Posted by Jeni in Ad Infinitum | 17 April 2019
So, having hit 70 I have no excuses.
The gym beckons
Gardening beckons.
Walking beckons.
Crabs, or should I say carbs, sugar and dairy have gone the way of the duckbilled platypus.
I'm having new publicity pics taken.
I have a new agent.
I've written all my thank you letters.
I've had my roots done.
I've booked the gardener for tomorrow to re-plant all the roses next to the Japonica.
I've bought a Passion Flower to climb the walls.
Bought a Gardenia to make me think of Billy Holiday
I've bought Jasmine to make the kitchen wall smell nice
I've bought a load of Delphiniums to pretend I have a thriving cottage garden.
Today I spring cleaned half the kitchen. Cant reach the ceiling in the other half, so all guests will have to turn North North east.
Planted a scented Viola that the dawter bought me for mothers day.
Tonight I shall watch the telly after picking up the old git from the station.
I applaud the extinction rebels. If I were thirty years younger I would be on the street too.
I've just had a cookie and a latte, carbs and sugar.
Blimy my intention only last half a page.
Happy easter y'all
Permalink | Comments (1)
Posted by Jeni in Ad Infinitum | 27 March 2019
70, Seventy, Seven Tea, however you cut it 70 looks less like that and more like this.
What with everything going on in the world; climate change, dolphins dying, bees buzzing off, what with everything we all have to deal with like early springs and unmitigated summers, hitting 70 seems more like a blessing than any kind of problem.
So the skin thins, and lines deepen. Hair greys and bending double aint as easy as it was last year, but what with everything else going on 70 seems more like a blessing than a shame.
Our next door neighbour drove me and him and the dawters Godma to the 18.12 train, and handed us a paper carrier bag with Champagne, Beer, crudites, chocolate and a tea cup and glass, we were sozzled by the time we reached Charing Cross. After two changes on the tube we reached Brixton by 7.00
One hundred people were invited to a surprise party. Some couldn't make it; driving, working, lying in hospital, celebrating elsewhere, so whilst the 40 sent their best wishes the other 60 turned up from all corners of the Cosmos. And I knew nothing about it. Not one thing.
We were instructed to just wear fancy for Friday, cottage wear for Saturday and something for sleeping in. Well that was easy both me and him sleep in our birthday suits, so I took mine along to my birthday party. The 'oosbind knew nothing, The Godmother did, as did everybody else, they all lied to us. From friends in Kent to nephews in Belgium. They all lied through their teeth, and I'm so happy they did.
When I was allowed in under the shutters, I dropped my bag and eyeballed a room full of well-wishers, all brought together by my organisationally gifted daughter and her sibling team. It looked like an old Dutch oil paining, a huge canvas of people leaning forward, eyes gleaming, teeth bared, back lighting in a perfectly choreographed moment of love.
People from my early, middle and late past. There were more tears than a room full of babies waiting for their first feed. Hugging and wailing, squealing and weeping, after an evening of celebrations and greeting everybody that had bothered I blew out the candles on the dawters blueberry sponge with purple icing. I dropped birthday cake on my fancy patent leather boots and fell onto a bunch of balloons, my body so full of Prosecco and delight.
She had organised taxi's and food, timings and booze. We were shipped out to a fancy house in Stoke Newington. Nine of us sleeping from front room to attic amid a house full of cushions and bathrooms. The street lined with white and pink cherry blossom as impressive as Hanami in Japan, as beautiful as a Gozomatsu Tree painted by Hokisai, although he didn't paint Stoke Newington, he was the Mount Fuji geezer who painted 'The Wave' that hangs in every alternative practitioners surgery from here to Kyoto.
Whilst everybody settled into their new bedrooms I looked at my telephone, texts and stuff and the time. It was 2.20a.m. The exact time of my birth. I figured my mother was flapping around the room enjoying the event.
Gifts and cards and an abundance of memories. Blissful exhaustion. Face cracked from smiling. We lazed around most of Saturday then a car took us to the dawters pub where we mingled with the locals, nibbled on dry roasted nuts and then drove back to the Cherry Blossom house. The dawter made her pasta and eleven of us sat round a table for six on garden benches and bean bags we laughed so hard veins strained and bladders spilled. Then, when the sun came up, I prepared breakfast for 2 vegans, and 8 omnivores.
Those that left for America and Sweden missed out on delicious mushrooms, and the best scrambled eggs this side of Bill Grangers caff in Sydney, those that left for the West Country and Wales, missed out on delicious smoked salmon, cream cheese and bagels, those that left for Wiltshire and Herefordshire missed out on the tidying up. The gathering together of all our things, plumping the cushions, dishes in the washer, chairs back in their place, the alarm set, 30 seconds wait, then the key hidden behind the dustbins, and we were gone.
Then another taxi took me and him and her and her Godma to London bridge with our bags of gifts and booze, flowers and ribbons. 15.34 on time took us to Tunbridge Wells where our next door neighbour turned up to take us home. More flowers and bottles of mirth planted outside the door, as the old git lost his key down the inside of his jacket and we had to use the spare key hidden where nobody can ever remember.
