Ironing

Have you noticed, there is a very thin line between making life run smoothly and interfering? The other day, I was ironing. Actually, I iron every day. This gives rise to the assumption that I enjoy it. Just because one does something every day is not incontravertible evidence that one enjoys it: cleaning teeth, cleaning shoes, changing the cat litter and so on and so on qualify more as 'take it or leave it' jobs, as I see it. As it happens, I do rather enjoy it; what I'm not sure of, is how comfortable I am with the assuming bit. Anyway, the significance of this ironing day was that I suddenly understood that what I really like about it is that you can make smooth the wrinkled and see the result immediately. I then realised that a very important facet of my way of being in the world was the drive to make the wrinkled smooth. If I see a dilemma, a predicament, a mess, I am driven to find a way to put it right. Clearly, there are pros and cons to this characteristic.

I have been staying with a dear friend in another European city. She appreciates my problem-solving 'gift' and sometimes invites me to solve her problems in a practical way. You know the situation: small cupboard, big accumulation of impedimenta. What to throw out, what to give to charity and what to keep. (She would put them in the opposite order of priority, I suspect.) We spent a couple of days with this task and, all to her credit, in the end there was less keep and more dispose of than one would have expected. Now, this was a pro in smoothing out. However, it did emerge that some of my earlier making smooth had had a less happy outcome and she had ended up cross and resentful that she had 'done as I said', as she saw it, 'taken my advice' in my own view. I did appreciate her coming clean about this and, again, it highlighted the inherent dangers in making the lives of others, as well as ones own, run smoothly. Among my loyal followers there may be some who remember me telling you about the thorough tidy-up I gave the home of an absent, loved relative. Her sole comment on her return was that it would take her ages to get it back the way it was: con. Sometimes, as a retired therapist, I do wonder about the balance of pro and con in the work I did. Helping people find ways to iron out the wrinkles in their lives holds a mammoth responsibility. When I think how quickly an ironed garment is creased again I do worry about this therapeutic analogy. Are there scores of people out there whose crumpled lives ran smoothly only temporarily? Doesnt bear thinking about.

There are bizarre manifestations of this phenomenon. At the top of my road is a yellow board announcing there are to be road works. As you know, this really means that the road is not going to be working. That aside, I am constantly irritated because this board is headed "Advanced Warning". Personally, I would be quite content with a standard warning. My difficulty is in stopping myself from taking a paint brush to the 'd' and making the warning read as it should. Behind this is also some fantasy of doing something about an education system that would allow someone in touch with the public so to expose him/herself as being out of touch with his/her participles and adjectives. The notice does not run smoothly, damn it. But, you may say, everyone knows what it means so where's the crisis? Where indeed? Attempts to make the lives of my young run smoothly were another minefield. They were not all that old when 'making things work for them' became 'an intrusion'. Perhaps we have all to learn that it is in our better interest to do our own ironing, but I tell you this: I shall never be one of those people who think that linen clothes look better crumpled . See you soon, Wizard of Cyberspace permitting.

Communication

Don't laugh: I have been sitting at the computer for ages, thinking about how to start a post on 'communication'. It might have been wiser to write it on 'irony'. Anyway, communication has an unending fascination for me. For decades I earned my living through it, understanding, interpreting, translating, so you may well be treated to the occasional return to it. I'll never get it all said in one. Take my cat: she presents the greatest challenge in communicating. She knows exactly what her orders to me have been. The problem lies with me: can I understand and carry them out? One of her favourite things is to have me sitting down, preferably with my legs up but even a legs -down lap will do, and then to sit on top of me. This is all very loving and seriously warm during this horrible winter, but it is also incarcerating. Anything that is not within paws reach is out of bounds.There is no question of answering the phone or getting a drink or finding a pen to do the crossword. You are as trapped as if bound by chains. Lately, she has taken to non-stop meowing soon after breakfast. When I say meowing, I really mean whining. It goes on through changed food, changed litter, strokes and nibbles - her of me, that is - and it is not until I take up one of the above positions and she is installed on top that the whining stops. I was never brilliant with whining children; how do I do better with my cat? 'It's time to get up' is not difficult to communicate. You just jump on the 'two-legs' hidden in the bed you recently slept on yourself, and then jump off again. Repeat thirty four times and, miraculously, there is food in the dish and water in the bowl before you can say"mouse". Scratching: antique furniture or any fabric are best to convey you are really cross and impatient. You have to endure some loud calling of your name and even the lightest touch of the paper on your behind, but 'she' gets what you are on about and sees to it at last. Less subtle but useful in an emergency is the hiss. Don't touch me, don't touch her, get out of my space, get out of my house can all be communicated by a hiss so protracted the breath control would shame many a robust soprano.

