Amanda Larkman's Blog: Middle-Aged Warrior, page 8

Going to the Gym at 50 (Even though I hate it)

I hate exercising. I’m not one of those evangelical nutcases in spandex extolling the joys of feeling the burn. Also, I am very much not an Instagram influencer, posting shots of my streamlined stomach and rounded backside. Nope. The best you’ll get from me is a picture of my hairy legs – see below.

If you see past posts I’ve written of my (very) slow exercise journey, you will see from my ‘before’ photo that I was very much NOT a person who exercised. The nearest I got was eating toast in front of a Davina fitness DVD.

I’d start the year promising myself I’d do lots of exercising but it never happened. Well certainly not for very long.

The trouble is, suddenly thirty years passed. THIRTY YEARS. I’ve banged on about this before, but I reached a crisis point. The Doc told me I was diabetic. It was a shock, although I knew it was going to happen.

Thankfully, I managed to get enough weight off to bring my sugars down, but I knew I had to change things. So that’s when exercise came in.

I realised today, and it is something I am extraordinarily proud of, I have gone to the gym every week (OK I missed a couple) for two years. I also realised that without being conscious of the change, I have become a bit evangelical about it.

You know they always say if I can do it so can you? Well I really mean it. If I – who have loomed between being six stone over weight to two stone overweight (currently bobbing about between the two extremes) – can now jump on a box, or run for twenty minutes then you definitely can.

I know massive numbers of you are already well ahead of the game and are climbing mountains and jumping out of planes and generally being complete warriors all over the place. You guys are incredible and I take my hat off to you. You don’t need to read this.

I am writing this to me, really; the overweight woman on the sofa who has given up on her body and stuffs in food so they don’t have to think. That person – can be a man or a woman – who feels really crap. All the time. Sick, and stressed, and sweaty and dizzy. I really wish I’d read an article like this ten years ago so I can proudly say now I’ve been to the gym every week for ten years rather than two.

But hey ho. Didn’t happen. Life moves on – no regrets. I’m here now.

I’ve titled this going to the gym but it’s really about exercising. It doesn’t matter where you do it, of course. I am well aware of how lucky I am to have a gym through work, and a reduced deal on a personal training session so when Rob and I go, it only costs us 15 quid each. If you don’t want to do the gym then don’t. But I hope reading on will inspire you to try some exercise if you don’t do any. Trust me. Even if it’s a walk, or climbing up and down the stairs, you will feel a difference. Slowly but surely.

The Gym

Going to the gym can be really intimidating. If you walk into a gym and you feel you shouldn’t be there, or some fit young twat gives you the side-eye, then walk straight out. Keep looking until you see a gym filled with people of all ages, sizes and fitness levels.

If you can, get a trainer. Team up with your partner or a mate – even a couple of mates – to bring the cost down. It makes SUCH a difference as you can have a laugh with them but the trainer will be keeping you interested with a whole host of different things you can do. I say interested, it’s not really that it’s interesting, there is nothing interesting about exercise, it’s just a tad less boring if you do something different each time.

Did you know that you can ask your GP to give you an exercise referral? I’m in the south-east and you can see a document here about how you GP can get you onto a 12 week programme at a local gym for free or a reduced cost. (This is for the south-east but from what I’ve read it’s available across the UK)

I LOVE it when I go to the gym and it’s full of exercise referral people. Mainly because they are usually 70 plus so make me feel like a spring chicken, but also because I feel they are exercising for health and fitness, not so they would look good in an Instagram photo.

Always go early

This is what works for me. I am (clearly!) not a professional. I have to schedule exercise into my calendar. Those times are sacrosanct. I can’t book anything else. I put them in before work because there is no way in God’s Green Earth I am getting off my backside to go to the gym after I get back from work.

You will be amazed at how brilliant you feel when your exercise is done and dusted and you have the whole of the rest of the day not feeling guilty about not doing exercise.

I still can’t believe I go and exercise first thing. I used to be such a slug-a-bed I could sleep until noon, no problem at all. Since I hit 45, though, I find I can’t do that any more. So might as well get the bloody exercise over with.

Also, if you go early, it’s often full of those lovely referral people who are mostly retired and like to get it done before they go to the shops, so you are surrounded by quiet, concentrating nice people rather than over-enthusiastic young fitness freaks taking pictures of their arses.

Put your exercise clothes on the minute you get up

Honestly, this really works. Don’t even think about it. Get those trainers on and walk out the door. I never eat breakfast, I hate exercising on a full stomach but you might be different. Everyone seems to be a bit mixed about this – but that is how I roll.

Exercise clothes. Now there’s an issue. I adopt the sagging leggings with holes in, teamed with an enormous ‘Walking Dead‘ T-Shirt, look.

Today I hit a problem in that all my sagging leggings were in the wash. A good hunt through the drawer unearthed an old pair of purpose built exercise leggings cut off just below the knee.

I pulled them on and was nearly out of the door when I remembered we were in May and I hadn’t shaved my legs since New Year’s Eve. The clock was ticking. Dare I? How bad was it? How bad could it be?

[image error]Answer: Pretty damn bad

Oh God!

Now, I am a feminist and I applaud the right of every woman to grow every hair they want. I hate the fact that it bothers me to have hairy legs but it does. Call me a bad feminist, but this was proper, long hair that I could part, plait, and put up into a pony tail. What to do?

Sod it! I thought, running outside. No time, and I know from bitter experience that any procrastination at all would mean I wouldn’t go to the gym. The whole way there I had imaginary muttered conversations with people who might comment on my hairy legs. Looking at the photo, I should have been more concerned by the fact that one of my socks is Daughter’s school sock from year 4, and the other is Rob’s sports sock from Nike. The Nike sports sock I had sworn blind I hadn’t stolen from him.

Don’t be intimidated by others

Sometimes, if my timing is off, the lovely elderly people in the gym are replaced by those women who I find ridiculously intimidating. You know the ones. Women who have spent their lives regularly exercising, watching their weight and dressing in beautiful work out outfits.

There is one in particular who makes me boil with envy. I call her Ms Chic. She is probably early 60’s and has gorgeous, silvery-white hair she has cut into a sharp Eton crop. I read somewhere that as your face gets old and messy your hair should become super sleek, sharp and neat in contrast.

Well this woman has got that nailed. Not that her face is old and messy, but the sharpness of her hairstyle looks fabulously dramatic and never fails to make me feel like a jelly-fish blob of untidiness and split ends.

I don’t have a sharp, chic, Eton crop because if I did, I would look like this.

[image error]

I see this woman often and I always try and give her a little smile or raised eyebrow, sharing in the horror of exercise as we return dumbbells at the same time.

It never works. She never responds. I have realised I am Not Her Sort and so have stopped smiling wryly at her. I’ve come to the conclusion I don’t really want to make friends with someone who makes me feel sweaty and gargantuan. Not that this poor woman has ever said anything to me. Maybe she’s just deaf or something.

Today was mortifying. As I was cooling down, I stretched out my legs, horrified anew at their hairiness. As I gazed, I noticed an odd lump. ‘Skin Cancer!’, said my hypochondriac brain promptly.

As I’m blind as a bat and not very supple I couldn’t bend over far enough to have a good look. With a shifty glance around the gym I took out my phone to take a picture so I could zoom in and see what it was.

Of course, just as I did this, Ms Chic leaned over me to retrieve a weight from the rack next to me.

I looked up at her, phone camera open and focused on my warty, hairy, pudgy leg. We exchanged a glance. I opened my mouth, searching for any words I could say that could possibly explain what I was doing but found none.

She gave a tiny, almost imperceptible, shake of her head and retreated to the back of the gym.

So. Yes. You may have awkward encounters in the gym, but you can have them anywhere, and being embarrassed won’t kill you. (Whereas a lack of exercise might! Ha!)

Listen to music or watch Netflix

Last week I was so unbelievably gripped by the last episode of season three of Line of Duty I cycled furiously for a full thirty minutes on the exercise bike and didn’t even notice the time passing!

So don’t think there is anything wrong with watching TV while you’re exercising. As long as you peddle hard, you’re still getting the benefit. And the thing is, you’re going to binge watch, why not do it and cycle at the same time?

Music! Music is SO important. Plan it out carefully. I warm up for about 8 minutes on the bike and then speed up for another 10 or 15 minutes or so while catching up on a podcast or watching Netflix. Then I whack on my Exercise play list.

Choose your most favourite, getting on the dance floor, mad out of your head dancing tunes. Start with one that isn’t too fast moving and then choose ones that get quicker and quicker before bringing you back down.

I’m going to share with you my playlist, which is working well for me at the moment… I’d love to hear what tracks get your heart racing.

[image error]

GOD I love the Britney one. ‘You gotta work, bitch’ she croons in my ear. ‘You want a hot body? You want a Bugatti? You want a Maserati? You better work bitch You want a Lamborghini? Sippin’ martinis? Look hot in a bikini? You better work bitch.’

Crude but it works for me. The Eminem one is good when I’m pounding on the treadmill and need to just keep going. The Malo one is BONKERS and is for peak work out point when I’m truly in the zone. ‘Lightning Bolt’ and Elvis Costello’s ‘Pump it Up’ is also on there, as well as some Pearl Jam of course.

It doesn’t matter what you choose, but it must make you feel up and happy – ready to take on the day.

So Why Exercise When It’s Horrible?

I’m not gonna lie. Exercise is always going to be hard. It will make you look tomato red, and sweaty, and slightly mad. It hurts, sometimes for days afterwards. Being out of breath for an extended period of time is awful.Of course everywhere you look you will find research on how good exercise is for you. ‘Exercise is better than a pill at beating Heart Disease‘ for example. It’s not that I didn’t know any of that, I just wasn’t interested. Blah Blah I’d think.

But then I went to the gym. Ran with Dog. Started doing push ups at home. Let me tell you what happened.

And as I said before, and I’ll say again, if I can do it – honestly, anyone can. I was surprised to find that even the most hardened of gym bunnies have said to me when questioned that they didn’t enjoy exercising. Absolutely none of them wake up and say ‘Hooray! I get to exercise today!’ None of them. It’s not just the old, fat ones like me who hate exercise.

The reason people do it is because of how bloody brilliant it can make you feel.

I woke up this morning and immediately swore. ‘Fuck’s sake,’ I said.

‘What?’ said Rob.

‘I’ve got to go to the gym today.’

‘Oh dear. Sorry I can’t go with you this time, I’ve got a sore throat,’ he said smugly.

I moaned the whole morning. But I went. I had the hairy leg issue, the awkward Ms Chic encounter and I thought I was going to have a heart attack on the treadmill. Honestly, I did. I always get this chest pain When running, which is apparently something to do with my inter-costal muscles bouncing around, but it felt like a heart attack.

Stupidly, I had a blow dry the day before and it was ruined at the gym. No matter what configuration I put my hair in, the sweat still ruined it. In the mirrors of the gym my tubby reflection and grim face stared back at me, ‘you can just stop, you know,’ a little voice kept whispering.

But.

Oh yes but.

When I finished I walked towards the door of the gym. The sun was absolutely flooding in and I could see the blue, blue sky. The 2018 Remaster of Chic’s ‘Le Freak’ started to pound in my ears and in my head I was telling myself, ‘fucking yes! I did it.’

