Grounds for Divorce

Apparently, I snore. AND the rest! Now, this is nothing new. What IS new, is him refusing to listen any longer and decamping to the spare room. I don’t really blame him, but I’m a perfectly lovely bedfellow otherwise I’m sure?

It’s comical in a way as I have been sending links on various ‘cures’ for snoring to others with horrendously snoring husbands (you know who you are!) and here it’s me that is the prime candidate. I’m also up at the loo 2 and 3 times a night (disturbing), cough, and clear my throat continually this last six months (uber-disturbing and apparently the last straw) and have a tendency for jumpy legs which disturbs me too, have to say. So I can’t really blame him but still do not approve. We’ll be getting separate hotel rooms on holiday next!

He is ‘lucky’ that I’m so deaf because I just know he snores to beat the band himself! The fact that the smoke alarm could go off and the fire brigade hack into the window and still not have me hear anything, is beside the point. Burglars could come and go with impunity, I’d be quite jocose as long as I didn’t see them. They wouldn’t disturb me unless they physically rolled me out of bed. Well, then of course there would be all hell to pay (not least because they’d be plucking out their eyes at the sight of me) and they needn’t think they can come and burgle me now because he hears pins drop on cushions from three flights up. Or biscuit tins being surreptitiously opened. Equally irritating!

I am wondering though, would ear-plugs not cover more disturbances made by me? Everybody surely turns over in bed a few times so it can’t be just that. It’s the ‘noises’. I apparently run the whole gamut of nightly noises, plus the coughing and spluttering that has held on for way too long now to be at all conducive to a happy marriage. So I can imagine him lying there, seething, thinking of ways to do away with me and finally capitulating to the call of the spare bed.

The flipside of all this is that he near gave me (and by consequence, himself) a heart attack the other night. He’d thought, ‘give it a go’ and joined me in the marital bed. When you go to sleep alone and you suddenly feel the bed wobble… well. ‘Who’s there?!!’ My yell had him near leap out of bed in one go. I of course immediately realised, gave him a pat, (‘oh, it’s you’, I don’t really remember) turned over, and started snoring again (I’m reliably told). He lay there with his heart pounding in his throat having to listen to me for another hour before giving in and stomping off to his quiet corner upstairs. So, give him his due, he does try and put up with me.

My jumpy legs are also why we rarely watch a film together. That, and of course my inability to follow a story without asking questions, or speculating on next moves, or speaking to the characters performing whichever scenario they find themselves in. I don’t do it in the cinema (although we rarely go) as you have to whisper there, and then I don’t hear the response. At home though, how can you not? I hear myself even when watching stuff alone. So there’s that.

There are enough irritations around here (sufficient for a whole book, probably) without me manifesting as THE irritant to beat all irritants. I’m well aware of my shortcomings and don’t want them to multiply to divorce degree. So, c’mere you Internet and supply me with at least a decent snore prevention kit. I refuse to let 50+ years of sleeping together end in separate beds!

Dreaming

Today, I will mostly be talking about dreams.

Not those things we each aspire to. Not those things we save up for and never quite achieve, nor those ideas we have that don’t entirely match the image presented to us in the bedroom mirror. I mean those things that float around in our heads while we are asleep. Some of those might be classed as nightmares. Depends how you look at them maybe? And to what degree a nightmare? But in general, I’m referring to the stories, whole films with beginnings, middles and ends sometimes, as well as those totally random scenarios, where you’re quite at home in a totally unfamiliar place, with complete ‘onbekenden’ that you do somehow know, doing and saying things you have never done, nor ever would do. Or is that just me?

I do have those regularly. So, what is a dream at all? Why do some people say they never remember them or never have them? What does it say about a person who is otherwise perfectly sane (ahem) yet has the weirdest dreams? I for one have never had anything to do with gorillas, nor any kind of sexual relationship with anyone remotely resembling a gorilla, and yet would cheerfully wipe all memory of the dream about just that particular thing. That’s surely classed as a weird one.

