Fridays

It’s like, it’s always Friday. I look away, turn back, it’s Friday!

Every Friday, one of us will say, ‘Friday again’ or with more emphasis ‘It’s Friday. Again!’ We know it’s insane but it’s become a thing these last years for some reason. Time just zooms by and, bosh, it’s Friday, again. A wee in-joke we enjoy. We should get out more I know. Our excuse for now is, of course, nobody can go anywhere, but we’ll probably not stop just because we can go out again. It has been years already, so…

Friday did used to be the night eh? Going way back, it was payday! Wee brown envelope, decimated by the time he got home with it (but that’s another story). An end of the week that developed into TGIF! Followed by the Sunday night scrabbling for any excuse not to have to go in on Monday… oh, so often been on the phone trying to sound hoarse, bilious, in pain of some sort… ‘can’t. come. in. so. sick’ (in best feeble voice). But Friday, yes. Free! Straight from work, right to the pub… yahoo!

I didn’t grow up in a home with ‘fish on Friday’ and was amazed to discover that others did… ‘mince on Monday, stew on Tuesday...' etc. so I never continued doing so with my own family. It was just potluck, what I could be bothered making and Fridays weren’t scheduled particularly. Over the years Friday morphed into ‘school’s out’ and then ‘what do we do with the kids over the weekend?’ Then, later, ‘let’s see what concerts are on?’ (Then loads of those changed to Tuesdays. What was that about?’) Then it was the years of Fridays shrieking ‘where the hell is she? Not home yet?’ which seemed to last a while, one errant child taking over from the other.

Fridays have long been anonymous entirely though, in this house. No boss to turn up for, not in years now. Both of us, for different reasons but equally relaxing. He, way longer than me. The most mention is of ‘what programme’s on tonight?’ and Fridays are never that great - I do like 'Friday Night Dinners' though funnily enough, makes me laugh, but not being Jewish, it was never a thing here. Being official pensioners does actually set you off reminiscing for sure. I suppose a lot of the nights out we could speak of were actual Fridays. Saturdays of course were different again. It was Fridays really... changing at work to get out straight from there... none of your not even going out until 10pm like they do now. Man, the pubs were shut by then! I have barely ever drunk much, it was more just being there and going home smelling like an old ashtray from all the cigarette smoke. Never did like that mind. Long time ago now. I was always the one sleeping in a corner while others partied on.

But now it just seems to BE Friday. The rest of the week seems to whizz by and Friday has taken on the role of marker. Marking our lives out. Lockdown hasn’t helped I’m sure. This last year of going nowhere, staying safe, has been very strange. No visits, no holidays (so no travel, ‘leaving on Friday’) no meet-ups, no gigs, no dates marked in the diary at all (barring hospitals and doctors!), no grandkids, no fun... and then suddenly, it’s Friday again. We just seemed to notice it all of a sudden. It could have been a Monday, or a Wednesday or any other day, but we seemed to have gravitated to Fridays. So that’s the aim these days… get to the next Friday so we can say ‘It’s Friday. Again!’

And then, writing this, I looked at my calendar. It’s Thursday.

Winner takes all

While the wind rages, and the fence just hangs by whatever fixed it into position in the first place, the plants and ornaments in the garden are chastised by the wind just enough not to destroy them quite yet. If that fence were the wall of your house, you would be in dire straits, it’s true. It’s only the fence though. It’s allowed to dance and wiggle like that.

While the rain lashes, filling the basin you insist on calling ‘the pond’, only just faster than it takes to leak out again - somewhere in the base of it, underground - you watch the wee mouse battling across the pebbles on the patio, desperate to reach the shelter of the border. Ah, he’s made it. Good.

While the clouds scurry past and the awning flaps and the trees sway and the guttering overflows, you keep staring out through the slats of the blind, too apathetic to lift it for a clear view. It’s not new what you’re looking out at but it will never look the same again. It is familiar territory, and yet, uncharted.

How can that be? How can this… be?

How can you be grand one day and oh, way less than grand the next? How can you be worry-free yesterday and positively laden with woes today? At least, that’s how it feels. How do you wrap your head around… this? Whether or not things ever go back to being ‘grand’ is very much an unknown. And it’s the unknown that is freaking me the fuck out. How are we going to get through this? What’s in store? Nothing nice, nothing to look forward to… nothing not worrisome.

