Craic On

It seems that this really is a country for old men.  Contrary to all expectations the favourite Uncle is now installed in a house round the corner. This will enable him to make a garden at my sisters and come round here with stale packets of biscuits and instant coffee while telling me tales about smoke alarms, fish sticks and moles. He has been digging flints out of the Sisters’ garden in order to develop a brand new vegetable patch. In doing so he has created a superhighway for moles who have also decided to spend more time round at the Sisters enjoying the veg patch. The challenge of the moles has now become the principle occupation of the favourite Uncle, who tells me this story on repeat. I don’t mind this and try to respond to each telling of it as if I am hearing it for the first time. “It’s Uncle here,” he says when I pick up the phone. “I’ve got a very funny story to tell you about moles.” I listened to the story and when he got to the end, he wondered if he had mentioned who it was that was call

There is nothing like sitting in bed in the early morning, with a pot of Earl Grey Supreme, chatting to girlfriends on the phone. I was happily doing just this when the doorbell rang. Short expletive at the prospects of being doorstepped by local politicos or evangelists. What a faff it was to haul myself into an upright position, stick the now compressed heart shaped cushion, made by the local WI and supplied by the NHS, under my arm, and totter off downstairs to the door. Halfway down the stairs the doorbell rang again. “Yes yes, I’m on my way.” On the doorstep was a member of the A Team, that much treasured WhatsApp group of girlfriends charged with seeing me through the Big C. “I thought you were coming for lunch,” I mumbled. “I did say 10.30. I’ve got to go to London later.” It was all bonus from my point of view. I went off to have a shower and the A Team headed for the kitchen where she made free with vases, in order to make the very best of the beautiful cut flowers from her garden. We spent the mo

The best things in life begin with the letter C. They include but, as manufacturers often say, are not limited to: Champagne. Pale imitations won’t do. Canapes which are about the most indulgent way that people, who enjoy a good networking event, sustain themselves while coiffing the afore mentioned drink. Countryfile because I’m a country girl at heart. Cats, and here I can be even more specific and ask everyone to give it up for Clive who coincidentally has a name that begins with the letter C. Chocolate, which doesn’t do it for me but I’m being generous here. Crisps, which definitely do do it for me. Cheese, that king of food. Children, who offer all the promise of what is to come and always lift the spirits. Chatter, and here I should defiantly mention friendship but that doesn’t alliterate in quite the way I had in mind so I’m giving it up for Chums. It might be cheesy to say so, but there is nothing like love and friendship when the chips are down. I didn’t include chips in my favourite things because

She didn’t get up but indicated the chair for me to sit in. I sat down. She introduced herself and I said how nice it was to meet her. Given the circumstances, I might have happily lived into old age and never felt I’d missed out by not meeting her. “Now I’ve had this nice letter from your doctor. It’s says your suffering with your eyes.” I raised my eyebrows. This was probably not the moment for sport but I couldn’t help myself. “No”, I said, sounding suitably bemused.” “Well it says here that you’ve got a problem with your eyes. What I need to know is if you can see my face.” In view of the fact we were both wearing face masks this seemed a bit of a wasted question. I didn’t say so. “Is that right? Are you suffering with your eyes?” “I’m not suffering. There is no suffering involved.” “But you do have a problem?” “No, the problem is not mine,” I spat. “The problem is largely other people”. As soon as the words were out of my mouth I felt a strange mix of satisfaction and regret. “I’m projecting of course,

The Grand was on his second babycino of the afternoon when he had a lightbulb moment: “Granny, I don’t think you can see very much can you?” “You’re right,” I said. With just a hint of caution he suggested; “Have you thought of wearing glasses?” “It wouldn’t help,” I explained. “Not shades on your head but glasses on your face like Mummy.” “I have tried it….” I began “Because then you could give me your huge hoover.” He’d just split the atom. I’m glad the Grand knows what he wants to make him happy. If it’s playing hoovers with a long cane I’ll go with that. He makes me happy. I’ve been thinking about what it takes to live a good life, to be happy. A good nights sleep is the holy grail. I like to go to bed early because early nights bring early starts and that’s the best time of day. There is nothing like laughter. The Old Bag and I laugh together all the time. Last week I answered the door to her with the words, “Is that a tractor I see before me?” We were hot on the heels of Neil Parish’s parliamentary