People looked at me oddly as I danced out of the gym, hairy-legged, and dripping with sweat, with the biggest grin on my face but I didn’t care.

I shaved my legs the second I got in the shower.

Exercise gives you a sense of achievement. Every time you go you will be a little stronger and be able to run a little further.

Don’t compare yourself to others. Focus on yourself.

Stronger means if you fall you are less likely to break anything. You don’t have to ask other to help you lift things. You can manhandle your children more easily. You can punch anyone who might attack you. You walk taller. Being able to run a little further means your heart and lungs are working better.

Exercise gives you time just for yourself. You can’t think about anything else except how godawful this exercise is and how much longer it will last for. You don’t think about work, or kids, or partner, or money, or family, bills. Worries you’ve been mulling over often get mysteriously solved when you put them in the back of your mind, girding your loins as you approach the climbing machine.

Exercise helps with middle-aged rage. It really does. Something to do with the hormones released. You can’t be angry if you’re knackered. Personally it sorted (for the most part) my anxiety and hypochondria.

After exercise you can walk into the sun, strong and powerful, the best music in your ears knowing you don’t have to do it again that day. And yes, if you do it often enough, it does make you feel a bit high.

What do you all think? do you exercise – what gets you off the sofa? What music gets you going?

A Funny Old Month

It’s been a funny old past few months. It’s the first week of May and it’s absolutely TIPPING it down with rain. I am feeling a bit smug as I’ve just got back from the gym and managed to hold a plank for a minute THREE times. Thankfully, she didn’t ask me to jump on a box this time. A good thing, as I’ve spent the entire weekend eating nothing but toast and instant noodles.

I must tell you about these noodles. Damn Amazon for supplying these delicious packets of sin and synthetic chemicals. Not only are they insanely cheap (£16 for 40 packets, God help me), but they are insanely addictive. You can make them in about two seconds and I have never tasted anything like it. You can buy them here (I don’t get a commission) but I beg of you. Don’t. Don’t make the mistake I did. It’s too late for me. Save yourselves.

[image error]Damn you, cheap, delicious, fried instant noodles

So thanks to my obsession with these little packets of deliciousness, I am looking at myself in the gym mirror with a sigh in my heart. When I’m being a warrior doing a plank, or pushing up weights, or squatting like a COLOSSUS against the wall, I can feel my muscles.

Two years of gym going has meant for the first time in my life I can actually feel iron-like muscles in my thighs and arms. I can confidently commit to a one minute plank without breaking down in tears, or resorting to emotionally blackmailing, or outright threatening, my personal trainer.

Then what do I do? Spend a week mainlining toast and instant noodles. So it’s all very well having all those muscles and enough strength to wrestle my daughter into her school tights, but it’s not much good wrapped in a pudgy, wobbly, pink shell suit of fat.

Ah well, I’m down to my last two packets. I just have to make sure I don’t buy any more. Once those are gone I’m dedicating myself to revealing my muscles. It sounds better saying that than losing the fat, I think.

I am as mystified by the children as ever. Day by day I am made aware of the chilling fact that they are separate individuals in their own right and any control I had over their upbringing has come to a sudden end.

Son has spent the last two years of his life wearing tracksuits with hoodies and playing Fortnite. Occasionally we have screaming rows and I ban the Playstation for life and he has a rest for a day or two before I forget, or I’m busy, and he’s back on it.

The great thing is he will do ANYTHING to keep playing the damn game. Bring the stuff in from the car? Done. Do a few hours revision? Done. Finally, I have something over him. Unfortunately Daughter continues to not give a crap about anything so I could lock her in a cell with nothing but a chair and she’d happily kick her heels and sing. Anything rather than tidy her room, get ready for school or – God Forbid! – do anything around the house.

Last week Son had a non-uniform day. ‘I want grills,’ he told me. ‘What?’ I said. Now. I don’t know whether it’s my increasing age, but I find I can’t hear a goddammned word he’s saying. I can hear the woodpeckers outside, I can hear the robins’ liquid trills and the thrum of the dishwasher, but I can’t hear my son.

I really want to record him speaking to verify this. OK I’m going a bit mutton, but I’m sure I can hear my pupils OK. Why does he feels he needs to direct all comments to his collar bone? He’s worn his hoodie for so long I’ve forgotten what he looks like. In fact, I managed to get a photo of his face last week by threatening death and destruction and eventually used my superior body weight to pin him to the wall. He’s so beautiful! (Cross. But beautiful.) I’ve had to put it in my favourites on my camera roll so I can look at it every now and then to comfort me on those days when I only see the back of his hooded head.

After much shouting of ‘I’m NOT mumbling… Jeez!’ eye roll, I establish he wants to buy (with his own money) some fake gold teeth to wear to school ‘for a laugh’. I didn’t even know these things existed – here is a close up of my gorgeous boy with his new teeth. The minute he smiled Dog went mad and barked and barked as if he was a masked robber with a bag full of swag.

[image error]

Of course Daughter is equally exasperating, mostly because she has an absolute will of iron and if she hasn’t had enough sleep turns into a frowning gremlin. Sometimes, every now and then, I can banish the gremlin by making her laugh, or distracting her, but too often I just lose my temper and yell, which is NOT the way to banish the gremlin. It just feeds them and they get bigger and badder.

Generally, though, she’s still a little girl and love horses, and Dog, and singing, and her friends. Last week she was in floods because Dog was a very bad Dog indeed.

[image error]Look at her… butter wouldn’t melt

Look at this Dog. Doesn’t she look like a good Dog? Well, as you know, she can be very bad. I love her very much, of course, almost as much as I love the children. She has done some awful things in the past, but now she is a mature four year old, she is much less jumpy, chewy, and barky.

If you look closely at the above photo, though, you will see shame in those big brown eyes. Last week, Daughter was in the garden and while I was mucking out the filth that is the children’s rooms, I kept hearing a lot of quacking. As the nearest body of water is about five miles away I thought it was odd, but was quickly distracted by the shocking number of cheesy Doritos packets I had discovered under Son’s bed.

About ten minutes later I raced into the garden when I heard Daughter scream ‘Nnooooooo Dog!!!!’ as if she was being savaged.

Dog is the sweetest, kindest, dopiest and least aggressive dog you can imagine. You could take a giant ham bone from her salivating jaws and she wouldn’t blink an eye. But. Still. You hear awful things about dogs going on the turn, so I raced into the garden my heart thumping.

Thankfully, Daughter was fine, but with a shaking hand she pointed at Dog. There she was. Tail wagging, a big grin on her face and a small, fluffy yellow thing in her mouth. Behind her, a large duck circled in the sky, quacking mournfully.

‘Is that…?’ I asked.

‘It’s a DUCKLING, Mummy,’ sobbed Daughter. ‘Dog just grabbed it and she won’t let it go.’

Dog continued to wag her tail. Her eyebrows pricked up hopefully waiting for me to praise her for fetching this strange yellow thing. She was holding it very gently in her mouth, but I could see the Duckling was either dead, or doing a very good impression.

‘Drop it, Dog!’ I yelled it my best, master/servant voice.

Dog gently rested the fluffy bundle of feathers on the ground and, head lowered, took five paces back like a respectful servant. Mother Duck flew one last, slow, swooping circle over the sorry scene before disappearing over the horizon with a final, echoing, quack.

Of course, we had to have a funeral, and Dog was very much in the Dog House for the next week. No chicken fillets for her!

Daughter was slightly cheered up by planning an ornate funeral, bordering on Victorian in is melodrama and pomp. So now, forever in our garden, – well until the sharpie pen writing runs out – it’s Daughter’s solemn tribute to a fallen duck.

[image error]‘Here lies duck. A cute ducling who unfortunatelly died.’

A Funny Old Month

It’s been a funny old past few months. It’s the first week of May and it’s absolutely TIPPING it down with rain. I am feeling a bit smug as I’ve just got back from the gym and managed to hold a plank for a minute THREE times. Thankfully, she didn’t ask me to jump on a box this time. A good thing, as I’ve spent the entire weekend eating nothing but toast and instant noodles.

I must tell you about these noodles. Damn Amazon for supplying these delicious packets of sin and synthetic chemicals. Not only are they insanely cheap (£16 for 40 packets, God help me), but they are insanely addictive. You can make them in about two seconds and I have never tasted anything like it. You can buy them here (I don’t get a commission) but I beg of you. Don’t. Don’t make the mistake I did. It’s too late for me. Save yourselves.

[image error]Damn you, cheap, delicious, fried instant noodles

So thanks to my obsession with these little packets of deliciousness, I am looking at myself in the gym mirror with a sigh in my heart. When I’m being a warrior doing a plank, or pushing up weights, or squatting like a COLOSSUS against the wall, I can feel my muscles.

Two years of gym going has meant for the first time in my life I can actually feel iron-like muscles in my thighs and arms. I can confidently commit to a one minute plank without breaking down in tears, or resorting to emotionally blackmailing, or outright threatening, my personal trainer.

Then what do I do? Spend a week mainlining toast and instant noodles. So it’s all very well having all those muscles and enough strength to wrestle my daughter into her school tights, but it’s not much good wrapped in a pudgy, wobbly, pink shell suit of fat.

Ah well, I’m down to my last two packets. I just have to make sure I don’t buy any more. Once those are gone I’m dedicating myself to revealing my muscles. It sounds better saying that than losing the fat, I think.

I am as mystified by the children as ever. Day by day I am made aware of the chilling fact that they are separate individuals in their own right and any control I had over their upbringing has come to a sudden end.

Son has spent the last two years of his life wearing tracksuits with hoodies and playing Fortnite. Occasionally we have screaming rows and I ban the Playstation for life and he has a rest for a day or two before I forget, or I’m busy, and he’s back on it.

The great thing is he will do ANYTHING to keep playing the damn game. Bring the stuff in from the car? Done. Do a few hours revision? Done. Finally, I have something over him. Unfortunately Daughter continues to not give a crap about anything so I could lock her in a cell with nothing but a chair and she’d happily kick her heels and sing. Anything rather than tidy her room, get ready for school or – God Forbid! – do anything around the house.

Last week Son had a non-uniform day. ‘I want grills,’ he told me. ‘What?’ I said. Now. I don’t know whether it’s my increasing age, but I find I can’t hear a goddammned word he’s saying. I can hear the woodpeckers outside, I can hear the robins’ liquid trills and the thrum of the dishwasher, but I can’t hear my son.

I really want to record him speaking to verify this. OK I’m going a bit mutton, but I’m sure I can hear my pupils OK. Why does he feels he needs to direct all comments to his collar bone? He’s worn his hoodie for so long I’ve forgotten what he looks like. In fact, I managed to get a photo of his face last week by threatening death and destruction and eventually used my superior body weight to pin him to the wall. He’s so beautiful! (Cross. But beautiful.) I’ve had to put it in my favourites on my camera roll so I can look at it every now and then to comfort me on those days when I only see the back of his hooded head.

After much shouting of ‘I’m NOT mumbling… Jeez!’ eye roll, I establish he wants to buy (with his own money) some fake gold teeth to wear to school ‘for a laugh’. I didn’t even know these things existed – here is a close up of my gorgeous boy with his new teeth. The minute he smiled Dog went mad and barked and barked as if he was a masked robber with a bag full of swag.