And then the unpacking, the cards put in a bag and the presents put in their rightful place, Tulips in one jug, Lilies in another, Daffodils on the table and a pink Primula left as a gift, a huge bunch of Roses that had been sent from America put in our cracked wedding vase and placed in front of the fireplace, a box of bulbs to plant, sent from Devon and from an artist cousin in Sussex, a hand penned picture of me to frame that makes me look like I'm 28 not the old crone I am.
It feels utterly indulgent to even write about this, ridiculously self absorbed, but normality will return and I will become my old Ashkenazy self, all doom, gloom and culturally obsessed. The dawter will go back to her normal life, the 'oosbind will start to mend things and prune, and I will start my 71st year with a spring in my step, although after all that Prosecco, my spring is more of a slump and my step more of a limp.
But I am alive and flattered, and reminded that when I die all the ones, still alive, will turn up for a shindig, a booze up and a communal hug completed by a ridiculously wild celebration of life.
What a way to go.
Permalink | Comments (2)
Posted by Jeni in Ad Infinitum | 8 March 2019
So all the friends dropped in envelopes filled with money and birthday cards.
Even though it's not my birthday till after we leave the European Union, that's if we do leave the European Union, whether we ought to leave the European Union is another question, whether we should leave the European union, and all the other permutations of Euro frenzy is yet another debate. But please do not talk to me about democracy, we are about as democratic as a pack of hyenas at the watering hole of a confusion of wildebeest.
However, when the shit hits the fan lessons will be learned. Whose shit and which fan, I wouldn't venture to say.
Having got that off me chest here's the thing, we Easyjetted off to Florence, really easy given that we are all euro citizens at the mo, on the back of a stash off money from friends and family. Better to have that kind of memory than presents that will gather dust on the mantlepiece, and I'm not interested in shoes, bags, jewellery or tickets to go and see a coming back, comeback tour of four hairless men singing songs from their youth in an arena the size of the Duomo's dome - see what I did there? - better that everybody chipped in for our very own Grand tour....
And grand it was.
There was David in his naked glory.
A synagogue worth its weight in copper.
A science museum full of astrolabes and scientific children from Sweden.
There were feasts under arches, dinners under glass, breakfast in caffs, lunches in trattorias, ice creams, bridges, walking and a good deal of coffee.
There were tram rides, Japanese tourists, warm weather, there were train rides and Chinese tourists, there was free entry for Culture week and murmurations of children from Italian high schools. There was a lot of noise, chiming bells, beggars and walking.
We walked so far my right big toe turned the colour of a red cabbage and hurt so bad I had to take off my trainers and bathe it in Epsom salts.
We didn't 'do' Florence in any way at all. We went for three days cramming in as much as is humanly possible given that I am 70 and he is older. We followed the suggestions from The Rough Guide to get us to recommended restaurants which made homemade pasta and cubes of focaccia with home cured meat and bottles of organic local wine.
We stayed in an apartment that was dark, cool, with a broken Jacuzzi and a plug less bath.
We slept in a bed, up ten steps, that were so noisy I ended up sleeping on the down stairs sofa bed. I wrapped meself in bath towels to keep off the Tuscan cold, whilst the old git snored in the eaves.
We're home now, after three days in Florence, which felt like ten. I have medical Manuka honey on my big toe which is no longer as red as cabbage more a dull purple like a wizened radish.
It's good to know that the old git is as good company as he's ever been. It's nice to say that we have actually been to Florence. It's terrific that we saw a bit of the River Arno a lot of pizzas, a fantastic amount of leather ware, a delight that we could talk to each other without interruption, it's so nice to go travelling to Florence, Pisa or Rome, it's so nice to go travelling but it's oh so nicerer to be home.
Permalink | Comments (0)
Posted by Jeni in Ad Infinitum | 13 February 2019
So we drove our American friend to our local train station at 7.55 this morning. The ticket office was open, and the man in it could not have been more helpful.
Told her to get out at London Bridge, then take the Heathrow express from Paddington.
18.50 quid and she'll be back in time for tiffin.
Yesterday she saw Emmy, our 17 year old cat, ruin into the opposite garden. That was the last we saw of her.
All night I could swear I heard the cat flap open and close.
Jim printed up posters of a lost ancient cat who was blind in one eye, deaf as a post, and very, very skinny.
We parked up, took a look around, to the woods, the neighbouring gardens. Down by the road. Under the cars.
We were heading out to the trees, drawing pins in hand, when I had a final peek underneath the trees in front of the kitchen window, and there she was.
As stiff as a board, eyes slightly open.
Our lovely Emmy had taken herself off to die, conveniently, without any fuss.
I cried.
She's awaiting her burial, in the back garden, up behind the shed alongside.
Willy.
Dinah.
Oscar.
Solly.
Sadie.
