23. Deck The Halls With Boughs Of Cynical Commercialism...And A Bit Of Tinsel.

'And so this is Christmas, and what have we done?' as I believe a Beatle once asked. What d'you reckon? Right now, what strikes me, is the fact that the Capitalist system has spent it's time coming up with the usual festive fayre of hideous adverts. You'd think they could find better causes to put their cash into, wouldn't you?

Do they honestly think we'll all be won over by cynical exploitations of  WW1, stage school kids, unrealistic family tableaux and those fucking penguins. I wonder if John Lewis have thought about all the children who won't even have a bloody tree, never mind anything underneath it, feathered or otherwise?

The ones that really get me are the ones showing some smiley woman, hair and make-up perfect, serving a golden turkey on a table gloriously set with six different vegetables and classy decorations, surrounded by a beaming, appreciative family. You'll make yourself unhappy trying to live up to it. I don't care how careful your preparations are, it's NEVER like that. At the very least your gravy goes lumpy, and one of the kids is being sick having OD'd on chocolate. Sometimes, the whole damn thing's a shambles and enough to wipe the smile off any sweaty, dishevelled, stressed out domestic goddesses face. It doesn't matter! And why aren't there more men in these ads, showing us their perfectly al dente sprouts? Women aren't just for Christmas.

This year I've been advocating small, local businesses and artisans. These are the shops and people that make our communities unique and interesting....and are disappearing fast, leaving us the poorer. Having decided to put my money where my mouth is, I've found this year's Christmas shopping a really lovely experience and, perhaps surprisingly, a hell of a lot simpler. It was so nice to be able to chat to the people selling me their goods. When your shop is your livelihood you care what your customers think.

Stand in any city centre and you'll see all the same shop fronts that you'll encounter in every city, the length and breadth of the country. Go through their doors and you'll find all the same stuff as in the one next  to it. You'll end up overwhelmed, bewildered and too tired to think straight. Go into a small, family run local shop and, the choice may be smaller, but I can guarantee it'll be a lot more interesting and it's much easier to focus when you're not so distracted. And you might just go away with something a bit special. Oh, and you/re less likely to get throat slammed by someone grabbing the last Barbie in the shop.

And it's not just gifts. It's great for food too. And I know the usual argument, that small shops are more expensive, and of course I'm sympathetic to that view. But it's not always the case. A local  butcher will happily sell you one chop or two sausages, and you might even get a chat and a laugh thrown in with your mince. They'll value your custom and want you to come back, so they'll be nice to you. In the supermarket you're offered those nasty, polystyrene trays containing the amount they've decided you should want, regardless of your needs. And an added bonus of the little shop is that you avoid the insidious lure of a stroll round the supermarket shelves, buying things you didn't go in for and don't need. See, it actually saves money.

I even sought out a local, independent wine merchant who spent as much time and trouble helping me choose a couple of bottles of plonk as if I was ordering crates of vintage. It was fun, unlike grabbing stuff off a shelf. And he didn't give me any shit about 'hints of self loathing with finishing notes of mortified tears.' He just told me what tasted nice.

I know, people are busy, There isn't always time to go from shop to shop. I'm just saying it's an option, and a pretty good one.

I'm not going to bang on about how, when I was a kid, we'd crawl down our icy beds to find a darned sock with a tangerine in the toe before having to riddle the grate and fettle the pots and all our other mysterious, working-class rituals......'but we were 'appy.' I'm no Scrooge. I'm up for some over indulgence, as much as the next sybarite.

I really do like Christmas. I'm content to leave the religious aspects to those who believe in them, but I have a lifelong desire for fairy lights, enjoy trying to consume my own body weight in mince pies and I like drinking Baileys, which I only ever do at Christmas. I have no idea why. For me, Christmas is a sparkly little oasis in the darkest time of winter.

I love having family and friends cluttering up the house, and a Christmas tree with parcels underneath. Basically, I like all the superficial stuff. I'm a deeply shallow person.

But I don't like the corporate world, and its blatant, insulting attempts to add yet another lining to it's already over-stuffed pockets, at our expense. We're not all easily duped consumer junkies. I think most people are aware that a lot of advertising is just lying, wrapped up in pretty colours. Of course that face cream won't bestow youth and beauty, that crappy cereal can't make you fit and healthy and using that washing powder doesn't make you mother of the year. We know. We're not dim. We'll buy what we can afford and what we've found, from experience, does the job. So why do they bother?

Sainsbury's try to justify that awful ad by saying a percentage of the profits go to the British Legion.
I don't know how much the whole thing cost to make, but it looks expensive. Couldn't they just have donated that money directly to veterans charities and saved us the squirming embarrassment of watching their mis-judged marketing ploy and its sanitised version of a terrible war. All they really care about is selling more mince pies and Cava. If they can't be tasteful they could at least try being honest. But maybe that's asking just a bit too much.

