13. Chariots of Tartan and the Hundred Years Problem

I'm going to tell you something  a tiny bit shameful. I've got myself a shopping trolley. I know! You think they're awful don't you? They smack of little old ladies, and they're usually tartan...the trolleys, not the ladies, they're often beige.  I bet it's not a look you'd want to aim for.  But bear with me, my reasoning's sound.

I live only a short walk from the nearest supermarket. Driving there just seems wrong, on so many levels. It's bad for the environment for one thing and it seems lazy to take the car for such a short distance.  Plus it makes the already expensive business of  shopping that bit more so. Hence, the despised trolley. Of course, it's fine to trot round there with my re-cycled shopping bags when all I want is a loaf, a bunch of radishes and a packet of lentils...which makes my culinary habits sound a lot more radical than they really are...but it's no good when you need heavy stuff.

For example, I like wine. Quite a lot of wine, actually. And wine is heavy. Especially if you buy it in bulk. Which I do. Tottering home under the weight of a few bottles of a decent Merlot, with maybe a Malbec or Rioja thrown in for good measure, is a beastly business if your fingers are losing all feeling under the over-stretched handles of your bags.  Not to mention the humiliation of having to stop and lean against somebody's gatepost whilst you get your second wind. I never actually resorted to swigging out of one of the bottles to lighten the load, but it's a thought.

Roll out the shopping trolley and all is well! You can load up with bottles to your hearts content and then glide serenely home, unfettered by the excessive weight of your stash as it trundles happily behind you. You might rattle a bit along the way, but as far as passers-by are concerned you might just be stocking up on Evian water, or pickled onions. There need be no shame in it. And, of course, it's ideal for all heavy items, not just alcohol.  But, if you knew me, you'd be unsurprised that that's what I've focused on here. Thus, what seemed like a reluctant nod in the direction of advancing years has actually turned out to be an enormous boon.

I have eschewed the much mocked, boxy tartan type model and gone for a stylish little number with a rather tasteful, contemporary leaf pattern. I am deeply fond of it. I don't know why everybody doesn't have one, regardless of age or gender.  They make perfect sense. In fact, I suspect the environmentalists should latch on to it. Surely, if we all had them and they were widely used, thus losing their image as the being the preserve of us wrinkly old folk, then we might well save the planet.  Think of all those emissions we'd avoid (why do 'emissions' always sound rude?) as we stroll to the supermarket, avoiding all that stressful road-rage whilst, at the same time, getting some much needed fresh air and exercise. What's not to love? And, of course, if they were to be embraced by the young fashionistas of the day then I would be hailed as a trend setter and the trolley would lose it's stigma, for stigma there most certainly is.

But why?  Pretty much everybody uses a suitcase on wheels, so what's the big difference? We all see the sense of not heaving a great, heavy coffin of a thing around by a handle, so why not do the sensible thing with our shopping? I'll tell you why. Because we connect the shopping trolley with aged females, that's why. And who wants to be associated with them? Nobody, apparently. Hence my innate sense of having somehow given in. And I don't want to feel like that. I shouldn't feel like that.

I think it's all down to pigeon-holing, that current obsession of the government, the media, social services, the NHS and...well...pretty much everybody, it seems to me. Apparently, I am part of an 'ageing population' and we're a damned nuisance. And now, just to make matters worse, more and more of us are going to survive to that once rarely attainable centenary, and nobody's pleased about it. Words such as 'burden' and 'drain on resources' are amongst many such bandied about by the aforementioned groups. Which leaves us with a grim image of a shuffling grey mass, just getting in the way of the thrusting young folk and using up space that they could put to better use.


Well FUCK that! I'm not part of an 'ageing population', I'm part of THE population which, last time I looked, was still made up of a fair old mix of ages and abilities, the good and the bad, some saving, some squandering, some being a nuisance and some been a tremendous boon to the lives of all and sundry, regardless of age.  And I'm in there somewhere. Neither burdening nor draining, just getting on with stuff and hoping to do so for a while yet.


However, should I need a bit of health care, or whatever, I don't think I'm any less entitled than somebody a few years younger. And to be frank with you, I don't particularly want to make it to a hundred anyway, not unless I'm still remarkably healthy, have my own teeth, can still ride my bike and am still having a hell of a good time, otherwise I'd really prefer to pop off a bit sooner or I'll just get bored. So you needn't fret that I'll be flopping about, having to be fed gruel and generally using up all those precious resources that, apparently, others deserve more than I do.  I'll have made sure I got out before the going was less than fun. Not sure how, but it'd probably involve drugs and plenty of the aforementioned alcohol. Best to go out smiling, I think. Naturally, I'd prefer to just drift off via natural causes, preferably as a result of laughing too hard. We'll see.

In the meantime, help the cause by getting yourself a nifty little shopping trolley and tow it with pride.  Little by little they'll be accepted by the population at large and nobody will point and snigger any more.  Then we can move on to other things , like persuading people not to treat anybody with a few wrinkles and greying hair as is if they're stupid/ugly/invisible/a waste of space. Then when everybody just views us as the individual human beings that we are we can move on to world peace and the elimination of poverty, but best to start small I think.

To be going on with, I'll be flaunting my beautiful shopping aid in such a way that you'll all think yourselves foolish for not having one. So go get your own, bitches. This baby's mine.


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12. Mothers, Marketing and Making a Stand

Happy Mother's Day!! Happy day, or happy mothers? Which does it mean? Anybody know? Whatever it is, I'm not a great fan, despite the fact that I am both a mother and very happy about it. But let's be honest, the whole concept is just a cynical marketing strategy, designed to part one section of society from it's money by persuading it that it's honour bound to spend it on stuff for another section, and I don't hold with it.

That's not to say I'm a total Grinch about it. I still have a box containing the handmade cards and gifts that my daughters produced for me when they were little, and I love them, but they didn't cost anything, and they were urged to produce them by well-meaning playgroup leaders and teachers, which was fine. But being prompted by florists, chocolate manufacturers, card makers and all the rest to buy things for the woman who selfishly chose to have you in the first place strikes me as a rather odd idea. Having a child is surely the most self-indulgent act of them all and I, for one, don't expect to be thanked for it. I'm a lucky woman and my children have all turned out to be thoroughly nice human beings, whose company I enjoy and who all offer me affection, friendship and generosity all year round. What more could I hope for? Well, apparently, a special day when I  must be rewarded for doing those things that I willingly, and knowingly, signed up for in the first place. No. I don't need it. Indeed, I sometimes think I should be rewarding them for tolerating my efforts as a mother, because I'm damned sure I often fell short!  I was useless at board games, and that's just for starters.