I of course can only speak for myself, on dreams that I vaguely do remember. Some are so daft, it makes you wonder what I’m not remembering. I’d like to dream about nice things, things I’d want to remember, however unlikely the scenario, but there is no telling what’s ahead in dreamland, once you shut your eyes. Well, not in my head anyway.

Last night – probably this morning, I sleep late - there was a long one about, what was it about? That happens too, I have it right there in my head and as soon as I go to tell about it, it fades (thank feck for that, says he who positively hates hearing about my latest escapades in dreamland). However, I made a point of remembering this one so there is not too much random embellishment.

It was all to do with a talent show. X-Factor kind of thing? Yet not, not at all. There were various singers up there, one after the other, in a bright room (I’m looking through a window, as you do (?) ) and then I’m Louis, bent over, leaning on a chair in front of me (him) saying ‘aye, he’s good’ and ‘no, off!’ and the performers keep changing, like in a flipbook so fast, male and female, young and old, and I know them all, but I know none of them. I feel sorry for them all attempting Whitney Houston’s ‘I will always love you’ and they all fail as soon as the ‘And IIIIIIIeeIII…’ kicks in. Buzz… Buzz… Then there is a wee Indian lad, sings it great! Top notes and all, and I’m all tearing up behind my window there. I think P was involved at some point, not sure now. If I’m honest, I’d just be inventing more if I wrote it down and things are insane enough without me adding anything in there.

So this was quite a long and involved one. About stuff I am not particularly interested in and mostly involving people and places to which I have no connection. See, I could understand it more if it was all familiar people doing ordinary things, even if I was watching it all from ‘off stage’, so to speak. It’s the random, mental stuff I find confusing.

Some dreams, I’ll get up for the loo and tell myself not to think too much wakeyuppy things ‘so I can get back in there’. Whole films that have gone on all night (probably about five minutes, hah) that seem to be going somewhere. Then, damned if I can remember the feckers. I think I actually dream most nights. It’s just, I don’t get it.

I don’t believe the dream analysis stuff I stupidly wasted an hour on one day. If I did, I fear I’d be knocking at the door of the secure wing somewhere, to take me off the streets. I don’t hold with all that ‘if you dream about xx, it means xx’… I honestly could not afford to be going down that murky alleyway. And anyway, what do they know? What a nonsense!

The flying car though. That’s another one I’ve had a few times. I don’t drive and the most I’ve done is one trial lesson - not for me thanks! I was always even the passenger on the dodgems - so steering a car through the clouds was quite the revelation. I was doing gears and all. I don’t understand gears so I’m patently better at things in my dreams than in real life. The only flying car I’ve ever seen or read about was in Harry Potter (which really sparked the memories of this dream which predates all that) so hey… maybe it was a premonition? Although, why would I predict a thing, in my head, from someone else’s imagination? Seems unlikely. Pass

I rarely dream about loved ones. Although I do remember one where mum was railing at me about something. It was all in Dutch too, which was quite the revelation. I remember lying there, thinking, in an aside to the dream, that this was a weird dream, mum doesn’t speak Dutch! I quite like those ones, where you are aware that you are dreaming all this bollix, but still don’t wake up. I have tried to steer those ones but it never works. I get lost in the dream before I realise it. That’s a thing too actually, which language am I dreaming in? I don’t really know any more. There was a time when there was a definite crossover, but now I don’t even notice. They’re probably in both languages, swapping about as I go. Me talking Dutch to non-Dutch speakers that understand me perfectly, and non-Dutch acquaintances, babbling away to me in Dutch… or half and half, kinda like I speak to folks at times. I’m barely aware when I do it when awake so knowing while sleeping is pushing it somewhat. Suffice to say, we all understand each other. Except for why any of us are there… in the dream, not in waking life.

I have laughed at a dream a few times. You have to when it's one where you woke up mad at him! That rat! What he’d been up to (in the dream) was well worth a good punch on the nose! Had one like that a couple of times, poor man had done nothing wrong and I was well p’d off with him for ages after waking. Even knowing ‘it was just a dream!’ Daft eh? But oh, you… !