Happy Christmas!!


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22. Death and the Matron

I recently signed a petition in favour of Assisted Dying. Not that I'm thinking of going just yet mind, but I have thought about how I'd like to go, which is why I decided it was a good idea.

Anybody feeling a bit uncomfortable? I hope not. That's not my intention, but we're all going to go. You'd have to agree with that, right? And when you get to a certain age you are sort of forced to confront the fact. And I have, and I'm reasonably alright with it.

That's because I'm old.

A year or so ago I heard about a death that caused me so much sadness that words are inadequate. I don't think I, or anybody else, should be sanguine about death and especially not when it's the death of someone young. In this case she was not only very young but talented, and using her abilities for the good of her fellow man/woman. She was much loved by a close family, comprising her wonderful parents and equally lovely sisters. A young man adored her, and she him. She was happy and loved life. She was one of the good additions to our tiny, inconsequential planet. And she died, tragically and suddenly, to be much missed by oh so many who had reason to be grateful for her short existence. I wasn't alright with that.

The young, and the very young die every day, due to illness, accidents or acts of violence and none of them are alright.

But I'm old. I've had a good go. Sure, I'd like a few more years. It's not that I'm keen to rush off. But whenever the inevitable happens it'll be no great cause for either surprise or anguish.

It's the way I go that concerns me. The cliche is that we all want to die peacefully, in our own bed. I can see the appeal of that one, but I'm not specifically aiming for it. There are more interesting options. I'd prefer it not to be one of the violent ones, but were I to be snuffed out whilst in the company of loved ones, eating, drinking and laughing my head off, then that'd have to be the favourite. Admittedly, it might put a bit of a damper on the occasion for my fellow diners. Having an old woman suddenly keel over into her linguine might take the edge off their appetites but, honestly, if they felt able to stick me under the table and finish the food and booze before dealing with my remains I'd be all in favour of it.

And that's another thing. As to what happens to those aforementioned mortal remains, I care not a jot. My only stipulation is that disposal costs as little as possible. I'd be content with landfill. Why should I care? I won't be there. I'll just leave some money in my will for all my nearest and dearest to have a knees up. That's the only memorial I need.

If they happened to play Kirsty McColl singing 'In These Shoes?' that'd be nice. But they don't have to.

They can fight it out amongst themselves over my stuff. If anyone really wants a pile of old tat they're welcome to it.

Back to my demise. I'd really love a spectacular end, something on the lines of being discovered in a drugs den in the arms of my much younger lover, but I've got to be realistic. As the nearest I get to drugs these days is a couple of codeine when my dicky hip's playing up that scenario's really unlikely.

Another possibility is that I'll succumb to a dread disease, or just become enfeebled by age, and this is where I start to get a bit anxious.

I see it much in the same light as being stuck at some dreary party. If I'm not having fun then I don't want to stick around. Call me a cab and I'm out of there.

Is that selfish? I'm not sure. I don't deliberately want to upset anyone who cares about me but it's my life so I reckon it's largely my affair.

I sincerely hope that if, for some reason, I'm not able to administer the fatal dose myself, then a kindly hand might intervene and assist me to my much desired repose.  My innately independent nature dictates that I'd far rather deal with the matter myself. I don't want to burden anyone else with it, especially if there's a chance they'll get slung into penal servitude as a result. But if I've been rendered helpless it'd be a comfort to know that someone's going to take care of it for me.

Or, at the very least, don't keep me going when there's really no good reason to. Just because we have the technology and medication it doesn't mean we have to use it.

Naturally, I've heard all the arguments against euthanasia and of course we have to protect the disabled and the demented. I don't want anyone going when they don't want to. And I'm a tremendous advocate of the theory that we're not all supposed to be the same in the first place. I'm all for variety. Anyone who doesn't embrace diversity has to be half dead already in my book.

I have 'disabled' friends who are living fuller, happier and more purposeful lives than many of the able-bodied wastes of a skin that have crossed my path. I'm very much talking individual choice here. And I reckon that's a human right.

I think we all know it already happens, but the caring souls who currently assist the suffering out of their misery put themselves at risk. So I signed that petition. And I hope it prompts this clever, amazing world, where we can now routinely cure diseases that were once inevitably fatal, and improve the quality of life of so many with ever-developing drugs, to acknowledge that there are times to step back from trying to prolong life and help it to end, gently and with love.


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21. The Very Famous Person And Me.

I'm not normally given to boasting but I once went out with a Very Famous Person.

Indeed I did.