And now I'm going to tell you a secret. I didn't like my mother. There were moments when I hated her. Is that a sharp, collective intake of  breath that I hear? Well sorry, I can't change the truth. But it wasn't always so. As a child I adored her. In my teens her flaws began to dawn on me and by adulthood it had become very, very complex. We were two grown up people, with absolutely no values in common and opposing views of the world in general. Now, normally when that sort of situation arises the two adults concerned can simply agree to differ, go their separate ways and never look back. But we were stuck with the ties that bind, or rather I was. Many people, who knew us both well, urged me to save myself the anguish and simply break all contact with her, but it wasn't that simple. Of course it wasn't. For one thing, not seeing her would have made it difficult for me to have contact with others whom I loved deeply, and I couldn't risk that. And my mother, for her part, simply could not, or would not, understand why her words and actions caused me so much grief and expected, nay demanded, that I was the dutiful daughter she expected me to be, regardless of how she chose to treat me. Sadly, she failed to grasp that dutiful does not equate with loving. They are two very different things.

Ok, that's the serious bit dealt with. I could produce a few thousand  words, trying to fathom what turned a seemingly reasonable human being into an embittered, racist, homophobic, fascist snob, intent on alienating just about everybody who might had any affection for her, but whilst it might be therapy for me it'd be bloody boring for you, so I wont. It wasn't all her own fault, of course. It's never that simple and our life experiences can bend us out of shape, but that doesn't excuse everything. Anyway, I promised not to bang on about it, didn't I, so this is me stopping and getting back to my main theme of the Mother's Day phenomena.

I'm sure I'm not alone in regarding it all as a bit dubious, and I'm equally sure that there will be plenty more people like me who actually weren't very keen on their mothers, whether they admit to it or not.   But people like us aren't catered for. I've spent ages trying to select the card that I was expected to come up with whilst, at the same time, trying not to be a total hypocrite. So many of those over-priced bits of paper bore mawkishly sweet messages of uncritical adoration and expressed emotions that I simply didn't feel and definitely didn't want to be railroaded into professing. I could find nothing with a tasteful picture on the front and something on the lines of, 'Mum, I hope you have a nice day,' inside. That would have covered it. I certainly didn't want to wish a nasty day on her, I'm not that vindictive, but I just couldn't bring myself to give her the usual, 'God made angels and then sent them down to earth to be mothers,' style of crap. I ploughed through so much turgid verse and over-blown prose that I'd leave the shop feeling quite sickly. I reckon somebody's missing a trick. I bet there's a market out there for the non-commital Mother's Day card. They could go under the heading 'Alternative Mother's Day Cards, for the kid with a grudge.' I bet they'd fly off the shelves.

And then there's the flowers. The traditional Mother's Day gift of choice. All those dear little children, handing over their pocket money for a bunch of wilting daffodils, that would have cost half the price the week before, and that'll be dead in a day or two. It makes me cross because it's mean and grasping and exploitative, and terribly disappointing for all concerned...oh, except the flower seller. I'd like to think they sleep ill at nights, but I doubt it.  And it's no better when you get older and can afford to go a bit more up-market. The prices still mysteriously rocket during this particular weekend, and the results are definitely not worth it. In fact it seems the less you get the more it costs. You can pay an arm and a leg for a couple of flowers and an aesthetically pleasing twig, held together with a bit of string. They'll tell you it's 'minimalist chic'. It isn't. It's a load of old wank and the florist is laughing all the way to the bank. Don't be fooled. The standard bunch of garage forecourt blooms, in their bit of cellophane, might be much maligned but at least it's honest.

The Mother's Day lunch is the next tradition to rouse my ire. If your children disappear into the kitchen and come back with a slice of lukewarm  toast and a cup of greyish tea on a tray adorned with a couple of dandelions from the back garden then all well and good. I have revelled in many such feasts myself, and loved the labour that went into them.  But lunchtime, on Mothering Sunday, in the average eating hole is hell. Of course it's nice to have a break from the kitchen, but not at the same time as the rest of seething humanity. Overcrowded restaurants, with over-worked staff, don't make for relaxing eating.  And one glance at the faces of the other diners is enough to convince that not many of them think it's a great idea either. Eating is a pleasure. Eating with people you love, in relaxed and harmonious surroundings, is a joy. Why do it any other way?  Why do it when it's least likely to be fun? And this is what I keep coming back to. If you love people you'll do nice things with them at times that happen to be mutually agreeable, without being told that you should.

Being a mother is a privilege.  So is being loved. It's not a right, it has to be earned, like respect, and I think most people probably know and appreciate that. I'm no paragon of a mother. I'm  a very, very long way from it. In fact, if I was granted a super power I'd choose time travel just so I could go back and try to right the wrongs I've committed in my inept mothering. My only saving grace is that, unlike my own mother, I can see and own up to my failings, and apologise for them. And I suppose, oddly enough, that's actually the gift my mum gave to me, and it's a very valuable one. In my attempts not to be like her I might, just might, have avoided at least some of her mistakes...though I've undoubtedly made a few of my own. In the words of the late, great Philip Larkin:

          They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
          They may not mean to, but they do.
          They fill you with the faults they had
          And add some extra, just for you.

Which is an awfully gloomy view. But Larkin wasn't a parent himself. If he had been then maybe he'd have lightened up and discovered that it needn't be all bad. Far from it. Like I said at the start, I'm a very happy mother and my children are an endless source of pleasure, pride and so many other good things I can't possibly list them all here. But Mother's Day isn't about the children, it's about the mothers, and how they measure up. In which case, every day is mother's day so what's the fuss about? I don't always see my children on Mother's Day and I don't automatically expect to, not the way my mother did. But when they do come I know it's because they've chosen to, they're here from choice, free will and, hopefully, love. Certainly not duty. It makes the time we spend together a lot more meaningful.

So, mothers of the world unite. Let's stick up a finger at commercialism, and tell them to stuff Mother's Day. We don't need the crappy cards and drooping flowers. It's not necessary to spend money to show love and  affection. Words work better, and they come free. So, let's replace it with Children's Day, which wont cost anybody anything, when we'll just ask them to forgive us our shortcomings and then all go down the pub together. You coming?





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11. Bankers, Brothels and Fish Pie.

I read today that nearly three million people are currently unemployed, and these are the highest figures for sixteen years.  There's a cheery start for you, eh? The problem is, I want a job. Just a little job, maybe two or three days a week. It's the vicious circle syndrome. Because of the recession lots of poor souls have lost their jobs and, because of the recession, I need one. Catch 22.

Along with many, many others, I'm a bit aggrieved by this situation. We're frugal people, hardworking people who saved whenever they could, which wasn't as often as we'd have liked, but we did our best and contributed to pensions that we hoped would at least remove the worry of how we were going to pay for the incontinence pads and packets of Werthers Originals in our declining years. In a nutshell, we did as were told. We were fools! We might just as well have squandered it all on beer and skittles and kicking our legs up for all the good it's done us. The pensions are now akin in value to a packet of Hobnobs (without chocolate) and as for the savings, well they should just about last us for the rest of our lives...as long as we die by next Tuesday.