[image error]

Of course Daughter is equally exasperating, mostly because she has an absolute will of iron and if she hasn’t had enough sleep turns into a frowning gremlin. Sometimes, every now and then, I can banish the gremlin by making her laugh, or distracting her, but too often I just lose my temper and yell, which is NOT the way to banish the gremlin. It just feeds them and they get bigger and badder.

Generally, though, she’s still a little girl and love horses, and Dog, and singing, and her friends. Last week she was in floods because Dog was a very bad Dog indeed.

[image error]Look at her… butter wouldn’t melt

Look at this Dog. Doesn’t she look like a good Dog? Well, as you know, she can be very bad. I love her very much, of course, almost as much as I love the children. She has done some awful things in the past, but now she is a mature four year old, she is much less jumpy, chewy, and barky.

If you look closely at the above photo, though, you will see shame in those big brown eyes. Last week, Daughter was in the garden and while I was mucking out the filth that is the children’s rooms, I kept hearing a lot of quacking. As the nearest body of water is about five miles away I thought it was odd, but was quickly distracted by the shocking number of cheesy Doritos packets I had discovered under Son’s bed.

About ten minutes later I raced into the garden when I heard Daughter scream ‘Nnooooooo Dog!!!!’ as if she was being savaged.

Dog is the sweetest, kindest, dopiest and least aggressive dog you can imagine. You could take a giant ham bone from her salivating jaws and she wouldn’t blink an eye. But. Still. You hear awful things about dogs going on the turn, so I raced into the garden my heart thumping.

Thankfully, Daughter was fine, but with a shaking hand she pointed at Dog. There she was. Tail wagging, a big grin on her face and a small, fluffy yellow thing in her mouth. Behind her, a large duck circled in the sky, quacking mournfully.

‘Is that…?’ I asked.

‘It’s a DUCKLING, Mummy,’ sobbed Daughter. ‘Dog just grabbed it and she won’t let it go.’

Dog continued to wag her tail. Her eyebrows pricked up hopefully waiting for me to praise her for fetching this strange yellow thing. She was holding it very gently in her mouth, but I could see the Duckling was either dead, or doing a very good impression.

‘Drop it, Dog!’ I yelled it my best, master/servant voice.

Dog gently rested the fluffy bundle of feathers on the ground and, head lowered, took five paces back like a respectful servant. Mother Duck flew one last, slow, swooping circle over the sorry scene before disappearing over the horizon with a final, echoing, quack.

Of course, we had to have a funeral, and Dog was very much in the Dog House for the next week. No chicken fillets for her!

Daughter was slightly cheered up by planning an ornate funeral, bordering on Victorian in is melodrama and pomp. So now, forever in our garden, – well until the sharpie pen writing runs out – it’s Daughter’s solemn tribute to a fallen duck.

[image error]‘Here lies duck. A cute ducling who unfortunatelly died.’

You have GOT to listen to this Podcast

I’m having a bit of a Jenny Eclair moment.  Since discovering her absolutely BRILLIANT podcast, which she does with the adorable Judith Holder, I’ve re-read her past novels, Camberwell Beauty, Life, Death and Vanilla Slices, and Moving. (I am giving you the links to Amazon so you can buy them. Since I got chucked off Amazon Associates as I never sold anything, this is entirely out of the goodness of my own heart as I don’t receive a penny if you go on to buy them.)

I have just started Having a Lovely Time, and I am looking forward to Inheritance, which comes out in August.

Eclair is a brilliant writer.  It’s funny, as I don’t particularly like how her books make me feel, but they are strangely compelling. The themes are dark.; sadness and melancholy well from every page, and I’m a happy ending sort of woman so it is unusual for me to carry on reading if I suspect things aren’t going to end well.

Actually, that’s unfair. Her books do have a kind of happy ending, but they are all a bit too real. They certainly have a resolution – which is very important to me, I HATE unresolved books and will hurl them out of the window in disgust – but it’s a resolution which is hard-won, human, and complicated.

There is none of the stand up about Eclair’s writing. It is funny at times, but not in the way you would expect from listening to her podcast or comedy routines. You can hear Northern cadences in her work but it’s never glib. It is a testament to her writing skills that I have read four of her novels on the trot and have not been wearied by repeated tropes and images that you often notice in other authors if you read a lot of their work at once.

Much as I love Liane Moriarty – and I really do, sincerely, adore her books – she will often compare a sleeping character to a sunbather. Harlen Coben constantly uses the simile  ‘she greeted him like he was a recently released POW’ in his wonderful Myron Bolitar collection. Although saying that, Eclair is very fond of characters with freckles.

The crispness of Eclair’s writing is striking. Never ornate, images are used carefully so when they do appear they are memorable. A woman looking out of a window describes what she sees: ‘all that is visible … are trees and roofs, all those grey slate lids sitting on top of other people’s lives, road after road of memory boxes.’

That, to me, is an example of excellent writing. A strong, solid, and unusual metaphor which does exactly what metaphors should. Comparing roofs to lids which we can lift to peer into the ‘memory box’ of a house is inspired, and cleverly weaves in with the key themes of the novel.

That’s the trouble I find with Eclair. So many of her novels are to do with addressing and sorting the minutiae and layers of memory after a long life. Often, her characters are looking back, and having finally hit 50, this all too close to the bone. The definition of getting old is when you realise you look back more than you look forward. Eclair’s novels sound deeply within me like a struck tuning fork, and I have to force myself to stop sifting through old memories as her characters seem to be urging me to do.

In Life, Death and Vanilla Slices, an old woman in a coma sorts through all of her memories like a housewife. She restores order to the jumble and fragments of her life, picturing herself emptying the drawers of her brain and shelving memories neatly in her mind. I loved the way this conceit worked, it appealed to my recent obsession with keeping everything in its place to cope with Middle-Aged Rage.

Eclair is wise to keep her authorial voice unobtrusive, the characters speak for themselves and their narratives are delivered without judgement. Great compassion is there, even when presenting the most horrible and repellent of people. I admire Eclair for her ability to constantly challenge my perception and yet still keep me hooked. Characters you hate with utter certainty are the same ones you find yourself crying over at the end.

Eclair, in her stand up and podcast, can be cruel. Funny, yes. But cruel. Unapologetically so. (This is why the combination with the warm and comfortable Judith Holder works so well. I don’t want to make her sound too comfortable, she is just as happy to drop an F bomb as Eclair, but I always find it slightly shocking when she does so.)

In Eclair’s novels, her characters can be very unkind about women. Eclair’s prose has a hatpin sharpness when pricking the balloons of smugness, hypocrisy and self-indulgence. It made me shiver with unease when one of her characters remembers his wife, ‘ten years ago… when Alice was still the right side of fat and bothered to wear her contact lenses.’

Oooh ouch. I am so with Alice here. Eclair could be describing me. Is this what my Rob thinks when he beholds me stout, bespectacled, and make-up-free when he returns from work? This sentence is like a lance in my side.  Now, the man who says this is a cheating wanker, but I find it interesting. Is this how some men see their wives or is it a reflection or manifestation of some kind of self-loathing found within the author?

Eclair is not afraid to explore the disappointments of life. The only reason I can bear reading her novels is that ultimately, she does seem to be able to wrestle some sense of redemption or resolution out of the chaos and mess of her character’s lives. Rob describes me as ‘a head in the clouds optimist’ and he’s right, I’ll dismiss worries like leaking roofs, dripping taps, and unlikeable children with an airy ‘it’ll be fine, I’m sure it will.’ But Eclair is unflinching in her ability to force you to look at life clearly – the good and the bad. She shows us that mess, and sadness, failed marriages and selfish children is all part of being alive – it would be nice if she had just a few more uncomplicated happy bits though.

The Podcast – Older and Wider

Oh God I could listen to this podcast all day. The only thing wrong about it is it is too short. The format is straight forward, they start with a little natter – usually centering around food Judith Holder has brought in. The second half is the guest section and every guest so far has been brilliant. They started with Eve Pollard and familiar names such as Helen Lederer, Maria McErlane, Anneka Rice and Penny Smith. Other women I hadn’t heard of but loved immediately; I particularity enjoyed hearing Dillie Keane. I had never heard of Fascinating Aida but I’m so glad I have now and you must listen to/watch them

The one thing the guests have in common is they are women over 50 (they have the odd young-un and (shockingly) a man once) and they have all been wonderful. Warm, funny, sharp, but always entertaining and interesting.

There are so many highlights I haven’t got time to tell you them all but I will mention my absolute favourites.

In Episode 10 Eclair and Holder discuss their adventures  staying in hotels. Eclair begins by talking about buying some Chardonnay and a snack box of cheese and biscuits which she planned to enjoy in bed after a bath. It is almost sinful the way she describes the anticipated pleasure of a bath, PJs, and a hotel bed all to herself accompanied only by cheese and biscuits and a bottle of wine. Sadly, she loses her snack box and oh ‘the crushing disappointment’ she feels when she discovered her plans have gone awry. ‘I should have tucked them in my pants,’ she says mournfully.

Holder then chats about her ‘nasty turn in the night’. She woke up with terrible chest pains and worried she was having a heart attack. She reassured herself it must be heartburn and, with no Gaviscon to hand, remembers milk was supposed to help.

All that was available was ‘four sachets of those little pots of milk’ which she ‘swigged back’.  The image of Holder methodically unpeeling and knocking back four of these

for some reason made me laugh so much I snorted tea out of my nose and had to rewind the podcast.

This is what I love. The guests are great and very interesting, but I like the chat between Eclair and Holder best. They make me laugh every time I listen, and I wish the podcasts would come out more often.

There is something very comforting about it. It’s not that it’s comfortable, their chats can be filthy, shocking, uproariously funny and sometimes very sad. Eclair and Holder cover all sorts of aspects of every day life. From Holder moaning about Bridezilla daughters to Eclair discovering she wasn’t super fit, the bike she had hired was actually electric. ‘That’s why I wasn’t huffing and puffing and being sick!’ exclaims Eclair. (Ha! That’s Ep 11) Something about listening to two clever, hilarious, and wise women chat in this way  makes me really happy.

I’d imagine in real life Eclair is a bit frightening, so it is important Holder is there as she brings some sweetness to Eclair’s laser sharp asides. A particularly good example of the chemistry between them is to be found in Ep 17 when Eclair describes how she learned to masturbate using the stair banisters. Her stories of sizing up new houses by evaluating the banister spacing for orgasm purposes had me howling with laughter. The absolute best bit, though, is Holder’s response to Eclair’s filthy tales. Her shrieks and hoots of outrage and gasps of shock before she dissolves into infectious giggles has me in stitches.

I follow both Eclair and Holder on twitter and would urge you to do so as well – they are very good value. However, I am sad to say I have been unable to control my fangirling and have tweeted them a few times.

I have had no response! However, despite this rude lack of acknowledgement of my gauche fangirling from both Eclair and Holding, I will bear no grudges and still recommend Eclair’s books and the Older and Wider Podcast to everyone I meet.

What do you think? Have you heard it? Or read any of Eclair’s books? Let me know! Also, I would love to hear any recommendations you have to keep the angst and despair of growing older at bay.

You have GOT to listen to this Podcast

I’m having a bit of a Jenny Eclair moment.  Since discovering her absolutely BRILLIANT podcast, which she does with the adorable Judith Holder, I’ve re-read her past novels, Camberwell Beauty, Life, Death and Vanilla Slices, and Moving. (I am giving you the links to Amazon so you can buy them. Since I got chucked off Amazon Associates as I never sold anything, this is entirely out of the goodness of my own heart as I don’t receive a penny if you go on to buy them.)