Instead of just trundling along, living our lives, passing time, fighting, making up, laughing, lazing, planning, worrying about things not worth the headroom, sharing, well, it’s all just like, stopped. Everything is focussed on this. Everything has to be. Everything is… this. The researching, the reading, the extra freaking out. The pretending it’s okay, the regrouping, the questioning. The what-ifs, the now whats, the did yous, the have you seens, the why didn’ts.

So, knowing, that if you stood like, say, on a hill overlooking a town, somewhere, anywhere, that life would just be going on for everyone there as it always has done, you watch through the window at the wild weather. Like it’s a metaphor for what’s going on in your head right now. It couldn’t possibly be sunny and warm right now. It would not fit. And too, the lives of those around do not come to a standstill because yours does. We all know this. Well, I suppose some lives do, but only coincidentally. Not like ‘because of’. Not like in solidarity. Basically, life goes on, so ours will too. It will. Apparently, you have to take hurdles whether you want to or not. They are there to be taken, not sidestepped, not ignored. They need tackled, even if you knock the bastards over as you go and keep running right to the tape (just to keep the analogy going). The tape’s the goal.

We’re aiming for the tape.

Rant

A rant you say? It’s a rant you’re wanting? You want to know if I can rant? Or how? I’ll give you rant!

I’m a champion ranter. I’ve got a PhD in ranting. I’m a fully qualified, graduated, CEO of Rant & Co. Rants R Us. The Rant Shop. Rant & Son. Rant Bros. Author of The Wee Book of Rants. Don’t talk to me about ranting.

Moans are big on the agenda too, but rants take the medal I’d say. Definitely. Gold Medal rants are where it’s at in this house. Often enough aimed AT me, plenty do go back the other way. Rant Central here boy! Why bother to ask nicely when a rant will do it quicker, more… enjoyably? You’re going to be a pain about xx, you’re going to get a rant from moi. You know it, I know it.

While I could really be doing with conserving the energy, the vocal chords if nothing else, there are few subjects which do not elicit a decent rant around here. Washing? Not sorted well enough, not clean enough, not ironed yet, not put away yet… the list is long for washing, practically inexhaustible rant material. Cooking, cleaning, spending (oh, spending’s a good one, good for lots of swearies thrown in too), TV (ouch), dishwasher, the garden, the door handles in this stupid feckin house, DIY in general, beds needing changed, doors left open, lights left on. Snoring, taps left running (by me, but intro to other environment type subjects which make for interesting rants, up to and including the bins), heating, kids (in general and specific), holidays (incl. those not happening but paid for, so back to money again)… (online) shopping (leading to computers, which are ALWAYS rantable), time spent on Facebook versus time watching bollix…

Any subject can descend (ascend?) into a rant of some kind if you allow it. Some easier than others of course. Some less enjoyable, with dubious outcomes… Is there any satisfaction had via this particular rant? Did I even get my point across? Is there some sort of outcome to it all? Often enough the rant is literally, more of a rave, stuffed with inaccuracies and total nonsense accompanied by foaming mouth and googly eyes and a raw throat, from the growling. Basically not your healthiest (mental)health vent.

I am the champ, it’s true, but I’m hanging up the laurels. Soon. Will try and keep it to genuine rant-worthy causes. So here endeth this rant, of sorts. Until the next one is goaded into existence.

Being a Pensioner

Lightly rubbing the skin on the back of my hands makes me want to weep. I have to accept this condition of being truly old now and it does not sit well with the 22 year old that lurks behind my eyes. No, I'm not ancient (depending who is looking) but I'm now in the class of being 'elderly'. Bah.

I could probably be fitter, carry less weight and I know I could certainly sit a lot less than I do… I know all this… but you can fool yourself, even perking up and pulling a pose for the mirror. ‘I’ll do’ you tell yourself. ‘I’ll pass’. Then just a look at the palm of that one hand… no idea why it looks so old in comparison with its mate, but it really does… and the back of both hands. No springy skin that just jumps back into place, but this wrinkled stuff. Yet to turn papery, I’m not ancient, no, but definitely loose and not at all springy. Let’s not even mention the neck, the décolletage. The knees!

