So what happens now?

 I’m not the teenage mistress of Juan Perón and my suitcase is not standing in another hall but I do sing the phrase to myself from time to time.

Not in a depressing sort of way, but I am just interested in how things will pan out.

How things will go! 

I’m 61 and the rest of this year is planned out. 

I start University in September. Course fees are paid for.

Time off organized, and there is a psychological shift in my head from Hospice to University.

That much is sorted. I'll work two days and have one whole day studying.

2024 however, comes with its own uncertainties 

My mortgage is up for renewal  next November , so I have a little time for interest rates to balance and stabilise. But my final year’s fees need to be found and more expenses such as a new car factored in too.

But I have time to look at things without the panic of last minute.

Socially I’m ok….more than ok. 

I am blessed with friends in the village and beyond its borders and although there is a yearning to have someone else special in my life I’m not getting bogged down in the game of gay dating. The apps are fickle creatures, often like the men who inhabit them and I’m not settling for anything.

In four years I’ve dated a handful of men, some nice, some not, and I’m too long in the tooth to be cavalier with my own or indeed other people’s feelings. 

I want to be like Charlotte York Goldenblatt from And Just Like That….romantic and hopeful where men are concerned but I’m not I’m afraid. I have the Miranda Hobbs “ realist” head on me despite what I say about romantic holes in jumpers. 

Romance in older men's lives can be a car crash of sorts.

I’m also well past waiting to be saved by my ex. It’s a common go to place when people are in grief after divorce. Lassie doesn't always come home, 

Nothing is neat and tidy .

I’m lucky. I can afford theatre trips and cinema when and where I please. It’s Rome in four weeks and London soon after that…

I’m doing ok, more than ok

Sometimes I need to remind myself of that.

Carrie Bradshaw was right, I’m only as much as a fictional icon be right in a tv programme written by gay men can be right

“Eventually all the pieces fall into place. Until then, laugh at the confusion, live for the moment, and know that everything happens for a reason.”

If only life was so simple

Parkinson

When I was twelve or so it was 1974

A time of beige and orange, Watergate and hijacked planes.

Disaster films and second year in secondary school.

My mother often babysat for my sister on Saturday nights so we went along too, not being picked up by my over-the-limit father when the Conservative Club rang last orders around eleven.

Parkinson would be on the tv before we left and even though I often had restless legs from being overtired I can remember his easy Yorkshire tones and his ability to make a guest feel at home.

Michael Parkinson was a journalist, so unlike his American counterparts who often knew their guests before their chat, he researched them forensically. 

He was calm and collected and very British in a David Niven like way and suddenly became a favourite with Hollywood stars and politicians alike, all of whom warmed to his character and Northern Ways.

I always enjoyed the natural storyteller guests, who were given space to perform their tales. Peter Ustinov, David Niven, Kenneth Williams, Peter Cook, Spike Milligan

Billy Connolly and Barry Humphrey came slightly later…..I remember them too….fondly.

Best of British Michael Parkinson …..Rest In Peace

Flower Arranging with Mr Poznań

 

Animal Helper Pat dropped by with a gift of a bowl of the. Sweetest and most delicious tomatoes out of her greenhouse. I’ve been eating them all morning like grapes.

I’m not doing much today. I’m back on nights so apart from dropping some chocolate chip cookies off in the telephone box food swap, I’ve only mooched around the cottage,

The weather is changeable with sunny spells and I made udon noodles in sweet chilli sauce as Roger skipped around the garden chasing the fewer butterflies that circle the dying blooms of the three buddliea bushes that screen the cottage from the new build.

I cut flowers for vases and stopped to talk to Mr Poznań who is looking increasingly frail as I cut them over the kitchen wall.

He apologised for not coming to the flower Show but had heard through Pippa at the Rectory that it was a roaring success. 

On his way back home he handed me a few stalks of Hedge Cranesbill for my vases and told me to lose weight. He laughed easily as Roger jumped up and down in and out of view in an effort to say hello his eyes crinkling like mine do, in amusement when an old hand touched the young dog’s head.

