So here's the thing. I'm getting on a bit. I imagine you're already aware of that if you've read any of my blogs. But I'm now closer to seventy than I am to sixty and that seems like a really big gulf. At sixty you can still just about kid yourself you're in late (albeit very late) middle age, but seventy undeniably comes into the realms of 'old', so time to assess the situation. The wonderful Sir Thomas Beecham once said we should all 'try everything once, except incest and folk dancing', and I'm so with him on that one. But I haven't tried everything. Not by a long chalk. And it's hard to come to terms with the fact that I probably never will now.
Heaven knows, I've given it a decent shot. The point is, have I tried hard enough? There must be lots of things I'd have enjoyed, if only I'd got round to them. On the other hand, there are those things that were just not for me, so I chose to pass them by. I've never tried swinging, for example. And I'm referring here to the habit of sexual experimention amongst bored suburbanites, not the gentle pastime of children. I've done that one and I liked it. But the thought of sitting in somebody's lounge, eating nibbles and making small talk about the bin collections until it's time to indulge in a little light S and M with the man from number thirtyfive holds no attraction. It strikes me as a situation ripe with pitfalls. How do you meet the eye of a chap you last saw in nothing but thigh length pvc boots if you bump into him in the butchers when you're buying a pound of sausages? Though I can see the attraction of all those opportunities to have a good look round other people's houses and judge their taste in headboards. But it's not enough.
There's a current fashion for making a 'Bucket List' of all the things you want to do before falling into the grave's welcoming embrace, but I've never been a list maker, preferring my life to have a more haphazard feel. Regimentation's not attractive to me. But maybe that's my problem and I haven't been organised enough, thus frittering away time when a tighter schedule would have allowed for fitting in more stuff. Then I might have learned to speak Japanese instead of wandering round town with a friend, trying on stupid hats to make each other laugh. Or I could have mastered the art of the souffle in the time I squandered lying in the bath with a fag and a glass of Rioja.
'Did these things make you feel happy and fulfilled?' I hear you ask, doubtfully.
'You bet they did,' I reply, enthusiastically.
But I can hardly trot them out as achievments when in company and other people are going on about how they climbed Kilimanjaro or set up an orphanage in Romania. You see? Not in the same league.
It must have been easier a few generations back when there wasn't so much on offer. When your only choice, as a woman, was obedient domestic drudgery or popping out to march about with placards, singing a catchy tune with all those lovely suffragettes, and hurling bricks through the windows of politicians I'd have gone for the hurling everytime, and now I'd be a sepia tinted legend to my great, great grandchildren. I did once stand outside Tesco's, in a sparse group turning blue with cold, protesting against excess packaging. That was few years back and I'd have to say, on current evidence, it was a futile cause. On the bright side, my then husband was outraged by my behaviour. So not all bad and well worth a mild dose of hypothermia. I just don't think it'll get me a mention in the annals of history.
But now there's so much on offer we're spoilt for choice. Which brings me back to wondering about the things I might like to do before the very last grain of my sands of time falls into the bottom bit of my hourglass of life, apart from boil an egg. I suppose I could go for an extension of the things that I can already do and enjoy. Such as riding my bike. Now don't go getting the idea that I tootle about on a sit-up-and-beg, with a whicker basket on the front, like a character out of a Miss Marple story. Oh no, no, no. I have a snazzy little racer and I take no prisoners. I've covered a fair bit of the British Isles on two wheels in my time, and pedalled in foreign parts, but nowhere that falls into the adventurous category... unless you count Trafalgar Square in the rush hour. So maybe that should go on the list of possibilities.
But please don't spoil it by suggesting it would be even better if I cycled The Great Wall of China, or wherever, to raise money for kittens with sore paws, or some such good cause. That'll just make me cross. I get very fed-up with people who disguise self-indulgence under the cloak of doing good. Not that I'm against charity. That would be silly. But don't try and make out you're doing something altruistic by cycling the Nile, or trekking over the Savannah when you know damned well it's what you'd been dying to do in the first place. The rest of us call that 'taking a holiday.' If you want to benefit a charity then give them some money. Oh, and don't do charity runs in a stupid costume. That's just shouting, 'Look at me, aren't I a great?' and that's not the point. I know, I'm a dreadful old cynic. Rant over.
Or maybe I could re-train to do something useful. It would have to be something where there's a severe shortage at present or a woman of my years won't stand a chance. How about thatching? I'm given to believe there's a scarcity of people capable of performing this once commonplace trade, and it coincides with a re-invigorated interest in the country idyll. Poor Jacinta and Jolyon will be casting about to find an authentic old artisan to put an authentic old roof on the their charmingly quirky oast house, and find themselves on a list that'll have them waiting till the newly born Cosimo is at Eton. Panickykins! And this is where I'd come in. By training up the likes of me, still nippy and in need of additional income, the problem would be solved at a stroke (probably shouldn't mention strokes, could be tempting fate) and the the middle classes could breathe a sigh of relief, and sip their Chablis safe in the security of the roof over their air-filled heads. And I'd get to work alongside horny handed sons of toil, which might be fun.
A friend and I have an idea for a show we'd like to put on at the Edinburgh Fringe, but the cost of being part of the biggest arts festival in the world is phenomenal and we fear destitution would ensue. We've pretty much abandoned the idea, but there's still a part of me saying we should take the plunge and to hell with the consequences. And yes, we'd undoubtedly be performing to a lot of empty seats in a stupid timeslot at a tiny venue, and some bastard of a reviewer would write something on the lines of 'these women are misguided in believeing this show has any merit whatsoever. And one of them is very old.' And yes, the novelty of being part of the thrill of it all would probably wear off and I'd end up punching someone who refused my flyer. And yes, I expect we'd spend the last week on an inevitably rain-soaked Royal Mile trying to give away tickets because the echo of our own voices has started to make us cry. But we'd have done it!
Which brings me back to the start. Time's getting short. Indeed, it's getting shorter as I write this, and I'm no nearer to knowing what it is I really want to do to make these twilight years as sunny as possible. I only know that life is short so if I want to be the oldest ballet dancer in the world, or become a crofter in the Hebrides, I've got to get a move on. I know, I'll run a bath and pour a glass of Rioja. I always think better in the bath. I wonder how long it takes to learn to play the trombone, or....?
Thanks for reading my blog. If you enjoyed it please feel free to share. Thanks.