And we're not talking just a bit famous. I don't mean like someone who's been in Eastenders a few times, or made a twat of themselves on a reality show. Not that sort of famous. Oh golly gosh no. I mean really, properly, big time famous. You know people like Bob Dylan and David Beckham and Dame Judy Dench and Bart Simpson? Well I'm talking that level of famous (but it wasn't any of them, obviously). What we're dealing with here is serious, fuck-me fame and a name that's recognised all over the globe.

Hell yes. THAT famous.

However, he wasn't famous when I had my date with him.

It was a long, long time ago and we were both very young. The honest truth is that I thought he was punching a tad above his weight, going out with a girl like me, but he was quite cute and beginning to attract attention locally, so I thought I could spare him an evening of my time and allow him to bask in my fabulous company.

Our trysting place was the local cinema. My choice. I wanted to go somewhere dark because I preferred not to be spotted with this disreputable looking guy. I was a nice girl. I would later become quite a mucky girl, and being seen with louche looking blokes would be my main aim in life, but I was still in my priggish stage at this point.

We sat on the back row and went through the predictable routine of the date, as prescribed by teenage behaviour in the early sixties. We held hands, ate a choc-ice, had a bit of a snog followed by some unseemly tussling over my blouse buttons and eventually stumbled out in to the night, wondering what the hell the film had been about. He saw me to my bus top, asked if I'd like to repeat the experience the following week, I said I thought not and that was that. We'd still saw each other around. We'd smile and exchange a bit of badinage, but nothing more. That was my relationship with a VFP, in a nutshell.

And then he got famous. Very, very famous indeed. And rich. Hugely rich. And I didn't. Fame and wealth have both given me a wide berth.

And do I care? OF COURSE I DO!

At least, I do a bit....sometimes.

You don't honestly imagine I've never lain awake at night, wondering how differently it might all have turned out if I hadn't put up a fight over my blouse buttons, if I'd gone on another date, and another and another? Would it have been me on his arm in all those news clips, instead of some skinny blonde? Would it have been my wedding dress that made the front page of the newspapers? Could it have been me revelling in all that money, those houses, the private planes, that STUFF? Probably not, actually. I doubt we were sufficiently compatible to survive the stresses and strains of being constantly under observation. And the tabloids would have said hurtful things about my dumpy little legs. And some bastard of a PR man would have advised the VFP to dump the DLN (Dreary Little Nobody) and that would have been me, cast aside. And then I'd have soothed my bruised ego with drink and drugs and promiscuous sex....so not much different to life as it turned out anyway.

Actually, he was a rubbish kisser so I'd probably have kicked him into touch first.

But yes, I've had an occasional little pang about it, over the years, as must loads of us who had dates with Very Famous People before they became household names, worldwide. Yet, at the time, I took it completely in my stride. I was much too busy just being young and having fun to waste my time on what might have been. If he hadn't gone on to become a superstar I'd probably have forgotten him completely.

I have seen him again, face to face. The nature of my job meant that our paths crossed, briefly, a couple of times. And was there a flicker of recognition in his eyes, as memories of the night his heart was broken forever by the girl who turned him down came flooding back? No, of course not. The teenage dollybird, with the firmly buttoned blouse, was long gone. We were just two ageing people (I noted he was using more hair dye than I was) being polite to each other, as protocol demanded, before moving on. There may have been a fleeting moment when I wanted to point at his receding back and shriek to the assembled throng, 'He snogged me! He did! I've had his tongue down my throat!' But I didn't.

And I had moved on, after that unsatisfactory date, to have my blouse, and my mind, opened by men I'd found a lot more exciting and interesting than the VFP.

There have been similarities in our lives. We've both had a couple of marriages, the good and the bad. We both have children we adore and, generally speaking, have weathered some downs along with the ups, and sailed at last into calm and contented waters. Admittedly, his downs made national news and and were held up to public scrutiny, whereas mine caused no more than mild local interest and a bit of gossip in the supermarket queue, but that's the price of fame. I wouldn't want to pay it.

I like being able to nip out for a pint of milk, in the tee shirt I've slept in, with a bit of toast stuck to my face without the paparazzi taking snaps from behind the bins.

My life now is good and I am a happy person. Can you quantify happiness? Are there degrees of it? I tend to believe not. If you're happy you're happy. And I am. I have a nice life full of lovely people doing things that I enjoy. I'm very fortunate and I know it. Could I have been happier with the VFP? I don't think so. I found a man I love and who loves me too.  And he's one hell of a good kisser. No contest.


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20. Bikes, Booze and Bon Homie

I'm a cyclist. I know, nothing to show off about. Just saying.

However, I want to make a subtle distinction here, between being a cyclist and someone who rides a bike, because I think there is one.