I have just started Having a Lovely Time, and I am looking forward to Inheritance, which comes out in August.

Eclair is a brilliant writer.  It’s funny, as I don’t particularly like how her books make me feel, but they are strangely compelling. The themes are dark.; sadness and melancholy well from every page, and I’m a happy ending sort of woman so it is unusual for me to carry on reading if I suspect things aren’t going to end well.

Actually, that’s unfair. Her books do have a kind of happy ending, but they are all a bit too real. They certainly have a resolution – which is very important to me, I HATE unresolved books and will hurl them out of the window in disgust – but it’s a resolution which is hard-won, human, and complicated.

There is none of the stand up about Eclair’s writing. It is funny at times, but not in the way you would expect from listening to her podcast or comedy routines. You can hear Northern cadences in her work but it’s never glib. It is a testament to her writing skills that I have read four of her novels on the trot and have not been wearied by repeated tropes and images that you often notice in other authors if you read a lot of their work at once.

Much as I love Liane Moriarty – and I really do, sincerely, adore her books – she will often compare a sleeping character to a sunbather. Harlen Coben constantly uses the simile  ‘she greeted him like he was a recently released POW’ in his wonderful Myron Bolitar collection. Although saying that, Eclair is very fond of characters with freckles.

The crispness of Eclair’s writing is striking. Never ornate, images are used carefully so when they do appear they are memorable. A woman looking out of a window describes what she sees: ‘all that is visible … are trees and roofs, all those grey slate lids sitting on top of other people’s lives, road after road of memory boxes.’

That, to me, is an example of excellent writing. A strong, solid, and unusual metaphor which does exactly what metaphors should. Comparing roofs to lids which we can lift to peer into the ‘memory box’ of a house is inspired, and cleverly weaves in with the key themes of the novel.

That’s the trouble I find with Eclair. So many of her novels are to do with addressing and sorting the minutiae and layers of memory after a long life. Often, her characters are looking back, and having finally hit 50, this all too close to the bone. The definition of getting old is when you realise you look back more than you look forward. Eclair’s novels sound deeply within me like a struck tuning fork, and I have to force myself to stop sifting through old memories as her characters seem to be urging me to do.

In Life, Death and Vanilla Slices, an old woman in a coma sorts through all of her memories like a housewife. She restores order to the jumble and fragments of her life, picturing herself emptying the drawers of her brain and shelving memories neatly in her mind. I loved the way this conceit worked, it appealed to my recent obsession with keeping everything in its place to cope with Middle-Aged Rage.

Eclair is wise to keep her authorial voice unobtrusive, the characters speak for themselves and their narratives are delivered without judgement. Great compassion is there, even when presenting the most horrible and repellent of people. I admire Eclair for her ability to constantly challenge my perception and yet still keep me hooked. Characters you hate with utter certainty are the same ones you find yourself crying over at the end.

Eclair, in her stand up and podcast, can be cruel. Funny, yes. But cruel. Unapologetically so. (This is why the combination with the warm and comfortable Judith Holder works so well. I don’t want to make her sound too comfortable, she is just as happy to drop an F bomb as Eclair, but I always find it slightly shocking when she does so.)

In Eclair’s novels, her characters can be very unkind about women. Eclair’s prose has a hatpin sharpness when pricking the balloons of smugness, hypocrisy and self-indulgence. It made me shiver with unease when one of her characters remembers his wife, ‘ten years ago… when Alice was still the right side of fat and bothered to wear her contact lenses.’

Oooh ouch. I am so with Alice here. Eclair could be describing me. Is this what my Rob thinks when he beholds me stout, bespectacled, and make-up-free when he returns from work? This sentence is like a lance in my side.  Now, the man who says this is a cheating wanker, but I find it interesting. Is this how some men see their wives or is it a reflection or manifestation of some kind of self-loathing found within the author?

Eclair is not afraid to explore the disappointments of life. The only reason I can bear reading her novels is that ultimately, she does seem to be able to wrestle some sense of redemption or resolution out of the chaos and mess of her character’s lives. Rob describes me as ‘a head in the clouds optimist’ and he’s right, I’ll dismiss worries like leaking roofs, dripping taps, and unlikeable children with an airy ‘it’ll be fine, I’m sure it will.’ But Eclair is unflinching in her ability to force you to look at life clearly – the good and the bad. She shows us that mess, and sadness, failed marriages and selfish children is all part of being alive – it would be nice if she had just a few more uncomplicated happy bits though.

The Podcast – Older and Wider

Oh God I could listen to this podcast all day. The only thing wrong about it is it is too short. The format is straight forward, they start with a little natter – usually centering around food Judith Holder has brought in. The second half is the guest section and every guest so far has been brilliant. They started with Eve Pollard and familiar names such as Helen Lederer, Maria McErlane, Anneka Rice and Penny Smith. Other women I hadn’t heard of but loved immediately; I particularity enjoyed hearing Dillie Keane. I had never heard of Fascinating Aida but I’m so glad I have now and you must listen to/watch them

The one thing the guests have in common is they are women over 50 (they have the odd young-un and (shockingly) a man once) and they have all been wonderful. Warm, funny, sharp, but always entertaining and interesting.

There are so many highlights I haven’t got time to tell you them all but I will mention my absolute favourites.

In Episode 10 Eclair and Holder discuss their adventures  staying in hotels. Eclair begins by talking about buying some Chardonnay and a snack box of cheese and biscuits which she planned to enjoy in bed after a bath. It is almost sinful the way she describes the anticipated pleasure of a bath, PJs, and a hotel bed all to herself accompanied only by cheese and biscuits and a bottle of wine. Sadly, she loses her snack box and oh ‘the crushing disappointment’ she feels when she discovered her plans have gone awry. ‘I should have tucked them in my pants,’ she says mournfully.

Holder then chats about her ‘nasty turn in the night’. She woke up with terrible chest pains and worried she was having a heart attack. She reassured herself it must be heartburn and, with no Gaviscon to hand, remembers milk was supposed to help.

All that was available was ‘four sachets of those little pots of milk’ which she ‘swigged back’.  The image of Holder methodically unpeeling and knocking back four of these

for some reason made me laugh so much I snorted tea out of my nose and had to rewind the podcast.

This is what I love. The guests are great and very interesting, but I like the chat between Eclair and Holder best. They make me laugh every time I listen, and I wish the podcasts would come out more often.

There is something very comforting about it. It’s not that it’s comfortable, their chats can be filthy, shocking, uproariously funny and sometimes very sad. Eclair and Holder cover all sorts of aspects of every day life. From Holder moaning about Bridezilla daughters to Eclair discovering she wasn’t super fit, the bike she had hired was actually electric. ‘That’s why I wasn’t huffing and puffing and being sick!’ exclaims Eclair. (Ha! That’s Ep 11) Something about listening to two clever, hilarious, and wise women chat in this way  makes me really happy.

I’d imagine in real life Eclair is a bit frightening, so it is important Holder is there as she brings some sweetness to Eclair’s laser sharp asides. A particularly good example of the chemistry between them is to be found in Ep 17 when Eclair describes how she learned to masturbate using the stair banisters. Her stories of sizing up new houses by evaluating the banister spacing for orgasm purposes had me howling with laughter. The absolute best bit, though, is Holder’s response to Eclair’s filthy tales. Her shrieks and hoots of outrage and gasps of shock before she dissolves into infectious giggles has me in stitches.

I follow both Eclair and Holder on twitter and would urge you to do so as well – they are very good value. However, I am sad to say I have been unable to control my fangirling and have tweeted them a few times.

I have had no response! However, despite this rude lack of acknowledgement of my gauche fangirling from both Eclair and Holding, I will bear no grudges and still recommend Eclair’s books and the Older and Wider Podcast to everyone I meet.

What do you think? Have you heard it? Or read any of Eclair’s books? Let me know! Also, I would love to hear any recommendations you have to keep the angst and despair of growing older at bay.

Balm for Middle-Aged Rage

I was HORRENDOUSLY messy as a teenager. It would drive my Mum to distraction. I could never understand it, ‘it’s FINE!’ I’d say. ‘I’ll do it in a minute!’ rolling my eyes as mountains of mess gathered around me. ‘Jeez, Mum,’ I’d think, ‘just shut the door on the mess, it’s not a big problem – deal with it in the morning.’

Now, of course, Karma has come back to bite me on my big old ass, as the young people would say. As my children enter the dark, empty-crisp-packet strewn, tunnels of adolescence, I find my rage levels have risen accordingly.

I’ve been really looking forward to this Easter holiday. The end of term was a nightmare and I was on my knees, longing for long, sunny, stress-free days with plenty of time to update my blog and finish my god-damned book.

Well it didn’t work out like that.  There are a number of reasons for this but all the stress and rage got me thinking about why I get so angry and also what helps calm the anger.

I’ve decided it’s all about control. I never used to be like this; I now realise it’s because I didn’t need control in my life – that’s what grown-ups were for! They were the ones who dealt with problems, who brought order to my existence, and if anything went wrong I could just get hold of a grown up.

Now I’m 50 I have to accept I’m the grown-up. Also, being a grown-up sucks big time because it turns out things happen over which you have no control and NOBODY knows the right answer. There is no bloody right answer. (I am aware I am arriving very late at this particular party)

I have learned the illusion of control is what helps you get through the day. It’s how all humans get through the day. Life is chaotic and random, and it is only by imposing an illusory sense of order that we can cope. I’m not talking about any kind of big philosophical idea here, I am talking about having a fully stocked loo roll cupboard.

The more I thought about this the more sense it made as to why I instantly explode into spitting rage when I find a crumpled pile of towels on the bathroom floor for the third time within an hour. It’s because those neatly hung towels are the only defence I have against the terrifying chaos of the universe.

The last two or three weeks have been trying. I am conscious they are very much first world problems, but trying nonetheless.

The Children

Ah the children. I adore them, of course, and part of me loves that they are becoming funny, thoughtful, interesting adults; Jesus Christ though, it’s also like suddenly being forced to take on strange lodgers who help themselves to your food and wipe their ketchupped faces with clean TEA TOWELS for God’s sake.

Let’s start with Daughter. It turns out she’s short sighted. Now I am very short sighted (-7 prescription) and it has caused all sorts of terrible problems, the least of which is my inability to walk across a room safely without glasses. Severe myopia can cause detached retinas (as in my case), and you can be more at risk of macular degeneration and glaucoma.

These are all things I don’t want Daughter to have. I was therefore delighted to discover that nowadays there are these amazing contact lenses that slow down the severity of myopia so hopefully stopping my daughter at a -3 level rather than going on to sight as bad as mine.

OK so it costs a fortune, but what price sight? etc etc.

The trouble is my Daughter HATES putting them in. I’m not allowed to help her (according to the optician) but apparently I DO have to sit right outside the bathroom door for security when she puts them in.

She knows they are going to go in eventually. I know they are going to go in eventually. However, I have to endure the most horrendous, guilt inducing monologue before this can happen.