However, what triggered the impulse to discuss the question of communication, now, as opposed to then and from now on, was actually a comment from a two-legged one. Coming out of the kitchen the Guru started me straight in the eye and said that the dish-washer needed to go on. I was left not knowing whether this was a declaration of intention or an instruction to staff. It turned out to be the latter. What would you have done? I put the dish-washer on. Excusing my self to the angry inner me, I decided that my compliance must have been an unconscious wish to communicate my warmth towards him. I know, I know: there doesn't seem to be a polite word for the response I can feel you all communicating through the ether. I am thoroughly spoiling both the Guru and the cat.

I am having difficulties with this post and thus the irony continues. My head is reeling and my thoughts tumbling with examples, no, experiences, of communication, through words, signs, movements, music , but, for the moment, no coherent frame in which to express them. Perhaps there are too many or the subject too all-encompassing. I am passionate about it which may well explain the problem. It is notoriously hard to keep clear-headed when consumed by passion, wouldn't you say? I might just have to leave it there for now, lie down and let my cat lie on top of me. By implication, I let you know I shall be looking forward to communicating with you again, soon.

Boredom

"Boredom" is hardly the most alluring of titles for a post. Anyone who has experienced it may run a mile from a dissertation on it and anyone who hasn't will find the prospect, well, boring. I feel moved to write about it, however, for a few reasons. First, there can be only about half a dozen variations on the theme of what it is like actually to be 75 when your inner world reacts as if it were 40. The'run after a 'bus, climb up a ladder, sweep the snow off the steps' theme; the' I can no longer go to the ball' theme, the ' turn over passed the fashion pages' theme, the experience of going alone to a restaurant theme, the what the H... has the Wizard of Cyberspace done now' theme, and so on and so on. The blogposts were in danger of becoming a bit of a moan along limited lines. You may all lose interest. What to do? Give up writing them slid across my creation screen. Find some new themes - obvious, but not followed by inspiration. Face up to it. That's what I was left with and that's what I shall try to do.

Further, consultation and observation convinced me that most people my age are troubled by boredom, particularly after retirement. Retirement is more demanding than work and the expert is the one who has been planning for it ever since he - or she - left school. Someone I know well has a specification for retirement that can actually bear the description " idyllic" not to say, ideal. A home that couldn't be more central to where it's at if it were poised on top of the Eros statue in Picadilly, constant companionsip of like-minded people, a lively mind unaffected by anno domini, a younger woman friend who adores him and enough money to support all that. Whew, I wish. There are, of course, levels between that and the low -grade depression which elderly boredom may well masquerade as. (That ending with a preposition still leaves me with a feeling of guilt and a red mark in the margin. Nor do I feel any happier with the 'up with that I will not put' alternative which those others of you educated in the 30s and 40s may well remember). That's another strand of depression masquerading as boredom: guilt. The acts one neglected, the kindnesses one eschewed, the relationships one lost. The weight of this may well turn in to a can't- be- bothered way of living. The get- up and- go needed for a fuller life has a real struggle with the can't- be -bothered, my research tells me. Sometimes it is clear from a gathering that the participants are there for want of better. It takes some courage, though, to turn up at a literary reading, a lecture, a reminiscence of diplomatic life in Outer Mongolia simply because the alternative is a book that cant hold your attention or an extension of your relationship with the characters on the telly you have come to know only too well. At least you will have overcome the can't be bothered factor. Given the present cold, damp dark winter nights, it does, indeed, take courage. But it is hard to stop the impulse of my young inner self, when she sees someone under 5o at such gatherings, to look him/her straight in the eye and say "get a life, for Heaven's sake". The remark being intended, of course, primarily, for that very inner self fighting the good fight to reconcile herself to the boundaries of 75 year old possibility.

However, I have learnt much in all that time. I might try little homilies on you, based on wisdom gained. I shall continue to find the humour in the predicament of the elderly with a stick, an umbrella, cat food, human food and a raincoat she hadn't bothered to do up to contend with when the skies have opened. Humour there is, too, in remarks overheard along the lines of "where's her zimmer frame; don't get behind her, she'll be ten minutes fumbling in her purse; shouldn't be let out without a keeper". I have devised a sign to wear hanging down my back as well as my front: I am old, not deaf. There you are, useful occupation for the under-occupied elderly: sandwich man/woman. But should I advertise an elderly/single woman friendly restaurant or an erudite lecture on troglydites? And what about my aching back? Keep reading: it's not all a bore.