I’ve not put the radio on today, nor music and the yappers at the new build, for once have been quiet, so the day has passed quietly, with only the wood pigeons, my dogs occasional barks to break over the sound of the breeze. 

I feel a bit jet lagged and I wasn’t sure what day it was this morning 

Cinema

Paris Memories

Last Night I did an extra night shift

and so in compensation I've arranged a few cinema trips with friends from Saturday.

Saturday I'm meeting Nigel for Lunch in Chester then we are going to see the classic Midnight Cowboy

at the Storyhouse.(it will be great to have a proper adult pot mortum) Sunday I'm meeting my friend Colin for an early dinner then we are gong to see the Italian L'immensita with Penelope Cruz also at the Storyhouse.

Its a triple whammy on Monday when Gorgeous Dave and I also venture to the storyhouse for the Asian comedy Joy Ride

Tonight Im on my own for the french drama Paris Memories

phew

With a heart of a lion

When I’m pottering, I leave the back door open.

The small patio is enclosed on four sides by wall, one adjacent to the lane.

This wall is known not unsurprisingly as the kitchen wall .

This is where most visitors to Bwthyn y Llan stop and chat.

Four steps lead up to a gateway into the back garden and usually this is blocked by old crate which acts as a gate when the dogs are mooching on their own.

I was making my bed when I heard the Welsh terriers barking,

Dorothy was with me as usual and immediately she and I picked up on the tone of the barking which was fearful rather than just warning.

She let out a woof and leapt for the door and was down the stairs before I could turn.

A stranger was in the kitchen and she went for him without any hesitation, chasing him across the patio where he jumped the crate.

By the time I got to the kitchen he was panting by bluebell and had shut the metal gate under the Montana arch.

Dorothy was stood against the crate with flint eyes

The man said something about window replacements but was already walking away.and her eyes  followed him very carefully. Bulldogs are benign characters but I have seen this look before. When they turn, they turn totally into different dogs. Fierce and icy cold.

God alone knows what would have happened to him, if the crate hadn’t been in place. 

As small as she is, I suspect he would have been badly bitten. 

The Welsh had been woken by the man as he entered the kitchen , they had been asleep on the reading chair . Neither moved until Dorothy had chased the man out of the door.

I took some Flowers

 I took some flowers and “crap” magazines to my sister tonight, 

She’s sore, but  brighter than she was.

She asked me about my date….she’s always hopeful, like a Jewish Moma

And I said it was ok with a smile 

And she nodded 

“Don’t settle for ok “ she said kindly

“I  won’t” I replied 

It was a hollow smile

The Rain On Your Face

 I’m doing a few single nights with breaks in between.

This fucks with my body clock something dreadful and whereas I can usually sleep well, long and hard when I need to recently I’ve been left fidgety and restless.

There is a remedy for this, especially if it threatening light rain

And that is to lie down in the field for a while.

Now if I had a private garden, I good stretch out on the wet lawn would suffice ,

But as my garden is overlooked by anyone walking down the lane

I’d cause a bit of a stir, lying there like a corpse .

No the privacy of the field is ideal.

Yesterday I had a lie down just as it started to rain lightly.

It was 1pm and the dogs had been walked and returned to bed

I flopped down heavily

Face to the sky

Bum on flattened long grass and ragwort , a plant which needs to be removed before the ponies arrive back.

The trick is to lie there until you feel refreshed but before you feel chilled by the rain.

It didn’t  take long, and I almost fell asleep before opening my eyes to the grey clouds scuttling across the sky and the three caw warning calls of a crow in the Churchyard.

I didn’t bother to towel dry.

I just crawled back into bed next to Dorothy who rolled over with a piggy fart

And slept the rest of the day until six

The Sounds

 My elder sister has been in surgery this weekend. She’s ok

But she’s been on my mind and I’m dreaming of childhood Sunday mornings circa 1967 

With songs like this playing constantly from her bedroom