‘I can’t DO this, mummy! It won’t go in! My eyes are all red now. This isn’t working. I’m HOLDING it close to my eye. I don’t want to wear lenses. Can’t I have today as my rest day? I’ll just wear glasses. You’re short-sighted and you’re OK. OW! It HURRRTTSSS!’ Pause for dramatic sobbing. A moment of silence. ‘I can’t DO THIS! Now I’ve broken one. And the other one. You’ll have to give me two more. This is stupid. I HATE LENSES. Why do I have to wear lenses? Why are you making me wear them? Why doesn’t Brother have to wear them? OOWWWWW!! I’ve broken another one.’

I cannot express how I hate hearing his every morning. I can feel my shoulders rising with stress as I write it. I feel guilty, worried, cross as it’s going to cost us thousands over the years, then guilty for being cross. Eventually I cave in. ‘OK, Darling, give it a rest for now and come and sit with me and you can try again later when you’re a bit more calm.’

She bounces out of the bathroom and lolls about on the bed listening to Harry Potter on Audible. After about 20 minutes I pluck up enough courage to try again. ‘Right, that’s nearly half an hour now – why not have another go?’

She looks at me, eyes wide and puzzled. ‘Have another go at what?’

‘Your lenses!’

‘Oh I’ve got them in already,’ she says. ‘The popped in really quickly in the end.’

Meanwhile, Son is revising for exams. He is not happy. Every day I ask him to revise and his response is, ‘I don’t want to revise. I want to play Fortnite.’ A simple, bold statement but one that is difficult to argue with without getting very cross and shouty.

He is also suffering a nasty bout of eczema which has blown up over his eyelid and is nasty and sore and he keeps scratching it, making my whole body twitch with the mother horror shudder – if you know what I mean. I’ve taken him to the doctor, we’ve got the cream but every time I have to apply it – and I mean EVERY TIME – he has the screaming heeby jeebies and I have to actually pin him down with all my body weight (he may be taller than me but he’ll never be heavier – ha!) to apply the damn stuff.

The Builders

We had the builders in.

My beloved, darling Rob has spent every weekend and  holiday since last July building a kitchen from scratch. The fact that he has done this despite suffering chronic depression and anxiety shows just how amazing he is. I have promised him that one day I will write a blog called ‘We built this kitchen on Agomelatine‘  It’s an anti-depressant drug which has very few side effects and has helped Rob’s focus and concentration. The brilliant thing about it is it has no withdrawal symptoms so he can come off them at any time.

Here is the beautiful kitchen he made.

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I think it’s brilliant, and I will fight anyone who says differently.

While we have to live where I work we rent out the place as a holiday let and we have a family of 6 hoping to have a  lovely break here in May.

This didn’t give us much time to transfer the old kitchen into a lovely new bedroom for Daughter, as well as overhauling a manky old bathroom.

Rob was also on his knees and needed a break so unusually we decided to get builders in.

This is all very emotional as pretty much all of the building work we have done in the past Rob did with his lovely old dad, who we lost to Aplastic Anaemia just over a year ago. It made his loss all the more powerful for Rob when he didn’t have his Dad to turn to when he had a question about brick work or sorting out the plumbing.

We got hold of a builder who had done a great job on a cupboard we had fitted a few years ago. He came and looked at the job. ‘No problem! Couple of weeks. Sorted.’

Great! We thought. Let’s do this! Rob was more cautious – he pointed out that it was an old house and problems were bound to crop up. The builder was confident but suggested we see how it went and agreed the quote was flexible.

Rob spent the weekend outlining every job we wanted to get done. He put it on a list and also sketched a diagram detailing where plug sockets etc went. We sent it to Bob the Builder (not his real name).

All fine. quote agreed. Work begins.

Three days later Bob gets in touch. He’s underestimated the amount of work needed. The quote needs to go up. Fine, we say. We understand.

The job jumps from two weeks to three.

Rob and I find beautiful mosaic tiles for the bathroom. He and I visit Bob on site with a sample of the mosaic tile. ‘Is this OK, Bob?’ I ask. ‘I don’t know anything about tiling so thought I’d better check with you before we order them.

‘They’re fine! No problem!’ says Bob.

While there Rob asks if we can adjust the list to include the movement of three radiators. We knock off building a cupboard so we hope that will even it out. The tiles arrive.

Bob sends a very long text saying the addition of moving the radiators has thrown him out and the quote is now wrong. He asks us to send us a new list including everything so he can update the quote. He threatens to down tools and leave the job as he ‘can’t deal with this uncertainty.’

Fine, we say. We send over the new list. He comes back with a new quote. The job will now take six weeks and the quote has TRIPLED. For three radiators. He says it’s because the tiles will be complicated. The tiles he said would be fine.

At the end of the fifth week Bob asks me to send over cash for materials he’d bought that day. At all stages in the job I have paid for the labour and materials within HOURS of him asking – thousands of pounds worth. Due to another issue, which I will come to in a moment, I didn’t reply to his text for two hours.

He then sent a page long text saying he has told his worker to pack up all their tools as he is concerned I am going to ‘withhold payment’. (A hundred pound bill for materials – why would I have withhold this having already paid thousands for his labour!?)

Eventually I calm him down. This is the third time he has threatened to down tools and leave the job. The stress of this is nightmarish and really not good for Rob. The builder sends another text complaining ‘I don’t know whether I’m coming or going, you keep throwing extra jobs at me and then asking me to do things we haven’t agreed.’

This is when I get really infuriated as the only things was added was the moving of three radiators (which seem to be costing us thousands extra) and every job I’m mentioning is on the list. Skirting boards on the list. Bob doesn’t remember seeing it. Boxing in of all pipes – Bob didn’t see that on the list.

So here we are six weeks later. The bathroom is half tiled. Bob has disappeared off to another job. We’ve had to ask his mate to do some extra days to get it finished. Despite paying all that money Rob is now having to do the boxing in, all the painting and decorating, and fitting the doors.

All of which were on the list which was finalised and agreed by Bob. AND PAID FOR.

Grrrrr It makes me so cross and I know. I know. I am being naive in thinking that a job like this is easy. But if a list is agreed for a certain price they should do what’s on the list? I am aware I am going on a lot about this list, but it was the only sure, solid thing I had in a disordered word.

The Holiday

At the end of January my brother and I started planning our two-family summer holiday together. Its the one time of the year where the kids can hang with their cousins and I get to catch up with my lovely brother.

It took weeks to find somewhere nice that ticked all the boxes, was a bit luxurious, and could easily accommodate four adults and four children. At last we found somewhere that looked absolutely perfect. I’d never been to the Lake District and we were all very excited about it.

I’m going to name this place as I don’t see why I should offer them any anonymity. It was the Dormouse Cottage at the Swan Hotel in the Lake District.

It was perfect. Looked gorgeous. Close to lots of lovely walks and with plenty of room for us all. The cottage was in the grounds of the hotel so we could use the pool and gym there as well as the restaurants for days when we couldn’t be bothered to cook.

It all seemed too good to be true. ‘It’ll be booked already,’ Rob said, ‘peak school holidays (end July beginning of August) you’ve no chance.’

We were using a third party booking company. It’s the same company we rent our holiday lets with, and one advantage of paying them 30% commission is they give us a good discount when we book through them. However, as I was so nervous about this I called the hotel direct to check the cottage was free those weeks. (It was showing as available on their own website as well as the third party booking website.)

‘Yes of course it is, madam!’ said the receptionist in that slightly patronising tone which means ‘if it says it’s free on the website it is free you sad, neurotic middle-aged crone.’

Great! I thought, casting a smug, triumphant look at Rob before calling the third party people to book.

I chewed my nails nervously until they called back 10 minutes later to confirm all was fine and the booking could go ahead. Woo hoo! Both families delighted. The email confirming it came through and we were safe and sound. We couldn’t wait for our holiday.

Cut to half way through April. I get a call. The booking has been cancelled.

?!?!?!?!?!

What? How? What? I spluttered for about five minutes. The third party booking company said the owner had called to say the cottage had been double booked.

I exclaimed that couldn’t be possible.I had checked and double-checked it was free. They suggested I called the manager of the hotel directly to find out what had happened.

What followed was the most awful, frustrating and upsetting phone call, which ended with him hanging up on me.

He said it wasn’t his fault it was the third party booking people. He insisted that the cottage had been booked by someone else in the ten minutes between me confirming it was free and the third party company booking it.

I said to him I didn’t see how that was possible. As he was blaming the company I asked him to confirm for me when he had told them about the double booking. With that evidence I could complain to the company as they hadn’t let us know for three months – by which time all the good place have gone.

That’s when he hung up.

When I went back to the company they read me the emails the manager had sent them. Firstly, in February saying he was withdrawing his cottages from their site but would honour all bookings already made. Including our one.

Then, a month later, he wrote again to confirm the withdrawal, but still maintaining he would honour all bookings. In April he sent an email saying he wasn’t honouring the bookings already made. So screw you, Middle-Aged Warrior and both your families.

So the manager LIED to me!!! It wasn’t already booked, he was just taking it away from the third party booking company and getting guests to book with him directly so he didn’t have to pay any commission. He obviously wasn’t at all concerned about the impact this would have on our families who had booked in January.

I was so upset I burst into tears, which was really embarrassing as Son had a mate over and his mum had just arrived to collect him when I greeted her bawling my eyes out. Something I never do.

Balm

The thing is with all these frustrations is that there is absolutely NOTHING I can do. No matter how hard I tried to do the right thing it all went to shit and no amount of persuading, cajoling or logic made any difference.

It was out of my control.

I couldn’t get the builder to do the job we’d paid him to do, and I couldn’t do anything to save our holiday. I can’t make my Son revise without a row, I can’t help his eczema without a full wrestling competition and I can’t help my Daughter’s sight without her making me feel constantly guilty.

So how to cope? This is where the balm comes in. I now understand why mess is a bad thing. It is an outward manifestation of the chaos of life, but at least you can do something about it.

So here is my list of things that calm me down and restore order.

[image error]

A fully stocked Loo roll cupboard

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A fully charged electric toothbrush

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A completely full tube of dishwasher tablets

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A made bed

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The recent discovery that my kindle fits into the pocket of my slobbing-about-the-house tracksuit bottoms makes me very happy

Wiping a counter, emptying a laundry basket, charging a phone… These are all things I can do that will bring peace and calm to my life. Everything in its place, everything clean, charged and easy to find. A delicious sense of order which, for some reason, helps me cope with all the other crap I can’t solve.

I don’t know what it is about having things fully charged. I suspect it’s something to do with challenging mortality. But what writing this has helped me understand is why the following drive me insane in the membrane.

[image error]

This is how I left the bathroom

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This is the same room TEN MINUTES LATER. You don’t want to know what’s in the (unflushed) bowl. How have they got through so many loo rolls? Why do they need to use four towels?

[image error]

A lovely clear, clean, shining kitchen counter

[image error]

The same counter after the children made a sandwich. Using my favourite Norfolk Cruncher bread! The one they say they hate and complain about because they want white bread that tastes like plastic. I don’t know whether you can make it out but I also found a small, shriveled chunk of roast chicken on the centre plate. 

[image error]

And generally just this. Things like this. 

