I HAVE A BRILLIANT FORGETTORY

I sometimes fail to spot things. There was an occasion involving my first wife - you'll understand in a moment why she is my 'ex' - when she returned from a shopping trip wearing a new outfit. This wasn't just a new dress but a skin-tight snakeskin trouser suit. I didn't notice it, much to my shame.

I am more attentive with my second wife. I have learned the hard way that when she has gone for a hair appointment, my line on her return is 'Ooh, your hair looks nice dear'. I even remember to stop reading and look up at her before saying it.

I also sometimes forget things. Like forgetting to zip up when I've had a wee (this is a well-known 'old man' thing). Another example is that I have to put things somewhere where I'll literally fall over them or I'll never remember to deal with them.

I take some comfort though from learning of the Macedonian gentleman who was on a motoring holiday in Europe with his wife. He filled up with petrol near Pesaro in central Italy and got a call 6 hours later in Germany to point out that his wife was still at the petrol station. Apparently, she always sat in the back and clearly she wasn't a back-seat driver because he hadn't noticed she wasn't there! If you don't believe me check here.

Even I'm not that bad. Now, what was I saying?

NOW I'M 63

You'll remember that John Lennon sang about his concern that the love of his life might not still love him when he reached 64. he wrote the song in 1966 which was the year that his Dad became 64. I was 20 and remember thinking back then that being 64 sounded positively ancient. Now, I'm just a year away.

I know it's just a number and it genuinely doesn't trouble me to be this age. The important thing of course is to be 'young at heart' as Frank Sinatra sang in 1954 - you can hear it here on a 78 r.p.m. record with authentic crackles, just as I remember 78s. 

The snag is that however young at heart you may feel, your body keeps reminding you that it's starting to wear out. I'm lucky in that I still have my hair and my own teeth. In fact all of me is original with a few bits missing. Mind you, it's a race as to whether my knees or my hips will get replaced first.

It took a while, but I've learned that the old guy in the mirror is me. I've also learned what I can still do and what I can no longer do and what tablets to take and exercise to do in order to keep the old body working well. So I'm happy with my age, at home with myself so to speak.

However, if you would prefer to be younger, follow Lucille Ball's advice - lie about your age! Oops! I blew it in the title. Oh well, I'll just have to keep taking the tablets.

MEN AT WORK

Now I know you'll find this hard to believe but I winge a lot. One of my eternal gripes is the constant road works which we seem to get on the stretch of motorway near us and this seems to have spread to smaller roads which are closer still.

Thumbing through Grampa's book, 'Pierrot's Album', which I introduced you to in my post called simply,'Pierrot', I discover that my affliction is clearly hereditary. I was born in 59 Tanworth Lane, Shirley and Grampa lived two doors away in 55.

He wrote this little poem in 1931 - 78 years ago! This was the year he moved into his house and it was before the road had been surfaced. The poem was published in the local paper and as you will see, proves that "there is nothing new under the sun".

INFRA DIG

In Shirley's heard a sweet refrain

"Let's go and dig up Tanworth Lane".

Builders, sewermen, gas-men too,

All dig holes to obscure our view.

They dig a deep hole for a drain

And then they cover it up again.

The gas-man then he doth appear

Saying "Come on Bill, our course is clear,

We really must have a hole down here".

Saturdays, Sundays there's no rest,

They dig and dig with added zest.

We take much mud into our houses

And Oh! you should see poor Pa's "trousis!".

When Father Xmas comes by heck!

He'll fall and break his poor old neck.

.........................

Perhaps some day our good surveyor

Will send his men with tarmac layer

And thus rejoice the poor ratepayer.

AN EYE TO THE FUTURE

I try so hard to support local shops, really I do. OK for buying the weekly food shopping, supermarkets have won the day but as far as other shops are concerned......

When we moved here three years ago, I was delighted to discover that there was a small opticians only 5 minutes walk away. I went in and introduced myself. During the conversation, I discovered that although my previous optician was in a town some 35 miles away, the same guy who did my eye tests there, came here once a month. It was spooky really, because I was feeling sorry that Pete, for that was his name, wouldn't be doing my eye tests any more.

I booked in with him and had my first test. Now, I have to be tested regularly for Glaucoma and during that part of the test, it became clear that the equipment was so old that it wasn't up to doing the job. Pete was frustrated that he couldn't check me out properly. I was concerned that my eyes weren't getting the quality of test that I needed.

So sadly, I had to move to a large chain of opticians whose equipment is totally up-to-date, who have a much larger choice of frames, and whose prices are much lower. I say 'sadly' but of course, I'm much better served now with the new opticians.

Isn't it a shame though, that market forces are driving smaller shops out of business in this way? Presumably, in time, there will only be huge shopping conglomerates left. Or am i I being a dinosaur again? (Don't answer that!)