I’m not quite a bag of wrinkles, but a blind man can see the direction it’s all going. I’ve long embraced the grey and even prefer it to any colour in my hair, but the jowls… I do object to the jowls. Gravity is a cruel master of your average face and although I have no intentions of any Botox treatment, nor would I contemplate plastic surgery, I can easily see why it is popular enough even among non-celebs.

The legs really only save me nowadays if hidden in a pair of tights. Those are my mum’s legs! When did that happen? The belly, well, it’s my own fault and too long been too prominent (literally). Not sure I ever had ‘abs’ but I do remember hip bones. And what the hell happened to my arse?! It just sort of… went. Up and left me, bereft. What the hell are these bits?! Honest, it was sudden.

I know it’s only going to get worse too, that’s the thing. I do understand, the alternative (being dead) isn’t what I strive for. But a wee bit… leniency? Perhaps a slowing down of the decay? That’d be nice. I don’t think I deny my age, it’s not that. I’m pretty sure I don’t do the ‘mutton dressed as lamb’ horrors. I also don’t want a bloody blue-rinse perm yet either! Or a wee car coat and a peeny with baffies, or a giant handbag (actually they’re popular, but no thanks). I’m happy being Grammy, but don’t want categorising too quickly on sight! I know that the likes of, say, Raquel Welsh and Jane Fonda do (have!) a lot of work to make themselves look such fabulous octogenarians but I’d like to think I’ll still look less like a decaying old apple and more like a barely week old one by the time I’m their age.

Ach, I know we all do. Also, I’m not likely to start with all the makeup at this stage of my life… the very idea!... but perhaps, due to my lack of made up sophistication, I’ll look more like myself first thing in the morning, than many others of my age? Perhaps. Not that that’s a great thing but, I just don’t believe that Fonda looks much less than 80 first thing of a morning. Which is fine, she’s still lovely, not saying otherwise. Just, she’ll look her age. Surely. I do know how much difference makeup can make, just, it's not to me. Plus, I never was as fit (in all meanings of the word) as she was. I do know this, I'm not delusional.

Given I hope to reach ninety years of age, there are still many years to go, so I should try and improve, or at the very least, save, what body I still have, for as long as I have it. The intentions are there, as they have been for a long time. Making no promises here, no vows, no resolutions. I know me. Fat, wrinkled, ageing me. Bear with me, I’m a pensioner. 

I do like THAT bit... the pension coming in. I know it is only my due, I paid to get it, I'm not tugging my forelock in gratitude exactly, but it's sort of like... compensation. 'You're as old as God now, so, here you go... enjoy.' So it is a kind of compensation to have it come in every month, despite no longer working. It will be a great shame if the powers stop arranging the collection and distribution of it all. I'll be voting against that all my days... 'up the workers' and all that. We wrinklies will man the barricades, don't you worry kiddo.

I remember being given up a seat on the tram for the first time, in my thirties. Not pregnant, not loaded with shopping, just 'here you go, mrs'. Manners, to a woman standing, by a youth. My first confrontation of true, polite, condescension to 'an older person'... at least, one older than them. It killed me. I took the seat mind, I'm not stupid and my feet were killing me. But that was the start. I've often enough been miffed at not being offered a seat since then, but times and attitudes change so it's not all me being shunned or ignored. I've seen me glare at some kid not even offering and I've seen myself stand for younger than me with a toddler (for instance) rather than berate the teenager opposite me. 

Age though eh? It's not a thing anyone can halt. The most plastically enhanced, Botox injected and gorgeous person will still be their given age. With a wrinkly neck and age-spotted hands to prove it. With memories of things they couldn't possibly know of if they were the age they are attempting to look.

So I'm holding on to that. If I wasn't the age I am, with the (ahem) imperfections I have, I wouldn't have the fabulous memories, or the children, or grandchildren I do have and I really couldn't contemplate that. It is ever-expanding, the memory-bank. Putting aside the forgetfulness, it is continually filled with new memories. Actually, it's a miracle when you think of it, just how much it all can hold. I'm aware, Alzheimer's etc. but those memories have been there to start with. You can't lose or erase what isn't there to begin with.  So yes, I'm holding on to that. Wrinkles, loose skin and jowls... the lot of it. I don't like it, but apparently, it is the fare to the end of the line so... not ringing the bell to stop the tram just yet. Come the time, and I'm ninety-six or something, these ramblings will surely sound excessively ludicrous. One request though, can the tram slow down a bit?