So to answer my son’s question, ‘Why are you so ANGRY all the time?’ that’s why. I’m not really shouting about the counter, I’m shouting because our holiday has been cancelled, and the builders have left the house unfinished. I’m shouting because it turns out I’ve not brought up the children properly because they now won’t do anything they are told. I’m shouting because I want some peace and quiet but know that my heart will break when the children grow up and leave home. I’m shouting because I’m 50 and I don’t know where the time went and I want to write a book but can’t find the time.

But then I calm down. Stay up late so I can clean the kitchen when everyone is in bed and enjoy the quiet and the tidiness of everything. Rob takes us all out for lunch and I remember how funny my children are and how nice they are. Playing loud music helps too. Oh, and wine.

I should also go and phone my mum to say sorry for all the mess I made when I still lived at home.

So what about you? What stupid little things drive you into a rage and what helps calm you down?

 

 

Balm for Middle-Aged Rage

I was HORRENDOUSLY messy as a teenager. It would drive my Mum to distraction. I could never understand it, ‘it’s FINE!’ I’d say. ‘I’ll do it in a minute!’ rolling my eyes as mountains of mess gathered around me. ‘Jeez, Mum,’ I’d think, ‘just shut the door on the mess, it’s not a big problem – deal with it in the morning.’

Now, of course, Karma has come back to bite me on my big old ass, as the young people would say. As my children enter the dark, empty-crisp-packet strewn, tunnels of adolescence, I find my rage levels have risen accordingly.

I’ve been really looking forward to this Easter holiday. The end of term was a nightmare and I was on my knees, longing for long, sunny, stress-free days with plenty of time to update my blog and finish my god-damned book.

Well it didn’t work out like that.  There are a number of reasons for this but all the stress and rage got me thinking about why I get so angry and also what helps calm the anger.

I’ve decided it’s all about control. I never used to be like this; I now realise it’s because I didn’t need control in my life – that’s what grown-ups were for! They were the ones who dealt with problems, who brought order to my existence, and if anything went wrong I could just get hold of a grown up.

Now I’m 50 I have to accept I’m the grown-up. Also, being a grown-up sucks big time because it turns out things happen over which you have no control and NOBODY knows the right answer. There is no bloody right answer. (I am aware I am arriving very late at this particular party)

I have learned the illusion of control is what helps you get through the day. It’s how all humans get through the day. Life is chaotic and random, and it is only by imposing an illusory sense of order that we can cope. I’m not talking about any kind of big philosophical idea here, I am talking about having a fully stocked loo roll cupboard.

The more I thought about this the more sense it made as to why I instantly explode into spitting rage when I find a crumpled pile of towels on the bathroom floor for the third time within an hour. It’s because those neatly hung towels are the only defence I have against the terrifying chaos of the universe.

The last two or three weeks have been trying. I am conscious they are very much first world problems, but trying nonetheless.

The Children

Ah the children. I adore them, of course, and part of me loves that they are becoming funny, thoughtful, interesting adults; Jesus Christ though, it’s also like suddenly being forced to take on strange lodgers who help themselves to your food and wipe their ketchupped faces with clean TEA TOWELS for God’s sake.

Let’s start with Daughter. It turns out she’s short sighted. Now I am very short sighted (-7 prescription) and it has caused all sorts of terrible problems, the least of which is my inability to walk across a room safely without glasses. Severe myopia can cause detached retinas (as in my case), and you can be more at risk of macular degeneration and glaucoma.

These are all things I don’t want Daughter to have. I was therefore delighted to discover that nowadays there are these amazing contact lenses that slow down the severity of myopia so hopefully stopping my daughter at a -3 level rather than going on to sight as bad as mine.

OK so it costs a fortune, but what price sight? etc etc.

The trouble is my Daughter HATES putting them in. I’m not allowed to help her (according to the optician) but apparently I DO have to sit right outside the bathroom door for security when she puts them in.

She knows they are going to go in eventually. I know they are going to go in eventually. However, I have to endure the most horrendous, guilt inducing monologue before this can happen.

‘I can’t DO this, mummy! It won’t go in! My eyes are all red now. This isn’t working. I’m HOLDING it close to my eye. I don’t want to wear lenses. Can’t I have today as my rest day? I’ll just wear glasses. You’re short-sighted and you’re OK. OW! It HURRRTTSSS!’ Pause for dramatic sobbing. A moment of silence. ‘I can’t DO THIS! Now I’ve broken one. And the other one. You’ll have to give me two more. This is stupid. I HATE LENSES. Why do I have to wear lenses? Why are you making me wear them? Why doesn’t Brother have to wear them? OOWWWWW!! I’ve broken another one.’

I cannot express how I hate hearing his every morning. I can feel my shoulders rising with stress as I write it. I feel guilty, worried, cross as it’s going to cost us thousands over the years, then guilty for being cross. Eventually I cave in. ‘OK, Darling, give it a rest for now and come and sit with me and you can try again later when you’re a bit more calm.’

She bounces out of the bathroom and lolls about on the bed listening to Harry Potter on Audible. After about 20 minutes I pluck up enough courage to try again. ‘Right, that’s nearly half an hour now – why not have another go?’

She looks at me, eyes wide and puzzled. ‘Have another go at what?’

‘Your lenses!’

‘Oh I’ve got them in already,’ she says. ‘The popped in really quickly in the end.’

Meanwhile, Son is revising for exams. He is not happy. Every day I ask him to revise and his response is, ‘I don’t want to revise. I want to play Fortnite.’ A simple, bold statement but one that is difficult to argue with without getting very cross and shouty.

He is also suffering a nasty bout of eczema which has blown up over his eyelid and is nasty and sore and he keeps scratching it, making my whole body twitch with the mother horror shudder – if you know what I mean. I’ve taken him to the doctor, we’ve got the cream but every time I have to apply it – and I mean EVERY TIME – he has the screaming heeby jeebies and I have to actually pin him down with all my body weight (he may be taller than me but he’ll never be heavier – ha!) to apply the damn stuff.

The Builders

We had the builders in.

My beloved, darling Rob has spent every weekend and  holiday since last July building a kitchen from scratch. The fact that he has done this despite suffering chronic depression and anxiety shows just how amazing he is. I have promised him that one day I will write a blog called ‘We built this kitchen on Agomelatine‘  It’s an anti-depressant drug which has very few side effects and has helped Rob’s focus and concentration. The brilliant thing about it is it has no withdrawal symptoms so he can come off them at any time.

Here is the beautiful kitchen he made.

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I think it’s brilliant, and I will fight anyone who says differently.

While we have to live where I work we rent out the place as a holiday let and we have a family of 6 hoping to have a  lovely break here in May.

This didn’t give us much time to transfer the old kitchen into a lovely new bedroom for Daughter, as well as overhauling a manky old bathroom.

Rob was also on his knees and needed a break so unusually we decided to get builders in.

This is all very emotional as pretty much all of the building work we have done in the past Rob did with his lovely old dad, who we lost to Aplastic Anaemia just over a year ago. It made his loss all the more powerful for Rob when he didn’t have his Dad to turn to when he had a question about brick work or sorting out the plumbing.

We got hold of a builder who had done a great job on a cupboard we had fitted a few years ago. He came and looked at the job. ‘No problem! Couple of weeks. Sorted.’

Great! We thought. Let’s do this! Rob was more cautious – he pointed out that it was an old house and problems were bound to crop up. The builder was confident but suggested we see how it went and agreed the quote was flexible.

Rob spent the weekend outlining every job we wanted to get done. He put it on a list and also sketched a diagram detailing where plug sockets etc went. We sent it to Bob the Builder (not his real name).

All fine. quote agreed. Work begins.

Three days later Bob gets in touch. He’s underestimated the amount of work needed. The quote needs to go up. Fine, we say. We understand.

The job jumps from two weeks to three.

Rob and I find beautiful mosaic tiles for the bathroom. He and I visit Bob on site with a sample of the mosaic tile. ‘Is this OK, Bob?’ I ask. ‘I don’t know anything about tiling so thought I’d better check with you before we order them.

‘They’re fine! No problem!’ says Bob.

While there Rob asks if we can adjust the list to include the movement of three radiators. We knock off building a cupboard so we hope that will even it out. The tiles arrive.

Bob sends a very long text saying the addition of moving the radiators has thrown him out and the quote is now wrong. He asks us to send us a new list including everything so he can update the quote. He threatens to down tools and leave the job as he ‘can’t deal with this uncertainty.’

Fine, we say. We send over the new list. He comes back with a new quote. The job will now take six weeks and the quote has TRIPLED. For three radiators. He says it’s because the tiles will be complicated. The tiles he said would be fine.

At the end of the fifth week Bob asks me to send over cash for materials he’d bought that day. At all stages in the job I have paid for the labour and materials within HOURS of him asking – thousands of pounds worth. Due to another issue, which I will come to in a moment, I didn’t reply to his text for two hours.

He then sent a page long text saying he has told his worker to pack up all their tools as he is concerned I am going to ‘withhold payment’. (A hundred pound bill for materials – why would I have withhold this having already paid thousands for his labour!?)

Eventually I calm him down. This is the third time he has threatened to down tools and leave the job. The stress of this is nightmarish and really not good for Rob. The builder sends another text complaining ‘I don’t know whether I’m coming or going, you keep throwing extra jobs at me and then asking me to do things we haven’t agreed.’

This is when I get really infuriated as the only things was added was the moving of three radiators (which seem to be costing us thousands extra) and every job I’m mentioning is on the list. Skirting boards on the list. Bob doesn’t remember seeing it. Boxing in of all pipes – Bob didn’t see that on the list.

So here we are six weeks later. The bathroom is half tiled. Bob has disappeared off to another job. We’ve had to ask his mate to do some extra days to get it finished. Despite paying all that money Rob is now having to do the boxing in, all the painting and decorating, and fitting the doors.

All of which were on the list which was finalised and agreed by Bob. AND PAID FOR.

Grrrrr It makes me so cross and I know. I know. I am being naive in thinking that a job like this is easy. But if a list is agreed for a certain price they should do what’s on the list? I am aware I am going on a lot about this list, but it was the only sure, solid thing I had in a disordered word.

The Holiday

At the end of January my brother and I started planning our two-family summer holiday together. Its the one time of the year where the kids can hang with their cousins and I get to catch up with my lovely brother.

It took weeks to find somewhere nice that ticked all the boxes, was a bit luxurious, and could easily accommodate four adults and four children. At last we found somewhere that looked absolutely perfect. I’d never been to the Lake District and we were all very excited about it.

I’m going to name this place as I don’t see why I should offer them any anonymity. It was the Dormouse Cottage at the Swan Hotel in the Lake District.

It was perfect. Looked gorgeous. Close to lots of lovely walks and with plenty of room for us all. The cottage was in the grounds of the hotel so we could use the pool and gym there as well as the restaurants for days when we couldn’t be bothered to cook.

It all seemed too good to be true. ‘It’ll be booked already,’ Rob said, ‘peak school holidays (end July beginning of August) you’ve no chance.’

We were using a third party booking company. It’s the same company we rent our holiday lets with, and one advantage of paying them 30% commission is they give us a good discount when we book through them. However, as I was so nervous about this I called the hotel direct to check the cottage was free those weeks. (It was showing as available on their own website as well as the third party booking website.)

‘Yes of course it is, madam!’ said the receptionist in that slightly patronising tone which means ‘if it says it’s free on the website it is free you sad, neurotic middle-aged crone.’

Great! I thought, casting a smug, triumphant look at Rob before calling the third party people to book.