I don’t think I’d like to have a dreamy premonition. That’d put me off sleeping for the duration! I don’t want visions thank you very much and it freaks me enough just seeing through my eyelids when shut, and in bed. Of course I don’t, I’ve obviously just dozed off, but that’s quite enough of that, thank you. I ain’t no Bernadette and to be fair, nothing holy ever transpires in any of my dreams. Phew. I wish to be no one’s conduit between ‘there’ and ‘here’… just sayin’.

I forget, is it during REM sleep they think you dream, or before, or after? I know there are sleep studies but also know they will never know what is happening in an individual’s brain during sleep. They might see flashes on some graph or other, but they will never have the pictures I’m seeing. I like the idea that your brain is re-booting your system, but don’t like to think of the reasons why I’d be dreaming stuff I am totally not connected to in any way. The question also arises, do psychopaths (big bad baddies) dream differently? Are they all about nasty things, but they enjoy them so not a nightmare? Or are they all daisies and fairies and puppies and stuff, in contrast to their waking hours? Does your brain find other stuff for you to think about just to keep you on your toes? Or does it present things to you totally randomly just to sort out your filing? I just don’t get how I can dream of things, discuss even, things I have no knowledge of. Why is such stuff even in my brain at all? For the shuffling of? For the rebooting?

Anaesthetic is totally strange too, no? That blanks you out entirely (thank goodness!) and just when you’ve closed your eyes, you open them again, even if hours (days) later and you haven’t even dreamed at all and had a great ‘sleep’ even if enforced. Nothing memorable in there anyway. What’s that about?

There’s also the theory that we use, what is it, like only a fraction of our brain capacity and scientists know so very little about our brains in general. They know millions more than they used to, but still don’t know, so, so much. We could all do so much more if we just access it, somehow, apparently. More like what though? More crazy dreams? Is the inaccessible part where all our knowledge really lies? Why I dream about crazy stuff, is because it is all in there and only comes free for perusal during dreams, when it’s all being reshuffled, to fit the disc better? Then once I’m ‘reformatted’ there’s more room for more facts that cross-reference to other, older facts and occurrences and… dreams?

All of the above cannot account for the fact that everyone, everywhere, has always dreamed though. Compuspeak is pretty new after all. It’s quite a good theory though, I think. The wait now is for some smarty pants to actually be able to access someone’s dreams. I believe they can already influence them to some extent. We can all already instruct ourselves please not to dream last night’s one again because that was shite! It works sometimes! Just not sure if it works because we said so.

But dreams eh? You have to wonder.  

Philosophising

Was thinking. I think too much at times. This time, it was about how you can’t go back in time. No idea where my head is at times, but I’m going with it today. And when they do (in films) they have to be sure and not change the least little thing because then their own ‘timeline’ would surely change and they might not even be born… so then they wouldn’t even be there changing things at all, anyway and… well, it gets complicated. So okay, no trips back in time for me, but I carried on thinking. Not always best.

So I was thinking, if I choose to take this road, instead of that, am I forever changing the course of… well… history? It’s enough to paralyse you when you think about it too much - as I am currently doing. I just want to get it off my chest though, so I’m writing it down.

If what I do, or you do, or anybody does, maps out how anything, anywhere, ever, turns out… then what is the point of doing… anything? Ever? Where or when, ever? How do you know it’s not the ‘wrong’ thing? What constitutes ‘wrong’ if it eventually leads to a ‘right’ outcome. Which is possible! And on those occasions when you are consciously faced with a choice, how the hell do you make a decision when it might well have... consequences! Perhaps not right now, but further 'down the line'. 

It was a song that got me thinking about this. About moving a pebble in a stream, which changes the way the water runs. I’m rather extrapolating, but maybe it sends it down another path altogether, ending up crashing down over a precipice as a waterfall and picks up pace, flooding through a town - killing many and destroying livelihoods. Or does it just run in a different direction, quietly to the sea… which crashes on a beach, miles up the coast, throwing a boat onto the rocks as it does so. All from one little stone being moved. There’s something too, about butterfly wings causing a stir in the air… which becomes a wind with other butterflies’ wings, which is a storm, then a hurricane… should we flatten every butterfly we see to prevent those hurricanes? I’m going to say, no.