A cyclist cycles as often as possible, all over the place and in all weathers. To my mind a bike rider is someone who keeps a bike in the shed and takes it for a tootle or two, usually in the summer months, before popping it back again, and using the handlebars to hang things on till next year. Nothing wrong with that, I just don't think they're cyclists. Feel free to argue.

I cycle. I've always cycled. I do it because I love it. Simple as that. I didn't start out, seventy  years ago, thinking it was a way to save the planet, save me money or even keep me fit. I just thought it was a fun thing to do. So I kept on doing it. And I still do which, apparently, means I'm now a bit of an anomaly. Women cyclists, over sixty are, according to a recent survey, a tiny minority. This came as a surprise to me, as I seem to see plenty of older women out there when I'm taking a spin, but I suppose cleverer people than me collate all the statistics, so I'm in no position to bicker. But now I feel like an almost extinct species. Maybe someone should slap a preservation order on me.

But, if we are a dying breed, I'd like to try and change what might be few adverse mind-sets concerning cycling. Let's start with the loathsome Lycra. I have cycled the length and breadth of the British Isles and pushed my pedals around foreign climes as well. I have never felt the need to wear Lycra. It's not a necessity. People were cycling long before Lycra came on the scene. I don't fancy it. I suspect it makes things a bit stuffy in the nether regions, and nobody wants crotch-rot. You need cool stuff when it's hot, warm when it's cold and waterproof when it rains. Exactly. You knew that. The main thing, especially in Britain, where the infra-structure provided for cyclists is negligible, is to make yourself seen. Thus high-visibility is the name of the game, and nowadays you can find some quite natty little numbers in the way of fluorescent tops and jackets. As for helmets, I've never worn one and never will. If you doubt the sanity of my choice please read 'Why it makes sense to bike without a helmet.' www.howiechong.com which says exactly what I think, but a lot better than I can do it. Basically, you're more likely to receive a life threatening injury if you're in a car or if you're pedestrian than on your bike.

On the other hand, if you venture to a country that treats the cyclist as having equal, if not greater, value than other road users, all this sort of stuff becomes superfluous. Cycling in Amsterdam, or anywhere in the Netherlands, is bliss. If you rode through Amsterdam in a helmet and Lycra they would point and snigger at you. Everybody cycles. It's a way of life. No special preparation is required. People ride to work in their work clothes, whatever they may be. Women in suits and high heels with their brief cases in the basket on the front ride alongside those in overalls, uniforms or whatever. All the kids cycle to school. Whole families travel together, with wonderful 'wheel barrow' attachments on the front to carry those too little to ride. In the evenings everyone's still out there, dressed up for whatever the occasion, be it dinner or dancing. I once rode through the park in the middle of Amsterdam behind an elderly lady in a beautiful, full length evening gown, She didn't prompt a second glance. And because Amsterdamian cyclists favour lovely big, sturdy three-speed bikes with fully encasing chain guards you're not worried about your hem getting caught. It's very liberating. Of course, all this is aided by the fact that the country is largely flat and the cyclist is regarded as king, with perfectly surfaced, wide cycle lanes everywhere you go. I love Amsterdam, for lots of reasons. We don't need to go into all of them here.

 Of the many places I have cycled, I think Britain is one of the least 'bike friendly.'

That's not to say the general population are unfriendly towards those of on two wheels, not at all. Just our roads. And this is where I come to the real joys of travelling by bike. I think one of my favourite cycling holidays is the one we spent zig-zagging across Southern Ireland. As usual, we had a good map and a rough route planned but nothing more than that, just relying on finding a B & B at the end of each day. This might sound a tad risky, but my husband likes to adopt the approach that, if you don't have a plan, it can't go wrong. This has stood us in good stead so far and we've never actually ended up sleeping under a hedge. Come close, slept in some funny establishments, but always been fine and it all adds to the adventure. There was one place where we sat up all night, because the landlord had the demeanour of a serial killer, and may well have been, but he did a cracking breakfast so I could forgive him a lot. 

I think the people of Southern Ireland are the warmest and friendliest we've encountered anywhere.
We couldn't pause without passers-by stopping to chat. Even on a remote country road a passing farmer on a tractor came to a halt to ask where we were heading, and then suggesting things we should see when we got there, which we'd never had known about otherwise. We were a constant source of interest to people, in the nicest possible way, and we met with amazing kindness. Mending a puncture, in the middle of nowhere, a motorist stopped to see if he could help, found we were fine, but insisted on giving us his 'phone number '....just in case you're ever stuck anywhere,' and saying he'd always be happy to come out with his trailer to pick us up. He then gave us a bar of chocolate and went off with a wave.