So here I am, having retired in the happy knowledge that the future was taken care of only to find I've been taken for a ride. I now know, along with everyone else, that those who claimed to know best knew bugger all, and that they care even less, thus the future is the tiniest bit bleak for us poor sods who thought we were doing the right thing.  Hence, it would ease the situation if I had an income and I'm more than happy to achieve it by the sweat of my brow, indeed, I find I quite like the idea of returning to a spot of honest labour, but I know full well that I'm not going to get it. Not just because there are a zillion people after every job, but because I have the added disadvantage of being an elderly-ish lady and, despite all those anti-ageist and equal opportunities laws, it's going to count against me. Fact. That's life.

Now of course there are hordes of people in more dire circumstances than mine, and I fully agree that they should get priority. The young folk with mortgages to pay, and children to feed should obviously be top of the list, and there many other categories who should be in there ahead of me, but surely there must be something that they don't want to do and I would. But there's a hitch there too, of course. I'm making it sound as I'd be happy to do any old thing but I know, in my heart of hearts, that I am not. I'm actually quite picky. I know, for example, that B & Q have an exemplary record in employing older people. Sadly, whenever I've been in there, the staff all seem so miserable I don't think it can be much fun. And anyway, I'm not well versed in rawl plugs and plumbing accessories, and I don't think I'd suit the overall, so that's out. I can feel myself losing your sympathy now. You're thinking, 'She says she'd be happy to do most things but she SO isn't.' And you'd be right. I struggle with that. I really want the workplace to be somewhere I'm happy to be. Is that too much to ask? Probably.

Over the course of my working life I've turned my hand to quite a variety of jobs, and acquired a couple of degrees along the way. I've also run a home, raised a family, have a clean driving licence and make a very decent fish pie. This makes me think I should be quite a good prospect as an employee. The downside is that none of the above actually qualifies me to do anything in particular. I can hardly sell myself as a mobile, child friendly fish pie maker. My degrees are in the Arts, therefore useless, and the jobs were so varied that I am left with a plethora of skills but none of which actually add up to a named form of labour.

So, you ask, what sort of job would I actually like to do? What would be my ideal? Now there's a question. I rather fancy the idea of being a Madam in a brothel. I know, as a feminist I shouldn't be furthering the exploitation of women, but I'd be the sort of Madam who'd make sure the exploitation was all one way, and nobody would do anything they didn't want to. I once worked with a team of highly intelligent, attractive young women and on many a dull afternoon, when things were a bit quiet, we would fantasise about giving up the day job and starting our own brothel. I bagged the job of Madam pretty damned smartish. I saw myself behind the desk, clad in decent black, hair in a prim bun, taking the money and muttering darkly about amputation of vital parts if there was any funny business. We thought we might run a teashop as a front for our enterprise, but decided the possibilities for confusion were too high.  Some poor devil might pop by, genuinely in search of an Earl Grey and a French Fancy, and end up with more than he'd bargained for, so we abandoned the idea. Anyway, I don't think that's the sort of thing they advertise down the Job Centre.

I suppose there are quite a lot of jobs out there that aren't readily found in the public domain. For example, I recently heard that older women are employed in pole dancing clubs as House Mothers, to keep a maternal eye on the girls and provide them with a bit of wholesome care amidst the sleazy atmosphere of their place of employment. I'd be good at that. And yes, I know, it falls into the politically incorrect arena again, and I agree with you but I'm also assured that most of the girls are only doing it to pay their way through college, and I'd be on hand to keep them all on the straight and narrow, with homely advice and a pot of tea. Mind you, there are quite a few people, who know me well, who'd tell you I'm the last person to take advice from when it comes to lifestyle...or staying on the straight and narrow...but you must dismiss them. I think I'd be great. However, as always, there's a drawback. Apparently, the job involves rubbing through all those G strings, and I draw the line at that, even if they provide the rubber gloves.

Unfortunately, I seem to be tending towards a career in the sex trade, which even comes as a surprise to myself, I can tell you.


It's been suggested to me that I might try self-employment. But what as? A children's entertainer perhaps? I don't think I'm on any registers that would preclude me from the occupation and I like children, I wouldn't mind trying to keep them occupied whilst all the parents huddle in the kitchen, dulling the pain on pints of Chardonnay. Though I wouldn't be good with the balloon animals. I don't have the puff.  Don't come to me if you're looking for a giraffe or a funny hat. Something resembling a limp phallus I can just about manage, but I doubt that's suitable for a kids party. You have to think of those registers. And I hate jelly so let's forget that one.


So back to the drawing board. I suppose what I'm in search of is a job in a vibrant, creative atmosphere that involves wandering about, having a nice chat and a laugh with all the other employees and going to the pub at the end of the day. Still not realistic? No, probably not. And you're going to get cross if I don't take this seriously. Well I do. I'd really like to work.  But I'm a pragmatist at heart and know it's not going to be easy, and might prove impossible. In which case we'll be ok, which is a lot more than some can say, but I'd like to think there's someone out there just gagging to recruit a woman of mature years with top notch admin skills, who knows her way around a computer keyboard and could give their hair a thoroughly professional trim in the lunch hour whilst quoting speeches from Shakespeare. I could go on...so I will. I've taught adults to read and write, broken up fights between drug-addled psychotics, cared for babies until adoptive families were found for them, balanced profit and loss sheets, given perms, and done more peculiar things to keep professional musicians happy than you could possibly believe. I can cook, I can clean and my way with folding a fitted sheet is second to none. I make all my own curtains. I've stood behind a shop counter, can play the piano, very badly, and the guitar even worse. And there's more. You'd think that somewhere in there there'd be something that somebody wants, but I think it's unlikely. There are oodles of lovely young people who are experts in their field and exactly what an employer is looking for. I'm just saddened that age and experience seem to count for so little.  And there's the advantage that I'm unlikely to want time off for maternity leave. But if, at the end of the day, I just have to bite the bullet and get on with washing those G strings then I'll insist on a regular supply of heavyduty Marigolds.


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10.Choices, Cheeses and Just a Little Bit of Ewan McGregor.

Do you remember that film with Ewan McGregor where he played that adorable little heroin addict and delivered the speech that went on about choosing stuff? I can't remember it verbatim because it was lengthy but I know it ended up on a poster that adorned many a student's wall in the 90s. I do recall it included washing machines and jobs and life. Well that's what I've been thinking about lately. Not Ewan McGregor. Actually I have but that's not relevant here. No, I've been pondering on choice.  There's an awful lot of it these days, isn't there? But can you have too much of it? That's the question.


It wasn't like this in my formative years. Oh no. Let's start with vegetables. It's as good a place as any. As a child I'd be sent to toddle off to the local shops, equipped with the special basket reserved for the job, to visit the greengrocer. This was a shop that sold nothing other than fruit and veg.  Can you imagine that? Just vegetables and fruit. No, hang on a minute, that's a lie. I've just remembered, on odd occasions there'd be a couple of dead rabbits hung up outside for the discerning shoppers delectation. Mrs. Lacey, an obliging woman and not squeamish, would even skin them for you. Why these bunny corpses fetched up amongst the fruit and veg I have no clue, but back to my theme. Clutched in my hand I would have my mother's shopping list. It would be short. Why? Because there wasn't much in the shop, that's why. Mrs Lacey presided over wooden hoppers filled with potatoes (sometimes there was a dizzying choice of two types!) onions, carrots and turnips. There might also be a few cabbages and cauliflowers, or beans of some sort, but only in season, and sprouts round Christmas time.