A POEM WHAT I WROTE

One of my pet hates is door-to-door sellers. Usually it's 'I represent Sparky Electricity. Have you checked your power bills lately?' I hate it when they have learning difficulties or are disabled. It makes it almost impossible to say no when they offer their cheap household goods which you wouldn't dream of buying in a shop.

Occasionally, you get the scary ones. The gypsies selling pegs or offering to sharpen knives. Then you worry whether you will be cursed if you don't comply and will spend the rest of your life doomed, never to win the lottery or meet your frog prince.

One pleasant exception though, many years ago, was a young student who was selling her art. She held up a canvas of a forest scene and it was clear that she had a talent. I succumbed and looked through her other paintings. My eyes lit up when I came upon a seascape, because I am a sucker for water in paintings. I bought it of course and it has pride of place on my study wall.

This preamble is only to set the scene for my experience yesterday morning when the muse came tapping at my shoulder like a salesman offering his wares. I'd been reading a piece about Keats ('How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.....') and here was the muse tempting me with the thought of writing a love poem. My natural lethargy tried to fight him off but then the intrigue kicked in. How hard can it be? What a fatal question that is!

So here is my love poem. Treat it gently, for it is entwined with my soul.

The world is the better that you are in it.
No less is my life for your presence at its heart.

My actions are referenced to you my love
and my thoughts are governed by your nearness.

Let it ever be so.

HAPPY DAYS ARE HERE AGAIN

I have a theory. I have held it for many years now but I reveal it with some trepidation because I suspect that you will disprove it dear reader.

My theory is simple. I believe that for most people, their favourite time of the year is around their birthday. I don't mean the day itself. I mean the seasonal aspects of that time of year.

In my own case, although I love the energy and vibrance of spring with its bursting new growth; although I love the hot summer sun and the balmy days spent on carefree holidays; although I love the crisp, chilly, wintry days, especially when accompanied with a fresh fall of snow; although I love all these, my favourite time is Autumn. To be more precise, it's the latter days of Autumn when the smoke of fires is on the air and the mists begin to appear.

My birthday is on November 6th and this falls the day after 'Guy Fawkes night'. This is when we celebrate the failure of the Gunpowder plotters in their attempt to blow up our parliament in 1605. Traditionally, this involves a large bonfire and letting off fireworks. Nowadays, this is usually done in large public gatherings but when I was a child, each household tended to do their own bonfire and fireworks - health & safety nightmare! Of course, my birthday celebrations turned into a bonfire and firework party which was the most magical way to spend your birthday as you can imagine.

So that is my theory. I think the reason why it holds true for me and for so many others, is that we never quite forget those childhood days of eager anticipation for the big event of our birthday and the accompanying cards and presents. The falling leaves and misty, smoky days were a harbinger of my special day. I hope your birthdays are as special for you.

SURVIVAL AT THE HOSPICE

I spent an amazing day at the children's hospice today and I wanted to share it with you. We had a visit from a guy called 'Brummie' from 'Taste for Adventure'. He is ex-SAS and spent several hours with the children and staff sharing details about survival in the wild.

A dozen or so kids, most in electric wheelchairs were fascinated as Brummie showed us how the most ordinary, everyday objects can be life-savers.

For instance, after a helicopter crash in the jungle, how did a pen and paper help to save lives? The answer is that the group of survivors realised that they were not going to be rescued after some 3 weeks of surviving near the crash site so they sent 4 people off to try to find help. Before they left, they wrote down the names of all the survivors and drew a map of the geographical features which they could see from the crash site, which included a waterfall and two streams which came together to become one. Sadly, the group of 4 fell to their deaths whilst crossing dangerous terrain. However, their bodies were found and the piece of paper made it clear that there were several others lost in the jungle. A local guide recognised where they were from the clumsily drawn map and led rescuers straight to the remaining survivors.

What a story! This guy was absolutely fascinating and had the kids (and staff) held spellbound as he told his tales. We were shown how to build shelters, find food and water and start fires. Having been shown this, staff and children proceeded to build our own shelters and after an outdoor lunch of burgers and hotdogs, they all had a turn at starting fires. We warn kids not to play with matches - quite rightly - but these deserving children had a real thrill out of starting their own fires (under careful supervision).

We were astonished to watch as Brummie rubbed an ordinary household battery against a piece of steel wool and it burst into flames! Apparently, this is one of the commonest causes of household fires when batteries and steel wool come into contact in your garage and then ignite cans of paint. You have been warned!

After saying goodbye to Brummie, we kept the fun going with a range of outdoor activities devised by the Hospice staff. Firstly there was some orienteering to test map-reading skills. Then we had to erect a shelter to keep us safe overnight in the unlikely scenario that a plane crash near the hospice had left us all trapped in the garden. Finally, they were able to test their skills at hunting down a wild animal for food. I was the wild animal and I'm pleased to say that having found me lurking in the undergrowth after a 10-minute search, they decided I wouldn't taste too good!

Fantastic fun for all concerned and many thanks to Brummie - read all about him by clicking the link above.