60 Going On 16

Will you still need me, will you still feed me . . . ?

I was 19 when the Beatles released this track on the Sgt Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band album, (1 June 1967). I was at the start of all sorts of things in my life, not least of which was motherhood. And the answer to the question you might be asking is that, for a whole host of reasons, I have never had the slightest regret about being - by today's standards - such a young mother.

As for my mothering skills, you'd have to ask my daughter, except that behind the outgoing, sunny exterior is a very private person, so I doubt that we'd be able to persuade her to make a public appearance. You'll just have to take my word for it that she lit up my life when the midwife placed her in my arms and, all these years later, she continues to do so. She is an amazing woman of whom I am immensely proud.

But back to the song. At 19, I was incapable of imagining what it would be like to be 64, let alone whether my then Other Half would still be needing me or feeding me. (To which the answers were, as I soon discovered, 'no' and 'no', so my small daughter and I steered a different course.)  

I tend not to do 'hello, it's my birthday' posts; as I said to Twitter chum @maribeeb, yesterday, 'a bit cheesy, no?' However, today I have a proper excuse because, as of today, I am fully cognisant of what it is to be 64 and I can tell you this. It's just like 19 but with the addition of, hopefully, a soupçon of the wisdom of years and, very probably, a couple of extra inches round the middle. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. And for me, there have been many more valued friendships forged, more books read, more music listened to, more parts of the world travelled to and explored, many hundreds of thousands of words written, many thousands of photographs taken . . .

Lest you think my life has been a bit of a doddle, there have been profound shocks and great sadnesses and betrayals too and, in my late thirties and for a few years thereafter, a string of losses and bereavements that came hurtling out of the blue and so close together that it was like watching powerlessly as a line of dominoes toppled before my eyes. I had no doubt at all, at that time, what it was to be acquainted with grief.

But I prefer, on this blog at least, to stand four-square with Jane Austen and 'let other pens dwell on guilt and misery'. ( I didn't think much of this sentiment when I was studying Mansfield Park for A-level; I was a teenager for goodness sake, I wallowed in guilt and misery. Tsk, tsk.) Besides which, there has always been the joy of animals . . 

Although I didn't read his novels, I remember an interview that the author, Dick Francis, gave towards the end of his life in which he said that the saddest thing about getting older was the number of beloved dogs that he had outlived.

(I do a mental tally: the dogs of my earlier years, Bruno, Rusty, Albert and Rennie, and, latterly, the Squadron Leader, the Rough Diamond, and my daughter's dog, the Divine Miss M. The cats deserve a mention too: Snooky, Fluffy, Tibby, Timothy, Victoria, Sunshine, Tara, Merlin, Tabitha and Muffin and, more recently Mr C's twin brother. Then there was Susan, the tortoise, and the hamster, Deborah . . .  and the horses on which I learned to ride in my middle years. Do not worry, my current companions, Mr C, the cat, and the Edinburgh Boy and Christmas Holly have no literacy skills whatsoever, so cannot read this. Besides, today - as on most days - the dogs have plenty of canine distractions and are happily bounding around with this week's guests: Little Miss P, the Mad Merle and the Seal. Mr C, sensibly, has retired to his dog-free quarters upstairs. )

Anyway, that's enough 'ageing woman looks back at her life and becomes perilously anthropomorphic' waffle. Here's the music:

The Black Stripes - a personal appearance

I've had a complaint. The resident cats say that they are getting mightily bored with the constant references to, and photos of, the canine crew with whom they are forced to share their home. And please would I do something to rectify this? OK, I get the message.

Their real names are a combination of the aristocratic and the ecclesiastical but , given their propensity to loll around like eastern potentates, nothing could be less appropriate. (On second thoughts, the aristocratic name is highly appropriate.) But, for the purposes of this blog, where we all like to retain a little mystery, they are - the Black Stripes.

I give you:

Black Stripe One - a veritable Big Daddy of a cat

and

Black Stripe Two - otherwise known as Mr Hypersensitive

They are twin brothers, born on a Devon farm eight years ago. The farmer was planning to drown them but his wife intervened, took them along to the Blue Cross at Tiverton for rehoming and the Black Stripes came to me as nine-week-old kittens. They've lived here, off the fat of the land, ever since and it's hard to believe that they were once as tiny as Claude and Eustace, the latest arrivals at Mopsa's.

They're quite cyber-savvy and have their own favourite blogs, The Libe de Don Estorbo de la Bodega Dominicana and We Three, Ginger Cats Tales, which they think everyone should read. Not just other cats. They would also like more dogs to read these blogs, just to prove how very superior felines are.

Now that they are on the brink of cyber-fame, there will, of course, be no living with them and I will probably be met with demands that, from now on, they get A-list celebrity treatment. Or else.

Hola Don Estorbo

Living solo in a biggish old house deep in the countryside could get lonely. You need at least one good friend within shouting distance to laugh with, sound off with and occasionally escape with (to prevent the onset of cabin fever). I have a good friend who lives about half a mile away (the only other blonde in the village) and we help to keep each other sane in what sometimes seems like a parallel universe.

One of the the things that brought us together was a mutual love of animals and, between us, we have five dogs and four cats. We walk our five dogs together most mornings and barely a day goes past without one of them getting into deep doo-doo over something or other. For the past couple of mornings, for example, the two labradors have gone crackers over a dead cow, which we think may have slipped into the river and been washed downstream. And is now very dead and rank and smelly, so the dogs - being labradors - are beside themselves with excitement and are gone for ages trying to find a way of tucking into what they see as a mega-snack. Finding it must have been, for them, the canine equivalent of discovering Tutankahmun's tomb. Riches beyond their wildest dreams.

At times like this, we really appreciate the cats. Not that they are without their quirks. I have twin brother cats who are the most unlikely pair of feline siblings you could come across. They're big tabbies but, while one (the bigger of the two) lolls around the house like an Eastern potentate, the other is on the alert - permanently. Even though we've had a solid month of rain, he's currently taken to living in one of the outhouses so he can be fully prepared to pounce on any small rodent that comes his way. But, during the winter when we had six consecutive months of rain, he ventured out only if it was absolutely necsssary.

Then, the energetic one used to spend his days up in my office, under the eaves, where he had a panoramic view of our garden, next door's garden and of the vineyard beyond. And he would often sit in front of the iMac, gazing at the screen, while I churned out words of pith and moment.

Well, when he eventually returns to his old haunt and starts iMac watching again, he has a treat in store: a brilliant cat blog a friend told me about - The Libe ob Don Estorbo della Bodega Dominicana. You'll find it at http://www.estorboloco.blogspot.com/ It is very, very funny. And anything that can make me laugh out loud very early on a very wet Devon morning is to be welcomed. I hope the cats appreciate Don Estorbo as much as I do. As you can see from the picture, Don Estorbo - who lives in Brooklyn - is a very fine cat indeed. (And we hope his Meeesers doesn't mind that I borrowed his photo.)