Travelling

Liz has been on the go. I have decided it must be generational, but I still don't allow for writing a post while I am away.  The Guru has explained, patiently and not so patiently, that everything occurs and is held in Cyberspace. I do not have to have my very own computer with me to keep in touch with you all. Somehow, I imagine all the information on shelves in a library behind the screen, much as little ones think there are people inside the television. Anyway, whatever the fantasy, I have left far too big a gap and am glad to catch up now.

Those of you dogged faithful ones may well remember the scarlet swimsuit. It has  been to the seaside, again. Whether it will ever go another time is imponderable. There are reasons for this. Among five swimsuits it is the only one that fits, if you can call it fit, with the bulges around the back. At my advanced age there is no question of buying more and I am sceptical about losing weight. Indeed, I woke up this morning, the eve of an extremely remarkable birthday, wondering how I could lose a stone - 14lbs in Mountview, California - by tomorrow morning. I dont think so. Travel, in itself, gets more challenging. This time I was with the Guru who takes care of things like baggage and tries to walk slowly so as not to lose me too often. He also helps me in and out of the sea. Now, this is a very important function because I am not stable enough on my feet to manage the entry myself. The exit is even more challenging, especially because swimming in the cold, wet sea  is not his top idea of a fun thing to do. Indeed, on one occasion, holding my hands fast, as I thought, he dropped me and there was I, a scarlet whale, seated at the bottom of the ocean, waves breaking over my head with no idea what to do to remedy the situation. I think a combination of push and pull must have done the trick because, eventually, there I was, standing up, sea pouring off my head and out of my ears,having swallowed gargling amounts of salt water and feeling rather more than a little foolish. Fortunately, the funny side of it came to me and I started to laugh, much, I suspect, to the Guru's relief because his  face  which was a nice shade of off-white, suddenly took back its customary glow. The fact that the episode had been watched by rather a lot of people on the beach was potentially one humiliation more. But, as it happened, there was only kindness and friendly banter on all sides. I washed my hair for the second time that day, but I am still dealing with the water in my ears: quite a Jules Verne moment. Unfortunately, we were subject to a Provencal hazard, the Mistral. Out of our four days this vicious wind blew for three, whipping degrees off the sea and making it impossible to sit around in sybaritic idleness. Instead, we had an outing to a nearby town renowned for what I am forced to call its 'bling' and had lunch among the something - not youth, necessarily - dore. (Can't find an accent for the 'dore'on this machine). After a day's turnaround to do the washing, I was off to Austria, of which more later. At my tomorrow age one can no longer think ' one of these days' so if Liz wants to do some travelling or even revelling, it has to be NOW. Bore da

More Nevermores

The serendipity of the circularity of my work life  delightes me, still. It seems there are some things that aren't gone forever more. However, it also got me thinking about things which will certainly not come round again no matter how serendipitous one's  imagining  may be.  I shall never run for a 'bus again. I shall never wear a mini-skirt again. I shall never have another pregnancy. I was about to say I would never have auburnish tints in my hair again, but that would be a fallacy because I could easily purchase and apply some. My hair just won't grow rich brown anymore but settles for a sort of sludge. I shall never be nine stone again - about 126 pounds in Mount View California. As it happens, I am currently heavier than I was on the day before my last child was born, so, heavier than at nine months pregnant. No more high heels in which  no longer to  run for the aforementioned 'bus.Now this is something of an advantage: I no longer need to change my shoes in to what we called "driving shoes". Because, silly, one couldn't drive in high heels and so slipped on a pair of flatties which were kept in the car for the purpose. Now, I should have to bend down, untie my shoelaces, drag off my brogues and, having remembered to bring a shoe-horn, apply my purposeful flatties. I don't think so.