Objects

There has had to be some serious thought given to the title of this post. Driven by retirement, I have been tidying. I have a small house. At the moment it houses two people and the belongings of three. The third, non-resident, lives in what is virtually a garden shed on an island off an island: not much capacity for storage, then. The only objects over which I have control are my own, so that is where the tidying has been focussed. I hoard. This is not a good basis for a tidy-up. I am sentimental: even less helpful, but, Dear Reader, I am courageous, so I and my rubbish bags set out to do their best...worst?

I started with my desk. Picture it: on the right are papers that need urgent attention. On the left is stuff that needs seeing to one of these days. In the middle is anything which will have to be kept safe and, certainly, dealt with, but not just now. Three days later, I found myself with a black rubbish bag full to the brim and a glimpse of green leather that hadn't seen daylight for a very long time. It has all been burnt in an iron wheelbarrow, my shredder having gone green, too, at the thought it may have had to deal with disposal all by itself. I started with the desk because, with papers, I thought I could be less influenced by sentimentality. This was a mistake. They seemed to have the same charisma as photographs and school reports. When I saw that the 'keep' pile had outgrown the 'throw' pile, I did have to call on all my resources ruthlessly to redress the balance. What did it was thinking that my nearest and dearest would have it to do eventually and would do it, no doubt, without even reading the stuff. ( Some long time ago, I answered the phone to a dear-one as I was in the middle of a similar tidy-up. Referring to one of my young, I said that, after my death, before ringing the Undertaker, she should first order some skips to accommodate all the paper rubbish. He suggested that having ordered two skips, she wouldnt need the Undertaker). At some level there is a fear that I have thrown out documents essential to a smooth-running life. I shan't know until called upon to produce something that is, at this moment, a pile of ashes at the bottom of the garden. My Mother came to mind. Shortly before her death, she had had just such a tidy-up. Sadly, current insurance policies, unpaid bills and other hassle-ridden documents had bitten the dust. With pride, she showed me her impeccable desk, totally unaware that I would be months, years chasing the written evidence that she had existed, never mind insuring herself, her home and its contents. Nor that she would obsessively pay every bill on the day it arrived before she lost touch with the niceties of an orderly life. I ask forgiveness in advance if I have put people in a similar position. It is worth it just to see that streak of green leather.

Clothes drawers and cupboards are different. A kind of ruthlessness I don't possess is required to move clothes along. I have items from a stone ago, (about 7 kilo, if you are in continental Europe, 14 pounds for kind readers in the States). They are part of my life. I am so used to the sight of them that I could no more challenge them than I could challenge the sofa, the carpet or the oven, nor the pictures on the walls. So drawers and cupboards will have to wait for another burst of energetic courage. However, perhaps the first task is to train myself to disimbue objects, whether paper, cloth or whatever material from their emotional element, from my habit of personification, from the profound inner world belief that an old jumper has feelings and wouldn't want to be thrown out. And, yes, the new washing machine is in no way as user friendly as the old I was forced to throw out - see below; its programming is less efficient and so on and so on, but I have been refunded the delivery charge because the deliverers were nasty to me: so there: a happier ending.

Jobsworth

My washing machine has given up the ghost. As any of you who keeps house to whatever degree, five people under five, three teenagers, a Company Director who needs her/his shirts immaculate and NOW, or yourself and the Guru, young but nevertheless pristine, this is a disaster. (A serious note: the above has to be taken in the context of the - mostly - lighthearted life of someone 75 going on 40, not in the context of what is going on out there in the world of God- Forbid- level disasters). Anyway, as I was saying, no ghost. To some extent it would wash, but to no extent would it spin. Sometimes stuff came out feeling a bit slimy as if there were still some soap left in; no rinse, then neither. The big Ah Hah to this story is that I am insured. For all the seven years of its life up to now I have been paying for the little darling to be safe and covered in times of difficulty and, you know what, never called an engineer out to it: not once. Now was the time. Some days and many phone minutes later came a very nice man with much equipment and a train to catch. I know this because he was so quick my feet scarcely touched the ground keeping up with him. He put the machine on, added a little soap, pressed this and that, watched for a nanno-second and reported, inter alia, that the pump had gone and so had the spinner. It turns out, since there would be more than £400 of repair costs,it was not worth repairing so I was to be offered "like for like" a new machine.

