Tag Archives: middle age

TGIF

First job of the day was to wake up. I did not achieve total success in carrying out this task. My mistake had been uttering those immortal words “I’ll just have another few minutes.” I set my new phone to give me 15 more minutes and, 25 minutes after it went off, was found cuddling it affectionately to my bosom.

Julia soon put a stop to that.

We visited the Mencap garden next and I had a look at the progress made during the week. Julia is aiming to build some interest amongst group members and to tidy up a bit. It’s never going to be immaculate, and that isn’t the intention, but she is aiming to make the garden more productive and define the wildlife areas more clearly. We know from bitter experience that visitors are all to keen to complain about weeds, and that this always causes problems.

Then, after coffee and cake (the remains of our stash from Mrs Botham) it was time to go home. It also seemed a good time to take Julia’s new Facebook profile photo. ¬†She always looks happier after cake.

I realise that cake for breakfast is probably frowned on by Big NHS Brother but what harm can a bit of cake do? The sultanas alone must be worth one of my five a day, and if they really want us to go to ten a day I’m going to struggle without cake.

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Great job, cake, wonderful husband – you just have to smile

From home, it was off to the anticoagulant clinic again. I won’t bore you will the details, but after struggling to get my blood to respond to anticoagulants they are now struggling to stop it responding. I let them flap for a bit, but as stress is a killer I decided not to worry about it.

Final job of the morning is checking out a few blogs and writing my first post of the day. That is now done, and after loading a few pictures I will be doing my first job of the afternoon, which is eating lunch. The other plans are collect prescription, shop for evening meal, visit duck pond, eat ice cream and watch Pointless.

In the evening I shall coerce Number One son into washing up, collect Number Two son from the station, cook tea, dispense unwanted fatherly advice on a variety of subjects, and complain that nobody speaks clearly these days. They will counter this final assertion by pointing to hearing aid adverts on the TV, though I may well be asleep before any come on.

 

 

The Ages of Man

It was my birthday recently. Last year I moved from being “late 50s” to “nearly 60” and this year I entered my 60th year. At least, that was what I thought, but it seems to be worse than that. According to a newspaper article I just read they can call you elderly when you are 64.

Elderly is, according to the dictionary, a polite word for old.

I’m only just beginning to accept being middle-aged, so can’t help thinking that “elderly” is pushing it a bit. I just looked up “middle age” and found it is defined as the period between the end of the Roman Empire and the Renaissance. Clearly I need to concentrate more. The difference between “age” and “ages” is quite significant. I’ve also just noted there are two ways to spell ageing, (or aging). I didn’t know that, I just thought one was wrong.

Middle age, it appears, lasts from 45 to 65, so I appear to have squandered my middle years without noticing them. An article on the internet suggests that you are only middle-aged when you hit certain milestones rather than an age. They suggest 53 – 55, which still makes me middle-aged. As I hit most of the milestones I’m irretrievably middle-aged, regardless of the number of years I have lived.

I’m not going to admit to anything specific, but examination of previous posts will reveal that I have thinning hair, creaky joints, hirsute orifices, membership of the National Trust, inappropriate sleep habits and a deep distrust of technology, modern music and young people. I do not, however, own travel sweets, a sports car or bed socks.

Though my feet have been feeling cold in bed recently…

Meanwhile, I’ve had a letter from the hospital and learned a new word. The word is cystolitholapaxy. I just looked it up.

Sometimes you are better not knowing…

Men, manure and middle-age

It is a truth universally acknowledged, as Jane Austen never wrote, that a middle-aged man in possession of a bladder will never need an alarm clock.

And so it happened that although I passed the night with neither clock nor phone to wake me, I woke at 7 am without a problem.

And 5.30 am and 3 am.

I normally set the clock anyway but the battery has gone dead, and my phone was also out of juice, so I relied on nature and it didn’t fail me. It was actually one of the more relaxed nights I have spent recently, as we didn’t need to be at work until around 11.00, allowing us time to get up, shop and have breakfast out (which was an error – the TESCO cafe staff, as usual, lacked energy whilst the cafe itself lacked tea. There were no working hot water machines, and, according to the staff, no kettle. That’s worse than a pub with no beer.).

When we got to work we found that the volunteers from Capital One were hard at work, and had nearly completed the raised bed in the large polytunnel. It brought a lump to my throat and a tear to my eye. It is a beautiful bed made from straw bales and filled with a variety of materials, including a lot of well-rotted pig muck. We’ve been trying to get it done for several years but there’s always been a problem, so it was great to see it completed.

It was a bitter-sweet moment: seeing the beautiful raised bed, yet knowing that the plan for next year is to let the Allotment Club use it. So there I was with my nose pressed up against the polythene like a kid at a sweetshop window. So close, and yet so far!

To be honest, the pleasure of seeing the bed outweighs the sense of loss. I’m already making plans for next year and I far prefer planning to actual gardening.

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Men and manure in perfect harmony