I have left it too late to go to Japan. The culture fascinates me and the food is to live on permanently, given the option. But I can no more explore where one needs one's feet. Walking is rationed. Last week I went with my oldest friend, (also known as the Father of my Children) by air to Dublin for the day, to see my next oldest friend. The distance from Check-in Desk to Departure Lounge at Heathrow is a kilometre. I have it on the best authority, the porter who pushed the wheelchair I was obliged to ask for. That facility was supplied at Dublin Airport, too, so I was able to save my walking capacity for the city centre: 'center' if you are in MV Ca, see above. On this occasion, nevermore threatened to creep in to what was a delightful, peaceful and enriching day. Unspoken was the awareness that all three of us were well beyond the Departure Lounge and actually  waiting on the tarmac, on board the aircraft for a departure of whatever degree of finality your creed permits you to believe in. Our friend is fifteen years ahead of us but as strong in mind as ever with an essence of self which has remained unchanged for the six decades of our acquaintance. He is reading for a degree at Trinity College. This is more a 'never before', than a 'nevermore'. They have never had a graduate of his age in their entire history. We have pledged to go to his graduation so the wait to take off  on that final flight must endure at least another year.

There may well be even more 'never dones' than 'nevermores': all grist for the next or, anyway, future blogposts. But the sun is out in this extraordinary repetition of the summers of childhood when the sun always blazed and there was always sand in your toes. I shall walk down to the 'bus stop in the calm knowledge that the next 'bus will surely follow the one I have not been able to run for. Prynhawn da.

More Change

You may remember my excitement, a post or so ago, at the serendipidy of my employment life. From making an index at a publishing house, via helping passengers at London Airport to flying in stewardess mode with unaccompanied children, I find myself, at the hospital, working in the Library with the book index, at an Enquiry Desk helping patients' with their enquiries and, wonder of wonders, that which I failed to note the last time, pushing a trolley of books around the wards and, therefore, once again, a Trolley Dolly. Whomever you may believe in or not, Something, Somewhere must have a sense of humour. There have been so many changes in recent times that that little joke on Life's part is very reassuring.

Not only a new paragraph but a new start after a couple of days.  I will tell you why I broke off. The Wizard of Cyberspace, with whom the faithful among you are only too well acquainted, stole all the post but for the above shortish paragraph.  Yes, I had pressed 'save', boringly, neurotically often. To no avail. The blogpost had gone, leaving only a tiny, forlorn reminder of the inspiration behind the whole. To add insult to you-know-what, I think I must have been instrumental in aiding and abetting. I think there must have been something I leaned on which acted as 'delete.' There is, therefore, a further problem: what did I do and how can I avoid doing it again? The Guru is too busy to ask and, anyway, I didn't want to delay any longer in case you thought I, myself, had gone off to join the Wizard in Cyberspace.

 I had been thinking about change. Recently, the papers have been discussing phubbing. I understand this to mean attending to your mobile phone and snubbing the people you are with in real space and time. As you know, the Guru serves as my insight in to the contemporary world.  He phubbs all the time.  On one occasion, fed up with the phenomenon and feeling mischievous, as he read yet another text message, I pulled out the crossword and bent my attention to it. The Guru's response: he told me not to be so childish. Now, I happen to know he was very well brought up, so that assessment could have been based only on his conviction that his phubbing was perfectly acceptable contemporary behaviour and in no way reflected bad manners. But manners have changed. Walking - shuffling may be fairer - down my local road the  other day, in scorching heat, begging the minimal shade of shop awnings, I was twice cut into by pedestrians overtaking on my outside to duck in to a shop on my inside. On the same day, I was pushed out of the way for an extremely able-bodied teenager to take the seat in the 'bus which is labelled for the disabled. As it happens, politically correctly, it says " those less able to stand". That pleases me. Most political correctness does not. Though I do have one other acceptable example. There is no need to say "manned". One can say "staffed" instead.  Political correctness probably deserves a post all of its own but it would be nice to hear your views in the meantime. Liz is off, now, to the world of Mindfulness with the lovely psychologist who comes to help me with it. What with that and political correctness I may yet end up fit for Guru's world of how-it-is-now. Bore da