The fruit choice was even narrower, confined to apples, nice curly bananas (before those bastards in the EU decided they had to be straight) some pears and maybe a few, small uninspiring oranges. Plums, strawberries and cherries would materialise for just a few thrilling days per year, driving us all into a frenzy of fruit based excitement.


Ah me, how innocent we were back then.  We knew nothing of the kumquat and the starfruit. Okra and swiss chard were yet to render us breathless in wonder and if you'd shown my mother an aubergine she'd have screamed and thrown her pinny over her head.


So home I would go, with my basket weighed down not only with the food but the equal weight of  soil that was still attached to everything.  No pre-washed back then, let alone peeled, sliced and ready to cook. Such a concept would have been viewed as madness and, truth be told, I still rather despise it now. The first time I caught sight of a bag of pre-sliced carrots in my eldest daughter's fridge I died a little inside. Had I failed in my efforts to pass on the ethos of a little drudgery being good for the soul? I began to doubt my fitness to be a mother.


And salad was such a beautifully simple thing in those innocent times. Many people grew their own salad veg and, come Sunday teatime, we'd pop down the garden to pluck up a lettuce, a few radishes (brushing off the slugs with a casual hand) and maybe a spring onion or two, wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat and carrying a trug, fashioned by the calloused hands of a local artisan...no, sorry, got carried away there for a minute. Actually, no hat and a cracked bowl to put the stuff in.

Anyway, add a few tomatoes from the greenhouse and you were home and dry.  We knew nought of rocket, lamb's tongue lettuce and avocados. The more sophisticated household might boast a bottle of Salad Cream on the table, but not us, my mother didn't hold with it. It smacked of ostentation and new fangled ways. Our salads went boldly undressed and proud of it.

A neighbour of ours did the unthinkable and ventured beyond our trustworthy British shores to visit a relative in Italy. She defied all my mother's predictions of doom and death and returned safe and well but managed to enforce mum's mistrust of the heathen foreigner with tales of people pouring oil onto their salad. A nation that put grease on an innocent lettuce was clearly not to be trusted.  It's a good job nobody said 'radicchio' or she'd have swooned clean away.


And cooking methods were different back then. If it was a vegetable you boiled it. Just boiled it. For hours. And then some more hours. Then when it was rendered completely devoid of all colour, texture and taste it was fit to eat, and not before. Our kitchen had a constant Niagara of condensation pouring down it's windows. With tremendous daring my mother eventually branched out into the exotic world of broccoli. For years I thought this vegetable consisted of just pale, soggy, tasteless stems as the florets had always been cooked to the point of total disintegration.

Years later, at my own dining table, I put a plate of food in front of mother.  It included broccoli, complete with little green heads, having been briefly steamed in an inch of water, and some nicely sauteed mushrooms, all firm and golden. It was all declared 'uncooked' and therefore 'indigestible'. In my childhood home indigestible food was ranked alongside an unaired vest as a life threatening risk.  She not only refused to eat her own portion but urged my children to reject it as well, on the grounds that, 'you'll not get a wink of sleep tonight with that laying on your stomach.'   To my delight they ignored her and scoffed the lot. It might have been then that she decided to cut us all out of her will, but I can't be sure.


 I'm all for food that tastes as it should, whilst retaining some nourishment value to boot. But now we have endless celebrity chefs urging us to ever greater heights of cooking experimentation, making us feel inadequate if we don't have one of those little blow torches for browning things or haven't a clue how to make our own pasta. It's the choice thing again. There's too much of it. And I know it gives a lot of men pleasure to watch Nigella sucking her fingers and saying 'spatchcock', but it sometimes makes me hanker for those simpler days, when we wouldn't have known where to find a noodle steamer, let alone what to do with it. Ms Lawson's orgasmic response to squid salad with mint and mizuna...whatever the hell that is...just has me thinking, 'Fuck it, I'm having a cheese and pickle and sandwich.'

So, from the local village grocer, who had a bacon slicer and a marble slab with a wire attached where he'd cut a wedge of cheese to exactly the number of ounces (anyone remember ounces?) you'd asked for, and he knew how to fold the tops of bags so nothing came undone in your basket, and they'd give you a broken biscuit while you waited, to the bloody supermarket with it's miles of aisles stuffed to the rafters, and pre-packaging and everything so full of preservatives that you can keep it for years before it'll give you Salmonella. 

And yes, we have choice. Loads and loads of choice. But do we really need it? A simple life can be a joyous thing, and a lot less stressed.  I see them in Waitrose, all those lovely young men in their skinny jeans and Paul Smith jumpers, brows furrowed, mobile in hand as they deliver the devastating news, usually on the lines of,  'Jacinta, you're not going to believe this Babes, but they're completely out of the organic yak's milk, hand-turned, extra aged Camembert, moistened with orphan's tears that we wanted for dinner tonight. D'you think Nigel and Semolina will notice if we substitute Brie?'

In my day we had two sorts of cheese. Some that was white and some that was sort of orange.  It was enough.

Of course, I've been sucked in, just like everybody else and find myself tutting with irritation when I can't find the exact make of Earl Grey Teabags that I favour. But at least I have the dignity to feel guilty as I recall that I was raised on loose leaf, from a pot, and it came out the colour of mahogany.  The introduction of the teabag was greeted with horror and derision, in equal portions, in our house.
'It'll not catch on, you mark my words,' said my mother, defiantly.
'We fought off Hitler and we can deal with this.  We just have to keep our nerve.'
But progress marches on and, in the fullness of time, the loathed bag appeared in her kitchen cupboard too. But she did wear mourning from that day forth.

And it isn't just food. It's everything. I grew up with a pair of shoes for 'everyday' wear, and one for 'best'.  They were usually black or beige, so as to 'go with everything'. Now we all have serried ranks of the things, in all the colours of the rainbow as you can't possibly leave the house with a foot covering that might be in some way unsuited to your outfit. It's all wrong!

We really shouldn't care so much about these things. We should spend our money on nourishing our souls. Maybe we should go and see a good film. But, 'Ah', I hear you cry. 'Which one?' And you have a point. Long, long ago a film, a single film, would come to town, to the local cinema, which had one screen. It would be shown for a number of weeks, allowing all of us who were so inclined to go and see it. Then that film would go away and it would be replaced by another. I was bit girlie so, if it was a musical or a comedy or something romantic with a good looking bloke in it, then I'd probably go and see it. If it was something a tad more roughty-toughty then, like as not, I wouldn't bother. Unless I had a boyfriend who was keen to see it and then I'd pretend enthusiasm too, but let's not get into my shallow side here.