Before you get lost in your 'lucky you' space I am here to tell you that that isn't to be taken literally. I did. I should not have. Because it doesn't mean that I may have the same mark from the same maker from the same shop for no charge. It means that I must have the make and mark dictated by the Insurer and precure it from the shop of their choice, I must pay certain obligatory charges and I must wait for the letter authorising this. Trying to be open-minded, a week later when the letter duly arrived, I trudged out to the north of London - that WAS literal: there was snow - and in to the most gargantuan warehouse it has ever been my displeasure to get lost in. Not only I; the whole of the bored and snow-sick, road-difficult, fed-up with staying in population was there, too. This is relevant because it made it very difficult to get help. We all wanted some. However, the story can be shortened. I fell in hate with the prescribed machine, or one with a slightly different reference number, and reconciled myself. After all, how different could it be? They must have suggested something that would, at least, do the damn washing. The "more than my job's worth" story really begins six days later when, having paid a take-away charge, and arranged for someone to disconnect the defunct machine - "our men are not allowed to do that" - and, more important, a charge and an extra fee to pin them down to a four hour delivery slot on Saturday afternoon when the Guru would be there to supervise, we waited in vain for my like for like, more than £100 lay-out free new washing machine to arrive. Eventually, it did. By that time the Guru had had to go out and I was uncomfortable with hunger. (Well, you wouldnt risk being in the middle of cook/eating when they came, would you?) I hardly dare describe the scene. You are going to have difficulty to believe me. It is something between a cliched sick joke and an old lady's nightmare. The 'leader' looked around. "No one told me there would be stairs." They did. I did; at least I told the 'service operator'. There is even a turn on the stairs, all spelled out to the authorities. The old machine is several inches bigger than the new but they got it out and in to the rain where the new one, stripped of its wrapping, was also standing; not a job for an old lady but they did it and survived. Now for the new one. What went out must come in and vice versa, you'd think, especially a touch smaller. Actually, no: a shelf must come off, but they are not allowed to do that. Good cop negotiated: bad cop sulked. The door to the laundry must come off. They are not allowed to do that either. See above re good and bad. Further, Health and Safety means they cannot lift it over the turn in stairs. See above, as before. By this time, I am 100 going on 5, stamping my feet and screaming very loudly, indeed, banging on the wall with frustration: all in the inner world, of course, sweetness and light on the outside. Immeasurable time passed until we get to a happy ending - of sorts. In the end the new washing machine was installed. There was mud all over the hall and stair carpet, there was unimaginable mess in the little laundry whose usual impedimenta had been strewn all over the house to facilitate access, but in it was and bad cop and good cop could go. I witheld the £5 tip I had had waiting in my pocket and spent it on a pizza delivery, which I don't ever do. I hate them. But hate was the evening's theme. It was just as well the Guru was out. The story doesnt quite end there but I am hungry again and, overcome with the memory, I have gone on too long, I fear. Suite a la prochaine as they say over the Channel, or the rest next time.

Cold

There are times when it seems an advantage to be chronologically 75. I do remember the winter of 1947 that broadcasters and newspaper writers are currently describing with something like awe. But, in case you are reading this other than in the Northern hemisphere, I should explain we are experiencing a period, weatherwise, of extremely cold, snowy and, worse, icy weather in this usually benign part of the world. In 1947 it snowed and froze for the best part of two months, January and February. I remember getting dressed under the bed-clothes. We were comparatively affluent but that did'nt run to central heating. Indeed, it was not until I refused to bring my tiny baby in to a house without heating and no washing machine that things changed. Believe me, those refinements were for wimps and, now, I am coming round to something like sympathy with that view. I am torn. The 75 year-old is wishing people would get on with it, put another jumper on, go to bed early, buy some galoshes, or all of the above, rather than wingeing and whining and complaining about the lack of grit, but at least, my age gives me experience of this kind of hardship - amongst others - so I am better prepared to keep smiling and carry on. The inside youngster is throwing snowballs and skiing down the road.

