writing, not drowning

The dogs who come to stay

I know I'm not the only blogger who has been a little quiet of late but I've had my reasons. Truly.

Here are some of them - Hagrid, Ted, Mondot, Lewis, Flute, Bruno, Lewis (again) and Marvin:

 

and a few more - Frank, Cosmo, Bella, Flute (again . . .), Monty, Duke, you know who and you know who and chum:

 

I see that some of them sneaked in twice; well, that's collies for you. Super-intelligent dogs; they don't miss a trick. Eagle-eyed regular readers will have spotted that the Edinburgh Boy sneaked in too, pictured on a recent trip to Lyme Regis. 

These gorgeous boys and girls are now the stuff of my post-old life, post-corporate career, post-retirement career. These are the dogs who come to stay when their owners are away for the day or are on holiday. And they are all rather wonderful. The dogs that is, although the owners are delightful too. 

According to Alison Light in her excellent book, Mrs Woolf and the Servants, the nature of my brand new career makes me a 21st century servant. But I love every minute of it and now I can't imagine doing anything else. Except writing, of course.

On not being invisible

 

I bumped into a former neighbour in a local shop earlier this week, a highly volatile and unpredictable person, who is fuelled by a constant sense of outrage. Everything in her life is wrong. Always. So, for 10 minutes, she sounded off across the frozen peas about all the things that are currently making her very, very angry. What can one do except nod, make a few commiseratory noises, then make one's excuses and leave? Sharpish.

 "You must come and have lunch," she called out as I sidled down to the cashdesk. 

* * * * * 

I wouldn't have thought any more about this tedious one-way conversation, had the phone not rung this morning. The former neighbour was positively screeching down the wires. 

"I've just heard about this prize thingy for older writers and I thought of you - and me - and how we really must enter because, you know, we are both 60-something and we're tired of being invisible, aren't we?" And she continued in this vein and said that, in fact, she was so sick of being invisible that she was joining a group of  60-somethings in a nearby town, who were also sick of being invisible and were getting together to do something about it.

I put the phone on loudspeaker and let her rant on. About how she had tried to find out about the competition but all the TV presenter had mentioned was a website. A website! But no phone number. And how was she supposed to find out if they didn't give a phone number? And how that was just typical because after all, most 60-somethings don't have computers, do they? (No, I didn't rise to the bait.)

But for what it was worth, I said that I was all for encouraging people who'd always had a yearning to write, whatever their age, and if this competition brought out thousands of late-flowering writers in droves, then that would be a good thing. (I did think of mentioning that I'd tweeted about it yesterday but thought that this would probably send her into orbit.)

"But you need a computer and I don't have one and it's just ridiculous. We're just invisible and I'm sick of it. Do they think we're made of money? How can I afford a computer and an internet thingy? Costs a fortune; I don't have that sort of money."

I was ever so slightly tempted - having once spotted a collection of empty gin bottles rolling around in the boot of her car - to say that perhaps if she just cut back on . . . but no, good sense prevailed. I muttered, somewhat apologetically, that my work meant that I'd had to stay up to speed with technology and that, really, I loved the connections that it enabled me to make, especially with people around the world. I could sense the hackles rising at the other end of the phone. 

The irate former neighbour eventually ran out of steam and said that she must let me get back to whatever it was I had been doing (working, actually) and that I must come and have lunch some time . . .

But I found myself questioning her repeated references to being invisible and wondering exactly what she meant and to whom she thought she was invisible? (Those of you who know your way round this blog might be thinking, at this point, that I too make reference to becoming invisible in the 'About Me' bit up on the right-hand sidebar. I was being ironic when I wrote that. Honestly.)

I have a horrible feeling that what the former neighbour, who favours the voluptuous, slightly over-blown look, actually means when she says she is invisible is that she no longer turns heads. Yes, that sort of attention because, in her younger days, she was rather stunning and no doubt attracted plenty of admirers. If she cut back on the grape and the grain a bit, she might still attract a passing glance, if that is what she craves, not to mention being able to afford a computer etc, etc. But, thinking about some of my oldest friends - all bright, sparky, intelligent, good-looking women - attracting this sort of attention, as they move into their third age, is not exactly uppermost in their minds. ("For which relief much thanks", according to at least one of them.) 

Our 60-something minds are elsewhere. We're increasingly conscious that our time here is finite and that there are still a million and one things we want to do before real age or infirmity or worse catches up with us. We're discovering a new energy, exploring creativity, enjoying the opportunity to spend more time with each other, travelling, reading, making things, growing things. Playing the piano even. And much more besides.

Some of us, especially those who live alone trying to maintain house and home, not to mention body and soul, on a single pension, are having to find ways of topping up those pensions  but, in doing so, are finding that we are quite enjoying our new careers.  That's not to say that life is, or has been perfect, for any of us. Some have had more than the occasional lorryload of the nasty stuff poured on them from a great height. We could all pepper our days with 'if only', should we so choose. 