Now the multi-screen phenomena has arrived, with a dazzling array of films, of hugely varying quality, that are shown for a few, brief days before they disappear to be replaced by the next load of speedily churned out offerings starring pretty people with little discernible charm or talent. You'll notice I'm warming to my persona of embittered old hag here.  Blink and you've missed the only film you were remotely interested in.

Going to the cinema used to be an event. It was exciting and the cinema was always packed. Indeed, so enthusiastic was the audience for our local flea-pit that we'd run out of seats and the lady that managed it would go and get her own dining chairs, from her house over the road, and line them up at the back. Now, more often than not, at least half the seats are empty. Why? Too much choice! It stands to reason.

And I could go on. It's everywhere. Absolutely bloody EVERYWHERE! In my day you got what you were given and were grateful. You didn't get a choice. Household interiors were painted in Magnolia. Now paint has names, really stupid names like 'Crushed Pigeon with a Smidgen of Mackerel' or 'Hippo's Breath with Ringworm'. The other day, looking at a colour card, I found 'Fawn's Intestine', it was definitely 'Magnolia'.

And men's haircuts. Once upon a time a man would pop along to the barber, and be given a short back and sides with a parting, because that's what the barber did. A quick smear of Brylcreem and the customer went home happy. Now men have as many cuts to choose from as women. The fact that most of these styles make them look like total wankers is, apparently, neither here nor there.

So don't give me any rubbish about choice being good for us. It patently isn't. It's confusing. It's hard work. It makes our brains hurt.  A widely travelled friend once told me that, in her opinion, the people who were the happiest were those who had the least, and I think I probably subscribe to this view. By and large. You'll maybe have noticed the get-out clause in that last sentence. Hmmm?

OK, so I like being able to choose to drink a decent red wine, rather than a bottle of Concorde purchased with the loose change we scavenged from down the sides of cushions and  the linings of jackets, back when we were penniless young parents. I quite like those aforementioned teabags. And, given the choice (yes, that word again) I probably prefer my life now to how it was, back then. But that wont stop me wanting me slap Jacinta's irritating, metrosexual other half in Waitrose. And yes I KNOW! I know I could choose to save money in ASDA. Don't judge me. Alright?


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9. Spitting, Snogging and the Generation Gap.

Now, here's a question for you.  Why do the young have to spit so much? And I'm going to single out young men here as, during my extensive studies of the subject, I have rarely, if ever, seen a young woman doing it.  I hate it and I'm absolutely certain that it's not some sort of physical necessity. Speaking for myself, I've never had a problem dealing with my own saliva. If it accumulates I swallow it as that seems to be the natural and hygenic response.  I have never been tempted to deposit it on the shoe of  the nearest passing stranger. It's disgusting, both to witness the act and to encounter the results on the pavement, so why do they do it? Is it some weird demonstration of manhood? If so it doesn't impress me, I just assume I'm looking at a neanderthal yob who hasn't achieved any of the niceties of civilised behaviour. I blame footballers. They don't seem able to put one overpaid foot in front of the other without gobbing all over the pitch. I've even seen that nice David Beckham doing it and it's setting a bad example to those who hero worship men who can run about a bit and kick a ball, though I've never fathomed why that is either. I think there should be a card that the ref can wave in the face of excess expectoration of mucus. Three spits and you're off. It'd improve things no end.

This is just one of the things that annoy me about young folk and, no doubt, mark me down as a grumpy old woman and send me into '...now, in my day...' mode, which I know to be annoying in itself, having sighed with bored irritation when my supposedly elders and betters said it to me, all those years ago. But I can't help myself. I have a longish list of such vexations, not least of which is the apparent need of the young, of both sexes, to eat all the time. Why is that, for goodness sake? We in the West are, by and large, overfed anyway so I'm sure there's no real need for this constant grazing on crap in between mealtimes. The cinema is one of the worst places to witness this modern phenomenon. There they all are, with a cardboard bucket, big enough to bath a baby in, filled to overflowing with tasteless, polystyrene textured popcorn and an equally gigantic container full of sugared water. Why couldn't they eat before they came? They will then crunch and slurp their way through this expensive feast of pointless, nourishment-free shit whilst the rest of us are trying to concentrate on the film. AND they talk! You're not supposed to talk in the cinema.  We pay considerable amounts of money for cinema tickets, and we're paying to listen to the film, not Kirsty telling Sharon what Connor said to her last night and how Chris took exception to it and it all kicked off and Darren joined in and you know what he's like when he's had a bevvy?  No! I don't! And I don't want to know. I want to watch the fucking film!! Is that too much to ask?  I sit there, praying they'll choke on the popcorn and then fall face down into the Coke, to finish the job off.  Harsh but fair I think.

But now, in the name of balance, I'm compelled to look back, to my youthful cinema-going days, when the only sustenance on offer was a silent choc-ice.  Whilst quietly licking we were also permitted to smoke, which most of us did then, so the film was usually viewed through an atmospheric fog of ciggie smoke. On one memorable occasion, having applied a match to my Players No. 6 untipped (we were fearless in those days) I managed to set fire to a long, varnished fingernail at the same time. As my Persian Pink flared before my horrified eyes I hurled both match and fag into the air, the better to blow out the blaze at the end of my finger.  The match went out, the cigarette landed in the aisle and glowed ominously. Too ashamed to leap to my feet and reclaim it I remained in my seat, weighing up the probability of its going out against the odds of it igniting a terrible inferno in which hundreds would perish.  I opted for staying put and hoping for the best and, after a few very long minutes, the glow died. I breathed again and felt free to return my attention to the chirpy goings on in 'South Pacific' and a woman trying to wash a man right out of her hair. I lit another fag and relaxed. I know, of course, that a ciggie is probably more harmful to the human anatomy than a load of popcorn, though with obesity on the rise it's a close run thing. But I'll concede that it damages my argument, and the (very few) non-smokers in the audience probably hated us as much as I hate the snackers and slurpers so I'd settle for calling that one a draw, except I'm not giving way on the talking problem.  We knew not to indulge in pointless verbal exchanges during the film.  However, we did snog. Indeed, there were double seats on the back two rows of all cinemas for that very purpose, and they call this the permissive age! It's possible that the noises of adolescent passion were just as disturbing as vacuous chatter, if not more so, which leaves me feeling I might not have a leg to stand on with this one. In fact, I'm beginning to feel slightly ashamed of having raised it in the first place.  But I'm remaining firm on the spitting issue.

