35. Birds, Bastards and Gin.

 

 

 You'll have heard those bloody annoying little Pollyannas who urge us, "If life gives you lemons make lemonade." Well the problem with that is I don't like lemonade, so it's no help. I like wine, actually. But just lately life seems to have been giving us all a shed load of lemons. Actually, it isn't just lately, is it? It's been going on for a while. 

I blame 2016. That's when the shitstorm started in my opinion. That was the year, you may recall, when you couldn't turn on a TV or radio without hearing of the death of a beloved singer or national treasure. Even an abbreviated list includes, Bowie, Prince, Leonard Cohen, George Michael and Victoria Wood. It made you paranoid, wondering who'd go next. Then came the EU Referendum. It'll be fine, we cried, only a fool would think it was a good idea to leave the EU, and we went to our complacent beds secure in the knowledge that we were not a nation of  fools. How wrong can you be? The following morning I found myself sobbing in the Baked Goods aisle of Marks and Spencer's. Humiliating.

And then, just to top off the year from hell, along came the US Elections. Oh how we laughed at the very idea that a great, orange buffoon with the IQ of a gnat and all the charisma of a cold turd could possibly be elected as leader of the most powerful country in the world. And to be honest, Trump did look as surprised as the rest of us when the awful truth dawned. We tried to cheer ourselves by saying things like, 'It could only get worse if we had someone like that bumbling blonde idiot Boris Johnson as our Prime Minister..... '. And we chuckled heartily at the very notion. Oh how we scoffed...and how little we knew of what lay ahead. Shocked and dazed, we stumbled on to the end of the year.

 But I digress. Back to the year 2020 and the fact that this hasn't exactly shaped up to be everybody's favourite either. And we all know why that is. Covid has turned our lives upside down and deprived many thousands of theirs. 2020 is the year of plague and it's definitely not going to helped by a glass of fucking lemonade. I need alcohol. Lots of alcohol. Especially as the blonde twit and his evil mate, Cummings, actually ARE in charge now. Dark days indeed.

I'm not saying my wine habit's a good thing, but I find it helps, at the end of a long day of lockdown, having tried to find meaningful ways to occupy the empty hours (and if you mention sourghdough starters you're dead to me) I just look forward to pouring a glass of something that has the duel benefits of tasting delicious and making me feel a bit better, all at the same time. I'm not a cause for concern, I'm not putting whisky on my cornflakes, but I do get a frisson of excitement when the text comes through to say my Majestic delivery is on it's way. 

And that's another thing. I'd never had any sort of food delivery before lockdown, indeed I spurned the very idea. I liked to choose my own stuff. But, as it was either that or starvation, I went on line and started clicking. And it's not as bad as I thought, plus the delivery drivers are all unfailingly lovely, so that's a bonus. But the bit I like best is when they don't have what you asked for so they substitute it with something else.  I like that delightful element of surprise, as you rummage through your goods to see what this week's picker considers the nearest thing to a Tunnocks Teacake. It was a packet of weird wafer biscuits, since you ask. But the more random the better I like it. And when my husband asks, 'Why am I spreading something called Rhubarb Compote on my toast when I believe I asked for Thick Cut Marmalade?, I can reply, 'Take it up with Anthony, your picker for this week, Sunshine.'

I know that in many ways we're very lucky but I miss seeing my family and friends, other than by way of Zoom or Skype, with all the attendant, 'Are you there? I can see you, can you see me....oh you've gone!' Though it's certainly better than nothing. And yes, we have been doing family quizzes. So go judge us! 

But back to my main thrust. For many people, an unexpected benefit of lockdown has been all those people discovering the joys of nature. The planes and traffic fell silent and we could hear the birds. Within weeks, people who previously didn't know their pigeon from their puffin would stop in their tracks, cock an ear and declare, knowingly, 'That's a Ginglewolds Lesser Spotted Great Bottomed Boomer, if I mistake me not!' And people are walking and cycling more, both of which we happen to love. Consequently I decided to combine the pleasures and benefits of a country walk with a spot of foraging (also increasingly fashionable, as long as you don't overdo it and deprive the wildlife) that would ultimately turn into alcohol. Result! You see, I got to the point of all this rambling in the end.

Thus, on a sunny, Autumnal afternoon, we strode off over the fields in search of Sloe berries and spent a couple of happy hours, getting scratched to buggery picking the little sods and bore them home triumphantly. I now have two jars of Sloe Gin fermenting on a shelf in the understairs cupboard. It should be ready for drinking somewhere round mid January. And that will be just about perfect for toasting the inauguration Joe Biden as President of the United States of America. 

Now all we have to do is find a vaccine, overturn Brexit and get the Tory gits out of office. In the meantime, we can at least rejoice in the downfall of a pig shit thick fascist, racist, misogynist, sex pest, gun loving, daughter fancying pervert, draft dodging, tax dodging, climate change denying, narcissistic, thoroughly nasty cunt. Cheers!

34. Of Grandparents, Motorways and Halloumi Wraps

   Might you want to stop for a wee at Norton Canes?' asks my husband.
"Probably," I say. We usually get to the services on the Toll Road near lunchtime, and this one has a Leon so I can get an halloumi wrap.
"OK. I can stick some screenwash in when we're there,' he informs me.

This thrilling exchange is a pretty standard example of what passes for conversation on the weekly, five hundred mile round trip that we make, between our home in the North West of England and that of our youngest daughter, in East London.

Now, you might be thinking we're lacking in imagination, if this is the best we can come up with by way of banter. But we've been doing this trip for well over a year now, and we've pretty much exhausted our stock of fascinating subjects for debate. And the route is now so wretchedly familiar that we're sometimes reduced to such gems as, "I think there are more sheep in that field than there were last week." Bleak, yeah?

So we listen to music and radio plays and the miles pass. Mile after mile after frigging mile.Through the roadworks and the accident holdups, in rain, shine and snow. My only consolation an halloumi wrap.

And why are we subjecting ourselves to this ordeal, you might be wondering? I'll tell you why.There is a reward, at the end of our journey, in the form of a tiny girl, with a load of messy curls, an iron will, a cheeky smile and a of love of raisins, The Gruffalo, her wellies and, happily, her Grandparents. And for two days a week we provide her childcare. Not that I think of it in terms of that bald word. I see it more as larking about and having a laugh in great company. It's more than adequate recompense for the hell of the M6.

What I find interesting is the variety of reactions I get from friends and acquaintances when I mention this weekly ritual. It varies between disbelief at our stupidity, admiration for our devotion, and degrees of bewilderment in between. I've also been told that I'm a fool for allowing my daughter to exploit me. To which I say, "Fuck off!" It's insulting to suggest I've been in some way coerced into the job. I made the offer of help shortly after my youngest granddaughter was born. My two older grandchildren were born on the other side of the world and spent their early years there. Apart from infrequent visits, I observed their development on Skype, and was damned glad of it, but it's not quite the same as being there, physically, for the first smile, step, word. I feel privileged to be such an integral part of little E's life and I'm here to tell you that London's just a stone's throw compared to eight thousand  miles of longhaul flight.

