then, not at some ill-defined time in the future. It was a pertinent reminder that I should not place all my eggs in one basket.

I looked again at the stacks of CDs. There is a world of difference between a real book and its Kindle edition. CDs similarly conjure up a host of memories that transport you to your youth in a way that could never be equalled by a playlist on a computer.

One of the CDs was owned by my mother. She had tried and failed to get hold of the CD of a  vinyl record she had once owned in the 60s, Missa Luba, and had got a more recent (inferior) recording done by another choir. I looked up the original and found it on You Tube. You may know it as it gained recognition from the 1969 film "If".
All I can say is that to hear it again after so many years, has lifted my heart and soul.
How lucky are we, to enjoy the best of both worlds.

Diminishing Returns...

I do think about things other than food. But not often. Last week I upped my game on the dieting front and ate nothing but Speed foods and Protein. Not so much as a  carb passed my lips. Almost finished me off. Jumped on the scales with smugness disguised by nonchalence. And found that I had lost a miserly pound (or 500gms).  So this week, after last week's deprivation, I have been  prone to the occasional snaccident, so to speak. For example, a large packet of popcorn winked at me in my daughter's kitchen. My snout was down it before my brain had a chance to register the small print on the side of the packet.
So I was quite interested to read that dieters tend to eat less when they are dining out than if they are eating in their own houses, or someone else's. I am the living-proof of this research. They should have come directly to me. In public, I have to show restraint, have portions pre-determined, am unable to ask for second helpings, or finish off someone else's dessert in the kitchen. I am under control. At home, the oven gloves are off and I have to wrestle with that old bugbear, greed, using new-found restraint.
Latest research indicates that if the packaging on food were less colourful and attractively presented, we would be less drawn to sugar-laden items. I suspect there is something in that. Meanwhile manufacturers, in line with the government's drive to reduce obesity, are attempting to reduce the sugar content in a number of old favourites such as Kit Kats and Quality Street. Though, as consumers, we are all aware of the shrinking size of the product. Now, it seems that Smarties are on the hitlist. They will most likely be made smaller. So you will have to shovel down twice the number to receive your glucose shot.
Thank goodness I don't eat chocolate any more. That is true. Because one is never enough. And if that one is made any smaller, then I might as well turn to drink.
Make mine a large one. Don't bother with the tonic. Empty calories. At least my cucumber is accessible...

Chasing Rainbows        by Izzy

                                               

While Trying to Remain as Cool as a Cucumber...

Budget day. Very important, I know, but I have been worrying about things on the domestic front. Last week's news that I have been mis-storing my tomatoes has sent me into a spin. Seemingly, I have been destroying all those dear little vitamins that perk up a pensionable prostrate  by storing them in the fridge! Cucumber also doesn't respond to being kept refrigerated. It prefers the pantry. Well, la-di-da! I do not think that my under stairs cupboard qualifies as a pantry, with its motley assortment of lightbulbs, cleaning equipment and the odd secreted gigantic bag of crisps. So I tried an arrangement  in my fruit bowl today.





Cumbersome or what? It looks like something you'd see in the rude vegetable section of Farmer's Weekly, that's what. I know that some of you will accuse me of going for a cheap laugh, but I present you with the challenge.
Where do you keep your cucumbers?
Darling, that's not funny..

Re-distributing treasure to my treasures...

There comes a time in your life when you have to address your drawers. "Oh, pants!" I hear you say. No, not your granny bloomers. The drawers and cupboards into which you have stashed the flotsam and jetsam of the past thirty odd years. Stashed, I have to say, in no particular order. It is partly one's own schtuff, but it is greatly augmented by that which one's dearest off-sprung have left behind when they vacated the family nest with a jaunty, "Can you just hang on to that, Mum?"

Well, let me tell you, this Mum has done with hanging on to things. Recent goings on upstairs (of the decorating kind) have necessitated going under the bed in the middle bedroom. I was under there three days. Came back out with a mouthful of fluff, a ceremonial sword, a musket, and a pair of exercise dumb bells (damn useful). Oh yes, and a million CDs and DVDs.