And then there is litter. I was brought up never to drop rubbish in the street, and so firmly did I drill this maxim into my own children that they all say they could still no more drop a sweet wrapper than fly to the moon. When they were small and we were out and about they dreaded seeing others committing this heinous crime as they knew their mother would scoop up the plastic bottle, sandwich wrapper or whatever, catch up with the litterer  and shove their rubbish in their chest whilst pointing out the nearest bin. Now, I might just have been lucky, but I never came to any harm during these crusades, probably because the louts were too surprised to react very quickly, but it embarrassed the hell out of my kids. It may well have scarred them for life. But they don't drop litter and that's the important thing! It's definitely a worsening problem and it's hard to walk anywhere without having to wade through the detritus of cans and bottles and cardboard food cartons. It disgusts me, but I am grown old and cowardly and no longer pursue the perpetrators with my youthful zeal. Instead, I content myself with glowering at them, in what I hope to be an intimidating manner, but I have been told, by one who has witnessed my glower, that I just look like a mildly irritated gerbil. I'm not sure what prompted the gerbil analogy, but I was not best pleased with it. And, obviously, if that's how I'm coming across  then it's hardly likely to strike fear into half a dozen six foot tall youths who are full of lager and testosterone.

There again, I have been known to make misjudgements.  I know! SO not like me. But I have been guilty of assuming a gaggle of young people, meandering along a pavement and, perhaps, giving me a gentle-ish buffeting in passing are doing so with malice aforethought. Yet, when I have turned to give them the full gerbil treatment I've been met by an anxious little face looking into mine and a steadying hand, accompanied by an, 'I'm so sorry,' completely taking the wind out of my sales and reminding me not to be so quick to condemn without real cause. The truth of the matter is that, although I might find fault, I genuinely like young people and find much to admire in many of them. As my children headed into the supposedly difficult teen years I got the usual sympathetic comments and pitying looks from friends, and dire warnings about how they would turn from sweet natured, pliable little things into the spawn of Beelzebub, but I was delighted to find that I actually liked them very much as they made the transition from child to adult, and I liked their friends, too. I might sometimes have got a bit cross about the amount of noise they could generate but there again, after they'd all grown and flown, I'd have given anything to be woken at four in the morning by the sound of half a dozen pairs of Doc Martin's clattering up the stairs as daughters, plus mates, arrived home from a night out. Oh, and I just want to point out that the DMs were worn with the hooped tights, floppy skirts and beads of the gentle grungers. They were not of the skinhead leaning. Anyway, it seemed to me that theirs was a much more compassionate, engaged generation compared to mine. They were aware of the wider world in a way I never was, and they cared. They struck me as a lot less selfish than us sixties kids, as they stood in the rain in the city centre with their petitions against various injustices. I liked the way they supported each other, through any difficult patches, with a love and loyalty that was touching. I saw that they were just thoroughly nice, reasonable people, and not at all the demons I had been led to expect.  They were also warm and funny and great company and I've no real reason to believe that the current batch should be any different. Oh, of course the media, in all it's forms, will focus on the bad ones, and I suppose that's what I've been doing here too,  but I'm sure there are an awful lot more of them out there who are good, responsible, decent young people and I should probably allow them a bit of slack on the popcorn front, etc.

So where does that leave us? I appear to have started out in high dudgeon and then gone on to demolish most of my own argument. But not all of it. There are still some things I wouldn't have dreamed of doing, and still wouldn't. For example, young mothers in the supermarket who placate their demanding little monsters by giving them things to eat, before they've been paid for.  They're not dishonest, they'll supply the crumpled, empty wrapper at the till for scanning, but what sort of an example are they're setting their kids? Is it ok to encourage instant gratification? Might it not be prudent to teach them you can't have something until it's been paid for? And what the hell's  wrong with just saying 'NO' from time to time? I could shake them. But I don't, of course. They just get the gerbil look.  As do gangs of school children, looking so lovely in their uniforms, whilst yelling the foulest of language at each other in the street.  And the shouting thing itself gets me going. Why can't they just speak, for goodness sake? We don't all want to know that Shelley's a cock sucking slag do we? No, we don't. And they put their feet up on the seats on trains, and wear those stupid trousers that display their saggy undergarments, and stare at their bloody mobile 'phones all the time, even when you're speaking to them, which is SO rude, and ride their bikes on the pavement and don't wear enough clothes in cold weather. So there! And, worst of all, they sometimes assume that those of us with grey hair know absolutely nothing about anything,  overlooking the fact that our age means we've had time to get up to a hell of a lot more than they have thus far, so maybe, just maybe, we might not be completely stupid.

And breathe. I feel better for getting that off my chest. And what's the conclusion? Probably that every generation is annoying to a previous one in its own, particular way.  I wore my skirts offensively short so I should be able to tolerate those glimpses of dingy y-fronts. Those lads wont be wearing their silly pants ten years from now, anymore than I went on wearing minis. They'll probably be suited and booted and trying to pay the mortgage, poor sods. There may be years between the old and the young, but not much else, other than some nuances of manners, maybe. It has ever been thus and a spot of tolerance, on both sides, is probably all that's needed.
But there's no need to SPIT!

8. Vino, Vans and the Pursuit of Happiness.

I've been pondering the nature of loss. Which sounds deep and philosophical, but I'm not a deep or philosophical person so it wasn't, but it did have me thinking about priorities and the ways in which we come to terms with those bad bits that must occur in everybody's life at some point.  Surely, even those who, on the surface at least, appear to lead charmed lives must have the occasional off day. And to be honest, I don't have much truck with the 'charmed life' concept anyway. I once new a woman who claimed to have led precisely that, a charmed life. She said it proudly, with the sort of smug smile that made me want to shake her warmly by the throat, and she then related the most boring litany of events I have ever been forced to hear. Indeed, I use the word 'events' advisedly as I think it might imply episodes far more thrilling than anything she came up with. This same woman would text me excitedly to give me the breathlessly arousing news that she'd just made three madeira cakes. You can picture her now, can't you? A tidy woman with a tidy life in a tidy house with a tidy husband, who probably never dared to crumple the bedsheets with any of that unhygienic slap and tickle, and an existence of terrible tedium in which absolutely nothing was permitted to happen that might ruffle the tidiness of it all. If that's 'charmed' then give me blighted any day.

 Not that I begrudge anybody having a nice time. It's what I want too, but this woman of whom I speak was so bland and so boring that everybody avoided her like the plague. There was something incomplete about her. I had the following conversation with Kate, a mutual acquaintance:

Kate: D'you get loads of texts from J?

Me: Oh yes.

Kate: Right.

Pause....

Kate: Are yours just a load of old wank?

Me: Oh yes.

Glances of shared sympathy were exchanged and we moved on.
 I think it's the rough and tumble of life, the things that knock a few edges off us, that end up making us into proper people, with experiences and thoughts and views and, most importantly, empathy for others when life's jumped up and punched them in the mouth. We can only do that if  we have an inkling of how it feels ourselves. If the worst thing that's happened to you is that your Victoria Sponge didn't rise it's a poor look out.

