I had to have a break from blogging - a six-month-long mutating virus, followed by weeks of post-viral fatigue. It was very tedious and would be even more tedious for me to write about and for you to read. But I'm better now and decided that it was time to come back. So here I am.
It is, however, time for a change, or changes even, the first of which will be the title of this blog. When I started writing it, almost a decade ago, 60 going on 16 as a title seemed like a good idea. Lighthearted, fun even. And I was still two years away from 60. Now, 70 is on the not-so-distant horizon, to the extent that I am contemplating what 70 - and beyond - will be like.
With a bit of luck and a fair wind, my seventies may be as full of pleasant surprises as my sixties have been, apart from that brief brush with cancer five years ago. But we change, or at least evolve, and the one positive aspect of being in the grip of a stubborn and energy-zapping virus over the past year was that it forced me to slow down and spend time quietly. So, I did only those things that absolutely had to be done and things that I knew were truly good for me. There was precious little gadding about; there was an enormous amount of reading, thinking - and more reading. And writing; there was always writing, just not on the blog.
All of which led me to the thought that 60 going on 16, as a title, had run its course. So, this will be the last time that it appears at the top of this blog. If you already subscribe, you need do nothing; I am assured that each blogpost will appear as before in your email in-box or list of RSS feeds, under its new name.
If you don't subscribe and want to find me on your preferred search engine, here are the magic new words:
Writing, not drowning
See you there, very soon! Meanwhile, I'll leave you with David Bowie c1971. Seems fitting . . .
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:
It was London, 1965; I was 17, in love for the first time, and passionate about, oh, all sorts of things. Dylan released this wonder of an album:
I heard this song and I experienced what I can only describe as a seismic shift of the soul. The boyfriend and I played it over and over. Nothing was ever quite the same again.
Seventy eh? Who'da thought it? Just hope you're dancing somewhere beneath the diamond sky today, Bob. We're still following you . . .
Believe me, life is never dull here in the wild, wild West. Things happen that probably couldn't in, let's say Woking or Frinton . . . unless you can tell me otherwise.
Take yesterday, for example; I was expecting a visit from one of my oldest friends. And then I was tipped off that a local drug and porn baron pensioner was hosting the woodland funeral and burial of the notorious one-time road manager of one of the world's most notorious rock bands. A band not exactly known for its quiet and abstemious lifestyle. A band that wrote the Rule Book of Excess. And then tore it up. Even the toned-down versions of what they did while on the road would put you off your breakfast - at the very least.
Said burial to be followed by wake at local pub.
Not surprisingly, the old friend and I decided to give the woods a miss for our afternoon walk and took the dogs up to the moor. Even that didn't go entirely to plan, when the red-faced and portly husband of the dreaded Mrs Double-Barrel drove towards us at top speed. (Mrs D-B beside him, with her exhausted hunter no doubt being hurled around in the horsebox behind as their monster vehicle tore along, the day's hunting having finished.) Mr D-B was driving so recklessly that he forced us off the road. He is also notorious in this locality for, yes, reckless driving. (I don't think this sort of behaviour can be good for his blood pressure.)
Nevertheless, we had a wonderfully uplifting walk on the moor, relishing the afternoon sun on our backs, and set our mind to things higher than bonkers hunter-drivers and decadent rock bands and their managers. We talked instead of hairdressers, including Jingles in Baker Street which we used to go to c1974 (where, as my friend reminded me, I foolishly allowed a stylist to chop off my long, blonde hair, sob, sob), and how the nature of our days has changed in the past year and what we thought about A Book of Silence and so on.
The dogs ran backwards and forwards along the moorland track, blissfully unaware of all the day's shenanigans, living, as dogs do, absolutely in the moment. A perfect canine example of the Buddhist concept of mindfulness.
The wake, by the way, went on until very, very late.
I wouldn't really have given any it another thought, had I not been half-listening to BBC R4 this morning, when the announcer introduced a programme about one of the most notorious album covers of the 1970s, created for . . . one of the world's most notorious rock bands.
So I sat bolt upright and listened and it did, indeed, include a barely-veiled reference to one of the most stomach-churning episodes in the above-mentioned road manager's time with said band. I pondered the inexplicable synchronicity of things. As you do.
Anyway, if the village ever finds itself strapped for cash, perhaps it could organise guided tours to the last resting place of Mr X. Once the dust has settled. It could be our answer to Jim Morrison's grave in Père Lachaise.
But if you go down to the woods today, be warned. It's no place for teddy bears.
It didn't matter that he was only a dot on the stage and that we had to watch him on the mega screens. It didn't even matter that the clutch on my car decided to go into meltdown as I arrived in London. (No, I didn't do a Basil FawIty but I did give it a good talking to and left it parked on a side street.) It didn't matter that I had to wait after the concert until 11.30pm for the RAC man to turn up and then another hour for the recovery vehicle. It didn't matter that the car and I went back to the Chilterns on a lorry and that I didn't get to bed until 2.00am. And I tried to think that it didn't matter that I faced a very large repair bill the next day . . .
Bruce Springsteen at the Hard Rock Calling Festival in Hyde Park on Sunday was like being at a fairground party with all your best friends (and cousins, in my case).
Bruce and the E Street Band could do no wrong. Even the press thought so, as you can see here and here. I haven't had such a good time at a rock concert for 25 years - and that was Bruce too.
A respectful nod in the direction of the Clash came in the form of a white-hot version of London Calling to open the show. Much appreciated by all the Joe Strummer fans in the audience. To close, Dancing in the Dark; inevitable perhaps, but none the less thrilling for all that. Almost too many highlights to list, although the Boss's rendition of an old Stephen Foster song, Hard Times Come Again No More will stay with me for a long time - into my dotage, probably.
In an otherwise sad week, and with my cousin due to have surgery two days after the concert, it was just what we needed to take us out of ourselves - to the place that only music can. And for the three hours that Bruce and the band were on stage, we were more than happy to be there.