Boating

There is still cause for aestivating. The temperature has not dropped below 26 degrees centigrade since I complained to you last time. In my defence - against all of you who love the heat, of course - I offer the plea that I have never had a wish to hibernate and positively enjoy the cold weather.  I thought that at three score and a lot more than ten years old my blood would have thinned and I would better be able to tolerate the soaring temperatures. It hasn't. In an attempt to thwart the Wizard of Discomfort, I went with the Father of my children on a river cruise in aid of a very worthwhile charity.  Advantages: cool breezes, wonderful views, even of Tower Bridge being opened to let our tall mast through, and interesting fellow travellers. Disadvantages: 30 degrees and no shade. Worse than that, the outing was described as a breakfast cruise with a recital by a dear, young soprano friend thrown in as an incentive. However, breakfast and singing  were to take place below deck, access to which was via a flight of stairs that had a gradient of one in one. That's right. You heard: one in one. In other words, a ladder. The ladder was decked out as pretend stairs, in that it had steps of about four inches wide, covered in something or other. Give or take a hyperbole or two, it was a ladder. To add insult to certain injury, the 'facilities' were also below.  Picture Liz, stick in hand, steppping gingerly over various coils of ropes and impedimenta, nothing supportive to hold on to, surveying the prospect of spending the next several hours hungry, needing the Ladies, gently boiling in the unshadowed noonday sun. Actually, gently boiling probably equates to simmering, wouldn't you say? Got the picture? There was but one solution: Keep Calm and  Carry on.

As a habit, I am a veritable Girl Guide in my 'be preparedness'. My carry-on bag holds an umbrella which doubles as a parasol during aestivation and a bag of nuts or whatever to guard against hunger at any time. On this  occasion, in the interest of glamour, I had dispensed with the basics and in the bag had only half of a forgotten banana, a great deal the worse for hanging about, and a shawl to cover the opposite contingency to the one I was facing - freezation. I told myself all bad things come to an end and prayed they or I would come to that end before soon. The soprano was deeply sympathetic about my access dilemma and brought me a plate of food. I took it from her and put it down beside me while I divested myself of my bags and freed my hands. You've guessed. Crash, bang ,splatter, there was my plate up-ended on the deck. I thought I was too old for embarrassment: I'm not. But I applied a touch of Mindfulness and allowed myself to be tidied up without recourse to an outpouring of apologies. When we moored temporarily,on the way back, waiting for our time to dock, Himself and I dis-embarked across a miniscule stretch of Thames and went to an adjacent hotel to deal with nature and whatever. It was not my best mannered moment nor my most ingratiating and I doubt I shall ever be asked again, but needs must when the Wizard of Overheating prevails. When I was forty I'd have shimmied up and down that ladder like any monkey you have ever met, bearing sausage and scrambled egg in one hand and my carry-on bag in the other. As it was, the only carrying on I achieved was the inevitable brouhaha I created by my elderly incapability to run the course as it was presented." O dee meah", as my baby son would have said when rueing his day. Prynhawn da

Aestevation

You may prefer to lose the dipthong and spell it "estivation". Either way, its the only possible state for one who manages life better at a maximum of 24 degrees centigrade than she does at 30. For those of you over the Pond, that must be a favourite of about 72 fahrenheit as opposed to avoid-at-all-costs 85. There are difficult choices to be made. One could hunker down with some air-conditioning and let the rest of the world go by, the fee being a feeling of invisibility and non-existence, or one could live an as-if ordinary life out and about and risk a collapse from heat stroke. I have been trying the latter. However, being isolated or left out in the cold is parallel in thermal terms to the effect of overheating. One is either 100% overheated or 100% 'frozen'. I am further isoltated from my fellows because there is almost universal glee about the sunshine and the con-committant heatwave. Were I to dare verbally to notice, let alone complain about the heat I should be ostracised or even committed as an alien being. Believe me. I speak from experience. So picture Liz, crawling down the road, hogging the scarcely woman-sized width of the shade offered by the shops and, sometimes, even their canopies. Admittedly, those do provide a wider shadow but they are very short and soon walked passed. One positive factor is that I do have enough cool clothing, some of it never worn, having been purchased for the holiday which never  materialised last year.