Still, Hitler’s mum didn’t take that job in the greengrocer’s so never met his father, so he was never born and… you see where I’m going with this (I have no idea whether his mother worked in a greengrocer's, I’m just saying… )

None of us, apparently, would even be here, if A hadn’t happened, which led to B and then C… etc. Hmm. Does it stop at Z? Honestly, it’s paralysing.

I don’t want to analyse my own ABC, in case anything particularly obvious sticks out. You (me) then start wondering if you took a wrong turn somewhere. Did you choose correctly that time? Were there choices? I don’t actually remember any. There are always choices, what am I saying! I realise, thinking on it, I have never been good at making choices...not even the least of them. Of course, I do, we all do, every day, but when faced with making a choice and you give me several to choose from... not my forte, have to say. 

Life choices, well we all make them too. I'm happy with mine. I am. But don't start me thinking (as I'm doing right now!) about how, if I'd done this, that time, instead of that... see, you try it! I keep coming out at the same end result though - even if I'd done that, I'd still end up... how bizarre! Because right here, right now, is where I want to be, so... is that how it works?

Was my stone moved by someone else, and would things have been worse if it hadn’t been? Or better? Why does life work out great for me and not for… I don’t know… someone that lived just two doors away from me as a child? How does that work? Did they make wrong choices? Is going down this street instead of that actually a choice, though? Is fate a thing? Paralysing! Honestly!

I’m not sure where I’m going with this. I think maybe it’s just a bit of a brain fart. Needed out. I worry about me sometimes, the stuff that goes on in there. I have the most mental dreams too. Have they ever figured out what dreams are? It’s the ones that look real, plausible, not too crazy, but that are filled with people I have never seen before and yet are familiar. Those are scary. What are they about? Why would my mind make them up? To what end?

I’m thinkin’ someone moved a pebble in my stream!

DEAF is as DEAF does!

This DEAF malarkey will be the death of me yet. Dead inside, more than, you know, dead dead. I maybe have mentioned before about honestly worrying... about being old (old old, before the snarky remarks) and I’ve finally been dragged into a home and they just think I’m mental but I’m really just deaf and they haven’t charged my processor, or put it on even! And I’m old, maybe a bit loopy? And can’t tell you I’m not hearing right… something like that? Or, I’ve had a stroke and scoring less on my check-up because I can’t hear, no processor on, and not capable of telling them.

You just know they won’t think of it and I dread to think of how many old buddies are currently in the same boat. I’m sure things will go wrong, as they do. Even now, while I'm fully compos mentis it happens (hold those snarkisms). Anyone that could speak for me and ensure I’m tuned in won’t always be around. New staff arrive, new ways of doing things, it happens. I might need to get a tattoo with CI WEARER on my forehead or something. With a bag around my neck for my charger and batteries for the hearing aid. Then of course I'd still need to rely on folks actually knowing what my tattoo means. People still don't know... loads of folks. Why would they?

I was reminded of this frequent nightmare because I attended a new (to me) doctor at the health centre the other day. All plastic apron and hat, and with a mask of course. Blablabla - my mask with HoH sticker on means nothing - so I tell him, then he actually ROARS at me. Anyone with any degree of hearing loss will tell you, speaking louder to us does not help, not even a little bit. He actually hurt my ears so loud. Articulate speech was out the window too though - mask - and he didn’t remove it, nor replace it with a clear facemask, which you would think a year into the pandemic he might have had handy. People just do not care!

Then upon listening to my lungs, I made the mistake of speaking, explaining this and that. He shouted ‘don’t speak’… okay. Then when he was finished he said… he actually said to me, after me explaining about me being hard of hearing… ‘I can’t hear you at all with the stethoscope in my ears you know.’ I just smiled, he’ll have seen my eyes smile I suppose, and I said ‘Well you should realise now what it’s like?’ ‘Hahaha’, said he, continuing to speak to his laptop, behind his mask.