In an ideal world, for example, I wouldn't be saddled with a pesky auto-immune condition or three, one of which has had a profound effect on how I have lived my life for the past couple of decades. In an ideal world I wouldn't need glasses to read or go-faster hearing aids to hear. In an ideal world, I would have loved more wisely. In an ideal world, I would not have been widowed at 36. In an ideal world, my mum would still be here. In an ideal world, those whom I love most would not have had to endure a sequence of events that would have defeated many.  I could add to the list but to what end? 

Then there are the decisions we made that seemed right at the time but which, with hindsight, we now know to have been flawed or even downright crazy. Being older means accepting and learning to live with the consequences of those decisions, however painful. We can't undo the past but we can do better in the future and sometimes we will have to make tough choices that may not please other people. (Thankfully, however, age brings with it a more than welcome letting go of worrying about what other people think of us.)

One thing I do know; I am not invisible, not to those who matter to me.  I'm also realistic enough to know that, if a head turns when I walk down the street, these days it's because someone is admiring one of the dogs. Which makes me smile.

I was particularly struck by something the Poet Laureate, Carol Ann Duffy, said in a recent interview for the Sunday Times Magazine. So much so, that it's the current 'Post-It-Quote of the Day', up on the left-hand sidebar. But it resonates for me to the extent that, in due course,  I'm going to add it to the William Goyen 'Quote for Life' just above.

In Lee Hall's superb radio play, Spoonface Steinberg, his eponymous heroine ponders the notion - in a piece of magical writing - that we are all magic sparks. And we are. We are stardust. We are golden. Perhaps we all have some sort of eternal flame burning within us. The thing about fire, though, is that it needs tending. We let it go out at our peril. 

Best keep it burning as long as we can.

What next?

Amazing how two weeks can disappear, just like that, and I'm wondering what I've been doing. Nothing remotely Christmassy; it's been a year of such major upheavals that I'm having a break from it all and - apologies to those of you who have been tearing around busily buying, cooking and decorating and generally wearing yourselves to a frazzle - I have to admit, I'm rather enjoying not being caught up in the whirlwind of seasonal bustle. Which has been going on since October, for heaven's sake. (I can't tell you what a relief it will be when the very last email bearing a high priority message about absolutely final Christmas ordering dates has arrived and been consigned to the Great Email Junkyard in the Sky.)

I'd say it was an age thing but the very best Christmas I ever had was exactly 20 years ago, when I travelled to Venice to join my student daughter for a week. There was demonstrably less emphasis on getting, spending and eating in Venice and I rather liked that. (Correction: I liked that very much indeed.)

We went to a Christmas Day mass at the Frari Chapel, where we looked up at Titian's Assumption and then visited the chapel's sacristy, so that I could indulge my love of Bellini and could gaze in wonder at this, the Madonna and Child with Saints Peter, Benedict, Nicholas and Mark. Painted in 1488, it is still in its original frame:

 

In the evening, we walked to the Zattere, to a small trattoria that was open for dinner, and had a meal that was about as far removed from what everyone would be tucking into at home as could be imagined. But fine for us because - and, again, apologies to all of you who are cooking for England over the next few days - neither of us eat turkey and we don't like sprouts or mince pies or Christmas pudding or Christmas cake . . . yes, the ultimate nightmare Christmas guests. 

* * *

I recently spent a day with my oldest friend and after a long walk with our dogs, we had lunch in a restaurant that looked out over an almost deserted bay and toasted 50 years of friendship. The labradors snored contentedly at our feet and, at that moment, I don't think either of us would have wanted to be anywhere else. We're a good deal quieter and calmer that we were all those years ago, when the only thing we wanted to do was to kick against the traces. I'm certain that neither of those rebellious 1960s teenagers could ever have imagined themselves as 60-somethings, who couldn't be doing with noise and fuss. When we were young, there was nothing that we liked better than a party, the louder and more riotous the better. In these, our reduced-hearing days, our greatest dread is being invited to the nightmare that is the seasonal drinks party or any drinks party, come to that, where you have to make polite conversation with people you barely know, about things in which you have little or no interest. (Although parties where you know and like every single guest are absolutely fine.)

All of which, probably makes us sound like a couple of miserable old bats, which we're not, honestly. Laughter still forms the major part of the glue that holds our friendship together. But one of the best things about getting older is that one doesn't feel the need to keep up any sort of front or pretence. About anything. And it is rather liberating.

We talked about Christmases past - the good, the bad and the indifferent - and how, these days, we think that less is definitely more and minimal is definitely good. Like me, she is doing Christmas-lite this year, out of the house and not cooking on the day itself. Her husband has already calculated that, with luck, they can be back home by 6 o'clock.