My Enquiry Desk shift at the hospital works well on a number of levels. There is air-conditioning even in the wide hall where we are located. Not only that, there are draughts from the star-fish of passages with which we are surrounded. It's a great vantage point from which to observe how the natives deal with the extraordinary weather conditions.  The male doctors are shirt-sleeved, neatly rolled up - the sleeves, not the doctors. They wear ties for the most part and maintain an air of professional purpose.  The females wear  linen trousers or dresses, down to the knee and with something of a cover for the top of the arms. There is quite a challenge in identifying these illustrious beings. For reasons of hygiene they do not wear their name badges on a lanyard around their necks as we do. They pin them to belts or trouser pockets. Were one desperate to identify such a being, it would be necessary to peer at their nether regions. I hope you imagination is boggling. It is an act not to be contemplated lightly. Less identifiable are the many other passers-by. We have seen men with huge tummies and bandy legs in torn -off jeans or wide-legged shorts. We have seen ladies with bra straps peeping and some with clearly no bra. The coolest look, in all senses, must be the sari. They serve to point up what a disaster most of the rest of us make of dressing for the tropics.  The library is a different matter: no air-conditioning and a windowless basement. But there is a jolly fan which swings merrily about and serves as a hurricane for even the substantialish cards with which we work. Indeed, it is  a bonus to bend down and pick them up from the floor, giving the backs of our necks a turn at the cool air. There is something very reassuring, though, in the make-do-and-mend of the library with its old-time card indices a nd no air-conditioning: familiar to the 40 year old and, therefore,comfortable for my current self. But, by the end of the shift I am so confused as to the order of the alphabet that I have to write it out, letter by letter, put it in front of me and consult it for every Mc or Mac as I try to establish the sequence of its next relevant letter. If only the Wizard of Archive would keep his hands off it until next time. Nos da

Heat

It's all very well for the rest of you but I hate the heat. There you are, I have registered it in black and white. I do feel guilty. After all, we have been waiting for summer for about a year. In my case, two years because I spent the last one in hospital. I feel guilty that I begrudge all those near-naked bodies on Hampstead  Heath their sun-worship while I cower in my air-conditioned bedroom at a fixed 19 degrees. I thought myself slightly crazed when I had the air-conditioning unit installed. After all, on this side of the Pond how often was I going to need it? Never mind how often, just think how cool. I also had one in the room where I worked. That one stopped working and I stopped working, too, rather than spend the obscene amount of money it would have taken to mend it. My lodger, who is from a consistently warm place in Continental Europe, is more or less permanently miserable because of the weather. Not today: she is positively shining with delight and has gone off to picnic in the Park. The world is a different one, it seems, in the warmth of the sun.

