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.


Thank you so much for reading.

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17. Of Castles And Vampires And Will The Couch Fit?

I'm sure you'll have heard that comment about moving house standing alongside death and divorce on the stress-inducing scale. It's a lie. It's much worse. And I've experienced all of them.

At least when you're bereaved or in the throws of marital breakdown people are generally sympathetic. Not so with the house sale. It's seen as a self-inflicted wound, so it's every man for himself and devil take the hindmost.

You're on your own. Get used to it.

The whole procedure goes against nature, from the minute you call one of that much reviled breed, the Estate Agent, and in he comes, to wander round your home, probing your every nook and cranny in a way that you wouldn't normally allow your best friend to do. It's unnerving. If anybody else did it you'd be pointing at the door and throwing the nosey bastard out. But you've invited him in, albeit reluctantly, a bit like you would with a vampire. And the analogy doesn't stop there. When he sits you down for the 'little talk', during which he tells you the value of your crumbling but much loved edifice and thereby breaks your heart, he will attempt to suck you dry of  as much of the pathetic amount he's just quoted as he can.

E A: For an additional squillion pounds you can have an extra TWELVE photographs in your brochure.

        (Note. Whilst 'brochure' may conjure up for you, as it did for me, something glossy and
                    impressive it actually turns out to be a couple of sheets of A4, stapled together in
                    the middle.)

Me: No thank you.

E A: Or, for just a squillion trillion pounds you can have a walk through video and voice over on the
         website.

Me: No thank you.

E A: Would you be interested in having a Premium Listing in return for the blood of your firstborn?

Me: Absolutely not.

E A: (Deep sigh, as he reaches for brief case) Best crack on then?

Me: Yep.

Mind you, I was intrigued by the idea of the walk through thing. I tried to imagine the voice over man, struggling to find the words and speaking in sonorous tones about 'fashionably retro features' as the camera lingers lovingly on our ancient kitchen cupboards and ghastly pink, sixties bathroom suite. It might have been worth it for the laugh. As it was, the Estate Agent returned, a few days later, and pointed his Box Brownie at our best bits for the permitted number of pictures that poor people can have, and that was it.

And thus the beastliness began.

An Englishman's home might be his castle, but once it's on the market you have no choice but to lower your drawbridge and welcome the marauding hoards to go rampaging about on your battlements, unhindered. And, as if that wasn't bad enough, you have to try and be tidy all the time, in case you get a call to say another batch of Visigoths is due at the gates. It's awful. And you're not allowed to slap them. Not even when they criticise your decor in stage whispers and snigger openly, just because you choose to use the airing cupboard to store your Merlot. Well it keeps it at the perfect temperature! It makes total sense and is much more important than things like dry bedding. A bit of damp never hurt anyone....and you don't notice if you're pleasantly drunk.

And then there's the other side of it. You have to go and do a spot of marauding yourself.

Now, I am here to tell you that there should be a law against the 'feature wall.' Unlike some of the viewers of my house, I am a polite woman. I have bitten back the shriek of alarm that has risen in my throat when, without warning, I've been confronted with yet another expanse of huge and garishly coloured flowers, usually in a very small sitting room that's just not equipped to cope with it. It's like being trapped in some nightmarish version of 'The Day of the Triffids'. I don't know which twit of an interior designer came up with it but they should be horse-whipped. I bet they live in Shoreditch.

I have developed a strategy for when I ring the bell of a total stranger and invade their privacy in a manner that really goes against the grain. I fix a smile firmly on my face and, three paces in, I say 'Oh, this is nice!' very brightly. I utter these words whether it really is nice or actually a dump. I feel it's the least I can do in this wholly unnatural situation, and it gets us off to good start. Once I relax I quite enjoy chatting to the owners and mentally scoffing at their plastic flower arrangements. Oh yes, I'm as critical as the next snob. I just hide it well. I get all friendly with them and then try to trick them into telling me the real reason for their move. Is the kid next door learning the trombone? Do the elderly couple over the fence sunbathe in the nude? I need to know these things. It can be quite fascinating. My husband, however, only perks up and shows interest if there's a shed involved. He does love a good shed.

And a shed could be what we end up living in if we don't get a move on as, miracle of miracles, it seems we may have sold ours (house, not shed...though some would say they're the same thing) in fairly record breaking time. Just goes to show. There's no accounting for taste. So we have to find our perfect Des. Res. pretty damned quick.

Thus, we must somehow pack up the detritus accumulated over more than forty years, and move on.
It's a fair sized house, and I'm no minimalist. I have some clutter. I have a lot of clutter. Loads and loads of clutter. I prefer to think of it as a collection of fascinating and beautiful items. But it's clutter.
Downsizing is going to be hard. But the fact is, we no longer need all this space, or all these things.

And whilst Mr. Estate Agent  valued our bricks and mortar in purely monetary terms, he could have no concept of all that it has meant to us. Over the decades it has housed us through thick and thin, the good and the bad times. It sheltered me during the disintegration of a bad marriage and saw the forging of a good one. Our children were all carried in to it as babies and left it as fully-fledged, independent adults. I suppose the turmoils and the tears, the joys and celebrations and, I'm pleased to say, all the love and the laughing of more than forty years are interred somewhere in these four walls. But I expect they're in me as well.

So maybe I shouldn't worry too much about what I should keep and what I can bear to throw away.
The memories are going with me anyway, and they don't weigh a thing.