Of course, we grandparents are often undervalued. I know of some far more devoted than I, who have uprooted themselves from happy, settled lives and moved lock, stock and barrel to be nearer to family who needed them. Every school gate will see a fair proportion of grandparents, planning their days around school drop offs and pickups. Every playgroup sees us sitting patiently at the painting table we thought we'd seen the last of years ago. We nod and smile at each other as we push the swing in the park. We're fabulous. But we're not entirely altruistic. Most of us do it because we actually like it, it's fun, it's good for us, it might even widen horizons that were getting a bit narrow.

I'm not going to deny there are also those days when I've turned down the chance of a boozy lunch with mates to end up in a blustery playground with a grumpy toddler who just wants to smear mud down my coat, when I feel a tinge of bitterness. Then I plan to produce stickers for the back windows of cars, like the ones that say, 'A dog's for life. Not just for Christmas.' Except mine would say, 'A Mum's got a life. She's not just for Childcare.' I'm only human. I have my moments.

But every week, as we set off on yet another of those long drives, we're smiling at the thought of what we're heading towards. We feel very lucky to have our children and grandchildren, and time spent with any of them is a good thing in our book. So here's to all the grandparents who help to keep the wheels turning at home whilst their hard working children are out earning their mortgage payments. We're all valuable and we're doing an essential, worthwhile job. Woe betide anyone who underestimates us and our contribution to society. And just think of the amazing opportunity we have to influence the next generation......and of being a bit subversive, if we choose. So come on little E, repeat after Grandma, "Theresa May is a silly twat." Good girl!!


Thanks so much for reading.

33. The Baby, The Bubbles And The Old Woman.

The bubble floats gently down before the entranced eyes of my ten month old granddaughter. It lands on the floor beside her and, delighted, she reaches out a tiny hand towards it.....just as it bursts. I bend my head and whisper in her perfect little ear, 'That's a lesson in the transient nature of happiness, my love.'

Bit cynical? Yeah, but it's never too early to learn the harsh facts of life, and I'm not entirely sure what it is we're here to learn anyway. We are at a Baby Sensory Class. We didn't have these when my children were tiny. The nearest I ever came to it was finding a 'Mother and Toddler' group, which you wouldn't have now anyway as it's sexist, but they were unenlightened times. So, believing I should be socialising my toddler, off we went and fetched up in a chilly old  hall with a pile of grubby toys in the middle of the floor and chairs round the walls. And there we sat, watching our kids fight over the toys whilst we mothers sipped stewed tea and kept well out of it, and then we went home.  It didn't feel like fun. I reckoned we could skip socialising sessions and just muddle through on seeing family, visiting friends, playing in the park and that sort of stuff. At home I did activities with them, played games and we sang jolly songs. It seemed to work ok so that's what I did with my subsequent children too.

But it's all different now. Now there are 'sessions' for everything. Thus, on the appropriate days each week, baby and I turn up at a variety of venues for all manner of activities.

I do not do this entirely reluctantly. I am thrilled to be so involved with her development and feel privileged to play such an active part in her life. Indeed, any time spent in her company is time well spent by my reckoning. I'm just not clear about what it's all for. There we all are, mums, dads and grandparents, and it's a joy to see so many lovely young men present, the involved and proud  fathers but, it has to be said, it's still mostly mums. I think that should be noted. And then there'll be the sparse sprinkling of us tired looking women with grey hair. The grandmothers. The providers of free childcare. We make eye contact across the rubberised, jigsaw flooring. And the look says it all. 'What the fuck is going on here?'

In my experience, these sessions are usually led by enthusiastic young women, deeply committed to their cause, and I feel myself swept along on their conviction. But on the walk home, emotionally wrung out and exhausted by sensory overload, I sometimes find myself questioning  the wisdom of it all and wishing that, like my over stimulated grandaughter, I could just lie down and go to sleep...preferably after I've consumed a large amount of calming gin.

Each week there's a theme but, it seems to me, they're all a mish-mash of the same ingredients. Bursts of deafening music, things that flash, stuff that has to be waved, the aforementioned bubbles, occasional puppet shows that are either downright weird or just plain scary in their frenetic enthusiasm and the songs, the endless, bloody songs. And don't get me started on 'baby signing.' I studied linguistics at university and language development in particular, and know for a fact that children under a year old can't associate a hand sign with, for example, the sun because they don't have language yet, so they can't make the connection between the thing in the sky and you waving your hand about. But we all sit there, obediently doing it. The babies, meanwhile, eschew the whole charade and go about their business, being babies, thumping each other or having a bit of a cry, whilst the more mobile ones crawl for the exit.

'Wave your light sticks,' cries our leader,'to stimulate your baby's sense of colour and movement!' I wave enthusiastically. There's nothing tardy about my waving. The baby inspects her right foot.

I can't help but think that, if you're a sleep deprived new parent, sitting on a floor, wielding a chiffon scarf in one hand, wind chimes in the other and singing about rainbows whilst your baby just looks embarrassed and ignores you it might not be the ideal moment to question your life choices.

We also go to a music class, which I quite like as I'm only required to sing along to the guitar accompaniment of the earnest woman who leads it. 'C'mon,' I urge the baby, 'let's clap to the music.' The glance she gives me shouts, 'I'm not a performing monkey. Give it a rest old woman.' And quite right too.

So, do I ever find anything enjoyable or beneficial in these groups I'm so sarky about? Hell, yes!

In an area where I'm a stranger I have been warmly welcomed by so many of these wonderful young parents and made to feel very much part of their community. And that's no small thing for an elderly woman, who's child rearing days were a long time ago and who's having to learn about the way things are done now.

I can see what a valuable, social resource these classes are, bringing together all those new parents, to befriend and support each other. I'd have loved to have had that when my daughters were tiny. It must be so reassuring to be able to exchange tips on weaning, or to find that everybody's baby has sleep issues and it doesn't mean they've got pneumonia every time they sneeze.

And because their mums and dads have become friends those babies will benefit from their own little friendship circles too, and that's lovely.

When it comes down to it, nothing really changes. We're all just trying to find the best ways of raising  our beloved children.

A friend of my daughter once described these sessions as 'batshit crazy' and I don't think I could possibly improve on that, but it's a good crazy. And definitely a step up on stewed tea in a dismal hall.



Thanks so much for reading.