Kipper
And next door to my others ashes and her thorn free blackberry bush.
It will be the first time this cottage has been animal free, since 1984 when we moved in.
Cat biscuits gone to the birds, cat food, for the foxes, hedgehogs and squirrels.
Cat mat, dishes, fork have been washed and put away, and an array of Emmy type sleeping clothes, from a pair of grey tack suit bottoms, a salmon pink top that she used and various cushions.
In the last few weeks she took to sleeping on anything that was on the floor; The Sunday Papers, abandoned socks and Jim's royal blue fleece.
She had taken to following the old git everywhere and eating his left overs like a baby bird being fed from the beaks of mum and dad.
I shall miss her. She was very vocal and delicious to look at, until she got skinnier than Naomi Campbell.
We shall miss you.
Rest In Peace Emmy.
2002 - 2019
Permalink | Comments (3)
Posted by Jeni in Ad Infinitum | 29 January 2019
We have one peanut feeder and two fat ball feeders hanging outaside our bedroom window.
The birds land on the fat balls. And peck away.
The squirrels jump onto the feeder and steal the birds nuts.
The feeder bangs against the window, frightens off the birds, leaving the feeders up for grabs. For the squirrels its a win-win situation.
Bit like Brazil, Yemen, Syria, Brexit.
The insanely greedy squirrels are picking away at our Democracy, at our gold reserves, oil reserves, at our forests, trees, oceans, and like the tits that we are we fly off.
When the peanuts have all gone the little flying rats leave the fat balls alone.
When the coast is clear, all the tits organise. Blue tits, Cold tits and Long tail tits, gather round and feed amiably, letting each little Tit have a nibble.
I'm telling you when we all remember that we are nothing but a band of Great Tits things will change.
We must not let the Rodents grind us down.
Permalink | Comments (1)
Posted by Jeni in Ad Infinitum | 17 January 2019
I'm bewitched by the birds on the feeder outside my bedroom window.
I'm bothered by Donald Fartypants, and his dismantling of the United States of America.
I'm bewildered by the antics of the British First Lady, who appears to be so out of touch with everything, that words literally fail me
My lawn is covered in leaves.
The moles have decimated the end of the garden, I saw one magpie on my way through Ashdown Forest - an omen I thought - One for sorrow, two for joy. I'm still looking for the second one.
And now I'm hatching a cold.
I've got cashmere sox on, a Christmas present. The old git's lit the stove, so the house is toasty warm. It is smokeless fuel I hasten to add.
I've had acupuncture, homeopathic remedies, meditated, chanted, sung with an Indian Guru, and have looked at flights to Florence. I'm joining a choir and starting Tai Chi. I've given up coffee but nibble on Granny Beevers Christmas cake which is infused with brandy and the Yorkshire Dales.
I'm enjoying Les Mis, and tolerating Sheryl Smith's cleaner, I'm reading and writing and watching films.
I'm holding the 'oosbinds hand in bed and sleeping in the soft dent in my pillow.
2019 has begun, but I am Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered, by the ahh! Souls in charge.
Happy new Year.
Permalink | Comments (0)
Posted by Jeni in Ad Infinitum | 4 January 2019
In 79 days I will be 70.
Florence maybe?
Or Bali?
Or Tunbridge Wells for tea.
Three dawters and an artist are making a surprise for me.
Will it be in London?
In Brighton?
Or Tunbridge Wells for tea?
I'm not renewing my vows.
Or having Botox.
I'm not going away on a spa day.
But I am considering Tunbridge Wells for tea.
When I was born in 1949
Who'd have thought that 2019 would rock up so soon.
My mother can't come.
My father can't come.
Too many of my friends can't come.
They're all busying themselves in the ether.
Had I known I'd have organised a farewell tea in Tunbridge Wells.
They say that Tunbridge Wells is the ninth best place to live in the UK
BUT Come on
I think a coffee break in La Loggia degli Albizi, in Florence is slightly more frivolous
For 4 score years and ten.
And then?
Permalink | Comments (1)
Posted by Jeni in Ad Infinitum | 25 December 2018
Lucky I am to have a full calendar.
Lucky to have a fridge full of food.
Lucky to have a clean cooker to cook it in.
Lucky to have family and friends.
Grateful for it all.
Grateful for the cat, who's lying on the table next to me.
Grateful for the Irises given to me by one of B's friends.
Grateful for hot water and a flushing lavatorio.
Grateful for my life, and humbled by the needs of so many people. From Anna our Big Issue seller outside the supermarket, to the Donkeys in our local rescue centre.
Christmas feels different this year. Trump buffooning, Brexit Looming, conversations always turning to the dark side.
So with a huge hurrumph I kiss goodbye to another year. I'm not daft enough to think all our troubles will be out of sight, but lets hope in 2019 it's WE not ME and that the change that is coming finally arrives.
I wish all my FB friends a peaceful, calm, warm and fuzzy Christmas Night. And may your crackers be full of fortune.
Permalink | Comments (2)