life

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Why so glum?

 

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Just a quick ‘hello’ from one of my gorgeous goldfish, who despite the chilly weather are still up and about and enjoying this morning’s sunshine.  They seem to think I should be feeding them, though you are really not supposed to when the temperature is less than 10 degrees, which it most definitely is now.  I do usually keep some ‘winter’ food for days like this, but sadly I’ve run out, so they’ll just have to forage, perhaps that’s why he’s looking so glum!

By the way, no one can convince me that my fish don’t know me.  They always come to the surface when I go out in the garden, and congregate around the area where I usually feed them.  They are tame, and in the summer, I’ll sit for hours while they feed from my hand and swim around my feet – yep, I paddle in the pond even when it’s at it’s murky worst. I love them all, but now we have over 60 of them it’s sometimes hard to remember all their names!!

Have a lovely day all x

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Absolute beginners

Maybe not the first single you think of when you think of David Bowie, and maybe not one of his best, but we chose this as the first dance at our wedding thirty years ago, for both the sentiment and the mad dancing opportunities in the jazzy bits!

Most of the time I still feel like an absolute beginner in this life, so often think of the lyrics to remind me that I’m a lucky sort really.

David Bowie was only a few years older than me, and his loss so prematurely is another reminder that we should live life everyday as if there is no tomorrow!

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Can she do it?

Well the New Year is underway.  I’ve not made any resolutions as such, but as always have promised myself that I will get (and stay) fit, lose a few pounds, be happy, let myself off the hook now and again, and try and do my bit to make the world a nicer place.

Of course, all those things are more of a challenge than they ought to be.

At the moment I’m feeling like a bit of a blob, so I’m all enthused about the getting fit and losing weight bit. However, I do know from experience how quickly disillusion can replace that enthusiasm, and those carefully set goals seem unachievable and all that effort a waste of time.  It’s so much easier to just accept your fate and eat another chocolate, after all, who really cares what shape this old woman is in?  Does staying in shape matter as you get older? After all, no-one wants to look like a boney and haggard little old lady do they?

Actually, yes, it does matter.  People might not worry too much about what I look like, hey, they might even like my huggable, soft, curvy shape. The thing is though, I don’t feel healthy.  I’m tired carrying this extra load around.  I still enthusiastically and regularly practice yoga but my forward folds are lately feeling hampered by that baggy belly.  Everything is more of an effort.  My clothes are getting tighter and that spare tyre blobbing over the top of my jeans is, frankly, not attractive.  There you go then…. I’m definitely (yes folks, you heard it here) going to stick to my fitness regime this time!

Then there is the ‘being happy’.  Well, it should be easy enough, I’m generally a happy sort.  But then I get the doldrums.  For no apparent reason I’ll wake up full of gloom and doom.  Or I’ll be worrying about something.  Usually something daft that really doesn’t deserve my time. Or I’ll be sulking over some slight that the person who said it is oblivious to (yes, yes, it’s my husband we’re talking here).  What a waste of effort that is.  So this year, I’m not going to go there.  No glooming, no worrying, no sulking.   Yes, well, I’ll let you know how that goes!

‘Let myself off the hook now and again’.  Does everyone beat themselves up over stupid things or is it just me?  My foot in the mouth moments, or letting myself down moments (see getting fit above!!)  Am I naggy? Am I a cross sort? Am I fat? Should I work harder? Be nicer? Do more housework? Write more? Take the dog for longer walks? Look prettier? Be less of a slob? Be more interesting?  Good god, the list is endless….

Last but not least, I will try and do my bit to make the world a nicer place. Well, that’s a bit beauty pagenty isn’t it? Vomit inducing?  Yes, I can see you sticking your fingers in your throat and gacking. But honestly, I do think I can do this one.  Ok, I can’t save the world (sometimes it seems beyond saving), I can’t even save individuals, but I could make the odd person smile now and again.  I can recycle more, I can grow more flowers, spend less, point out the good things in life to anyone and everyone that will listen, laugh lots (the world is always a better place when people are laughing), support charities… I am not, and will never be, a full-bloodied campaigner, but I can sign the odd petition regarding ubiquitious injustices or things I’m passionate about.

Yep, reckon I can do the odd bit to brighten up this corner of the world.  I only hope that if you take a look at my blog now and again, I can brighten up yours too.