But back to the lost last fortnight; I can fill in some of the gaps. I have written and posted letters and cards; I've made a lot of soup and soda bread; I've read a good deal; I've put everything together for the last financial year and sent an enormous package to my long-suffering accountant; I've quite enjoyed being cut off while our hillside village has been ice-bound and accessible only to the bravest and strongest or just to the foolhardy (have just looked outside and the Kingdom of Ice is still there); I've put out industrial-sized quantities of food for the birds and local wildlife. And I've thought about the blog.

I've been going through one of those periodic bouts of 'why am I writing this?', 'who is it for?', 'what is it for?'. Come February, 60 going on 16 will be celebrating its fourth blog-birthday, so there has been some cyber-navel-gazing. I know that several of my favourite bloggers have been going through much the same process recently - because blogging isn't simply a matter of whipping up a daily or even a regular post. (The best writing is never forced and, after all, who wants to become stale and repetitive? Same old catch-phrases; same old jokes . . .)  It's also about being out and about in the blogosphere and going blog-visiting, which all takes time. For me, it means less time for other writing and there's the rub. It's a very big rub indeed and something has to give.  So, there might be shorter posts or fewer posts - or combination of same - next year; I'm still not sure. But apart from all this, 60 going on 16 needs a good overhaul, layout-wise. Something simpler, less chock-a-block, although I am ridiculously attached to my Bohemian Masala banner for purely sentimental reasons . . . it's going to be like decluttering the house all over again.

But between now and the New Year, I hope to write the odd post. Just in case anyone is at a loose end and has nothing better to do at the height of the festive season than turn on their computer. 

As if . . .

Never mind the Lincolnshire Hoard . . .

. . . . look what I found:

Well, I know that this little something won't get the archaeologists jumping up and down in excitement but I'd always wanted to find a fossil. Even an impression left by a fossil, which is what I suspect this is, but I never had, not even during many walks over many years, on the Jurassic Coast. Not until last Tuesday.

I was visiting an old friend in Somerset and we had taken our dogs and her grandson across the fields behind her house to pick the last of the blackberries. As we reminisced about two of our erstwhile canine companions who used to work their way along the bottom of the hedgerows, hoovering blackberries, I happened to glance down and saw what looked like a stone-cut sun.

It turns out that fossils abound in the area, a local limestone quarry being the main source, and the village is described as "a valuable Aalenian Bajocian locality". Middle Jurassic. And when might that have been? Well, give or take a megannum or two, anywhere between 175 and 167 million years ago.

So, this small piece of stone, which sits comfortably in the palm of my hand, is now the oldest thing in my old house (where I'm staying for a few days). Older than the house and even older than me and I seem to say this less and less frequently these days. As another year was added to my own personal tally this week, I found this enormously comforting.

What does 60-something look like?

A recent throwaway remark on another blog almost triggered my inner-teacher. I wanted to sit the writer down and give them a short but hopefully succinct lecture on the dangers of sweeping generalisations. 

The remark was one of those ever so slightly dismissive ones about groups of 60-somethings. Nothing specific was attributed to these 60-somethings but you knew exactly what the (younger) writer intended. 

But how did they know that these people were 60-something? Were they asked to provide confirmation of their age? I suspect not; what we are talking about are skewed perceptions of age.

So, I wanted to challenge the über-cool Younger Blogger: did these people look like:

Oh, probably not, Margaret Atwood isn't 60 until November, so she doesn't count.

Or perhaps they looked like:

Wrong again. Joan Bakewell is 76, so obviously she doesn't count.

Got it. They looked like:

Yes. Spot on this time. That must have been the giveaway: those day trippers looked like Julie Christie, who has just celebrated her 68th birthday.

We may not all be blessed with the facially benevolent genes of Ms Christie but most of the 60-something people I know are lively, articulate, interested in the world around them and didn't start to shuffle around in their slippers and book themselves on Saga holidays the day they left their fifties behind. 

There is a life to be lived beyond 59. Some of us are even discovering that, despite what we have now learned about New Labour's promises, things can, in some cases only get better. We stop worrying about whatever it was that "used to hang us up the most", realising, with relief and thanks, that most of the things that fuelled the angst of our younger selves don't matter too much anyway. And, even if we no longer dance the night away, we might still enjoy a wild dance or two from time to time - and some of us are still happy to go to the odd gig. Most of the people I know who are going to see Bob Dylan (68 in May) in Cardiff  next week are in their fifties and sixties. And when I go to see Bruce Springsteen in June, three of us in the party will be in our sixties.

Bruce, as it happens, will be 60 this September, on the day after my birthday, but as I have a two-year head start, I've reassured him that there's nothing to worry about. Sixty is the new - er - 16. Or 25. Or maybe it's 43 . . . but who's counting?

In the meantime, I'm more than happy for Ms Bakewell to be my role model (especially in that T-shirt) and to speak on our behalf. When it comes to older people, she talks a great deal of sense and, unlike the Younger Blogger, she knows whereof she speaks.