Easter doesn’t really mean anything to me as a festival, although I do like the idea that shops must shut on Easter Sunday. And its lovely having Gods Gift and the dawter home for four days.
I went to work this morning. Although calling my three hour shift at BBC LONDON work is not quite accurate as we have such a good time.
I listen to Aled Jones on the way in and join in with as many songs as I can. I also try and remember them in order. This morning I got as far as Bette Midler and a choral thing about birds. Then I drifted off. Not a great idea since I was driving at the time. There were about thirteen toons so my memory is getting better. Little exercises that keep my brain trim.
A massive apology to Lindy and all my bloggers who listen in on a Sunday morning.
I have no control over the change of my musical bed, we all have to use the funny little musical sting that sounds like breakfast telly from 1982. Edmundo Ross was retired. I cried, you cried we all cried. I loved my ‘Moulin Rouge’, I loved what it made me feel like but the powers that be have made an executive decision so thats that.
Lets keep our fingers crossed that Edmundo will be back strutting his stuff sometime soon.
Just don’t abandon me that’s all I ask.
Ad Infinitum
Easter
One week before Easter. No Easter Eggs. No Simnel cake No chocolate bunnies. No Passover parties. No guests BUT The old man is back from Northampton. So we’ll be quibbling, nibbling and dribbling. Thats what happens when you get as old as Sir Tom Jones, although I imagine he has staff to help with the … Read more
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.
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.
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….
Hair raising.
I have malachite water, salty water and eyebright water on my bathroom window sill. I am trying whatever I can to make this eye better. I have homeopathic remedies, hospital letters, Dartford healers and a box of tissues. I am not giving up. This eye will be bright before Garfunckle can sing ‘Brighteyes’ I have … Read more
Ladles at dawn
We have green grass.
We have white snowdrops.
We have ferns and trees and lots of little seedy balls hanging about the place which the birds are nibbling on.
I can see all these things because the snow has melted. Finally I can leave the cottage in my slippers without sinking into snow drifts.
The snow has supported my cupboard clearing, photo organising and gew-gaw throwing. Now its time to get on with life so –
Today we drove to Brighton.
Fond Farewells.
I’m still crunching on the snow.
A five minute drive into TWells and you could be forgiven for thinking that the snow was just a figment of my fertile imagination.
Massive thanks to LV for your info on malachite. I was indeed doing it wrong. Love to all of you who keep posting me and hello to some of my bloggers who have been absent.
This evening I’m continuing to trawl through years and years of photos.
I have a box for my mother.
A box for the three of us.
A box of duds when we all looked ill
And a box of professional snaps.
Hardly groundbreaking news but there’s something about the time which means I have to clear and throw.
The national news is a drip feed of agonising terror and yet more exposes of naughty journos, so whats new!
Snowtime
The snow is crunchy under my wellies. I leave the house and walk to the studio, through the garden, pull off my wellies put on my slippers that Lozzie bought me for the flat, turn the radiator up, switch on my SAD lamp, and settle down to work.
My studio is a very warm, comfortable space.
This morning I drove very slowly to Chilston Clinic to see if they could help with my eye. They did. I have been doing whatever it takes to stop me having to have an operation in March.
On Saturday I suspended two malachite crystals in a bottle of water. I put the bottle inside another big glass of water.
The reason for two bottles is that malachite can be toxic if it is too strong.
I left it on the garden table for 24 hours.
The liquid is meant to have the properties of the malachite which is good for me eyeball I’m told!!!
The snow came. The water froze. The bottle cracked. I know the ice made it expand but I thought about my ‘O’ level science too late.
I’ve put out another bottle of water, with the crystals, in a stronger jar, even though John Kettley says its still ever so cold. If they crack this time I’ll wait for the big freeze.
Dasvedanya
Yesterday we arrived at my mothers flat at 1.00. God’s Gift drove us, we both had bellies full of porridge, he with milk me with water. We didn’t eat again until 6.30 when I bought a bag of Cheese and something Kettle crisps. By the last handful my lips were sticking together and I had … Read more