So you see, I KNOW, I positively KNOW there will be no difference, come the time I really, really need help. I actually manage okay despite masks, with my CI processor, but believe me, others definitely do not. And if I’m unconscious… I want to listen too! Just in case! But no one will tune me in. I do wonder if it is even a consideration in old folks homes… care homes, whatever they call them.

Now, I’m not saying I don’t take advantage of being able to switch off at times… avoiding the noise from the dentist’s drill is definitely a plus, for instance. There are lots of scenarios where we deafies have one over on you in the hearing community. In general, though, it is shite and not to be coveted.

I have been sleeping on the couch for a few nights recently, coughing like a horse on crack, ending in gagging noises (ergo, visit to doc and lungs checked, all perfect if you can believe it, nobody does). I’m sure the neighbours are kept up too. But of course I don’t keep my aids on when in bed (or on the couch). When I eventually awoke the other morning, I opened the blinds and thought ‘I’ll make his coffee, take him up a cup, he’s not up yet.’ Jumps back in amazement - the coffee machine was on already. He’d been down and gone back up again. Now this machine, anyone will agree, it’s like a jet taking off and it goes on, seemingly interminably when you want to get a word in. The racket is huge. Yet I do not hear it (even if awake actually), without aids in/on. Not even if I stare at it and strain to hear, because I KNOW it's making a noise. Not a whisper. It's quite disconcerting. I don’t hear the toilet flush either, or the shower run, and a herd of buffalo could crash through the house, I would sleep on because… DEAF.

I cannot stress this enough and it’s why I say deaf instead of hard of hearing because, well, just what does that mean? In some situations, you’re ok to chat? With certain people? Particular places, not? Masks on or off (this is of course a new and horrible situation for all deafies)? So, technically speaking, I’m HoH, but practically speaking, *I am deaf*. The next one that says ‘but you’re wearing hearing aids’ GETS it!

So yeah, hate this shite with a vengeance but hugely grateful for my CI especially, (my hearing aid is useless to make me functional on its own, but handy to round out my processor). I'm honestly pretty fab at this hearing thing, with my CI processor on. Even with masks on, with a bit of consideration from the person addressing me.

So please, anyone that knows me but especially family, make sure they tune me in come the apocalypse, will you?

Caroline Mackie, 15^th April 2021

 

 

Dehydrated Rehydrated

He’s been coming home with dried figs lately. Dried dates too. Dried apricots as well, which I like fresh, dried or rehydrated… yum. Figs and dates though, they’re not your usuals. Not like apricots, or even apples or raisins and sultanas (what is the difference there except size? Never did find out).

Anyway, it had me remembering my (our!) first encounters with fresh dates and fresh figs. Wee stories attached there.

The figs, we were in southern Spain. Wee place, end of season, empty and almost closed. God knows what lockdown looks like there but surely even worse. Not that it wasn’t lovely, it was. Just… deserted. No cash dispenser, no restaurants and no shops except one tiny grocery kind enough to cash a cheque. Phew.

Walking back to our lovely digs from a saunter to the beach (only a few minutes walk away) we passed an old man lugging a bucket stuffed with… what the hell is that? Looks like wee dods of jam, duly being followed by the odd inquisitive insect. He sees us looking and reaches one of the dods to us… oh, it’s figs! A whole bucket of freshly picked figs, some a tad overripe and bursting, hence the dods of ‘jam’.

We ask how much for a couple, his index finger indicates 1 euro and he smiles toothlessly at us. Okay, dear, but worth it for a taste. We nod and offer the money… he nods and hands us the bucket. He meant 1 euro for the bucket load! We gave him more money, he reluctantly but finally, happily took it. Was more than he thought he’d get and we were certainly pleased enough so, everybody happy.

So now here we were, with a shitload of fresh, never-going-to last-long, figs. From zero to 120 in a heartbeat. We indulged, sure we did, but there’s only so many fresh figs… delectable little pots of jam as they are… that anyone can take. As we headed further up the road, we passed three rucksacks outside the grocers. More late tourists, hah. We left them eating from the bucket full of figs as they sat at the kerb. They were well chuffed.

