Wednesday, 29 April 2009

Sixty's Chic?

Hey, guess what? I am officially an O.A.P. as from last Sunday.

Weird, I know. And to be honest, it's a little bit scary. I'm wondering just what happened to the time, to the long-legged mini-skirted girl, striding out into life in white PVC boots and Mary Quant mini-skirt, dancing the night away to the Sweet Soul Music at Le Metro,The Rum Runner and Opposite Lock; smoking, drinking, laughing, loving my days and nights away. Well, she met her match, married him, made a Habitat home and settled down. Became a mother, (definitely not a swearing one), wiped bottoms and noses, pushed prams, liquidised carrots, washed nappies and floors. Bathed sore knees, kissed them better, made cakes and excuses for lost homework. Did the school run, forgot to wash gym kits, searched for nits, dealt with worms, had a perm. Learned to worry, worry, worry. Put on weight, wore big earrings and shoulder pads. Watched Dallas, bought some lip-gloss, thought JR was a bastard but kind of fancied him. Became a nag, a working Mum, an always knackered cleaning bore, a mother of arsey teenagers, a picker-up of rancid socks, a drug tsar, a lecturer on STD's and unwanted pregnancies, one half of the bank of Mum and Dad, a taxi-driver, a tennis partner, made Henry Kissinger and his peace-keeping force look like a bunch of amateurs. Wiped away tears, tried to allay fears. Took worry to higher level, became an ever vigilant witch, a total wreck, couldn't sleep until that key went in the door at 4 a.m. Became a Uni Mum of brainy son and mother of the bride, glowed with pride. Watched them pack, wanted them back, broke my heart. Learned to start again with a different life.

Nearly forgot to remember that once, long ago, there were only the two of us, and two of us once more there would be. Had trouble with the sadness the empty nest brought with it. Had trouble with the tidy house, the quiet house, the empty house. Thought that black hole would definitely get me.

Decided to get a grip. Started a blog. Made some more friends. Had a laugh. Learned to swear in print (fucking liberating, I can tell you). Bought a sports car, had a new hairdo, rediscovered who's the Daddy round here, decided I still really liked him, started to have a bloody good time. Learned to be a bit selfish, self-indulgent and flash, discovered high maintenance hair-do's, facials and the gym. And then, suddenly, I was sixty.

Bloody hell. Now how am I going to deal with that, my dear friends?

Friday, 10 April 2009

Quick, Let's Buy That Man A Briefcase!

Well, well, well. Whatever next? In a week that has seen published lists of items claimed for by MP's more reminiscent of the conveyor belt on Bruce Forsythe's Generation Game than reasonable work-related expenses, (stone sink, patio set, barbecue, etc) there is something that most of us would have gladly provided - and I don't mean the deep fat-fryer or cuddly toy.

For goodness' sake, why didn't anyone treat Bob Quick, Metropolitan Police Assistant Commissioner, to a brief-case? Or maybe a plastic document holder? Or even a big brown envelope?

Whilst it's very worrying that such a senior officer in counter-terrorism would be so daft as to carry Top Secret documents in plain sight of journalists with long-range lenses, I'm not really sure if his resignation will do anyone any good or not. He obviously felt he had to go, and I suppose the least we can say about him is that having dropped such a monumental clanger, he's bitten the bullet and done the decent thing. I guess many of the MPs who are currently working their way through piles of expenses receipts with black marker pens this Easter weekend will be thankful to Mr Quick for getting their subsidised shopping lists off the front page for a few days. Having someone else held up to ridicule must come as a bit of a relief to them, and a very welcome change no doubt.

It's hard these days to watch the news and not have the feeling that the lid is about to pop off yet another can of worms, or several cans for that matter, with more revelations that embarrass and diminish us as a nation, which I find both infuriating and rather sad.

But anyway, enough already. See what happens when I try to get more politically aware? They all start to piss me off and then I'm forced to rant. I can't do anything about any of it so no more sniping from me. I'll just go back to reading the fashion pages of the newspapers, try to ignore the political bits and turn off the TV after Eastenders. All this intrigue is wearing me out.

I will now definitely be resting my case.

Unlike Mr. Quick of course, who sadly hasn't got one.