32. Sexual Harassment And The Older Woman

In the light of recent events, exposing the disgusting behaviour of Harvey Weinstein, resulting in the floodgates flying open for the numerous women, and men but, let's be honest, mostly women who have been sexually harassed and felt compelled to stay silent, I decided to weigh in to the argument on behalf of the older woman. If I'm accused of jumping on the bandwagon then so be it. The best time to get aboard is when it's already in motion.

Suddenly the media is awash with reports of women suffering the unwanted attentions of men in every area of life. Sadly, it appears it had to be flagged up by high profile women in the glamorous worlds of film and theatre in order for people to take notice. Now politicians are being exposed for their abuse of power and over-inflated ideas of entitlement, but any woman, in any walk of life will recognise those scenarios. You don't have to be a Hollywood star to experience abuse, from the casual grope through to violent rape. Stop any woman on the street. They'll all have their story. The surprising thing is this sudden outpouring of shock and horror. It's Jimmy Savile all over again. We all know about it, and we've all complained about it, but nobody took much notice. Now, all of a sudden, it's everywhere! And I'm glad. It gets the message out there that it's just not acceptable to touch a woman, any woman, in any way, if she does not want you to. It is not acceptable to make lewd remarks, and it is not acceptable to become angry and insulting when a woman rejects your uninvited approach. It is not acceptable to abuse your power and use it is a weapon.

There are those men who are taking to the media to whinge about how complicated it's getting for the poor lambs. But it's terribly simple. Stop blaming women for your lack of control and make damned sure it's consensual before you make a move. Otherwise it's harassment. Clear?

Of course I don't tar all men with the same brush. There are lots of lovely, sensitive, non-predatory men out there. I'm married to one. That doesn't dilute the effect of the ones who are the opposite of all that and who devastate and blight entire lives.

And now to the point of my argument. It would appear, from the media coverage that, by and large, you are only at danger from this behaviour if you are young, attractive and perceived as desirable. Not so. But when it comes to older women it gets complicated.

I've written on this subject in an earlier blog but I feel it's worth revisiting at this particular moment. There seem to be an undefined point when a woman passes from object of desire to sexless being. Now, there are many advantages to the ageing process and, in some ways, this is one of them. It can be a relief not to have to go through that dance on a crowded train, trying to make sure you've edged your way out of the reach of the guy with the wandering hands. I wish I'd had the courage of the woman who grabbed the hand on her buttock, held it aloft and shouted, "I just found this on my arse. Does it belong to anyone?"

You can go into a bar, buy yourself a drink and settle in a corner with your book without constantly checking for the man who thinks being tipsy on Prosecco makes him irresistible and is heading your way. It can be very freeing.

However, there are those who think that age renders you entirely devoid of feeling and preference. These people, sometimes complete strangers, imagine that laying hands on you uninvited is totally acceptable and who look shocked and affronted when you recoil or shrug them off. We're not supposed to mind. Worse still, I think we're sometimes expected to be oddly grateful for this unwanted attention. After all, we're no longer sex objects are we, so we can't possible take offence can we? Yes, we fucking can!

But I have a personal axe to grind. There is a particular man, who I sometimes work with, who is much too handy for comfort. He's a cheery soul. Greets all as his friend. Is possibly a little younger than me, but not much. And I dislike this 'likeable' man. For a kick off, he addresses me as 'sweetheart'. He knows my name perfectly well and I find the patronising use of 'dear' and 'lovie', that you endure day in and day out once you pass a certain age, offensive and annoying, but I can (just about) forgive those who don't know my name.....though there are better alternatives, or simply nothing at all, which is just fine. But this man's 'sweetheart' makes my flesh creep. And then there's the touching.

I'm comfortable with a matey arm flung round a shoulder, but not the sudden sensation of hands being slipped slowly round your waist from behind, or the brushing of the back of a hand across your bottom, just a little too firmly to be accidental, that really offends me. I know for a fact I am not alone, and I certainly don't flatter myself than I am an object of desire to this man. I honestly believe that this is his habitual way of behaving around women.  And as, presumably, nobody has ever challenged him he continues to think it's just fine.  And it so isn't. For ANY women, regardless of age.

It may well be ingrained in him from those unenlightened times when such behaviour was widely accepted. Not liked, but accepted.

But times have changed and it's never too late to learn. Or is it? I question myself as to why I haven't reacted to his behaviour. Am I afraid of being ridiculed for even suggesting a man would choose to touch me? That I'd be accused of an over active imagination?

I'm fairly sure that if I challenge him then I will be accused of being silly, or over-sensitive and most people would probably side with the transgressor. He's a nice bloke, he doesn't mean any harm, and who do I think I am?

Well, I reckon I'm a woman. My age is immaterial.  My feelings are my own, as is my body. And it's time to say, "D'you know what, I don't like that. Please don't do it."

A small, personal skirmish in the great, feminist fight. But they all count. Don't they?



Thanks so much for reading.

31.Baby Boomer Blues

I'm a Baby Boomer. There you go. I've said it. Now I'll just sit back and take a kicking. It's no more than I deserve, apparently.

Only today, writing in the Mail On Sunday, Vince Cable (who I quite liked!) has accused the old of shafting the young via the Brexit vote. I'm so angry I could cry.

It seems to me that those of us who happened to be born at the end of the SWW are being held responsible for pretty much all the ills of society. And we're not. We're individuals, just like the rest of you, and it can be annoying to open my morning paper or watch the TV news to find it's all my fault that the nation's going to hell in a handcart. It's not just annoying, it's hurtful and frustrating....and wrong. We are too easy a target and it's lazy journalism to make an entire generation into scapegoats.

To begin at the beginning, we can't seriously be held responsible for the fact that our fathers returned from the theatre of war and all its accompanying horrors to fall, with joy and relief, into the welcoming arms of our mothers. We didn't get a say in the matter. But there we were. A whole load of babies, an army of us, if you will, with the sole intention of being an over privileged elite for the rest of our lives....quite deliberately.....allegedly.

We kicked off by overwhelming the welfare state. There was barely enough of that vile orange juice that came in medicine type bottles to go round. But we glugged it down our greedy little throats and grew big and strong. And then we had to be educated, demanding little bleeders that we were. And this is where the 'spoilt generation' theory starts to come unstuck. We ended up in overcrowded classrooms with hardworking, well intentioned teachers who had simply too many kids to monitor individually, so the less bright ended up at the back of the room, overlooked and under-educated. I know this. Years later I would be a voluntary one-to-one teacher of the many adults who came out of that system unable to to read or write. Bright, capable people who fell through a net that was bursting at the seams.

