Keep off the Groynes

First I boiled the hot water, poured it into a thermos flask then I popped a Rooibosh teabag into my purse.
I made a salad and piled it into a plastic pot with a lid.
Then I packed a canvas bag with said produce, a fork, a blanket, a bottle of Johnsons baby oil, a book and enough loose change to pay for parking.
Took the lid of the little red car and whoosh I was off.

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What a difference a day makes.

ON FRIDAY I WAS 62 Theclockswentforward8cupcakesweredevouredinthegarden ahugebunchoforangepeacocktulipsandwhitefresiasarrivedfromGodsGift ajugofdelicatepinktulipswereplacedundermynosebyB shealsoboughtmeanewspaperandpacketsofseeds whichAmyRyanmyexpertgardenerplantedasIsatinthedeckchairreadingtheIndependent fourcupcakesfromBwerepastelpinkAmyswerechocolate 3womenandtheirdaughtersplustheoosbindsungHappyBirthday iblewoutthecandlesinthewarmsunshine alotdifferentfromlastyearwhen23drunkenrevellerscelebratedinmyflatinLondon. AND THEN I WAS 63.

27 Balls

A pheasant walked round my garden today. Its long brown streaked black tail sticking out behind him. He walked sedately round the garden liked he owned it. The sun shining on his plumage, brown with green, purple and white markings. His bottle green head bobbed about as he walked over the compost and round the … Read more

Alamo Day

It’s only Alamo Day if you live in Texas so don’t worry about it.
Just because the Concise Oxford Dictionary says that I am a ‘withered old woman’ if I call myself a crone doesn’t make me one.
I’m taking back the language of my foremothers. I like the idea of being a crone, a hag, a harridan, a matriarch. Why not? If I can’t laugh at my three score years and three then I need my bottom smacking.
It’s Tuesday 6th of March and the bin-men emptied the bin all of their own accord. I forgot to put it out last night. something I am going to have to remember over the next three months since the old git will be in Northampton, and as helpful as he is a three and a half hour journey to put out the rubbish is just a little too much doncha think?

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Cronealogically speaking: March 3rd

Cronealogically speaking I should know better.
When you get to my age -over the hill, under the weather and round the bend – events should be taken in ones arthritic stride.
As an old crone – the definition of which is ‘Middle English, from Old North French carogne, carrion, cantankerous woman, from Vulgar Latin *car nia, carrion, from Latin car carn-, flesh’ – I should know better.
‘Some traditions, organizations, and individuals variously define the crone as a woman who is either 50, 52, or 56, post-menopausal, consciously aging…..’ – so in my capacity as an old crone I should know better than to repeat damaging behaviour, but I don’t.
I find myself drinking coffee, eating chocolate, sitting too close to the television, shouting about nothing, weeping without a cause, and generally making a tit of myself? I berate myself for falling off the wagon, falling from grace or just falling over, but cronealogically speaking it is undignified. I really should know better.
As an old crone I should relax into a state of non-reaction and know that all will always be for the best and that the best is yet to come and endless other cliches that have ‘best’ in the sentence. And yet, cronealogically speaking, I am about as relaxed as a mussel clinging to a rock in Orkney with an 80 mile an hour wind blowing through my beard.
So what had caused all this recrimination, you may ask….

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