Arriving at one B & B, situated deep in the countryside, we asked the landlady if there was a pub or anything in the area where we might get some dinner. She told us there was nothing for miles and, as it would be dark before we got back and the roads were unlit, we really shouldn't attempt it. We travel with a few snacks in our panniers, ready for such emergencies, so were unconcerned and went off to our room. Half an hour later there was a knock on the door. The landlady told us she'd put a, '...few bits and pieces...' on the table on the terrace. We went down to find this table, overlooking her extensive garden, on a glorious summer evening, laden with fresh salmon, some cheeses and butter from her neighbours' farm and her own bread and pickles. This feast was completed by homemade yoghurt with strawberries and raspberries from the garden.  Next morning, despite our lengthy protestations, she refused to take anything other than the agreed bed and breakfast price. This same lady had told me, almost apologetically, that she'd,...'only had the eight children.' Only! Blimey! I was too ashamed to mention my pathetic effort of three.

People were prepared to go to endless trouble for us. Arriving at one place, to find it already full, the lovely lady who ran it said she'd ring round and see if she could sort somewhere for us. After several calls she told us that a couple who had a cottage a couple of miles away, who didn't actually do B & B but had a spare room, would take us. We were met by the man of the house who asked how far we'd come that day. We told him we'd covered about fifty miles, whereupon he slapped us both on the back, declared, 'Fair play to you!' and insisted we join him and his wife in the kitchen for whisky and scones, warm from the oven. Then he took us to the local pub, where he was a penny whistle player of some repute, and we had an amazing night. Next morning we mounted our bikes in a fragile state, but it had been well worth it.

Stopping in a tiny village, to check our map, a couple out walking their dog wandered over to ask the now familiar questions and on learning our destination for the day announced they had relatives there, who were also keen cyclists, and would be happy to have us. They marked the route to the house and assured us they'd be expecting us. We were doubtful, but duly made our way to the address. Sure enough, we were greeted like old friends, and even included in a visit to neighbours later that evening. These people became real friends who we are still in touch with.

I seriously doubt if any of these joyous encounters would have occurred if we'd been on an organised trip, travelling by car, immune to the world and people around us. We did once take a more luxurious holiday, cycling with a group to pre-arranged hotels and with a van to carry our luggage ahead of us, and it was a lot of fun. We were in France, travelling through the glorious Loire Valley, and there were many highlights. I well recall riding through fields of sunflowers, stopping at vineyards to sample the wine, and getting to know our fellow cyclists, who were from all over the world, as we shared wonderful food in the evenings. It was a lovely experience, but it lacked that sense of adventure that the 'do it yourself' holiday has.

And I love city cycling. I think it's the best way to discover all those little alleyways that the main traffic can't explore. The shortcuts and dodges that make you the envy of the traffic-jam bound motorists. I always travelled to work on my bike. It livened me up in the morning and relaxed me on my way home again.

There's so much more that could be said about cycling. We all know that there are those, jumping the lights and riding on pavements, that get the rest of us a bad name but, honestly, they're the minority. Most of us just want to be loved, like the next needy git, so we do it by the rules and hope that you, behind the wheel, will too.

Some people try and tell me it's a dangerous pursuit, especially the city thing. But that's rot, isn't it?
Everything's a risk. From the moment you take your first breath. Does that mean we should merely exist, rather than live? You could stay cocooned in your own house and still trip at the top of the stairs and break your neck. Better, surely, to go doing something you love. Personally, I'm still holding out for a peaceful demise, in my own bed and, preferably, after an excellent dinner, plenty of decent red wine and, to be honest, a spot off sex would finish it off a treat (See previous blogs. Old people have sex. Get over it! You should be glad. You'll be old yourself one day. Think on.). Failing that, I can think of no better way than bowling along on my bike when some twat of a pantechnicon driver, taking a left turn, fails to see me in his mirror and splat, that's me. At least you'd know I'd gone with a smile on my face. I'd prefer that to a lot of the alternative options.

There's so much more I could say about cycling. I could do a whole article on the art of packing your panniers so you have clean clothes every day for a fortnight. It can be done. The tight roll is the secret. You'd be amazed just how much stuff you can get into a small space if you have the knack.

But I'll settle for saying that if you fancy it then give it a go. You might enjoy it, regardless of how old, or young, you happen to be. I'm no fitness fanatic. I do loads of things that are, supposedly, bad for me. I don't see the point of prolonging your life if you're not having any fun. But I find cycling is a great hangover cure, a good way of relieving tension after a row, gives you time to think when you need it and generates a nice feeling of camaraderie with other cyclists. These are good things.

Whenever I straddle my old friend (My bike! you know perfectly well I meant my bike!!) I have an immediate sense of pleasure at the adventure ahead. And ok, so I don't much like hills anymore, but you can always get off and walk for a bit, and that's nice too. No shame in it. Go on, two wheels are the way forward. You know it makes sense. Ding, ding!