Now,  at my age in the heat there are sartorial considerations to consider.Which is not to say there were'nt always such considerations. But there is a world of difference between which sleeveless linen dress or floaty skirt and which long-sleeved garment will be the coolest in the wardrobe.  No-one over let's say fifty, should display upper arms unless they are beautiful and toned and blemish free. Mine are not. The answer is to wear a sort of vest in fine cotton with a jacket-type garment over it. That does mean two layers of fabric over the back but a combination of vanity and a fear of frightening the horses stiffen one's forebearance considerably. I do rather miss the clothes of my youth, though. A day or so ago I again had the privilege of listening to the Big Swing Band   that had me as-if tripping round Trafalgar Square a blog post or so ago. This time we were also treated to some period dresses, you know, if you are old enough or have seen "Dirty Dancing", tight waist, voluminous skirt, stiff petticoats underneath. Even if I had kept mine, mysteriously, I am a stone or so - fourteen pounds if you are in Mountain View California - heavier than I was the first time around. (Confession: the 'or so' is nearly another stone.) However, the young lady wearing such a dress,(frock) bright red with white polka dots and layers of black tulle underskirt, had bottomed it with a pair of red and white trainers and  black pop socks -  stockings to the knee if they are dubbed something else over there in M V Ca. The effect was ludicrous. We hadn't even progressed from gym shoes/plimsolls in the fifties. We would have been wearing genteel heels to our court shoes, not more than two inches high, I should guess, and a stocking was a grown up, right to the top of one's leg,  fixed with a suspender hanging from a pretty band around the waist - not the same as a man's braces supporting his trousers, (pants) as seen , again, in M V Ca.  It was not a juvenile, stopping half way up. Think of it: " a glimpse of stocking was thought of as something shocking", enchantingly so, whereas a glimpse of pop sock is simply unattractive and bad taste not to mention out of period.

 This post shows signs of being a lesson in translating from the English to the American. In which case I have bitten off more than I can chew. My repertoire is almost exhausted, as am I , in the heat. Prynhawn da.

Circularity

It seems to me I have already talked about life's full circles in the ways everyone's physicality reverts to baby and childhood.  Recently, I have noticed the most incredible full circle that is peculiar to my life and does not reflect ageing in general. When I first started work iit was with a firm of publishers who specialised in law books. I was engaged to make an index for a book in the pipeline. Currently, I find myself, something like sixty years later, going through the indices of the books in the Patients' Library at my local hospital. If you have been kind enough to keep up, I ask you to recall a post or so ago where I explained that  there were actual cardboard indices both to catalogue the books and to record those that are out on loan. No computers as we speak: they have been threatened for a couple of years but seem to have got lost in the world of One-of-These-Days. So there am I, dealing with  indices all over again. That's wierd enough but I have also been promoted to a second job where I staff an enquiry desk for half a day. My next job after the indexing was at London Airport. I was attached to what was then called Passenger Handling. You wouldn't get away with that, now. It would surely be Customer Services. Anyway, part of the specification was to direct passengers and help in whatever way was appropriate. We also checked them in, manually, of course, pulling the ticket from a slender book of varying usage. A couple of days ago I had the most extraordinary sense of deja vu as I pushed a lady in a wheel chair to a place where there was a little-known lift big enough to take it and its passenger,who was exhausted by waiting and frustrated at the difficulty to find a lift with enough room for her. I just about mangaged not to ask her her final destination and whether or not she had baggage for the hold.

A bit ago my attention was drawn to a poster advertising what seemed to me to read Pan Am Frolics. Now, those of you old enough may well remember the American airline of that name. I might as well come clean: that was the airline I worked for. On further enquiry, it turned out that the sign had actually said Pam Ann and the figure dressed as the Trolley Dolly was, in fact, a drag artiste. To my great sadness, I was not free to attend. Do you think I would have had the cheek to pipe up that present was a really, truly one? Somehow, I think that may not have been seemly in the elderly - not the admission of Trolly Dollydom but the piping up in public. Today, I had the pleasure of watching two more drag 'queens' who were taking part in the Gay Pride event in Trafalgar Square. I was on my own so there was nobody with whom to share what one might politely call the irony of my being there, bringing up the average age  by a considerable factor. Impolitely, one might call it lunacy as I wobbled on my stick seat waiting to be pushed over by the enthusiastic photo takers milling around me. But I bet I was the only one who had danced the jitterbug the first time around as I watched the present day infants jigging about beside the 'lady' on the stage to the period music of the Big Band behind them. Had I somewhere to lay down my stick and pose my handbag I'd have been jigging about myself: not on the stage, you'll be happy to know but around the Square or even in the middle of it. Now I come to think of it, I could have kept my handbag, slung across me over my shoulder and really looked the part as they ran me in. Be calm in your beds Dear Reader: I didn't. Nos da.