But on we strode, towards the Eleven Plus examination. I was reasonably bright and general expectations were that I might, in fact, pass and go on to the Grammar School. But I didn't. Nor did a lot of my classmates who had also been rated capable of passing. Our parents smelled a rat. And we were not demanding people. I came from a lower working class family. We knew our place. We didn't make a fuss.....usually. On this occasion, however, the families of just too many children, not all of them from the poorer end of the village, were shocked by the results and a meeting was called, attended by my mother who came home furious at having been told, by men in suits, that yes, there were a number of children who had achieved the requisite marks but, as there were too few places for too many children, they had had no choice to but to cream off those with the highest marks and condemn the rest to secondary modern education. And hard luck. Our numbers were a disadvantage, and we'd just have to live with it.

And thus we did, eventually leaving school at fourteen to an undeniably plentiful job market. Not necessarily the jobs we aspired to, and not many of them open to those of us without any qualifications, but there was low paid work to be had.. So we took what was going and worked hard. The work ethic was strong in us Baby Boomers and we grafted for the deposits that would enable us to buy our first homes, a privilege denied to most of our parents, the majority of whom were still in rented accommodation. Interest rates were high, which was fine if you were rich, but most of us weren't and taking on that monthly commitment was a scary business. Then, eventually, as we neared retirement age, we became the owners of those homes. Lucky us. We had what we'd worked and saved and paid for.

Yet now we are reviled, as if we are directly responsible for the fact that the young have an almost impossible struggle to get a foot on the property ladder, and nobody regrets this more than I do. I have three children and I have to watch them, longing for homes of their own and repeatedly finding it beyond them. This situation was created by the ineptitude of bankers and governments, not me. And no, I can't solve the problem for my kids. I think I mentioned my origins. I have no inherited fortune in the bank. What we have is the little we've saved from working all our lives whilst raising a family. It didn't leave much over.

Yes, I eventually got an education, as a mature student, with my fees paid and a full grant, to boot! That would be unimaginable riches to today's students, and I too have a daughter still trying to pay off her loan, long years after leaving Uni. I'm eternally grateful for my good fortune. It transformed my life in so many ways. But nothing I've done has contributed to the tragic lack of that opportunity for today's generation.

I learnt my socialism at my grandfather's knee. I've been a staunch Labour supporter all my life. I voted Remain in the referendum and wept when we lost. Make note of that. I'm old AND a Remainer, along with pretty much all of my friends, colleagues and neighbours in the same age bracket. Obviously the Leavers are out there, but I don't know any.

Yet much of the media has turned me into some horrible caricature of a blue rinsed, selfish, right wing, immigrant hating harridan with more money than intellect, narrow of outlook and hanging on to my ill-gotten gains, along with my sense of entitlement, with the feverish grip of some uncaring dowager.  And I'm none of those things.

I try to give back to the society that nurtured me by working in the charitable sector and, whilst I can't support my adult children financially, I help out by providing free childcare as and when I'm able. That too is my privilege and pleasure.

Nobody bewails the shit we're in more loudly than I do. Nobody rages against the iniquitous inequalities of our society more vociferously. If I had the means to change it all I fucking would!

But I don't. And I'm not responsible for it either. I don't belong to some strange homogeneous group that can be conveniently blamed for all that ails us. I am not over indulged. I have a state pension and a bus pass. I'm hugely grateful for both and lament the fact that they will almost certainly be denied to the next generation, but that's not MY call. My life hasn't been an easy ride. And I never take the fact that I'm now happy, healthy and have a nice life for granted. I wish it could be so for everyone.

So please, people of the media, look elsewhere for the cause of societies problems, because it's not me.

Thanks for reading.

30. Shampoo and Chiffon Scarves.

I left school when I was fourteen. I wasn't expelled or anything. That's what we did, dear children, back in the olden days. We gathered up our crinolines and went looking for work.

The laughingly named 'Careers Advisor' came to school and sat opposite me, your typical baby boomer, eleven plus failure and branded thicko, and gave me his most unctuous smile.

Him: 'Is there anything you enjoy doing?'
Me. 'Writing.'
Him, sniggering: 'I don't think you're going to earn a living at that.'
He looked at a card on the desk in front of him, picked up the phone and made an appointment for me. It was with a local hairdresser. If successful, I would be apprenticed and paid nineteen shillings and sixpence a week (that's just under a quid) plus tips. I can only assume he considered this paltry sum a 'living' for the likes of me, who'd just go off and get herself up the duff by a local layabout and be married in a couple of years anyway, at which point I'd stop bothering the employment market.

 I got the job.

I didn't do the other stuff.

And he was probably right, in that I would never have set the world of literature on fire, but I'd have been content to start off with the births and deaths page on the local newspaper, something like that. But I was fourteen. I'd no idea how you went about getting a job. That's why I still harbour a grudge against that smug, disinterested bloke who failed to fulfil the 'advisor' bit of his job title.

Not that it was all bad. I was a sheltered child, quiet and naive by nature, from a buttoned-up home where sex, or any matters pertaining to the body, were banned from conversation. In that salon the blanks in my education were swiftly filled. The youngest of my colleagues were in their late teens, and they all knew loads more about stuff than I did. Even the forty-something manageress, Lindy, was at it. As the most junior employee it was my job to open up the shop and prepare it for the day ahead. How well I remember the morning I let myself in and happened upon Lindy pleasuring the shampoo rep in the backwash chair. I'd wondered why he slipped us so many free bottle of conditioner with our order.

Then there was the day our senior stylist, Carol,  assisted by Lindy, ended an unwanted  pregnancy in the staff room, during the lunch break, which might be a fine example of the work ethic as not a perm or trim was cancelled.  Exactly what the mysterious procedure involved I never knew, as I'd been sent out to get fish and chips, presumably by way of celebration. It must have been a success because Carol, who was usually a moody cow, was remarkably cheerful for the next day or two. She was even nice to me. Normally she was telling me I was fat or didn't pass her the rollers fast enough. I hated her. I didn't know then about bullying in the workplace, but if ever that girl got the chance to make my life miserable she grabbed it. I wasn't sorry when she developed an allergy to perm lotion and had to leave.

I may have been shocked to my prudish core by all these goings-on, but it was a timely crash course in the ways of the real world.

And, generally, things were looking up. I'd hardly been there a month before I'd been taken in hand. My hair had been styled and coloured. The other girls had grabbed their make-up bags and sat me down to introduce me to the mysteries of of eyeliner and lipstick and, even more usefully whilst transforming me into a painted Jezebel, they whispered the secrets of birth control, before setting me up on dates with their brother's mates. I was a willing pupil.

Having been metamorphosed from a mousey child into a long-haired, short skirted minx I would dash home to cast off my dye stained, nylon overall and prepare to hit the fleshpots of the nearest town. I drank coffee out of glass cups in smoke shrouded cafes. I danced in grubby, dark basement clubs and learnt that, with a little perseverance, I could acquire a taste for the alcohol that was banned from my home as the work of the devil. I snogged in bus shelters, letting the last bus pass me by, thereby enraging my mother. And I took to smoking, just to add to my sophisticated allure. It was the best possible fun. But I was careful. I'd listened. I didn't want to be like Carol.