Getting dressed under the bedclothes was fun: vest, liberty bodice, knickers. Socks were harder because you had to make a bigger tent to reach your feet and that risked letting the cold in. I bet none of you has ever made steam breathing out as you lay in bed. If you forgot an item of clothing in the stash beside the bed you would have to get out and fetch it on feet that then wouldn't warm up the whole of the rest of the day. You ask about a liberty bodice. Well, it was a sort of waistcoat, cotton, worn over the vest, buttoned down the front and under the next layers, blouse and school jumper. If you took vest and liberty bodice off together you got in to trouble because that would prevent them from airing: a disaster not to be contemplated in a well-brought up household. There is a wall heater in my present bathroom and I have been taking my clothes in there these last days and dressing in front of it. Less 'cosy' than in bed but easier on non-bendy joints.
Yesterday, I ventured down to the local shops; crept, would be rather more accurate. It was snowing on top of the extant deposit so crawl might be even nearer. Anyway, sensibly I had put my purse in my pocket so no handbag to control, mobile phone in the other, in case of emergency and off to go. Passing a man and woman outside a cafe, I heard them say:" that old lady shouldn't have come out. She'll fall and we'll have it to deal with. Where's her zimmer frame? That would be more sensible." I turned back, smiled sweetly, and told them it wasn't easy, but I would be sure they had nothing to deal with and, in spite of frailties, I wasn't deaf. They were very sorry, had meant no offence and so on and so on. I did'nt tell them that one of my first thoughts on registering the conditions was about elderly friends and how they were managing. It took a moment to remember I was one of them. The 40 year old was out there meals-on-wheelsing. (For loyal readers outside the UK, meals- on -wheels is a social service delivering meals by car to the house-bound elderly. Don't ask: delicious, no doubt). I do still have a little shock every time a stranger sees only the external me, addresses the external me. I AM one of the elderly, I qualify for meals, I don't deliver them. I constitute a danger to myself on the ice, I don't skate on it. Ah well: hurrah for central heating, washing machines and dishwashers and hurrah for a touch of the wimp.

PS An anonymous writer challenged my treatment of eccentricity. She/he said it was a choice. This is not how I see it. One just IS off-centre. It seems like the only logic if you happen to be it. You dont choose to do things differently if that is your constitution. You just do them that way. Of course, a choice can be made to do things differently, but that is not eccentricity: eccentricity is in-built and, crucially, to the eccentric, it feels centric.

Eccentricity

Happy New Year! I am a very pleased person because the Guru has collated all the blogposts so far, from 2008 and 2009, and presented them to me, spell-checked, in a beautiful bound cover. That makes it appropriate for me to start this year with the first of the new series. Mind you, I could have done without the spell-check. I always saw myself as a good speller and even, long ago, earned my living as a proof reader and sub-editor, so I was not best pleased that he did find spells to check. I do, as it happens, even read over the posts, myself and still, it seems, the little blighters escape. Never mind; nothing is fool-proof even if you are both the fool and the proof reader. To the point: since eccentricity is a flavour that permeates all my blogging, it does seem superfluous to give it a post all of its own. However, for want of a more direct nomenclature, eccentricity feels the kindest compromise as things stand. So, I had better tell you how things stand. First, I simply can't believe a month has gone by since I last wrote. I have looked at the sitemeter and, to my horror, see that that have been zero vistors this week. What can I say? Please, do all come back. I can't think how to alert those of you whom I don't automatically alert but I shall just have to hope that in Australia and Canada and wherever else I am privileged to have followers the Wizard of Cyberspace will relent and send waves you can't fail to pick up. Anyway, eccentricity: lately, the scale of my ' I- can't- believe -I -did- that' activities has been increasing to the stage where something official had to be done. You know the sort of thing, keys in the fridge, cheese on the doorstep; telephone a friend and find quite another one in your ear. No, seriously, I put in a rate-buster code for Austria so as to pay only 2 pence a minute, dialled the number and heard the voice of a beloved friend in Ireland, with a totally different rate-buster code, whom I could have reached for 1 pence a minute. In a court of law I would have sworn that I dialled not only the Austrian pre-code but also the Austrian number. The scale of my forgetfulness is just about border-line funny. One more occasion and I'll be over the border before you can say " what was I saying."

What to do? Well, I arranged to have a dementia test with my lovely GP. He seemd sanguine about this, like he has dotty old women taking this test every time he has a surgery. It started rather inauspiciously: I got the time of the appointment wrong. No, don't laugh, although the Doctor had difficulty not to. This mistake left me rather flustered even though he was kind enough to see me anyway. Dear Reader, I scored 29 out of 30. The fluster was my excuse for not holding on to one of three words I was asked to remember as the first question. Other than that, I got everything right, even counting backwards in sevens. Neurotically - I am, you will have judged - I still doubted the veracity of the outcome. I was asked the date. It was the birthday of a close friend so very much in mind. But, temperamental doubts allowing, I did well enough and have been greatly helped since then, when the 'eccentricities' have multiplied, eg leaving my keys in the front door for 12 hours or so until the Guru came back in the middle of the night, (he's young) and found them. He said he couldnt see any blood on the stairs and a lovely silver jug I have was still there so he stopped worrying, wrote me a HUGE stern note to find when I got up in the morning and took himself to bed. But, now, when I do some thing dottissimo, I can comfort myself with knowing I am eccentric, but not demented....yet.