“A pop of colour does the trick”, or so I have been recently instructed. Even the most rudimentary of t-shirts can be dressed up with the addition of an ill-fitting jacket. It might work for Zoom but would it be good enough for real life? Would it work for a real evening out? Experience has taught me that the fish, I know I will order, often comes dressed in butter so it’s wise to give thought to how to dress for splatter. Into my inbox popped a 15% off voucher, which I entered and bought a blouse I didn’t know I needed. In fact, I bought two blouses that I didn’t know I needed. Both of them in a size smaller than I really am. Which of these blouses would go well with fish? On balance, better to go with the one that would suffer less effect from butter. Having once sat opposite a blind diner who ate his buttered asparagus in much the same way that a small boy would suck long strands of pasta off the plate, slapping the strings against the side of his cheeks, I know the reach and devastation of a bit of the

Not that this has ever happened to me, but if I were to find myself in a long and boring zoom call, I might feel inclined to do a bit of online shopping at the same time. The sort of thing that I might find myself bidding for would be books about working animals. I could work myself into a lava in the search for Lloyd, an illusive police horse, probably long since dispatched to the knackers. If I were to find such a treasure, at an all-inclusive price, I could find myself struggling to say what I really thought in response to a plea for my input. I would have no problem reverting to that tried and tested response, “nothing to add to what has already been said,” or “I think what you think.” Yet all the time I am unable to get Lloyd the Police Horse from my mind, expertly handled by his brave rider with his 1980s haircut. Who knows why these things happen. I have been unable to get Lloyd out of my tiny mind. Then I had a piece of luck. Danny the Guide Dog could be mine for £1.49 including p&p. I could bar

Everyone loves a bit of personal administration. Don’t they? There is nothing like changing arrangements for paying your rates charges or changing your direct debits. You can do it on-line and if that fails, well it fails. You will be accumulating charges, with no apparent means of stopping them, from here until way beyond next Monday. Searching the website for telephone details will not help because it’s a secret. The only numbers that are published are the ones that tell you that it will be quicker for “YOU” if you do this on-line. Because no one has ever sent you an account number to enter, you are immediately rejected and sent back to the customer services number that tells you to go to the website. At this point you may find that you become highly agitated and having hammered in the phone number one last time, someone answers the phone. In your astonishment you might exclaim your relief and tell your tale of woe at which point the call handler explains that rudeness wont’ be tolerated and puts the pho

The Baby Grand has arrived. I was so moved by the miracle of new life, that I went to an actual shop and purchased a small floppy rabbit suitable for babies under three months old. For clarity, this was not a real rabbit, but a stuffed toy rabbit. Then my largesse got the better of me and I decided that what every baby brother needs is a Superhero older brother, so I invested in a Batman outfit, suitable for children aged 2-4 years. The Grand may not be the Baby Grands idea of a Superhero but he’s definitely mine. “How does Batman’s mummy call him in for his food?” I asked the Grand. “Get your food,” the Grand shouted as he took off his clothes and we all jumped in to tell him that there was no need to take his pants off. “Dinner, dinner, dinner BATMAN!” I trotted out to the rhythm of the Batman theme music. There was a small hiatus in proceedings as the Grand went in search of the Bat ears that were a bit on the snug side and had pinged off. He pulled his Bat ears down as hard as he could. They swivelled r

It might have been the colour of nobility and power in the world of the ancients but purple been on the back foot in public life over recent years. It’s not fashionable to wear your ambition on your sleeve these days. Purple though, is making a comeback. No longer are old men reduced to exercising a love of luxury in their secret choice of purple underpants. These days it’s everywhere. Not underpants, but Purple. It’s out and proud in a rebrand that symbolises spirituality, creativity and dignity. It’s not just chocolate that comes swathed in purple. The promise of a good night’s sleep is also delivered in purple. You would think that this would be unmissable. Unmissable because purple should be easy to spot. Spotting the promise of sleep is rather easier for some of us than others. If you are dependent on Google doing the spotting, you should prepare yourself for a long night trudging about because Google likes to cluster locations. It’s easy to find yourself in the right place but the wrong location. I k