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19. Hygiene, Health and the Genius of George Orwell

Do you think we're maybe a tad too worried about cleanliness these days?

So do I.

I was wandering the aisles of my local supermarket the other day and suddenly felt quite overwhelmed by the vast array of stuff on the shelves that was dedicated to rendering something or other free of germs and/or grime. And those two words, germs and grime, loomed large, being featured on ever such a lot of the products displayed. They're quite scary words, aren't they? Take germs. Germs bring fever and pestilence upon the face of the earth. We must be ever vigilant to eradicate them, or we will fail our families and all those dependent upon us for their health and
well being. If we do not scrub and cleanse till our fingers bleed who knows what terrors we will expose them to.

And, personally, I don't know. Here, in the Western world, we seem to have been pretty much free of plagues for a fair old time now. When's the last time you met someone with a boil? Thought not.

But I tend to give the credit for this happy state of affairs to the amazing advances of those clever people engaged in medical science. We are inoculated against all manner of dread diseases. We are, by and large, well nourished equipping us to fend off infections. There are drugs in abundance to protect us from all kinds of horrors. I'm not convinced that splashing about with something that'll take the skin off your hands if you forget to don your Marigolds is going to make much difference.

Don't misunderstand me. I like a clean and fragrant home as much as the next tardy slut, but I have better things to do with my time and.....equally importantly....my  money than devote much of either to the sort of specialist cleaning regimes that those shelves full of packets and bottles and aerosols suggest are necessary to keep us safe from harm.

Personally, I find that a bucket of warm water and a good squeeze of washing-up liquid will deal with pretty much anything very effectively. And here I'm going to give you a little extra tip. You're welcome.

You know when you get a build up of product on your hair? Oh, and that's another thing. Why do bloody hairdressers always  say 'product', singular? Surely it's a build up of 'products' isn't it? But anyway, when your hair gets so clogged with the overpriced gunge they persuade us we all need in order to give us the sort of shiny, flicky hair they have in the adverts (which are all CGI'd, so it's never going to happen anyway) and you just can't get it squeaky clean, then washing it with a squirt of Fairy, or similar, will strip it all out and return it to its virgin form. If only all things in life were that simple.

I got that little tip from the lips of a very high class hairdresser who assured me all the best salons use it. They don't tell you, of course. Nobody's going to be fool enough to pay an extra tenner for the stuff they soak their frying pan in. No. You get told it's another miracle 'product'. That's marketing for you. Don't be sucked in.

And grime. That's another of those frighteningly evocative words. Grime is loads worse than dirt. Dirt is as nothing as compared to grime. But I'm really not sure that many of us are encountering grime on a day to day basis anymore. If your husband was going down the mines and coming home, head to foot in sweat and a thick layer of gritty, black dust I doubt I'd describe him as a bit mucky. I'd acknowledge that he was grimy. But the Western world's not engaged in nearly so much dirty work anymore, and the mines that remain have showers on site so the grime doesn't get as far as the domestic hearth.

Grime is deeply embedded. Grime befouls. The dictionary says so. Now, I don't know about you, but I can't honestly say that I often feel befouled. And nobody's ever described my home as such, either. They've probably said other uncomplimentary things about it. But befouled? Never. I think most of us are safe from befouling. But if you read the blurb on even half those items on the shelves you'd think the country was in the grip of a befouling epidemic. Grime, they cry, in a voice of horror and warning, is everywhere. And I'm here to tell you it isn't.

Which brings us to the thorny problem of personal hygiene. Those other shelves, the ones with the soaps and shower gels and hair PRODUCTS with an S, take note, and deodorants are equally stacked to the rafters with stuff designed to part us from our money to allay the terrible fear that we might in some way offend with our bodily odours.

I don't want you worrying that I'm one of those freaks that think we should all revert to nature and go about liberally coated in all our natural secretions. I've no doubt that nature knows what it's about and those emissions are there for a damned good reason. But it's much too late to expect society, as a whole, to go back to the good old days of sewing ourselves into our under garments in the winter and never submerging yourself in water for fear of weakening the body. We all recoil from the stale odours that sometimes assail us in crowded places, because we're no longer used to them. But do we really need so many different sorts of cleansers to send us out into the world fresh and delightful? Of course not.

A bar of soap, warm water, a dab of deodorant and maybe something moisturising is perfectly adequate. But I know people who slather themselves in so much grease and gunge that, every time they take a shower, the local RSPB are having to hose down the seagulls.

Don't be drawn in, people. You know it's just those bastards in marketing trying to mess with our minds. Advertising is the scourge of the modern world. We don't need to be told what we want and need. We have brains. We can work it out for ourselves. You know it makes sense. The wonderful George Orwell said, 'Marketing is the rattling of a stick in a swill bucket.' He knew a thing or two, did old George.