Happy New Year! xx

 

 

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Back to work

Alarmed, I open gluey eyes
to see the darkness still hangs low
toe by toe then limb by heavy limb
I crawl from cosy warmth
and sit and scratch and stretch and yawn
then drag droopily
down the stairs in slippered feet
to where the kitchen kettle boils
and the radio plays
and all the world seems ready for the day
Except me

 

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A Loss? – Flash Fiction

Although the walls on each side were black and sooty, she could see the light in the distance beckoning her with the promise of safety.  She expected to hear her footsteps echo, but all she could hear were her gasps of effort.

She couldn’t quite remember how she had got there, although it seemed to her that it had been quite a journey.  She knew she wouldn’t have taken public transport, she hadn’t done that in at least fifty years.  She remembered quite clearly her revulsion at having to sit on the filthy seats, pressed too close to grubby strangers when she was a student, and how, as soon as she could, she’d bought herself a little car. But she hadn’t been able to drive for a couple of years now, not since they’d taken away her licence. Bloody old age.

She’d felt ok really.  Still had her wits about her although, in general, modern life was a bit of a puzzle.  The youngest members of her extended family seemed to live on a different planet, what with all their gadgets and gizmos, and what rare communication there was with them always seemed difficult. That’s not to say she didn’t love them all, but there were just so many these days…

She wondered where they were now, and instinctively looked down at her hand where the gold band still glistened, though it’s pair had been long gone.  It had been buried with him.  His only bit of decoration against the best black suit that they’d put him in. She wondered if it was still there, in the ground, encasing his bare finger bone, and shuddered at the thought of how cold his touch would now be.

Ineluctably her thoughts turned to her son who’d made it big in the US and then came to grief with the help of chemicals and alcohol.  She’d been mystified and heartbroken that her perfect boy had gone so soon. He’d been naughty as a child. A tease, with a cheeky chuckle, but he’d grown into a handsome man, broad and muscular with long dark hair that softened him and disclosed his gentle nature. She was so sad for his wife and their twin boys who had had to get along without him all those years, but they’d diligently kept in touch with her, emailing photos of special occasions, such as the boy’s weddings, and the babies births.

Looking ahead at the light, she saw she was progressing. It was becoming dazzling, and she closed her eyes, after all, she knew the path was safe. She could feel a slight breeze just brushing her cheeks like a gentle kiss, and for a second, thought she could smell perfume, the one her daughter Lillian liked that was hugely expensive and came in a fancy bottle. Smiling, she remembered her firstborn, who hadn’t been the brightest spark in school, but whose bright eyes and curves ensured that she’d married well.  She’d lived in an impressive house, with a room for the au pair, and a paddock for the ponies, but had ‘downsized’ to an idyllic country cottage when the children left for university. They had said it came with a ‘granny annex’ but they had converted it for the cleaner to live in before they moved in. It was a shame it was so far away, she felt she barely knew her children, or their children.

And then there was Jennifer.  Her youngest daughter, scrawny little Jenny with the mousey hair and crooked teeth. Always angry at the others, she was a loner who seemed content with her own company, so it astonished them when, in her fifties, she married a man 10 years her senior.  A professor or something.  He was a ramshackle widower, with umpteen adoring grandchildren always clinging to his hands. Jenny took them all on like a trooper. She became the perfect grandma, baking cakes and biscuits, letting the hoard have run of the house. It was good to see her happy though, even if it did make her forget her own mother sometimes.

Resolutely she strode on, picking up pace and as the light penetrated her lids, she knew she was close. Opening her eyes she grew accustomed to the brilliance enough to pick out dark shapes against it. As her excitement grew, her breath got louder in her ears and turned to an uneven rattle.  She gasped her last as she saw the shadows become the two men she missed so much, waiting for her, there, as she reached the end of the tunnel.

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Always Red?

Syringe blood.jpeg

Can feelings show up in the blood?
The scarlet concealer of secrets
that courses through our veins
yet congeals so quickly in the air

When tested it reveals disease
and sickness of our mortal vessels
but are conditions of the soul
equally evident upon close inspection?

Do tiny ruby buds form
at a first kiss
then burst into blowsy roses
when passion grows into love?

Are verdant specks visible
when we crave what Is not ours
and do they transform to citrine
as we turn from the cause?

Will putrid organs assume a dark hue
as hatred burns in them
that precious liquid runs hot
and anger rules our hearts?

Can feelings show up in the blood?

