Gingerbread Men
Sorry, I’m becoming very irregular. It’s partly due to other writing, and partly due to still feeling very tired (I’m blaming it on possible COVID but it might just be my appallingly irregular habits).
I will refer to Roger McGough – The Way Things Are – for my explanation of this. He says it better, and more concisely than I can.
No, old people do not walk slowly/because they have plenty of/time.
The truth is, I am engaged in a race to write as much as possible before I degenerate into a bumbling old buffer (feel free to make up your own jokes here). By staying up late to write I (a) make it more likely that my fear of dementia will come true and (b) don’t really gain much anyway as being tired works against my ability to write.
A late butterfly
My Dad didn’t suffer much with his dementia. He referred to himself “going potty” a few times (as he tapped his head) and then threw himself into a life of playing dominoes and doing jigsaws with the strangers who came to visit him each day. It wasn’t a bad life. It’s just that I don’t want to live it before I have become a famous poet, and I don’t want to upset Julia and my family by asking who they are when they come to visit. Plus, I have at least one grandchild to teach bad habits and some family history to write before my memories fade. When I was at my aunt’s funeral I realised I am now one of the few people left alive who attended her wedding.
And on that cheerful note, I will leave it today, as I have just had a text to ask if TESCO can deliver the shopping earlier than planned. Julia is still out so I need to leap into action.
Peppermint Creams – the finished article
Photos are from previous Octobers.
It can be a concern, my nephew (I have to say here we’ve always had banter, so not to be taken to seriously) informed me at the recent funeral of my sister that I’m not over the hill. I am actually over the other side speeding downhill. 😂 Yes as Tootlepedal said you are in our eyes a famous poet. Take care and don’t let the old man in.
I now have a picture from my youth at the front of my memory. We were about ten and the village pram wheels had been passed down to us. They were, at that time, fixed to a couple of planks and a packing case. You could get a driver and a passenger in it. We pulled it what seemed like miles to find a hill (our legs were shorter then and East Anglia is flat). We found one, launched ourselves, and realised (a) the hill was shorter than we thought (b) the T Junction we were heading for was quite busy (c) nobody had thought to build any brakes . . .
Now imagine you and me sitting in it and plunging towards the traffic as the theme from last of the Summer Wine plays. 🙂
Haha, I had one of those, we called them Guiders. I still have a photo of me sat on mine
That implies some sort of steering capability. Ours had a piece of washing line fastened in the manner of a steering rope but with the front axle nailed on rather than actually pivoting, it was never much use.
Aye, it steered. As I remember we made a hole through the front two pieces with a hot poker. It took quite a while 😂
I seem to remember seeing various designs but we stuck with the dangerous build of least resistance. 🙂 In those days, we had lots of bounce and no worries. These days it’s the other way round. 🙂
I think we all have similar fears of one kind or another. Stay as well as you can
Today I decided to cheer up. It sort of worked, and the occasional mental picture of Oxford Sandy & Blacks played a part in this. 🙂
You are already a famous poet in Langholm at any rate. I hope that is a consolation for you.
Thank you. It is good to know that my reputation has spread. 🙂