And there was music. Another discovery. I just loved that noise. And that's the thing about the teenage years. You start as this empty kid and get filled up with new experiences and the freedoms of the adult world you're transitioning in to. And sometimes it's wonderful and sometimes terrifying, and you find the things that help you make sense of it and get you through. For me it was books and music, and I still think it's not a bad combination.

I didn't love that job. It gave me varicose veins from all the standing and I got cracks in the skin of my hands so deep that they bled, from washing towels in cold water because the heater wasn't working again, and there was no washing machine. And the money was shit and the hours were long and the reps always tried it on and the poshest customers were the worst tippers. Actually, the best tip I got in that place was how to hide hickies with a carefully arranged chiffon scarf. Chiffon scarf manufacturers must have cleaned up in the sixties.

But I grew up in that salon. I met some lovely people who are still my friends and I got to chat to so many different customers, just in the course of a single day, which was heaven for a nosey girl like me. You'd be amazed what women will confide to their hairdresser, it's like the confessional but with a blow-dry thrown in.
And, eventually, I'd sort myself out, return to education, get a couple of degrees and have jobs that I chose and enjoyed.

Not that there's anything wrong with hairdressing. It's a fine, creative, essential profession and the skills of a good stylist can be transformative. But it wasn't what I wanted to do so I wasn't very good at it. I think back with shame to the lop-sided cuts and patchy dye jobs I sent out into the world.

But, I'd learnt some valuable lessons, and I'm even grateful to nasty Carol. Thanks to her, I always tried to be kind and supportive, to all my colleagues, but particularly to those a bit lower in the pecking order than myself. So maybe Mr. Whateverhisnamewas, didn't do me such a dis-service afterall. However, I really hope today's school leavers get a better deal than I did and that someone listens to them a bit more closely.
Most of us end up spending an awfully big chunk of our lives in the workplace and it's so much nicer if we really want to be there.

Bye the way, I can still do a half decent fringe trim, if anyone's interested?



Thanks for reading.

29. Brexit, Breakfast, Brickshit. WTF?!!

Back in the summer, the British people made a terrible mistake and voted for something called Brexit. I'm absolutely certain it was a mistake, but what that mistake actually entails remains a mystery.

For a kick-off, the powers that be don't seem to know what it is. Mrs Theresa May, she of the sexy kitten heels and stern, dominatrix expression, seems to think it's something called Bregzit, which is a worry as she's apparently in charge of the whole shebang.

Meanwhile, John McDonnel and Andrew Davies both seems to imagine we're debating Breakfast, which is a lovely idea. I would welcome the notion that legislation about Breakfast was embedded in the constitution.

Then again, there appears to be some confusion as the type of Breakfast we're contemplating here. John McDonnel expressed fears that it would be a chaotic Breakfast. Well, I for one can relate to that, and I bet a lot of other people can too. Indeed, I'm full of admiration for those who, on a week day, can still manage a beautifully set table with a choice of the full English, kedgeree or devilled kidneys with a selection of cereals and toast and conserves on the side.  In our house, back when there were three school children to be fed and equipped for the day, and two adults dispatched to work on time, I counted it a good day if everybody had a few cornflakes and a cup of tea inside them before the front door slammed behind us.

I'd chip the cemented cereal off the bowls when I eventually returned home.

I'd fit right in with the chaotic Breakfast idea.

But, apparently, there are two other options. Hard or Soft Breakfast. So what of them?

Hard Breakfast is, well, hard to contemplate. Would it limit us to overdone, charcoaled toast and Weetabix without milk? I'm not too keen on that idea. Or those horrible biscuits that claim to be  breakfast in a bar? Come to think of it, breakfast in an actual bar, with the option of gin on your Crunchycracklypopsios, doesn't sound too bad. But I digress. Hard Breakfast is not for me.

Soft Breakfast, on the other hand, sounds fine. That could incorporate Eggs Florentine (though that sounds a bit foreign, so we're probably not allowed it any more) or porridge, or scrambled eggs with a bit of smoked salmon. I could live with that.

But nobody knows, so we can't relax.

I've a sneaking suspicion that it's nothing to do with any of the above, and we could be in for a very bumpy ride, involving things much more serious that what we sling in front of our unsuspecting families of a morning. I think it might include issues that impinge on our very way of life and will now be dictated by views that I, personally, find abhorrent.

I have nice neighbours. They have always been kind, helpful and, on occasion, very generous towards me. Yet, on the morning after the vote, one of them, expressing her delight in the result, said such vile things about immigrants that I wanted to punch her in her sweet, little churchgoing mouth. It's a nasty, divisive thing is Brexit, and nothing whatever to do with the cheery chaos of the average family breakfast table. Would that it were.

I'm putting all my (undoubtedly misplaced) faith in Article 50. I'm not sure if I've got it right but I'm led to believe that we're not really out of the EU until this mysterious Article has been activated. And who's going to want to trigger it? I'd love to be a fly on the wall at that Cabinet meeting. I can just see them all, gathered round the table at number ten, trying not to catch Theresa's eye when the subject pops up.
'What about you, Boris? I seem to remember you were frightfully keen on it?'
'No! Sorry Tezza, you sexy old thing, but I couldn't possibly. Not with all this this Foreign Secretary muck you've dumped onto my bloody plate. Just no time, you old slapper.'
'Well IDS, couldn't you be a sweetie and do this teensy, weensy favour for your little Prime Ministerikins.'
'Christ no! They all hate me as it is. I don't want to risk making it any worse. Are you mad, woman?'
'Not even if I give your lovely little bald head one of my special strokes, Iain?'
'No!'
'That bloody David! Sneaking off home to Sam and his kitchen suppers and watching Aston Ham and leaving me to shovel up the shit. Bastard!'

If they all refuse, even the man who looks after the boilers at Westminster, we could be saved!

And let's not even get started on the debacle that's taking place across the pond. How that loathsome caricature, Donald Trump, even ended up as a possible replacement for the dignified, cerebral diplomat that is Obama is a mystery to me. Have they all gone mad? Did they put something in the water? It's a travesty, isn't it?

Good old Hills is far from perfect but, honestly people, take a good look at the choice. At least the woman has practised her craft and always been on the side of the underdog, unlike Trump who, it would seem, has crawled out of the slime, with a shit smeared silver spoon in his maw, and reared up to bellow his bile, devoid of any moral code, for the delight the disenfranchised masses. My sympathies are with them, but Trump, with his racist, misogynist ignorance, is not going to be their saviour. And that's the tragedy.

But I do like those Trump Pence signs, because it sounds like the form of currency they'd have in Trumpton, which is quite sweet.



