Loads of people write about ageing. It’s nothing new. Everybody has a perspective on growing old since we all go through it.
The cosmic joke is that whatever we do is a passing trifle. Whatever we do we are leaving this plane for somewhere else, or not if you believe that death is the end of it all.
When you get to that point when the knees creak and the ears hear less, then you know that the likkle body you inhabit is tired. Needs oiling. That little body is wearing out. Getting rusty.
Deal with it with a smile it’s inevitable.
Part of our cottage was built in 1690. The kitchen wall is made of dry clay bricks, the cellar steps are stone. Eight stone steps that have been worn down after 426 years of wear.
However hard the scientists try we ain’t never gone live for 426 years – well not in this dimension – but we are living longer.
When I crawl up the cellar steps I am aware that Mr.Fenner, the blacksmith trod those stairs before me.
Mr Fenner appeared when we moved in. The dawter heard arguing at the foot of the cellar steps then the clang of an anvil.
Apparently the Fenners always argued. Our dog, Jackson, would never go down into the cellar.
‘I’m not surprised’ said our mystical homeopath.
You can hear a man and woman arguing all the time.’
‘An old man helps me up the stairs, insisted my mother.
‘Only I can’t see his face. He wears a leather apron with tools in it.’
That was Mr. Fenner.
He sort of lives on everytime I put my foot into the conclave shallow in the stone step.
Dipping my toe into the past.
Life is a strange journey of memories and happenings.
However you think about it Mr. De’ath will be waiting, The trick is not to get frightened by it.
Being purposeful helps.
‘If someone is purposeful they have a definite aim and a strong desire to achieve something
Synonyms: determined, resolved, resolute.
Sometimes the purpose isn’t necessarily obvious. Visiting a poorly chum, planting bulbs, having your ears syringed. There is an implicit purpose to all those activities.
Knitting can help, reading – if you can see the small print – can help and just shutting up and getting on with it cn also help.
(Talking about ears I’ve just been to the chemist for a hoovering out of th ear canal, driving home, a little dizzy since clearing the right ear has nocked me off balance, I noticed a car pulling out of Green Lanes. The number plate read;
‘A264EAR.)
Good old Bertolt Brecht nailed it ‘If art reflects life, it does so with special mirrors’.
Those special mirrors exist all the time it’s just being observant enough to see them.
Taking your head out of your arse enables you to see the hidden messages everywhere.
The last job I ever did for the BBC was in Iceland.
A clairvoyant had been employed to help with Elfin outcrops on new roads. The Icelandic folk believe in fairies and goblins pixies and elves,
I was brought in to meet the medium and see the roads she was redesigning. Iceland is full of curvy winding roads. Those curves are for the benefit of the elves. The clairvoyant could see those little entities, talk to them and visit their hideaways. The roads, rather than driving through them, have been redesigned so that cars drive round the Elvin estates.
The woman told me I could see them.
‘I cannot see them’
‘Yes you can’ she shouted in Icelandic. ‘JÁ ÞÚ GETUR’
I couldn’t see what she saw but I did feel something.
Maybe I wanted to be part of her mystical journey, she believed in me enough to screech that I was stopping myself from seeing things.
The arguing continued. And then the local paper turned up and took photos of me; in a fur hat, thermal pink gloves and a blue and yellow anorak, standing by an Elvin outcrop.
That photo was distributed to everybody in Hafnarfjörður, including the local fish restaurant. My photos lined the walls down the stairs to the dining room.
Fast forward and our delightful ex son-in-law was going through a hard time.
‘Cut your losses’ we said ‘Damage limitation’ we emphasised. ‘Just go away. Fresh start’
The fine fellow went to Icelqnd to stay with a mate.
For months he wiped me clean, the ‘oosbind, the daughter. He emptied his head of the whole family.
And then he was taken to a fish resistant, down the stairs to the dining room. He looked at the photos on the wall
‘Jesus’ he shouted
‘It’s my fucking mother-in-law.’
Well ain’t that like life, or do I mean death. You can run but you can’t hide.
As the Irish would say
‘This is the time that’s in it.’
However delayed the journey the destination is always the same.
So drink that gin and grin
Drink that tea and see.
Drink that beer without fear.
For this is the time thats in it,
Innit?