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16. Cold Comforts and the Disappearing Chilblain

Getting a bit nippy out isn't it? Time to switch the heating on and raise the temperature in your home to sub-tropical levels? Sissys! It's nearly winter, it's supposed to be cold. What's the matter with you? All this keeping warm nonsense has gone too far. There's nothing wrong with a bit of suffering, and it toughens you up. I fear we're now breeding a generation of little wimps who can't bear to be even the slightest bit chilly and who claim they're 'freezing' if the temperature drops below fifteen degrees. What nonsense!

It's not healthy, in my opinion, all this hermetically sealing ourselves inside our houses, with double glazing and whatnot, and turning up all those radiators so that every vestige of moisture is leeched from our shrivelling bodies. It's not natural.

In my day you never expected to be warm between October and May. You took your blue-lipped, huddled state to be the norm, and got on with it. Back then our homes were not designed for comfort, Quite the opposite, in fact. Every care was taken to inflict as much hardship as possible. Why else cover bedroom floors with that instrument of torture known as linoleum? Cold, hard and slippy underfoot it was the perfect incentive to send us scurrying into the only slightly better territory         of our beds. A lumpy, flock-filled mattress covered by a couple of scratchy blankets, and a few old coats for good measure, seemed like bliss compared to a flooring that could strike frostbite into a child's tiny toes. However, we did have the joy of the hot water bottle that instantly set off the sublime chilblain itch. Whatever happened to chilblains? You never hear of them anymore. Kids nowadays don't know what they're missing. The ecstasy of scratching your chilblains to the point of drawing blood is hard to describe to your modern spoiled brat. We made our own fun, back then.

Does anybody now wake to the fascinating sight of their own breath, billowing above them in a plume of moisture, like a thin ectoplasm? And all that breathing, in our overcrowded homes, resulted in a Niagara of condensation that poured down our windows and dripped into puddles on the floor, turning that linoleum into a deathtrap as your slippers found no purchase and you skidded into the wardrobe.

However, if the outside temperature fell below freezing then the problem was solved as our already glacial interiors became even colder and the liquid froze hard on the glass. Even in my own home, the one I raised my children in, we experienced the same thing, lacking as we did that hellish invention known as central heating. And having to survive on a low income meant we couldn't afford to heat every room. I remember trying to explain this phenomenon to my Mexican son-in-law.

Me: So when it got really cold ice formed on the inside of the children's bedroom windows.

Son-in-Law: (Disbelievingly) The inside?!

Me: Yes, the inside.

Son-in-Law: Nooooo!

Me: Yes.

At this point my daughter joined in.

Daughter: I liked it. The ice made beautiful patterns on the glass.

Son-in-Law: On the inside?!

Daughter: Yes.

Son-in-Law: Nooooo!

Daughter: I used to scratch a hole with my fingernail to look through.

Son-in-Law: On the inside?!

Daughter: Yes.

Son-in-Law: Nooooo!

It's done them no harm. They've all grown up knowing the value of a good vest and the pointlessness of complaining.

And then there was the romance of the coal fire, that heated a small radius of two feet in it's immediate vicinity and no further so that, in order gain any benefit, you had to sit so close to it that we all had mottled shins from the scorching. It also meant that Tom, the coalman, came every two weeks and gave me a grimy toffee, so what was not to love? Give me an unsightly shin any day, rather than the aforementioned central heating. Just because you've got it doesn't mean you've got to turn it full up. I loathe stepping into somebody's otherwise delightful home only to be greeted by a wave of heat like a blast furnace.  I hate it. It doesn't make me warm and cosy. It renders me overheated and uncomfortable. If you feel a bit cool then put on an extra cardie, don't just reach for the heating dial. Apart from being a spineless pillock you're also doing untold damage to the environment. So think on.

Hot water's another indulgence now taken for granted.  We stood in our Siberian bathrooms in front of a basin of tepid water, dabbing at the bits we could bear to expose with a damp flannel. But, generally speaking, children hate getting washed so that was fine, and the bone shaking chattering of our teeth counted as exercise.

As for draughts, our ill-fitting doors and windows created constant movement in our homes, shifting  curtains about and whistling round our ankles, dislodging the fluff from under the couch and sending it skittering across the carpet like tumbleweed. Indeed, the gaps round our kitchen door were such that, if the wind was in the right direction, it whipped your hair back as you ate your cornflakes. But it was very refreshing.

I like a bit of comfort as much as the next cantankerous old woman, but I genuinely have some very happy memories of what would now be considered a deprived childhood, but didn't feel a bit like that at the time. And yes, I think that many (not all, of course) modern children are frequently pampered to a ludicrous extent, and probably miss out as a result. Yes, our bedrooms were habitually perishing but, if I was ill, I was indulged with the rare event of  a fire in the bedroom grate. There can be few things more comforting to a sick child than lying snug in bed, in a room illuminated by the warm glow of the coals. You don't get that from a radiator.

And here's the paradox. In overheating our homes, offices, shops, etc., we are almost certainly doing terrible, irreversible harm to our delicate  atmosphere. So, when the next Ice Age hits, don't come crying to me. I'll be perfectly happy in my cave, fashioning a vest from a bit of goat skin and enjoying not having to wash.



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15. Fifty Shades of Grey Indecision

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....?

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