In 1934 Donald Duck was born on May 23rd.

The dawter was 2, the old git 44 and I was 40.
I found the video of the surprise party, with all our friends, who had come together in the garden.
I smoked roll ups, had luscious black hair. Th oosbind was funny and strong whilst the dawter was more cute than cute.
As you would expect I lingered on the old git, with his curly hair and him on his new motorbike, I od’d on his very presence.
Thirty Seven years have whizzed by and everything has changed

I do everything slowly now.
Standing up.
Sitting Down.
Climbing the kitchen step.
Driving.
Pushing the supermarket trolley.
Not because I am being mindful, although I am, I go slowly because one false move and I’ll be flattened.
On the floor, on the grass, on the pavement.
My balance is shite so I tiptoe. I wish to remain standing for at least another few years.
This morning I sat in the garden at 9.30.
The sun hot.
I sat wearing a sarong that I have to tie up up – one false move and you can see my sagging hooters.
One gust of wind and my septuagenarian gusset will be revealed.
When I’d completed a good amount of meditation I slowly walked to the car.
Stopping at the Lily of the Valley patch.
Stopping at the orange blossom which is just about to pop.
I held onto the wall.
To the branches by the car then relaxed into the drivers seat.
I drive feebly, unlike when I had my little red sports car.
Now I’m the dowager in a black car that my brother bought me.
‘You have to be practical’ he said.
.
I knew what I needed at the shop.
Lavatory paper.
Cat food.
Two tubs of spreadable butter and a block of salted organic butter for the table.
Five ready made meals for the ‘oosbind.
Some haddock.
Four Wagyu beef burgers
8 free range sausages
And a can of fizzy lemonade which I drunk before I reached the checkout,
I also bought a newspaper.
I’ve resisted it for three weeks but I needed to catch up on Eve Wiseman and the critics.
The paper is thinner since it changed hands. The photos aren’t as clear and the magazine is not glossy enough but I’m back in the land of the living.
On the way there was a group of Neanderthals, attacking our migrant camp. Waving their St George flags and holding up placards reading ‘Go home’ and ‘Save our women from rape.’
My windows were wide open so I turned and shouted;
‘Fuck off you idiots.’ They clocked me. ‘Fuck off. Fuck off.’ I screamed.
To the next group I bellowed,
‘Why don’t you just fuck off.’
Before realising I had mistaken the good cavalry for the bad.
‘Love not hate’ said a banner.
After shopping I slipped on my safety belt, there were loads of cops around, and called out of the window.
‘Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.’ I shouted, as they waved their banners of peace.

I arrived home and after five slow trips back and forth to he car I finally sat down.

At 4.30 I will take the old git a slice of toast and mug of coffee.
I’ll crawl up the stairs, counting two at a time and sit on the red wing-backed armchair in the bedroom, as he hoists himself up.

Two friends told me to sit with him and hold his hand.
I find it difficult. He no longer resembles the ‘oosbind.
His little white hands are curled and his finger nails need cutting.
A German friend told me to keep telling him I loved him.
So I lay next to him on our big bed and stroked his head as chanted ‘I love you.’
It made me cry.
My crying is different these days. It’s hearty sobs and fewer tears. I shake with grief.
I blew my nose and tried again.
He gripped my fingers like a capuchin money. The grief surrounding our lives can become all consuming.
I bumped into an old friend by the bananas.
She parked her trolley and told me about her handsome husband who has Cancer.
They are nearly twenty years younger than us. He cannot stand any more and she has to wipe his bum.
I agreed to visit them, they’ve moved into a bungalow. We’ll drink tea and nibble on nostalgia.

And so it goes on the process of life.
I don’t spend my time in the past but sometimes it’s unavoidable.
I will not buy a Stanner stairlift.
I will not use a walking aid and I will not make the Northern invalid suckable food.
I will not wear support stockings and I will not watch ‘Songs of Praise.’
But I will watch Bob Mortimer on repeats. I will listen to Radio 3 on ‘Wind Down’ and will listen to ‘Desert Island Discs’.
Today Ruth Wilson talked about her chldhood and played enough music to make my heart sing.
I will spend some time with the old git but not too much because it saddens me.
I sill sleep next to him, although I wake at 4.00 watching him catch his shallow breath.
Years ago we took the dawter to see the startlingly realistic sculpture “Dead Dad” by famous Australian sculptor Ron Mueck.
A tiny curled up man on a white board lying on the floor.
I stared down at him and couldn’t help but be touched by the notion of the smallest of death. The shrinking of life.
Never imagining it would happen to me.
The passing of time is elusive and ill health is stealthy.
My bouncy handsome husband has shrunk.
My motor bike roaring partner is disappearing.
My partner of 50 years is no longer here.
It hurts and it humbles.
The sun sines hot but he is oblivious of it.
I’m not so I’m going out to sit under the magnolia and the oak tree.
I shall sit in the shade and be grateful for small mercies.
Grateful for my secret walking stick, my tired lungs and the Sunday papers, which if I look at at the right angle, I can still read.
Fucking old age takes spirit and courage to survive, but you gotta do it otherwise what’s the point.