I'm now going to sound like the decrepit throwback that I am, but I entered this world at the end of the last World War, and grew up with all that well intentioned rhetoric about our loathing for Hitler and how we would never let it happen again.

But here we are, watching it, clear eyed. And some of those people who would have spoken in favour of the Kindertransport, which took place back in the nineteen forties to save the lives of Jewish children, will now raise objections to a handful of refugee children being brought over to Britain from the hellish conditions they've been existing (you can't call it living) in, over in Calais. Hitler would be rejoicing. I truly fear his is spirit is alive and well and cavorting about all over the world.

Trump wants to build walls to preserve America for the.......what? American Indians? Obviously not. The USA is a country of immigrants. Just as Britain is a mongrel race. We were invaded so many times our language incorporates bits of every nation's tongue that could possibly get a boat onto one of our many shores. And lots of them did. It's good. It's dynamic. What's the fucking problem?

Let's face it. There's really only one race. It's called the human race. And I apologise if that sounds twee but I mean it and I believe it. If we can't extend a helping hand to our neighbour, when they're having a rough time, then it's a poor look out.

And tomorrow it could all too easily be us. So surely, whilst we're the lucky ones, we can afford to be kind.



Thank you for reading.

Please feel free to share if you'd like to.

27. The Day Gary Barlow Killed Our Cat.

'In the midst of life we are in death', as someone in the Bible (I think, I'm not an expert) once said. How true. Only this morning my portable radio died on me, just as we were getting to the denouement of the play. Very annoying. It left me sitting in the bath shouting expletives at the blameless thing. If you happen to know what I look like, then I apologise for that mental image. Feel free to go and poke out your mind's eye. Those of you who don't are safe.

And the daffodils that have been brightening my kitchen for the past week have now withered, their sap drained, all life fled. It's the natural way. The cycle of life and all that.

But sometimes we find ourselves in the tricky position of having to intervene in the natural process, and that's no fun. A while ago our much loved family cat, Molly, began to display the more distressing signs of old age and eventually, despite our hopes that a bit of extra TLC would revive her to her former, frolicsome self, we realised that she was a very unhappy, uncomfortable little cat and it was up to us to relieve her pain. Not an easy decision, but one that had to be made.

Into her basket she went and we headed for the local vet. My husband and I stood side by side in the Treatment Room, not making eye contact because neither of us wanted to be the one to break down first, awaiting the arrival of our allocated vet. And then the door opened, and in he came. Gary Barlow!

Not the real Gary Barlow, obviously. I'm sure we'd all know if GB actually moonlighted in the world of animal doctoring. Indeed, I'm inclined to believe it could only add to his allure in the eyes of his fans, so I think we'd have heard. But it was him to the life. The spitting image. And then he opened his mouth and those same, reassuringly flat, Mancunian vowels issued forth as he smiled compassionately and took charge of the situation. Good old 'Gary' was bloody marvelous and we will be endlessly grateful to him.

This lovely young vet was everything we could have hoped for. He was totally empathetic with us, as the doting pet owners, assuring us our decision was the right one, and all gentle concern for poor old Molly. He brought in a special, fleecy blanket for her to lie on in comfort and gave her a quick shot to relax her. Then he left us alone with her, to say whatever we felt needed to be said.

Naturally, as he'd left the room, I'd hissed at my husband,
'Are you thinking what I'm thinking?'
Him,  'Yeh, I think so.'
Together,  'Gary Barlow! I know!'
Molly remained non-committal. She was never a 'Take That' fan.

And then he came back to deliver the fatal jab. It was as trauma-free as it could be for all concerned.

After that we sobbed liked bastards.

We took her home and buried her in her favourite spot in the garden.

And then I got to thinking. If it only it could be like that for all of us.

I know the arguments against legalising euthanasia and they are, of course, valid. Nobody wants the families of bothersome old relatives snapping up one way tickets to Switzerland before you can say, 'Where's the will?' But I would argue that, whilst we put so much time, effort and money into finding ways of prolonging life, we give precious little attention to improving the end of it.

I'm sure I'm not alone in thinking I'd take comfort in knowing that, should I ever reach the point where either illness or sheer decrepitude rendered me irrevocably wretched,  then I could rely on those who cared about me to sort me out. Much as we did for Molly.

I can picture the scene. My loved ones are gathered together to discuss the problem.

'You can see she's not happy.'
'I know. I've tried to tempt her with her favourite, gin flavoured titbits, but she's not interested.'
'That's a bad sign!'
'Yes. And she can't even be bothered to move when I tell her it's time for 'Judge Judy' on the telly.' 
(It's my guilty pleasure, all right? Don't...judge...me).
'So sad. Remember how she'd walk for miles if you threw her the promise of decent gourmet pub at the end of it?'
'And have you noticed the state of her hair? Not nice and glossy like it used to be.'
'And her nose is awfully warm.'
'Last time the doctor came out he said there's not much you can do for them at this age.'
'So do you think it's maybe time to....?'
'To be honest, I think it'd be a kindness.'

And it would! It really, really would! The equivalent of Gary would be summoned and in he'd come, with his bag of tricks and, maybe, a fleecy blanket, all gentle concern and reassurance and in no time at all my suffering would be ended.

And then, for all I care, they can shovel me into the flowerbed next to the cat. Funeral costs are outrageous and I'd rather those I loved spent the money on a damned good knees-up. It makes more sense than brass handles and wreaths. They'd be lost on me anyway.

Sadly, as things stand, poor old Gary would risk being hauled up in front of the General Medical Council at the very least, and might even end up doing porridge for a while, which seems awfully unfair for doing someone a tremendous favour.

But there it is, we're trusted to make the right decision on behalf of our pets but not for each other.

Pity, that.



Thanks so much for reading.

26. Citymapper, Sex And Talking To Baby.

The pretty girl, sitting next to me on the bus, is looking at her phone. She's been looking at it since she got on, ten minutes ago. I'm looking at the baby. It's a dear little thing, sitting in its buggy and getting very excited about its surroundings. It's pointing and babbling. It's smiling at me. I'm smiling back. The girl next to me looks at her phone. She's the baby's mum. I know this because the baby looks at her sometimes and goes, 'Mum mum mum mum mum,' whilst reaching out its little hand towards her, trying to get her attention. The girl goes on looking at her phone.

I have a terrible urge to knock the phone out of the girl's hand and shriek,
'Look at what's in front of you, you moron! It's more amazing and fascinating than anything you'll ever see on that fucking thing! Don't you know how lucky you are?'

But I don't. I'm an elderly woman, sitting on a bus. I don't do things like that. I wish I was brave, but I'd probably get chucked off the bus. So humiliating! And it's pissing down, so I ponder the tragedy of it all and keep my mouth shut. Pathetic.