So, back to my bad bits and those losses that I mentioned a while back. I should point out that we didn't rate them as devastating, but they were a pain.The first one has a nebulous feel to it as what was lost existed somewhere in cyberspace.  Middle daughter was in residence for a while and using my laptop. As is our family tradition, she had a large glass of red wine at her elbow whilst she tapped away at the keys. We were all chatting pleasantly amongst ourselves when an ill-judged flick of the wrist resulted in the red wine, which was supposed to end up in middle daughter, ending up all over the keyboard of the laptop. A flurry of activity ensued with much mopping and reassurances to distressed daughter that it could have happened to any of us (which it could) but the mopping, at least, was to no avail. Apparently, the acid in wine can destroy your hard drive even faster than your liver and by the time we got it to the recovery man all was lost. Now, we should (of course) have taken the sensible precaution of having everything backed up but we (of course) had not, so I was left ruminating on all the stuff that was gone forever, and wondering just where it had been in the first place. All those little icons representing hundreds of images and thousands of words. Had all of that been hovering in the ether somewhere, waiting for me to summon it up? I like using modern technology, but I've no firm grip on how it works. And I don't want you to try and explain it to me because I still wouldn't understand, I don't have the right sort of mind. Actually, you could tell me it was all down to a network of tiny elves and I'd be happy to go with that.

But back to the losses. I mourn the passing of the lost 'photo albums and I've now decided that the digital camera isn't the boon we all take it to be. Sure, we can snap away to our hearts content and, in keeping with these times of instant gratification, we can then just download the results straight onto our computers, cutting out the business of having to take them to be developed and then waiting for days before collecting our efforts. And don't get me started on taking pictures with mobile 'phones. I'm sick to death of people insisting on handing me their mobile to inspect a tiny image on a tiny screen and having to nod and smile admiringly whilst having no clue as to what I'm looking at.  I have to take it on trust that it's 'me and our Sheila at that barbecue I told you about.' I don't disgrace my self by saying, 'D'you know what, if you hadn't told me I'd have thought it was someone beheading a duck,' or whatever it looks like to me as I squint at the stupid thing, but I'm always uneasy about making the right response. But back to the old days, when the waiting had an excitement all its own, even though the anticipation was rarely matched by the results. Now we can see immediately how shamefully pissed we looked at somebody's party or that we cut everybody's heads off in the group photo. But, joy of joys, we can instantly delete the disasters, before anybody gets the chance to snatch the shameful image from our hands, crying, 'Let's see,' before we can grab it back and tear it to shreds. Now it's just the click of a button and it's gone.  However, it also means we might miss out on the pleasure that our family enjoys from time to time, usually when all the children are visiting, and we'll spend an evening with the few albums I actually got round to putting together, but mostly the jumble of 'photos that I've chucked into boxes, recalling holidays and picnics and family occasions, laughing at what we were wearing or trying to remember all the names in a gang of school friends. It's not the same, all squashed shoulder to shoulder in front of a screen flicking through the images, rather than comfortably sprawled, with the pictures passing from hand to hand. But despite this nostalgic leaning towards a good old Snappy Snaps print, I too had succumbed to the digital age, and more recent pictorial records had ended up on my laptop. Now they're gone and, having emptied my camera's memory after downloading, they no longer exist, anywhere.  I see this as an excellent argument for a return to the good old Box Brownie. 

I also lost all twenty five thousand words of the dissertation I wrote for my English MA. I suppose the hard copy that I had to have bound and then presented for assessment still exists somewhere, buried in the vaults of the university library, which is probably the best place for it, and if I really wanted it I could request a photocopy.  But I'm not convinced I would ever have been moved to read it again anyway, so I doubt I'll bother.  To be honest, I'll probably be more inconvenienced by the loss of my Christmas card list, complete with changes of address, and of names of partners. I'm going to miss that. So, despite the initial feelings of despair over the disappearance of all those words and pictures, I reckon I can live without them.  And we've learnt a valuable lesson about making sure we back it all up in the future. Or, and here's a radical idea, we could go back to printing off our pictures and writing things down, on paper. Alternatively, I could make sure there's never any red wine near to the computer, but that would be a step too far.

The next loss was rather more shocking. On a bright and sunny morning, a couple of weeks back, I went downstairs, made myself my habitual mug of tea and wandered into the front room. I stood at the window to survey the street.  I had an excellent view. I had far too excellent a view. It took me a minute to realise what was wrong. My view should have been partially obscured by our lovely little VW Campervan. It was not. I stared at the space where it should have stood and I went on staring, being gripped by the mad idea that if I did it for long enough the van would magically re materialise. It didn't, of course, but I couldn't believe it had gone. I peered up and down the road, hoping for some clue as to what had happened, but all I saw what the enormous tabby from number fourteen, scratching itself, and the cheerful woman from twenty eight, heading off with the tartan shopping trolley that we all know she fills with the cheap cooking sherry she imbibes throughout the day, which  probably has a bearing on why she's so unfailingly jolly. But whatever floats your boat, that's what I say.

So, I summoned the help of the local constabulary and they dispatched a delightful policeman, who must have been all of thirteen, to assess the situation. He was kind and sympathetic but dispiritingly pessimistic as to our chances of getting it back, and it seems he was right as it's been a while now and there's still no sign of it.  I'm both angry and upset about this loss, and find myself wishing unspeakable horrors on the ne'er do wells responsible and ranting about how we worked hard to get the money to buy it and why couldn't they do the same if they wanted one. In short, I have to keep slapping down the Daily Mail reader within and reminding myself that I'm a Guardian woman of liberal mindset and balanced opinions. I'm trying to keep things in perspective, reminding myself that far worse things happen to people and I should count myself lucky. The thief may have led a far from charmed life and his need might be greater than mine. But it's hard.  And even more than the loss of the van, I'm grieved by the loss of the contents. The teapot was a dear little yellow thing, bought for me by a daughter from her very first pay packet when she got herself a Saturday job in sixth form. Now some thieving bastard has their filthy, criminal paws on it. See? I keep getting cross and turning  nasty. Aforementioned policemen (who turned out to be a sergeant, so must have joined the force as an embryo) has kept us updated on...well...nothing really. He just rings and says they still haven't found it so now we're waiting to see what sort of a pittance the insurance company comes up with.  It'll probably be enough for a tandem and a tent.
So there it is, and life still goes on pleasantly enough.  I have a bike and a bus pass and all my bits are working so I'm not confined to the house by the absence of what was our only vehicle. And all that twaddle in my dissertation has undoubtedly been said better, elsewhere by someone else. It's no great drama and we've pretty much come to terms with it. I wonder if this equilibrium is something to do with age? I think it is. As time passes, and I become increasingly aware that the time I can expect ahead is getting considerably shorter than the time I've already had, I'm convinced that, actually, there's very little that REALLY matters. The people I love come top of the list, naturally, and I think it's important to retain  a compassionate view on the world, but not much else springs to mind. It's rather liberating.
I have most certainly not had a charmed life. I've experienced events that were so devastating at the time that  I felt sure I'd never smile again.  But I did. And it all helped me to get my priorities sorted. It's called life. It's supposed to be messy. How can it not be if you choose to engage with it fully. So, onward and upward and let's live dangerously. Pour the wine, I'm firing up the laptop!

