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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14. Past, Present and the Weirdo in the Wardrobe.

There seems to be a current obsession, amongst quite a lot of people I know, with tracking down the details of their family tree. Perhaps it's been triggered by those television programmes where we see the likes of Jeremy Paxman reduced to tears on learning the plight of his great, great, great granny who had twenty nine children with only three shoes between them and nothing but the fever of consumption to keep them warm. 

But I suspect that most of those who are out there, scouring the parish records or glued to their computers in the dark watches of the night, searching websites in the hope of finding clues to their origins, are just hoping to prove one thing. They want to verify that their suspicions have been right all along, and that, despite appearances to the contrary, blue blood courses threw their veins. Now, as the lower orders have always outnumbered the toffs by a pretty huge proportion the odds are very much against this being the case, but they live in hope. And sadly, even if they do come up with an aristocratic connection, it's most likely to be via Sir. Dastardly-Bastard, up at the big 'ouse, who had his wicked way with poor Nelly, the housemaid, and then cast her from his door when the proof of her shame became visible beneath her tear stained pinny.

No, I think that, by and large, we're wiser to remain ignorant of our ancestors, and I'm sure that most of them would just be a dreadful disappointment in their tedius ordinariness anyway.  And if you do happen to unearth anything remarkable about them you could end up like an unfortunate friend of mine who now knows that, back down the line, she had a distant cousin, lots of times removed, who was eventually banged up for drowning every alternative child, born to him and his hapless wife, in the nearby brook and then burying them in his kitchen garden.  As a method of birth control it's pretty extreme, even if he did have the best rhubarb in the village. It's not recorded if it was the poor little odds or evens that got dunked but my friend now frets that the homicidal gene still lurks within, just lying dormant. These days she's even reluctant to swat flies in case it triggers a killing spree. Best not to know that stuff in the first place is my advice.

I'm sure that every time I pass my wardrobe there's the sound of a few skeletons rattling away in there, just waiting to be dusted off and dragged into the light of day, but I'm leaving them where they are. I already know a bit about my origins, thanks to a relative who has taken it upon himself to do a spot of delving and, by and large, I'm happy with his findings. Donegal boot makers and a Lancashire mill girl feature in the mix and that suits me nicely. I've always been proud of my working-class roots and feel that, generally speaking, that ilk has behaved rather better than the aristocracy, though it might just be that everyone was too exhausted from working down t'pit, or exercising their whippet to get up to no good on a major scale. Inevitably, there'll be a few bad eggs lurking around, but I'm still content to be a pleb.

 Even in the highly unlikely event that you did trace a direct line to royalty it's not going to make a blind bit of difference to your situation now. Don't go imagining that ER is going to welcome you through the palace gates with open arms just because a dodgy website says that in the seventeeth century some frisky female ancestor underwent a secret marriage with the heir apparent and bore him many fine offspring. It's probably not true and it's definitely not going to get you an invite to walk the corgis with Liz, so what's the use?

It would be nice, however, if a few harmless eccentrics showed up, dangling cheerily from the branches of the family tree.  I'd be delighted to be told that one of my forbears cycled round his village with a rooster called Cuthbert perched on the handlebars, whilst singing selections from Gilbert and Sullivan.  Or that I was descended from a much revered postmistress who offered sexual services behind the counter on half-closing day, drawing an even bigger queue than for pensions. I'd love to uncover something of that sort. And it would be especially nice to find someone who had subverted the usual model and was a high ranking member of the aristocracy who had fallen madly in love with some distant aunt of mine and abandoned wealth for passion, willingly taking on a coal delivery round in Burnley to support them in their back-to-back lovenest. That'd be nice, and might explain my innate love of an open fire.

But this is all idle conjecture as I have no plans to waste my time in pursuit of the past. The present is quite fascinating enough. So I shall ignore those skeletons. They can rattle all they like.  I shall concentrate on the living. But I'll admit to a hatching a plan to do something really outrageous before I pop my size three and half clogs so that if, a couple of centuries from now, one of my descendants decides to do a spot of digging, I'll be unearthed as one of the more interesting specimens. Now, what should it be....?


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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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