I’m incandescent with rage. It might be more accurate to say that I’m florescent with rage because I can feel my colour rising. It’s not that a lack of access to an on-street parking permits will result in the towing away of my hugely expensive car. I don’t have one to tow away. I’m much more concerned that my friends will stop popping in for cups of tea and even the odd glass of wine because they are afraid their old wrecks will be towed away on the back of a council truck and that it will cost them more to get their cars back than their cars are worth. I’ve just been onto the new web-based “renewal of permit” site that my local council have provided now that they seem to have closed all their offices and shut down their phones. It’s a public health initiative that has sent my blood pressure rocketing. I had to log in three times before the system would let me complete the form. Luckily for me the form was pretty much filled in and with screen magnification on I could see that this was all in order. But w

“Let’s go to the supermarket and buy oats so we can make flapjacks,” I proposed. The Grand moved like grease lightening. I think it a prerequisite that any trip to the shops should be made fully clothed and in shoes. Sensing that I was unlikely to yield on this point he sat down, stuck his foot out and handed me a shoe. “Hold Granny’s hand” the DiL instructed. He nodded. “Hold my hand and don’t let go,” I reinforced. At the end of the road, I flicked open the cane ready for crossing. The Grand used his free hand to grip the cane. ”Hoover” he said. His day was getting better by the minute. We stood on the side of the road while the Grand made groaning noises and mimed a bit of hoovering. “Let go please,” I said, then instantly regretted my instruction. He’d let go of me before he’d give up his hoover. “Keep holding my hand,” I said. Perhaps this would be the moment when his toddler bubble burst and he realised the inconsistencies of adults. He looked thoughtful but gripped harder. We’d been in the supermar

The Son and the DiL are having a night off. They are going to wear grown up clothes, for possibly the very last time in a couple of decades, before driving half way across the south of England to attend a wedding, on a Wednesday. I am now in training to step in and offer soothing words when the inevitable happens and the Grand wakes up just as I am reaching the limit of my ability to stay awake. At this point he will inevitably begin to cry. The cry will turn into sobs as he chokes on the words, “I want Mama.” All my Granny skills will be called upon. The greatest of which is a tried and tested soothing technique in which The Grand commands, between sobs, “Pat bum bum.” In desperation, I do as commanded while I sit awkwardly, shoulder stretched and aching and back beginning to seize up. This could be a big physiotherapy bill. Training means many things: it means going to pick the Grand up from nursery a couple of times, just to be sure I know what I’m doing. In view of the amount of parental hounding a two-

My friend the Doctor, the one who wore her contact lenses in the wrong eyes for longer than she could reasonably be excused for, is a keen wild swimmer. I watched a film about Hampstead Pond and ever since then I thought I’d like to get into it. The Doctor offered to take me, not to Hampstead Pond but a lake near Andover in a location I am keeping secret. She even said she could lend me a wetsuit and a swimming hat, but not goggles, so I went online and ordered a pair. They shimmered like mirrors. I took a photo of myself in them and sent the Doctor a selfie entitled, “how to suck your own eyes out.” She replied that they looked fine to her but “between us you have to peel the film off that says, “remove film”. My swimming suit is prone to filling up with air it’s so old, but no need to buy a new one if the Doctor was lending me a wet suit. On the other hand, better check in to make sure nothing is left to chance. “All good. We get changed in the car park. should be a chilled session” she text. “That better

She didn’t say so, but my kitchen is a bit of a disgrace. What the Goddaughter did say was “Yeah, the doors are all chipped. It looks nasty. I could paint those for you.” “How difficult is it to paint kitchen doors?” “Not difficult,” she said. Then she shrugged and stuck out her bottom lip. I’m not slow on the uptake. “What do you mean by not difficult?” I asked. “Not difficult,” she shrugged again. “Let me put it another way, how complicated, how expensive and how long will it take?” The answer was that it would involve a multiplicity of tasks, trips to the paint shop, Saturday morning early starts, two weeks of having no handles and not being able to touch the paintwork before the sealer was applied, and just as expensive as buying new doors. It wasn’t going to be a paint job then. This would be an uptake of 25% off new kitchen doors if I hurried while stocks lasted, rather than the agony of something that was not difficult but extremely inconvenient. I sent the builder a text to ask if he might be up for

