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.
Thank you so much for reading.
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