7. Bores and Babies and Egg Warmers

What do you think to the idea of a good slug of Baileys on your cornflakes as a mood-lifting start to the day? Not good? I only ask because I'm feeling a bit bereft at the moment, following the departure of middle daughter plus grandchildren after a longish stay. They've gone back home which,
in their case, is nearly the other side of the sodding world and it's left me contemplating the whole issue of grandparenthood.

You see, I never wanted to be a grandmother. I don't mean I hated the idea, not at all, just that I never craved it in the way that some women I've met obviously do.  I have been unwaveringly convinced I could remain happy and fulfilled with or without them. I certainly craved my own children, oh yes indeed! Mother Nature gave me a sharp kick, the old maternal instinct sprang into life and I yearned for dimpled babes to dandle on my knee. However, as I lay, a-labouring-oh, wailing in anguish and bemoaning what was a blatantly obvious design fault in the female anatomy, I was certainly not thinking, gleefully, 'oh goody, this means that one day I can be a grandma.' Absolutely not.  Apart from anything else, I was rather taken up with the business of the moment, as my children sprang from my loins. Except, of course, they don't spring do they? Springing is the last thing they do, and that's the problem.

I don't see why evolution couldn't have decreed that we laid eggs, which seems so much more sensible. And these days you wouldn't even have to stay at home and do all that sitting on them to keep them warm.  There'd be handy patent egg warmers, designed to suit every decor, that would do the job for you whilst you went about your daily business, untramelled by worries of egg temperatures.  You'd just check for signs of cracking every now and again, and then be ready with a damp flannel when it hatched.  Or we could have had teeny, tiny little babies like the ones kangaroos have, so small that the mother barely notices it's arrived until it climbs into her pouch. Not that I'm keen on the pouch thing. I don't know how fastidious your average kangaroo is but it must get pretty messy in there, and cleaning it out could be a nightmare.  There again, somebody would probably have come up with a nifty little attachment you could just pop on the nozzle of your Hoover. But this is all by-the-way. At no time, during the production of my own children, did it cross my mind to worry about whether or not they might, in time, go down the parenthood path themselves.  It was of no particular importance to me, but I have met a great many people for whom the matter looms large and I could never quite get to grips with their obsessional views on the subject.

Once you have grown-up children you will meet certain people, mostly women it has to be said, who will grill you as to the state of your offspring's fecundity as if that is the most important thing about them. My first mother-in-law was one such person, in that grandmotherhood and the prompt production of babies meant a lot to her, but I wish to state, here and now, that I was deeply fond of her. She was a lovely woman in every way but, when I was but a few months into the marriage, and showing no signs of being up the duff, her disappointment in us was palpable.  We, of course, had no plans for starting a family so early in our union, thinking it wiser to get some furniture before a family, and the poor woman would have to wait for three, long years before her wish was granted, by which time I'm sure she was convinced that we must be doing it wrong. She herself was inordinately proud of the fact that she had dropped her first sprog nine months to the day after her nuptials, bringing unbounded joy to one and all, and I fear she judged me to be a selfish little wretch with dubious, modern ways for failing to do likewise.

Now that my own children have reached maturity I keep finding myself in conversation with women who regard the whole issue of whether or not said children have children of their own yet and, if not, why not, of considerable interest to them.  I, of course, not being thick, am fully aware that these supposedly interested enquiries are but a ruse designed to enable them to hold forth, at tedious length, about how many grandchildren they can claim to their name. I fear I'm an unrewarding audience for these women as I honestly cannot see why I should then congratulate them for something that really has very little to do with them.  The fact that their kids have either been impregnated or, alternatively,  have been doing a spot of impregnating does not incline me to shower their mothers with praise and approbation. Not at all. Indeed, knowing some of their children, as I do, my strongest feeling is one of pity for the resulting babes. It's the Grans with a competitive edge that irritate me the most, reeling off numbers in a 'beat that' tone of voice, which has me gagging to point out that, as the planet is already over populated, all that procreative prowess is nothing to be proud of, and maybe they should be out buying their kids some condoms instead.

 I happen to have daughters and I regard their wombs, either full or empty, as entirely their own business. Yet these women of whom I speak seem to think it's fine to look at me pityingly and shake their heads in a sorrowful manner when I tell them that, thus far, two daughters remain, very happily, childless. And if that continues to be the case then I, for one, will not be losing any sleep over it.  Now, I don't want you getting the wrong idea about me.  I'm as inordinately proud a mother as the next bore, but I'm more likely to fix you with a gimlet eye and tell you how fabulously well my children are doing in their chosen careers, or how much I admire their bravery and their fascination with the wider world as one them sets off to trek across the mountains of China on a horse, or I'll boast about anothers compassion as she walks the cobbles of Mexico City giving food to street children. I'll do all the showy-off stuff in buckets and, for good measure, I'll probably throw in a few anecdotes about my grandkids too, as it just so happens they are remarkably bright and beautiful and funny and utterly adorable, but what I won't do is try and take credit for any of it.  And I won't assume you warrant sympathy if you have no children of your own, grand or otherwise.

 I have always held the theory that having children is not compulsary.  Sadly, I fear that many (not all) couples do adhere to the view that, if you have been together for a while, got the house, car, stuff, then the next move must be to have the family, without giving any deep or serious thought to whether or not this is really what they want. Or if, perhaps, they are merely fulfilling the wishes of their respective families to acquire those pictures that can be proudly handed round at coffee mornings. Having been a foster-carer at one point in my life I am here to tell you that an awful lot of people out there should never, ever have become parents. Not everybody is cut out for it.  Not everybody wants it. No pressure should ever be applied.

I can honestly say that I've never regretted having my children. Not for one moment. But I can also appreciate the benefits of the childless life and I suppose, in a way, I've been reminded of that recently. It was great having the house full again, as all our daughters wanted to spend as much time as possible with each other and the babies. It was all the best possible fun. And I loved having the company of the five year old as we picked beans together at the bottom of the garden, or made cakes. She reminded me of how a sink full of bubbles can be fun rather than just washing up and she could make me laugh till I cried.  I really didn't mind being woken by a two year old with a smile like the sun, despite the fact that the hour was ungodly.  I liked going into his room as  he slept to kiss those cheeks that only small children can do so well. I melted when he cuddled up to me on the sofa and gripped two of my fingers in his sticky little hand.  It was a joy to spend so much time with them and they are  fabulous children. But they're my daughter's achievement, not mine.

 And now they're gone again, and I miss them, as I think I mentioned at the beginning of this piece, yet I can't deny the pleasure I take in having a few scallops in garlic butter with a nice green salad for my lunch rather than fish fingers and beans. I suppose I've grown selfish. On balance, I probably prefer an hour or two in an art gallery, followed by a gin and tonic and a gossip with a good mate than an afternoon on a bench in a playground.  Does that make me a bad person? I don't think so. I've done my stint, from choice, and revelled in the rewards.  Just don't expect to find me at the coffee morning, handing round the photographs (and there are lots of them) whilst other women pretend an interest. That's not my thing. I promise not to show you mine if you don't show me yours.