I've been around for a while now, and I don't want to go back to a time when my mother's entire life revolved around keeping her home and family clean. It was her obsession. And, to be fair, that of her friends and neighbours. Her life was regimented by domestic duties. I saw how the arrival of the vacuum cleaner, revealing in one, short session a pattern on the carpet that her many hours of sweeping with a brush had failed to maintain, revolutionised the lot of the housewife. How putting dirty clothes into a washing machine freed up an entire day of the week. Things that make it easier are good.

Let's not take a backward step, and imagine that if we're not continuously fighting against grease, limescale, ground-in dirt, understains (anyone remember that 'ad about 'understains'?  WTF?!) and the like, that we're lesser human beings. That we're failing in some way. We're not. We have lives to live.

Make use of the powders that make washing clothes so much more effective than rubbing and scrubbing by hand ever could. But don't start imagining you need different ones for different washes, or those horrid, slimy conditioners or other additives. They're a waste of money.

 Get an all-purpose spray for cleaning the kitchen and one for the bathroom. Possibly, the same one. If you read the ingredients they're pretty much the same thing anyway.

Give the money you save to a third world country charity, to provide running drinking water for the inhabitants, never mind the means to have two fucking showers a day!

And by the way, a wodge of old newspaper will polish up your windows better than any specially designed, over priced, miracle ultra-fibre cloth, available at a ludicrous price, will ever do. So there.


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18. Charity, Cardigans and Crystal Meth.

Hello there!

I haven't written one of these for ages. Not since we moved house, in fact.

It went very well, thanks for asking.

And now we're nicely settled into our bijou new home. We've explored the surrounding area and got to know the neighbours. It's all good and we're well pleased with our choice. We didn't even have to do much to the house, which was a delight in itself. There was no 'feature wall' to be obliterated with thirty two coats of emulsion and we didn't find any patches of strange mould that been hidden behind a wardrobe or anything like that. The previous occupants had left everything in good order, bless them. We're even happy with their colour scheme, which is sort of, 'neutral but we're young and trendy so it's more Farrow and Ball than B & Q,' which we're perfectly able to live with. It means we don't have to spend days up ladders, getting more paint on ourselves than on the walls, and allows us more drinking time. What's not to love?

So, back to the business of enjoying life as an ageing harridan. What to do next?

The garden here is a bit bizarre, having been hewn out of a sandstone cliff, but I pretty much beat that into submission last summer and, though I say it myself, it's now a thing of slightly odd beauty, though possibly an acquired taste. If it's not one our visitors have acquired then that's their problem, not ours. It is steep, but we've had a handrail installed for those prone to vertigo. We drew the line at an outdoor Stannah Stairlift. If you can't make it to the top you're missing out on a fabulous view. Your loss. End of.

It's a small house, so keeping it in a state of acceptable cleanliness doesn't take up a lot of my time. It could take longer if I were a more demanding housekeeper, but my sluttish side always wins out when it's a choice between spending hours scouring the bathroom, or just spitting on my hankie and giving the most obvious muck a quick rub. Life's too short. Just spray a bit of Cillit Bang around and it'll smell like you've done it.

However, I'm a bit hyper-active so I have to try and find things that I enjoy to fill my idle hours. Ideally, I'd like them to be paid things, but I fear that ship has sailed. I've tried, without success, to persuade potential employers that brainpower doesn't necessarily sag when everything visible does, but it's an uphill struggle. Thus, the world of voluntary work beckoned.

I'm not sure why, but I had the idea that voluntary work had to be worthy in some way. I thought the choice would be a narrow one, between working in a charity shop or serving soup to the homeless. Not that these aren't perfectly excellent ways of passing the time, and I love a rummage round a charity shop myself. But I thought I might get bored being the person who had to watch the likes of me doing the rummaging. On balance, the soup option seemed more attractive, but it didn't exactly call to me. I hate the smell of vegetable soup, and I don't think it'd go down well if I said I'd only do the days when it was tomato or chicken. Picky isn't attractive to the charity sector.

Happily, a bit of investigation yielded up a whole range of stuff you can do, if you're prepared to do it for nothing, and I was pleasantly surprised by some of the options. I've mentioned I like gardening and I found out that the grounds of a now empty, nearby manor  house, were maintained, for the pleasure of the public, by a volunteer workforce. Consequently, one day a week, come rain or shine, I'm out there, digging, hoeing and sowing in glorious surroundings alongside amiable people. And we get to take home free produce. Result! But a little bit of me, the bit that was probably planted deep within me by my mother, along with a vague, abiding sense of guilt, suspected that I was having far too much fun, and it should be balanced by something that did more good for humanity, rather than just keeping me fit and supplied with cabbages and spinach. And anyway, it only filled one day of the available seven.