I see it almost every day. I see small children, experiencing the world for the first time, thrilled, scared, fascinated and desperate for the attention of the adult in front of them to share, interpret or reassure. And that adult looks at their phone. I see couples at restaurant tables, eyes fixed on the phone beside their plate. They might as well eat alone. Or maybe they've reached the point of only communicating via text.

'How's your steak, darling?' Send
'Fine thanks. And the fish?' Send
'Bit dry actually.' Send
'Oh, bummer. Fancy sex tonight?' Send
'If you like. I can probably be on Skype about 11.30. Would that suit?' Send
'Lovely. Gives me time to check Facebook and Twitter, answer my emails, download those iTunes I want and have a bit of WhatsApp time with Barry. Would you believe, he asked me round for a beer?I told him, who does that anymore?' Send
'See you on Skype later then. The black bra?' Send
'Please. Want a dessert or just coffee?' Send

I worry about the young folk. I worry about everyone, truth be told, but them in particular.

It's probably a good idea if I nail my colours to the mast at this point and declare that I really LOVE modern technology and I use it all the time. But I didn't grow up with it. By modern standards I didn't grow up with anything. And our household was considered privileged because we had a black and white television with a tiny screen and a blurry picture and one channel, plus a big, black telephone in the hall that the neighbours would come and use, leaving two pence in the ashtray next to it. And my world was small and limited, but I did go out and look at it, the actual materiality of it.  I could not only see and hear it but touch it and smell it and feel the air and pick up on the atmosphere.

Now we all carry the whole wider world in our pockets. And that's miraculous. It's utterly wonderful when it inspires us to do things or see places that might otherwise never have entered our imaginations. But it's scary when it replaces the real thing. I, like a Cassandra of doom, foresee a time when everyone lives their entire existence through the medium of a screen, with all experiences becoming vicarious as we transmute into cyber-zombies, oblivious to our surroundings, glued to the little patch of light in the palm of our hand. That can't be healthy, can it? But, just like poor old Cassie, I doubt anyone will take any notice of me.

Real life can be a messy, unpredictable bitch. In cyberspace we're in control. That's very seductive. But give me the roller-coaster ride of reality any day.

Phones are fantastic. I have several aids on my mine to help me find my way round any unfamiliar city. I can see how far my destination is, how long it takes to get there, the public transport I can catch and even the number of calories I'll burn if I choose to walk. Amazing. My children urge me to use it. And I do. But sometimes the rebel in me surges up and I think, 'Sod it! I'm going to ask a real, live fellow human being to point me in the right direction.' So I do. What's more, even in the supposedly cold and unfriendly metropolis that is London, I have always been met with a friendly smile and willingness to help. It's sometimes led to a brief, cheery conversation and a bit of a giggle, sending me on my way with a grin. You don't get that from Citymapper.

Sometimes, in the weekend broadsheets, I read an article on the lines of, 'I Switched Off My Phone For A Week!' The following piece is written much in the style of somebody who's been terribly deprived and how heroically they survived. You know, like a hostage, chained to a radiator for five years or somebody who came through the Blitz. They say stuff like, 'Need to let Jacinta know that Waitrose is completely out of Cave Aged Cheeseyshit. Oh God! What to do? Feel faint, but push on to the fish counter, praying they'll have the hand reared, individually stroked scallops we so desperately need for the starter.'

 Come on people, get a grip. It's a useful tool but you can switch it off sometimes and the world won't end. So instead of looking at crap on Ebay, checking the weather in Buenos Aires or searching for pictures of Benedict Cumberbatch in his pants put the damned thing away and, whilst you're wondering what on earth to do to fill the time, talk to a baby....when you've finished reading this.

Thanks so much for your time.

25. Secret Santa and Some Shouting.

This year the youngest and her lovely partner are hosting the family Christmas celebration.
Their hearts are large. Their flat is small. There are a lot of us.

An email arrives from youngest asking how we'd all feel about a Secret Santa arrangement?
That way we each arrive with just one parcel for under the tree, thus saving valuable space. I consult her father, as follows:

'How d'you feel about doing Secret Santa this year?'
'What's involved?'
'Everyone buys just one present and there's a limit of twenty quid.'
'And that's it?'
'That's it.'
'Let's do it. Every year. Forever.'

Thus, we're in and so, it transpires, is everybody else. Those involved are scattered around the country but, as with everything in this day and age, the arrangements are made with the help of a handy website. We all eagerly await the email that will tell us who we're to buy for, which duly arrives. Even better, it includes a useful wishlist in which every recipient can mention those items that would definitely bring them pleasure when they rip the paper off their gift. I think this is an excellent idea. It doesn't ruin the element of surprise, as you don't know which option the giver will go for, but it avoids the spirit crushing possibility that the one and only pressie you're going to receive is something you hate so much you'll think there must be members of your family who've never even met you.  And surprises are all well and good, except when they turn out to be more of a bloody shock. So I put a couple of suggestions on my wish list and consider it a job well done.

I find the whole thing quite delightful. And then I notice that the thoughtful website even includes a list of helpful suggestions for those who might have to buy for someone who hasn't given them any clue as to what they'd like. I'm intrigued.

The links are divided up by sex and age. I note there is one dedicated to 'Women  - 60 to 70.'
'Look,' I say to my husband, 'There's a list of things for me.'
I should probably add that I only just squeeze into the latter end of this category.
'Don't look at it,' he advises.
'Why not?' I ask.
'You might not like it. It might make you shout.'
'So?'
'You're scary when you're shouty,' he says.
'I'm going to look anyway,' I tell him.
'I'm going to the shed,' he says.
 Two and a half minutes later I start shouting.

Whoever compiled this list....and I picture them as having skinny jeans, a beard, a man-bun and living in a trendy Shoreditch loft....has some very odd ideas of what I'd like for Christmas, as in 'no fucking idea whatsoever.' Apparently, my little old wizened face will light up at the sight of any of the following: Stationery, Photograph Frames, Calligraphy Set, Cross-Stitch or Embroidery Kit, Scrapbook (what for??) Knitting or Crochet Kit, Rag-Rug Making Set, Thermal Underwear, an Electric Blanket or...wait for it...Ugg Boots. UGG BOOTS! Now, my days of being a fashion victim might be fading into the past but, I ask you, UGG BOOTS!?! I'd like to think I retain a vestige of style.

But what was worse than all these hideous gift ideas was the helpful advice that came with each section. The premise seemed to be that the elderly wilfully sit about, atrophying, so giving them a set of bowls, for example, might coax them off their arses. Personally, when I have time on my hands I'm only too eager to head out for a spot of brisk hill-walking or to do a few road miles on my racing bike. If the weather's vile I'll ring a mate and meet up for gossip and a cocktail ot two. As for passing the wearisome hours with a cross-stitch cushion cover or sticking whatever it is you're supposed to stick in a scrapbook, it's not going to happen. Worst of all, this compiler expressed the opinion, and I quote, that 'few 70 year olds would confidently cater a party on their own.' WHAT?

