In 1993 I was 44, the old git was 50 and the dawter was 6.
The 90’s a time of touring, time out and childrens’ birthday parties
The word on the street was that Kelly the Clown was the childrens’ entertainer of choice.
We booked her.
Ghyll Road, at the top of the town, had a community hall.
We booked it.
The dawter had no front teeth. Long curly hair and sported a red and black Spanish style dress. Kelly put a fez on top of the childs curls.
Of course every kid from the dawter’s class was there, a big cake – professionally made- and a proud of parents.
Games and tricks, shrieks and giggles. The birthday girl could face her sixth year with a perfect send off.
Last Tuesday, after 33 years and a substantial life, Kelly the clown and I met for lunch.
She doesn’t look a day older.
She parked her open topped car and asked for my choice of music to accompany us to Deer Park.
I chose Stevie Wonder which turned out to be her favourite artist.
The sun shone so we decided to sit outside.
In the passing of time Kelly has now retired but keeps herself busy with exercising, gardening, and taking out old gels for lunch.
With the passing of time I don’t exercise, can’t garden and eat like a bird, although as I write I’ve just had a toasted bagel and vegetable sushi courtesy of my next door neighbour. She catered for her husbands 50th and I am the recipient of her over ordering. Two huge plates of left overs. Luckily I have a pair of sisters and a dawter arriving for lunch.
Kelly and I talked. I had ascribed her with a totally different back story. I had invented a woman that never was. Her real life was much more interesting.
She ordered soup and I had a sausage roll. A big salty roll. I had one bite and nibbled on the salad instead. The sun shone as I leaned on my walking stick.
To our delight round the corner came the dawters’ Godmother and the dawter and her beau.
We moved to a bigger table until it was time to leave.
The afternoon shift was the hospital.
A consultation for my heart.
We had Dr.Rabia, one of the heart specialists.
She scribbled down my notes. And gave me an update on three leaky heart valves.
It gets better. Dr. Harrington, head consultant, came in, sat on the edge of the bed, folded his arms and told me that I would have to have an endoscopy, to determine the worst leaky valve, then an operation – probably, through my leg – since my ailing body was not strong enough to have the routine procedure.
It didn’t hit me until later that night when I had a panic attack and four minutes sleep.
I ride the continuing drama of my life like a cowboy on a bucking bronco. Holding onto the reins, not too tightly, and trying to stay in the saddle.
When people tell me what a shit time I’m having I get tetchy.
Ok so I have no kidneys and a fucked up heart, but it is what it is. Endless complaining doesn’t help.
I Have a friend who talks to another friend about how ill I am. I called them both this afternoon and shouted ‘I don’t want to be the centre of your conversation.’
‘It’s because we care’
‘Bollox.’ I say.
There’s a fine line between sharing health woes and becoming professional mourners.
On reflection I should be grateful that from Devon to Monmouthshire the lines are buzzing about my well being.
I’ll call them tomorrow and apologise for my curmudgeonly outburst.
So with whom do you share your troubles with?
I speak everyday with my friend in Chatham, I’ve known her since 1964.
From busy young lives we now exchange the minutiae of life in our 70’s.
She reassures me that I am not boring allowing me to unpick every minute of my health journey.
I have friends from 1967. Talking in detail abut the unnecessary changes of ‘Strictly come Prancing’ to the politics of greed.
Old old friends who know me.
At what point does an acquaintance become a confidant? How long does it take to let down the guard so that vulnerability is held in safe hands?
Now that the old git has gone the ping-pong of idle chatter has disappeared. Pillow talk, breakfast banter no longer. The comfort of small talk.
I’m learning, however to trust others with myself. It’s only words after all.
Taking responsibilty for tone and temper, my friendship groups have stayed in tact.
The younger ones keep me on my toes.
I’m astonished that they care; can be bothered to visit, carry in my logs and make fresh pasta.
I don’t have anything to offer now. No fancy stories, no tales of the unexpected, but they let me sit and stare.
I have at least ten summers left. A therapist told me I should be thinking about my future. As Kate, a wise 58 year old said to me over the left over prawns, maybe I should restrict my thinking to the next couple of years. I’m not even going to do that. Staying in the moment is the healthiest place for me to be. A sliver of time that’s manageable.
Not overthinking but just enough to get me to the shops, or a drive to the sea, or a table in the sun watching children crouch in the flowers.
You either grow old or die young, a lot of my friends take afternoon naps, I don’t, I’d rather listen to the wireless or watch a telly distraction.
Tomorrow I’m going to the hairdressers to have my grey hair coiffed, then I’ll call my Chatham chum and talk about split ends and bouffants.
Long live life.