I chewed my nails nervously until they called back 10 minutes later to confirm all was fine and the booking could go ahead. Woo hoo! Both families delighted. The email confirming it came through and we were safe and sound. We couldn’t wait for our holiday.

Cut to half way through April. I get a call. The booking has been cancelled.

?!?!?!?!?!

What? How? What? I spluttered for about five minutes. The third party booking company said the owner had called to say the cottage had been double booked.

I exclaimed that couldn’t be possible.I had checked and double-checked it was free. They suggested I called the manager of the hotel directly to find out what had happened.

What followed was the most awful, frustrating and upsetting phone call, which ended with him hanging up on me.

He said it wasn’t his fault it was the third party booking people. He insisted that the cottage had been booked by someone else in the ten minutes between me confirming it was free and the third party company booking it.

I said to him I didn’t see how that was possible. As he was blaming the company I asked him to confirm for me when he had told them about the double booking. With that evidence I could complain to the company as they hadn’t let us know for three months – by which time all the good place have gone.

That’s when he hung up.

When I went back to the company they read me the emails the manager had sent them. Firstly, in February saying he was withdrawing his cottages from their site but would honour all bookings already made. Including our one.

Then, a month later, he wrote again to confirm the withdrawal, but still maintaining he would honour all bookings. In April he sent an email saying he wasn’t honouring the bookings already made. So screw you, Middle-Aged Warrior and both your families.

So the manager LIED to me!!! It wasn’t already booked, he was just taking it away from the third party booking company and getting guests to book with him directly so he didn’t have to pay any commission. He obviously wasn’t at all concerned about the impact this would have on our families who had booked in January.

I was so upset I burst into tears, which was really embarrassing as Son had a mate over and his mum had just arrived to collect him when I greeted her bawling my eyes out. Something I never do.

Balm

The thing is with all these frustrations is that there is absolutely NOTHING I can do. No matter how hard I tried to do the right thing it all went to shit and no amount of persuading, cajoling or logic made any difference.

It was out of my control.

I couldn’t get the builder to do the job we’d paid him to do, and I couldn’t do anything to save our holiday. I can’t make my Son revise without a row, I can’t help his eczema without a full wrestling competition and I can’t help my Daughter’s sight without her making me feel constantly guilty.

So how to cope? This is where the balm comes in. I now understand why mess is a bad thing. It is an outward manifestation of the chaos of life, but at least you can do something about it.

So here is my list of things that calm me down and restore order.

[image error]

A fully stocked Loo roll cupboard

[image error]

A fully charged electric toothbrush

[image error]

A completely full tube of dishwasher tablets

[image error]

A made bed

[image error]

The recent discovery that my kindle fits into the pocket of my slobbing-about-the-house tracksuit bottoms makes me very happy

Wiping a counter, emptying a laundry basket, charging a phone… These are all things I can do that will bring peace and calm to my life. Everything in its place, everything clean, charged and easy to find. A delicious sense of order which, for some reason, helps me cope with all the other crap I can’t solve.

I don’t know what it is about having things fully charged. I suspect it’s something to do with challenging mortality. But what writing this has helped me understand is why the following drive me insane in the membrane.

[image error]

This is how I left the bathroom

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This is the same room TEN MINUTES LATER. You don’t want to know what’s in the (unflushed) bowl. How have they got through so many loo rolls? Why do they need to use four towels?

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A lovely clear, clean, shining kitchen counter

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The same counter after the children made a sandwich. Using my favourite Norfolk Cruncher bread! The one they say they hate and complain about because they want white bread that tastes like plastic. I don’t know whether you can make it out but I also found a small, shriveled chunk of roast chicken on the centre plate. 

[image error]

And generally just this. Things like this. 

So to answer my son’s question, ‘Why are you so ANGRY all the time?’ that’s why. I’m not really shouting about the counter, I’m shouting because our holiday has been cancelled, and the builders have left the house unfinished. I’m shouting because it turns out I’ve not brought up the children properly because they now won’t do anything they are told. I’m shouting because I want some peace and quiet but know that my heart will break when the children grow up and leave home. I’m shouting because I’m 50 and I don’t know where the time went and I want to write a book but can’t find the time.

But then I calm down. Stay up late so I can clean the kitchen when everyone is in bed and enjoy the quiet and the tidiness of everything. Rob takes us all out for lunch and I remember how funny my children are and how nice they are. Playing loud music helps too. Oh, and wine.

I should also go and phone my mum to say sorry for all the mess I made when I still lived at home.

So what about you? What stupid little things drive you into a rage and what helps calm you down?

 

 

Why Do We Despise Older Woman?

I feel I should preface this post by saying there is a lot of rage driving this. It is fair to say I am feeling  a little bit prickly, having turned (gasp, arggh, !?!?!) FIFTY two weeks ago and I cannot avoid the fact that I am now, officially, an ‘Older Woman.’

So I’ve had to think carefully about why I am writing this. Is it from a belligerent defensiveness? There’s still life in the old dog! I want to protest. Am I approaching this out of self-interest? Did I just blithely buy into this dismissive attitude towards older woman until I became one myself? Only then thinking, ‘hang on a minute…’

No. To be honest, I think there’s a bit of that here, but it’s not the whole truth. Since my twenties I have been conscious that women seem to become invisible at 50. I have lost count of the number of films I have watched where the hero is well into his fifties but the woman in his life is played by an actress half his age. This article, from the Guardian, discusses Maggie Gyllenhaal’s news that she was ‘passed over for a role opposite a 55-year-old actor because she was too old – at 37. ‘ I mean… what? Another article shows how female actor’s role start drying up when they hit 30, whereas their male counterparts continue to get strong offers well into their late 40’s.

I’ve always hated stylists dictating what you should or shouldn’t wear depending on your age. I would endlessly discuss, when younger, why there were few roles for older women in the cinema or on TV – though that has changed somewhat. I have always been conscious that if you view our world through the lens of our culture, women are only feted and celebrated as long as they are young.

On the other hand, grizzled older men are venerated. Grey hair = silver fox. Wrinkles = character.

So as a feminist this awareness isn’t new, but I suppose it’s a hell of a lot more painful when that ‘Older Woman’ is you.

Turning Fifty

I was determined not to celebrate turning 50. I wanted the day just to pass without comment – nothing to see here – nobody needed to know how old I was.

Unfortunately, when I arrived at work a dear friend had blown up hundreds of balloons with ’50’ scrawled all over them with an indelible sharpie (it was definitely permanent, I couldn’t wipe any of those damn number off). I felt my brain literally boggle whenever I saw the number. My lovely brother face timed me to say Happy Birthday and when he saw all the cards with ’50’ on them I heard him say, ‘I can’t believe you’re 50!’

How on EARTH can I be 50? And, more importantly, why is my overriding feeling SHAME for fuck’s sake?

As if being this old is a bad thing, not something to consider a joy because I have survived this far and lived a good life. There are certainly many who haven’t been lucky enough to live this long. All my cards and presents show I have made friends along the way – something which should inspire gratitude, not a desire to hide away in a cupboard with my old face and a large bag of snacks.

These last two weeks  haven’t been great as since turning the big 5 0 I managed to contract conjunctivitis, a UTI (which was the worst I ever had in my life), and as I sit here I am coughing my way through a nasty bout of bronchitis. So physically things are not going well. Looking down, I can see my stomach swelling gently over the table – a plump roundness as friendly as a cat but not as attractive; it serves as a reminder I I haven’t been able to go to the gym since contracting three or four different leurgys.

Bloody hell! This is all I need.  I hate being sick, I don’t usually get sick. Is this the beginning of my old body falling apart?

I have been beset by dreams in which I tell random people over and over again I’ve just turned fifty and not one, NOT ONE, says ‘ooh you don’t look it.’ Why is it so important to me that it’s OK to be 50 as long as I don’t look it? Why am I ashamed of being 50?

Of course the reason I feel shame is because I have assimilated into myself the lessons presented by the world around me. After a certain age, women – unless you look as good as Jennifer Aniston does at 50 – are useless. Oh, you can be bigger and less ‘beautiful’ if you are funny (Jo Brand, Mirian Margolyes) but hit 50 and it’s all over as far as society is concerned.

Recently, the wonderful author Harriet Evans wrote this tweet…

Hi @EveningStandard ! You gave the age of every woman in your Grammys piece but not the 2 men, so I added them for you! Childish Gambino is 35, Drake is 32 & your editor George Osborne is, amongst many other things, 47! Thanks for the @EverydaySexism ! Keep us on our toes! pic.twitter.com/12i7p8FNdb

— Harriet Evans (@HarrietEvans) February 11, 2019

This makes my blood boil. WHY are the women’s ages given and not the men’s? What possibly reason is there for this except sexism? Is it not necessary to know the men’s ages? If so – why do we need to know how old the women are?

Women’s relationship with age is made a complex and difficult thing. Of course, I know there are jokes about men who have mid-life crises, and of course men worry about getting older, but I don’t think there’s quite the same sense of shame about it.

Why do we despise older women?

I am so sick and tired of the casual, dismissive, and contemptuous way older women are treated in the media and so much popular literature. I have heard countless stories from friends of every day sexism and ageism.

A friend told me of a talented Jazz singer mate – who just happens to be 60 – who applied to do a bit of pub singing. The manager wouldn’t even let her audition as she was ‘too old’. I’ve just discovered a wonderful podcast ‘Older and Wider‘ featuring Jenny Eclair and Judith Holder. It’s very funny, and I would highly recommend it. In one episode Jenny Eclair comments on how few TV offers she gets now she is older. Has she got less funny? Less caustic and clever than she was? Judging by her hilarious podcast, no. So why is she less in demand? I see plenty of male comics in their 50’s and 60’s appearing regularly on TV. Not so many female ones. You can find a full rant on that topic here.

I have read three or four novels recently (written by women!) who write such cruel and judgmental words about older women it makes me fume. One describes sunshine sitting ‘squarely on the shoulders of young men and mercilessly on the bat wings of middle aged women wearing ill-advised straps tops’.

Ill-Advised?? Ill-advised!!?? Why ill-advised? Oh My God is it because they’ve got a bit of fat on their upper arms? That they haven’t spent time pumping iron to build the muscle? Screech! Hide those foul things! Avert your eyes, everybody, from the horror of an older woman’s body.

For fucks’s sake.

The same author also mentioned a character – a woman in her 60’s – wearing a  lipstick ‘far too red for a woman of her age’.

Arrggh. Now you know me, I love a red lippy, and I’m going to wear it whenever I can be bothered and got up early enough to put it on. I won’t let anyone tell me different. NOBODY should be able to tell me I can’t, and we should all try being a bit less judgmental. Does it really matter if you can see a flabby arm? Or notice that a 70 old has smeared on a bit of Chanel Rouge?

The book I’m reading at the moment features a rather unpleasant (male) literary agent. He is supposed to be a slimy character, but I found this line to be troubling as I have found this sentiment echoed many times; this particular sentence haunted me for days afterwards. The character is searching for the ‘next best thing in publishing’ and the line that follows is now seared into my brain…

‘He had plenty of crap from middle-aged women with empty nest syndrome who thought they could write a best seller’

Oh look at the contempt in that line. The stereotype of the ’empty nester’ who thinks (poor deluded cow!) that she has a best selling novel in her. Of course, as an older woman who is working very hard on trying to get her book published, this has struck a chord with me quite powerfully. It seems so awful and condemning to dismiss an entire group of women in this way.