The Goddaughter, and her various assistants, have been helping to keep my house in order. Reputation is everything and without it, she says, she would not have a cleaning round the envy of the most energetic of entrepreneurs. She keeps her clients. Our shared desire to live in a clean house is one of those bonding experiences that she ensures and I take her word for. Taking her word for it is not the same as taking her literally. When she declares it’s ‘all done” I am not so stupid as to imagine perfection and don’t judge her or her numerous assistants against an impossible standards. There are limits and while I think it’s probably clean enough, I really can’t judge for myself. The odd cat biscuit still goes crunch under foot. The Goddaughters various assistants have not always cut me the same slack. They are rather prone to taking things literally and judging me accordingly. The last one refused to come back because, “of your job”. The Goddaughter explained what she knew. The assistant went on a date wit

I got the call on Tuesday. I’m not talking literally. It came in a text message and instructed me to follow the link to online booking. I did as I was told but it didn’t like my text enlargement. It would be a best guess then. If I had more of an eye for detail, I might not have made such a hash of it. A ten-minute car journey could be anything from twenty minutes or an hour on, that Emperor of transport, the bus. I split the difference and allowed forty minutes. In the best tradition of royalty, the bus kept me waiting. It kept me waiting for longer than three buses were timetabled for. There was quit a little clutch of mask clad passengers poised to jostle for the door when it finally opened. I did what I always do. I went to sit down in the first available seat. “Not here,” said a muffled voice. On to the next seat then. “You can’t sit here,’ said another muffled voice as she banged her knuckles vigorously on the window. Where was I to sit? Third time lucky. I’ve lost track of “the rules”. The variatio

I’ve had THE jab. Jabs and jibes were the theme of the day. The mysteries of temporary signage that declare where to go, remained just that, a mystery. It was a good job the Physio Witch had provided fulsome direction of how to access a community hall that was at the far end of a Sainsbury’s car park, behind a doctor’s surgery with a walkway to it, so grand, it rivalled the spot where I keep the ever-expanding number of council issued wheelie bins. I won’t dwell on that here. The sun was low in the sky and as I ambled about outside Sainsburys, I inadvertently ambled into Sainsburys through the “exit only” door. I know this because someone told me so. A quick circuit of the special offers and I left by the route by which I had entered, pacing about between temporary arrows that directed me back and forth across the car park. Eventually the penny dropped. It must be where no arrow dared to go. I’m not surprised that arrows didn’t dare to head for the Covid vaccination Centre. The arrows might not have

There are not many winners in the time of Corona Virus, but dog breeders seem to be amongst them. This has generated a proliferation in the extendable dog lead. The extendable dog lead, which is my enemy, is not the only thing that has proliferated. Where there are extendable dog leads there are frequently dogs attached to the other end, busy relieving themselves of their breakfast. Where once there was breakfast, there is inevitably dog poo. Since lockdown begun the explosion of dogs and their poo has made its presence felt in ways that I never knew were possible. While cleaning up after your dog is the gold standard, I understand that even the best of dog owners get caught short. In parts of the Balkans people hang strands of colourful fabric and ribbon to designated trees to remember their dearly departed by. These colourful expressions may not be to everyone’s taste, but they are relatively benign compared to newer customs that appear to have taken root, or should I say, taken flight.  In parts of m

The superlight walking poles have really come into their own since round three of lockdown. I’ve spent the last year perfecting my cane and pole techniques and I’ve been feeling pretty smug about where they have landed. I’m choosing my words carefully here. I could never have imagined converting the cane or the pole in a way that you might hanker after a nice bit of cashmere or a beautiful silk, but I have caught myself on line shopping for both. It might be a sign of old age. I’ve noticed that I’ve also started talking to the Son about people he doesn’t know and never will. I do this as he’s turning puce with pleasure as he explains how to switch my autoreply on and off for the umpteenth time. This morning I sent him a photo of a graveyard because I thought the view was rather nice. It could be that all this pole and cane action is not encroaching age but the shift from a cerebral way of getting around to one that is more sensory, more rooted in my body. This theory is supported by a range of what you