I then applied to an organisation that does valuable work with those who find themselves in stressful circumstances as a result of crime and I became part of a team working closely with related services and the public. It was fascinating work. The related services were friendly and helpful. Those seeking the help of the charity proved to be dignified, courageous and principled and most of my fellow volunteers were lovely. MOST of them. Not all. Just most, and therein lay my problem. And I made an interesting discovery.

There is a breed of woman (I'm really, REALLY sorry, but they did all turn out to be women) who are totally unsuited to charitable works, but have some strange concept of duty that compels them into it.  I've already said that I've discovered a shred of this desire to do good in myself, but they took it to a whole new level. I'll elaborate.

I'm well aware that nothing I do is ever wholly altruistic. I have to be getting something out of it myself. It has to answer a need within me at the same time as, hopefully, being a bit of benefit to somebody else, all bound up within a cause I feel to be worthwhile. But that's not what these particular people were about. I know this because I talked to them, and I listened to them as well. I like to talk to people. I like to find out about people. It's a common trait amongst us Northerners, along with a taste for gravy on our chips and an innate need to thank bus drivers for the trip we've just paid for. I once forgot myself and did this on a London bus. It was packed, and every head swivelled to watch me alight. I could see them all, as the bus moved off, peering at me through the condensation, trying to establish what kind of weirdo would do such a thing.  But I digress.

During my chats I established that the aforementioned women all had certain things in common. They led comfortable, privileged lives. They had always done so. In most cases they had never even had the need to earn their own living. And something told them they had to pay a price for their advantages so as not to be a total waste of space. They had to be seen to be doing some sort of bountiful works, and it didn't really matter what. I must add, at this point, that they were all white, aged between fifty and seventy and wore clothes from Country Casuals. I should also, in the name of fairness, mention that I too am white and in this age bracket, but my clothing choices are more...haphazard...and cheaper...much cheaper.

Thus, these ladies would go about the work of the day in a totally professional and effective way. All well and good. 'So what's your problem, bitch?' I hear you ask. My problem was this. In the privacy of the Staff Room, where, incidentally, if you accidentally used somebody else's mug you could be ostracised for weeks, they would loudly, cheerfully and unashamedly express views so abhorrent to me that it took my breath away. Out front they were all smiling bonhomie and sympathetic sweetness, round the back they were racist, homophobic, right wing, fascist snobs and I hated their hypocrisy. So I left. Should I have stayed and tried to change the deeply held beliefs of donkeys years? Possibly. Would I have made a difference? No. There were lots of good, decent people there who seemed to have developed strategies for ignoring the offensive element, but I just couldn't hack it. And I have to deal with that.

But I learned a valuable lesson, and decided that I must be less haphazard in my choices and only apply to those organisations that had lengthy and thorough vetting procedures, rather than taking on anybody who happened to turn up. And if that meant I got weeded out for some reason, along the way, then so be it.

Happily, after undergoing rigorous introductory sessions, culminating in a gruelling interview, I've been passed fit for the charity of my choice, and face my part in it with a mixture of elation and terror. But I'm absolutely confident that I'll be in the right place, especially after meeting the hugely eclectic mix of people that are my fellow volunteers. I suspect that the element I found so disturbing, in my previous experience, are the last of the old guard and I comfort myself that, in time, they'll be gone all together.  And at least they'd put their energies into trying to be of help to people, rather than leading BNP marches, or smearing their excreta on mosques (so far as I know) so I shouldn't be too hard on them, or their cashmere cardies.

However, why one charity should attract such a specific demographic, whilst another organisation appeals to a huge range of people, of all ages and backgrounds, I still haven't fathomed. But I can tell you I find it both heartening and reassuring to learn that the charity sector isn't entirely  manned by old folk like me.

The charity I'm joining is pretty hardcore, and deals with some heavy stuff, so it's not going to be a walk in the park. But I plan on balancing it out, along with the gardening, by larking about, for a few hours a week, at a local Arts Centre. All in all, that little lot should keep me busy.

I think I've planned my schedule with care, still allowing plenty of time for family, friends and doing the things I like best, such as riding my bike in the company of the love of my life. He's now retired too, and casting about for things to delight and fascinate him in his twilight years. One of our daughters bought him the box-set of 'Breaking Bad' for Christmas. For anyone who's not seen it, it's basically about a science teacher who starts cooking up crystal meth, for extra income. Husband loved it. His pension is not large. He is a retired science teacher. I've recently noticed him eyeing our beautiful, new range cooker with an interest he's not previously shown throughout our many long years together.

There might be another blog in this.


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