We no longer have a CD or a DVD player  because we are totally reliant on the internet now. Whoopty-doo. So I have been sorting through the collection... half of which belong to my lovely children.  I have been bundling them up, along with other sundries: my daughter's first shoe, my son's year 8 Project on the paranormal. Do you know, it contains a playable tape of his 12 year old self interviewing David Mandell, the psychic painter? Fancy that?

I just know they are going to enjoy receiving these unexpected gifts. Their faces will light up with pleasure and gratitude.
I am so convinced of this that I will ring their doorbell, put down the box of delights, and run like hell.

A box of goodies is coming your way...

If I hadn't cleaned my roof today....

I am not what you would call a house-proud individual. Not one of those women who live in chocolate box picture perfection. Not bothered about a bit of dust here, or the odd pile of bric a brac in the corner. So it came as a bit of a surprise to discover that having a dirty roof bothered me. Yes, a dirty roof. For the past couple of years the natural red terracotta tiles have become discoloured. Probably polluted by all those fashionable wood-burning stoves and diesel-driven cars that are turning fresh air into a toxic inhalant. As a result, the roof was making the exterior of the house look sad and underloved. It is probably ten years since we last painted the outside of the house, so it is on the agenda.  It had occurred to us that with a roof looking so woe-begone, no amount of white paint on the rendering below, would produce the up-lift we were looking for.

This morning our local roofing company undertook to pressure-wash our tiles. Weigh-in day for me meant I had to leave them to it. However, the responsibility of having two men on my roof weighed heavily, so to speak, and I returned early to make them coffee and reassure them with my presence.
(I have, I might say, a very reassuring presence. I cheer on from the side-lines, provide liquid refreshment, and take photos; thereby  proving that I am available to ring emergency services at the first glimpse of a falling body.)

When the doorbell rang, I saw a nippy little sports car pulled up outside and a very glamorous lady standing in front of me. I immediately assumed that she had stopped to ask the name of the company who was doing such a marvellous job on my roof. But no, this was Heather who was calling in on the off-chance of finding me at home, as our phone number had changed. We hadn't seen each other for ten years, but had attended the Guildhall of Music and Drama together in the seventies. While she parked the car safely, I swiftly gathered up drying underwear festooned on the radiators, and did a ten second sweep.

As I said previously, I am not a house-proud woman, but I held my head high as I am embraced this dear friend, knowing that, at least, the roof above our heads, was immaculate.

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Swallowing the hype of supplements ...

They are huge. They have sat on the shelf for a year now, rebuking me. Yes, I invested in Glucosamine. Not just your bog-standard glucosamine, but Glucosamine Gold. This was going to transform me. Make me lithe and limber. Make my coat glossy. Maybe not, but at least put a spring in my step. But they are huge. Did I mention that? Suddenly it all came back to me why I had bought and failed to take them years ago.
I put one on the kitchen worktop.
"Jeez, what the hell is that?" asked Dearest.
"A glucosamine pill," I replied.
"You're not going to swallow it, are you?"
"What do you suggest I do with it?"
Why do we ask questions to which there is only one predictable reply? However, suffice to say, that both of us imagine, and I do stress the word imagine that it would be easier to take as a suppository. But we Brits are squeamish about such things and so I had to proceed with Plan A.
I cut one in half. Oh, the jaggedness of two pieces was dreadful. So I dug out my mortar and pestle and tried pulverising the pill into a powder. I succeeded only in producing a substance that resembled fine gravel and was as difficult to swallow as throwing down a handful of pebbledash. There was nothing left. I had to take the pill whole. Standing up with a mugful of water I swallowed hard.
Job done. No problem. All a state of mind. I have to take them, apparently, three times a day after meals.
All I need now is some Gingko to help me remember to take them.