Dates now. Don’t know about you but the only dates I’d ever seen were those hard lumps of toffee-like things in a long, rounded oval box at Christmas. Who knew they were actual dried fruits? I never did! Then we went to Egypt. Fabulous holiday, Nile cruise, bus trips to all the monuments, plus a week in a resort… but I digress. Dates.

Now, they do warn you, don’t drink the tap water, don’t take ice in your drinks, don’t eat fresh fruits as they’ll have been rinsed off in water. But then they passed around a tray of real, fresh dates on a bus trip. I couldn’t have passed it off, I just couldn’t. Smarty Pants did, hmph. Well, he missed the delights. So this is a fresh date? Wow. Bares only a very vague resemblance to a Christmas date, and the taste is just heaven. I may have had three. I may have paid for every one with one hour on the loo – boy, was I sick. Worth it though.

And now these dried affairs. Now, apricots, I’d always enjoyed a chew at them and had also discovered, not that long ago, that if you steep them in water, they plump up. Also delish. These dried figs and dates though, had never tried rehydrating them and wasn’t that enamoured of them straight out the pack, dry. I’ve since found Medjoul dates (since being in Egypt) and they are just fabulous, sort of semi-dried, still plump and yummy - especially coated in chocolate. So these were more like the Christmas dates only loose. Edible at a push, but hard. Stones already removed. I decided to soak them, see how that went. Same with the figs… still jammy, tasty, but not attractive to eat at all. Soak.

Well, the jury is still out. A skin sloughs off the dates when soaked, looking decidedly unattractive as it floats there, but the dates are more edible, have to say. If I can avoid the skin, doable. Figs, definitely plumper but the skin on them is a bit tougher. Very sweet and edible if you keep your eyes shut and avoid the sight of what you drag your teeth through, and the wee stub where it was attached to the tree. How else do you describe the contents of a fig though? It’s nature’s ready-made jam! You don’t normally eat spoonful’s of jam so, you’d best not eat too many figs. Both dates and figs (Egyptian water notwithstanding) are good for the old (ahem) movements, so moderation is key I suppose. The water you soak them in turns to a lovely syrup too… also best in moderation.

So, every day a school day eh? I had at one time intended buying a hydrator, to make dried strips of chicken for the dog, initially. But those things are expensive and have to run for days too. I tried drying tomatoes in the oven a couple of times (Spanish and Italian holiday influences seep through at intervals) - both times unmitigated disasters - so I would still like to get one some day but, not happening. Don’t need it for the dog any more so it would be hard to justify the purchase, other than for flowers… and tomatoes. I think I had the oven on low for like three days at my dried tomato attempt. Can’t be doing that for half a dozen toms haha. Sure it should be easier though!

Probably for the best, cheaper too in the long run, just to buy dried and then rehydrate. Anyone reading this has a foolproof, inexpensive tip for dyhydrating tomatoes, I'd be glad to hear it. Also, let me know what you think of dates and figs. Dried or otherwise.

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?

The Miracle of Hearing

I shower first thing usually, but we had the boys over so had first put my HA in and my CI on when I got downstairs, the better to converse with them at breakfast. I left them drawing and of course then took off my HA as can’t shower with it on (and is why I normally shower before even putting my HA, in which I leave in the bathroom).

To my (short-lived) amazement, I heard the ‘tick’ as I lay it on the shelf. Eh? I tapped the washbasin… what?! I can hear!

It was all of one and a half seconds I suppose, but what a wonderful one and a half seconds it was. My hearing has returned! But no, I still had my CI on. I normally wouldn’t until after I’m showered and downstairs, but of course, had been downstairs already, for the boys. Of course I could still hear! I was still switched on, tuned in and of the hearing world, wearing my CI.

Just as well I realised, as you can’t shower with your processor on. I have almost done that before, wondering, as the water heated up, how come it was all so noisy today. Luckily I hadn’t yet stood under the showerhead.

The day is approaching when even our processors will be implanted. Not sure how they’ll charge them, but have every confidence it will happen, and I’ll be first in the queue for it. Until then, we shower, we swim, we sauna and generally we sleep (although not because of water) without them.

Always grateful, always, still, in awe.