They go on to posit the idea that any wrinkly foolish enough to try and throw a bit of a knees-up will welcome guests turning up with contributions, to include a 'case of their favourite mineral water' or, somewhat insultingly, an 'attractive tablecloth.' Now, I'm more than capable of throwing a good party and some of the best I've been to were given by mates in their sixties and seventies. And if you think I'd allow you over my doorstep with a bottle of water and a tablecloth, think again. A couple of bottles of decent wine are a different matter. Stroll right in.

Of course there's nothing intrinsically wrong with the gift ideas in that slightly misguided, online site. And I know I'm fortunate in that I'm fit and active and can still enjoy all the same things that I did when I was a young flibberdygibbet. But, as always, my complaint is that the compiler lumped us all together and made assumptions that I find offensive and hints at lazy research.

I'm not alone. I think lots of women of my age are living interesting, exciting lives full of people and doing things that they enjoy and, whilst accepting that not everybody's so lucky, we shouldn't all be shunted into this pitiable, helpless, hopeless mass. We are diverse, just like any other age group.

Happily, my family all know that, should they ever be stuck for a gift idea, a bottle of gin will always please.

Now I'll just pop out to the shed and let my husband know he can come back in.

Merry Christmas.

24. The Election (original title, huh?)

Have you heard this rumour going round, that there's going to be a General Election?

Yeah, me too.

So what do you reckon to the line up?

I'm guessing we can all agree to disregard the gurning buffoon that is Farage, along with his loathsome views? Thought so.

Which leaves us with the rest, and I'm not sure where to go from there.

For me, one of the big problems of the campaign is this insidious trend towards the cult of personality.  It crept over here from America, as most bad habits do, like Trick or Treat. In my day Halloween was marked by bobbing for an apple in a bowl of water whilst inhaling and the aroma of singed turnip. We didn't go round terrorising the neighbours and demanding stuff. I don't know why we fall for this crap. It isn't better, it's just....crap. Basically, it's down to marketing again and you know how I just LOVE marketing?!

But back to the Election. I don't know about you but I don't give a flying fuck about the size of Ed Miliband's kitchen or, for that matter, exactly how many kitchens he's got. I don't care. I'm not interested. It doesn't help me one iota in deciding whether or not he'd make a good Prime Minister. And I'm damned sure the column inches could be put to far better use

Let's go back a bit. Did anybody show any interest in the size of Disraeli's kitchen? No. Was anybody commenting on the fact that Mrs. Gladstone's bum looked big in that frock she wore at the party conference? Of course not. Did the Atlee's have their parenting skills put under the microscope? I doubt it. The candidate and their policies were all that mattered. And rightly so.

Now, the Daily Mail thinks it's the height of wit to point out that Mr. Miliband has a passing resemblance to an Ardmann animation character. So what? Explain it to me.  I'm not saying they're mistaken, just that it's not relevant.

Yeah, I know, I'm guilty of enjoying some of that vaguely insulting stuff too. When the wonderful Charlie Brooker made a reference to David Cameron's '...big, ham head...' it was so perfect I wept. But it had nothing to do with his fitness to be elected for a further term. Frankly, I think it's all too obvious why he falls down on that front, and it's nothing to do with what his head looks like. It's all down to the rubbish he talks out of it, but that's just my opinion.

History fails to relate how Churchill tackled a bacon sandwich, but the I'm sure the people of worn-torn Britain were more interested in his ability to lead the country. As long as he came up with the goods when needed I doubt they'd have cared if he'd inhaled his porridge up his bottom. And whilst it must have been obvious to everybody that he drank, smoked and ate too much, the killjoy brigade kept their opinions to themselves, as indeed they should.  I'm not actually a great fan of the man myself but he's a good example of how we used to judge our politicians by how they did the job, and little else. Oh, that it were still the case.

It's the women I feel sorriest for. All those male pundits just gagging to have a pop at how high the heel, how low the neckline, how fuckable the candidate. If they paid as much attention to their words as they do to their appearance we might get some useful insights and analysis. From what I've seen of them, in debate alongside the men, they're all wonderful! Whilst the blokes engaged in playground standard insults and point scoring the women stuck with answering the questions. If we could have a coalition of Leanne Wood, Natalie Bennett and Nicola Sturgeon in Downing Street I'd go for that. And I'm not going to make any cheap remarks about how they'd synchronise their menstrual cycles and settle everything over a nice cup of tea. I honestly believe they'd get on with the job with diligence, openness and integrity and wouldn't that be a novelty? As Huxley said, 'Oh brave new world, that has such creatures in it.'

And what of those other women, the ones wedded to the men of the three, main parties. They all seem quite lovely to me. I think we can all agree that David's punching above his weight with the fragrant Sam. She's so pretty, and seems so nice. What was she thinking of? Oh hell, now I'm thinking about what Dave's sex face might be like and a bit of sick's come up in my mouth. Hang on whilst I poke out my mind's eye. And Nick and Ed have done all right too. Miriam and Justine come across as wonderfully intelligent, independent people and I tend to look to them to tell their husbands the stuff the rest of us would like to but don't get the opportunity. I love the idea of a shame-faced Ed being berated, over the dinner table, about having made a twat of himself in front of the viewing millions.

So not a very intellectual analysis of the political landscape then. Sorry about that.

And where does it leave us?

I just know I'd rather shit in my hand and clap than ever vote for Cameron and his ilk.

The Greens are an attractive option, but can they really do it? Possibly not. Which is a shame as I bet they'd do a lot more about the state of the infrastructure for cyclists than the rest of the mob, and it's a cause close to my heart.

No, I think I'll be sticking with the values I learnt at my Grandfather's knee, and throw in my lot with Mr. Miliband. Why? Because I think he's that rare thing, an honest man, unlike the slippery, duplicitous Blair, who let us all down so terribly badly. I still get the pink mist when I think about that man.

But whoever we end up with I'll know I did my best because I'll be out there, putting my cross on that bit of paper. Hope I see you there too, which ever party you support.

Happy voting!


Thanks for reading.
Twitter@wharfench

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Christmas!!


Thanks for reading my blog. Please feel free to share or follow me on Twitter@wharfwench

22. Death and the Matron

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

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

That's because I'm old.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Thanks for reading my blog.

You can follow me on Twitter@wharfwench

21. The Very Famous Person And Me.

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

Indeed I did.

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

Hell yes. THAT famous.

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

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

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

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

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

And do I care? OF COURSE I DO!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Thanks for reading.

Feel free to follow me on Twitter @Wharfwench

20. Bikes, Booze and Bon Homie

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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





Thank you SO much for reading my blog.

If you enjoyed it please feel free to share.