 

 

 

 

 

 

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The Fast Life

Writing 101, day 10. ‘Let the scene write itself’.

40 mph 2When I was forty we moved ‘up North’.  The year flashed by in a flurry of finding homes and schools, and settling in and seeking friends. A comfortable and smooth suburban road, my fortieth year was fleeting. But on reflection… Forty was slow.

In my fiftieth year I celebrated a half century of living.  Working full time, the decade hurtled along. Motherly fussing over A level angst, and woefully watching my girls turn to women overnight. And then they left.  My nest was empty. I studied and worried and filled that gaping gap with grief. My fiftieth decade passed so quickly on that bumpy B road.  But on reflection…. Fifty too was slow.

Now, it’s over sixty years since my birth. I grasp life, clinging to my youth with white knuckle fear of declining body and mind. Years roll by as fast as miles on a motorway.  Long stretches of similarity so often give way to curves and corners in my world. I expect the unexpected – a sudden ‘slow down’ or ‘obstruction in the road’. I’m flying along in the fast lane.

But what of seventy? Dare I look beyond? Do I inevitably set out, slow moving, on curling country lanes? A pedestrian? Or perhaps fork out for a Ferrari, put the pedal to the metal, and speed away?

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What do I do?

Writing 101, Day 9 – What do you do when your not writing?

You ask what do I do
when I’m not sitting side-by-side
with a sharpener
scrawling in my ridiculous
childlike script on
blank sheets of sepia paper
or staring at a screen
where fought for phrases
turn to text

You ask what do I do
when rhythm is erratic
and rhymes
don’t.
When alliteration alters
instead of enhancing
when allegory is elusive
metaphor meaningless
and similes absurd

You ask what do I do
when words don’t spill
and I have no story to tell
how I pass the time
in that hollow void
when secrets attempt escape
to compensate
for lack of imagination
and skill

You ask what do I do
I live.

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The Trouble with Tatts

Writing 101, day 7 – be inspired by a tweet (choice of five)

I’m with her on this one.  I could never get a tattoo because I just wouldn’t be able to make up my mind. Firstly, what to have, and secondly, where to put the darn thing.

I did for a while fancy have a ying yang symbol, after all I am a gemini and I have twins.  It is the symbol of a philosophy I can relate to and understand in many ways.  But I saw a TV comedy a few years back where someone had had one done, and another character remarked that she thought it was a road sign.  Well, that blew the tin lid off that one.

I could have my daughter’s names, perhaps entwined with roses… but that seems a bit daft and frankly, a bit twee. I know who they are – their details are engraved on my heart for goodness sake, and anyone who spends five minutes with me knows who they are too (yep, I’m a bragger, what can I say!). They can see how I feel about them by the way my eyes light up, and I go all soft around the edges, without having to see a sagging image drawn on my ageing body.

And that’s the trouble with tattoos. Without a doubt some are works of art (though from ones that I’ve witnessed most aren’t), but they will shift and change as we age. Your dragon might be a beautiful fierce creature now, but in 10 or 20 years time it’s going to be a shrivelled up old lizard.

I have another problem with inks too.  This is purely personal and I don’t want to upset or alienate anyone, but to me, tattoos look a bit grubby.  The perfect gleaming skin that you were born with has been permanently violated, by that indelible mark. It doesn’t matter what the picture or how cute the message, it just looks a tad seedy. Sorry. (while I’m at it the same goes for loads of piercings!)

Of course people have been finding ways to decorate and change their bodies for centuries. You’d have thought we would have grown out of it by now.  The bound feet or heads of different ancient cultures shock us.  Lip plates and elongated necks from different tribes make us drop our jaws in disbelief.  Lets face it, we all have different opinions on what is beautiful, but those views, have an ebb and flow just like any other fashion.

Remember a few years ago when everyone was rushing out to get a Celtic armband tattoo? Or when butterflies on shoulders or backs became a common sight on women of a certain age.  Then the slightly younger ones moved on to little vines twining around their hips up to their increasingly flabby tummys. and more recently writing, scrawled over various bits of body, has become popular. What sort of regret will those people have when they realise that they are forever associated with one of those cheesy phrases that now over populate facebook.

Yep, I’m not keen.  I believe that for most of us a tattoo is ‘gilding the lilly’.  Experiment with make-up if you must.  Try fake tattoos, but don’t permanently deface that beautiful body!