If these women have empty nests it means they have brought up a family. They’ve lived a life, much of which would have involved making huge sacrifices for others. They may have looked after elderly parents, coped with illness, death, difficult pregnancies, stroppy teenagers, recalcitrant doge. The list is endless. Many of them would have brought up families single-handed AND held down full time jobs. I don’t know about you, but I’d quite like to hear the stories of how those women got out alive.

So why are they so often seen in the media as something to be laughed at? Looked down upon?It takes a hell of a lot of work to write a book and I bloody take my hat off to anyone who manages to complete a novel and find the courage to send it in to an agent. Bravo! You are my warriors. Not sad, lonely, pitied, old women who embarrass us because they have no role in our society any more. Their child rearing is done so back in your box, lady.

I really, really hope that when my daughter is old, men and women will be able to wear their years, their scars, and their experience with pride. That won’t happen until we move beyond the idea that women only have value based on their fuckability. Men can be old, fat, hairy and yet still respected. What is wrong with us that we can’t afford the same tolerance and generosity to our woman?

The thing I really hate is I know I’ve bought into that judgmental expectation of what women should look like. ‘Ooh she hasn’t got the legs for those jeans,’ I’ll snigger to Rob. Or ‘God did you see her going braless today? At 45 What’s the matter with her? She looked ridiculous!’

What the hell am I doing? Who am I to pass that kind of judgement? Who is anyone? If she wants to swing her knockers around like a juggler of lively puppies, who am I to stop her? Let your arse hang out of your jeans. Show off your best, brightest lipstick – or don’t wear any make-up – dye your hair blue – or let it go grey – but don’t bow down to the tyranny of other’s judgement.

When going through family photos, not just mine but those of friends, I notice the mother, the older woman, is usually absent. Because she’s the one taking the picture. Well no more! From now on I’m standing front and centre and smiling my head off. I want my children to see and know who I was when I’m gone.

I hope I have many more happy years left in me, but I’m going to try very hard not to feel ashamed for being 50 but chuffed I’ve survived this far. And I’m going to tell everyone how old I am and won’t get upset when they don’t say, ‘ooh you don’t look it!’

 

Why Do We Despise Older Woman?

I feel I should preface this post by saying there is a lot of rage driving this. It is fair to say I am feeling  a little bit prickly, having turned (gasp, arggh, !?!?!) FIFTY two weeks ago and I cannot avoid the fact that I am now, officially, an ‘Older Woman.’

So I’ve had to think carefully about why I am writing this. Is it from a belligerent defensiveness? There’s still life in the old dog! I want to protest. Am I approaching this out of self-interest? Did I just blithely buy into this dismissive attitude towards older woman until I became one myself? Only then thinking, ‘hang on a minute…’

No. To be honest, I think there’s a bit of that here, but it’s not the whole truth. Since my twenties I have been conscious that women seem to become invisible at 50. I have lost count of the number of films I have watched where the hero is well into his fifties but the woman in his life is played by an actress half his age. This article, from the Guardian, discusses Maggie Gyllenhaal’s news that she was ‘passed over for a role opposite a 55-year-old actor because she was too old – at 37. ‘ I mean… what? Another article shows how female actor’s role start drying up when they hit 30, whereas their male counterparts continue to get strong offers well into their late 40’s.

I’ve always hated stylists dictating what you should or shouldn’t wear depending on your age. I would endlessly discuss, when younger, why there were few roles for older women in the cinema or on TV – though that has changed somewhat. I have always been conscious that if you view our world through the lens of our culture, women are only feted and celebrated as long as they are young.

On the other hand, grizzled older men are venerated. Grey hair = silver fox. Wrinkles = character.

So as a feminist this awareness isn’t new, but I suppose it’s a hell of a lot more painful when that ‘Older Woman’ is you.

Turning Fifty

I was determined not to celebrate turning 50. I wanted the day just to pass without comment – nothing to see here – nobody needed to know how old I was.

Unfortunately, when I arrived at work a dear friend had blown up hundreds of balloons with ’50’ scrawled all over them with an indelible sharpie (it was definitely permanent, I couldn’t wipe any of those damn number off). I felt my brain literally boggle whenever I saw the number. My lovely brother face timed me to say Happy Birthday and when he saw all the cards with ’50’ on them I heard him say, ‘I can’t believe you’re 50!’

How on EARTH can I be 50? And, more importantly, why is my overriding feeling SHAME for fuck’s sake?

As if being this old is a bad thing, not something to consider a joy because I have survived this far and lived a good life. There are certainly many who haven’t been lucky enough to live this long. All my cards and presents show I have made friends along the way – something which should inspire gratitude, not a desire to hide away in a cupboard with my old face and a large bag of snacks.

These last two weeks  haven’t been great as since turning the big 5 0 I managed to contract conjunctivitis, a UTI (which was the worst I ever had in my life), and as I sit here I am coughing my way through a nasty bout of bronchitis. So physically things are not going well. Looking down, I can see my stomach swelling gently over the table – a plump roundness as friendly as a cat but not as attractive; it serves as a reminder I I haven’t been able to go to the gym since contracting three or four different leurgys.

Bloody hell! This is all I need.  I hate being sick, I don’t usually get sick. Is this the beginning of my old body falling apart?

I have been beset by dreams in which I tell random people over and over again I’ve just turned fifty and not one, NOT ONE, says ‘ooh you don’t look it.’ Why is it so important to me that it’s OK to be 50 as long as I don’t look it? Why am I ashamed of being 50?

Of course the reason I feel shame is because I have assimilated into myself the lessons presented by the world around me. After a certain age, women – unless you look as good as Jennifer Aniston does at 50 – are useless. Oh, you can be bigger and less ‘beautiful’ if you are funny (Jo Brand, Mirian Margolyes) but hit 50 and it’s all over as far as society is concerned.

Recently, the wonderful author Harriet Evans wrote this tweet…

Hi @EveningStandard ! You gave the age of every woman in your Grammys piece but not the 2 men, so I added them for you! Childish Gambino is 35, Drake is 32 & your editor George Osborne is, amongst many other things, 47! Thanks for the @EverydaySexism ! Keep us on our toes! pic.twitter.com/12i7p8FNdb

— Harriet Evans (@HarrietEvans) February 11, 2019

This makes my blood boil. WHY are the women’s ages given and not the men’s? What possibly reason is there for this except sexism? Is it not necessary to know the men’s ages? If so – why do we need to know how old the women are?

Women’s relationship with age is made a complex and difficult thing. Of course, I know there are jokes about men who have mid-life crises, and of course men worry about getting older, but I don’t think there’s quite the same sense of shame about it.

Why do we despise older women?

I am so sick and tired of the casual, dismissive, and contemptuous way older women are treated in the media and so much popular literature. I have heard countless stories from friends of every day sexism and ageism.

A friend told me of a talented Jazz singer mate – who just happens to be 60 – who applied to do a bit of pub singing. The manager wouldn’t even let her audition as she was ‘too old’. I’ve just discovered a wonderful podcast ‘Older and Wider‘ featuring Jenny Eclair and Judith Holder. It’s very funny, and I would highly recommend it. In one episode Jenny Eclair comments on how few TV offers she gets now she is older. Has she got less funny? Less caustic and clever than she was? Judging by her hilarious podcast, no. So why is she less in demand? I see plenty of male comics in their 50’s and 60’s appearing regularly on TV. Not so many female ones. You can find a full rant on that topic here.

I have read three or four novels recently (written by women!) who write such cruel and judgmental words about older women it makes me fume. One describes sunshine sitting ‘squarely on the shoulders of young men and mercilessly on the bat wings of middle aged women wearing ill-advised straps tops’.

Ill-Advised?? Ill-advised!!?? Why ill-advised? Oh My God is it because they’ve got a bit of fat on their upper arms? That they haven’t spent time pumping iron to build the muscle? Screech! Hide those foul things! Avert your eyes, everybody, from the horror of an older woman’s body.

For fucks’s sake.

The same author also mentioned a character – a woman in her 60’s – wearing a  lipstick ‘far too red for a woman of her age’.

Arrggh. Now you know me, I love a red lippy, and I’m going to wear it whenever I can be bothered and got up early enough to put it on. I won’t let anyone tell me different. NOBODY should be able to tell me I can’t, and we should all try being a bit less judgmental. Does it really matter if you can see a flabby arm? Or notice that a 70 old has smeared on a bit of Chanel Rouge?

The book I’m reading at the moment features a rather unpleasant (male) literary agent. He is supposed to be a slimy character, but I found this line to be troubling as I have found this sentiment echoed many times; this particular sentence haunted me for days afterwards. The character is searching for the ‘next best thing in publishing’ and the line that follows is now seared into my brain…

‘He had plenty of crap from middle-aged women with empty nest syndrome who thought they could write a best seller’

Oh look at the contempt in that line. The stereotype of the ’empty nester’ who thinks (poor deluded cow!) that she has a best selling novel in her. Of course, as an older woman who is working very hard on trying to get her book published, this has struck a chord with me quite powerfully. It seems so awful and condemning to dismiss an entire group of women in this way.

If these women have empty nests it means they have brought up a family. They’ve lived a life, much of which would have involved making huge sacrifices for others. They may have looked after elderly parents, coped with illness, death, difficult pregnancies, stroppy teenagers, recalcitrant doge. The list is endless. Many of them would have brought up families single-handed AND held down full time jobs. I don’t know about you, but I’d quite like to hear the stories of how those women got out alive.

So why are they so often seen in the media as something to be laughed at? Looked down upon?It takes a hell of a lot of work to write a book and I bloody take my hat off to anyone who manages to complete a novel and find the courage to send it in to an agent. Bravo! You are my warriors. Not sad, lonely, pitied, old women who embarrass us because they have no role in our society any more. Their child rearing is done so back in your box, lady.

I really, really hope that when my daughter is old, men and women will be able to wear their years, their scars, and their experience with pride. That won’t happen until we move beyond the idea that women only have value based on their fuckability. Men can be old, fat, hairy and yet still respected. What is wrong with us that we can’t afford the same tolerance and generosity to our woman?

The thing I really hate is I know I’ve bought into that judgmental expectation of what women should look like. ‘Ooh she hasn’t got the legs for those jeans,’ I’ll snigger to Rob. Or ‘God did you see her going braless today? At 45 What’s the matter with her? She looked ridiculous!’

What the hell am I doing? Who am I to pass that kind of judgement? Who is anyone? If she wants to swing her knockers around like a juggler of lively puppies, who am I to stop her? Let your arse hang out of your jeans. Show off your best, brightest lipstick – or don’t wear any make-up – dye your hair blue – or let it go grey – but don’t bow down to the tyranny of other’s judgement.

When going through family photos, not just mine but those of friends, I notice the mother, the older woman, is usually absent. Because she’s the one taking the picture. Well no more! From now on I’m standing front and centre and smiling my head off. I want my children to see and know who I was when I’m gone.

I hope I have many more happy years left in me, but I’m going to try very hard not to feel ashamed for being 50 but chuffed I’ve survived this far. And I’m going to tell everyone how old I am and won’t get upset when they don’t say, ‘ooh you don’t look it!’