The blades flashed in…

the weak winter sun.

Doris stood by the tree line at the side of the lake.

She watched, knowing, seeing and fearing for her only child.

Her cry whipped away on the wind, lost in the murmur of leaves

that tenaciously clung to the trees that gave them life.

It's late in the year for so many trees to be in leaf she thought as

she whirled across the thin ice.

Sadness accompanied her as she twirled faster,

ever closer to the black hole under the ice that to her, 

on this cold day seemed so warm and inviting.

Doris saw the pain, that only a mother can.

With every fibre of her being she willed her

strong daughter to beat her demons.

The melt water seemed strangely beguiling,

 as it slowly, silently crept ever closer.

'I know you're there, I feel your presence, 

I talk to you in the car.

It's alright Mum, I'm not mad,

just sad!'

Another facet of my rich and varied life.

I wouldn't mind but I can't even skate…
well the only time I did, I had bruise on each cheek…
Argentina meet Buenos Aires.

Well did you ever…

In case you can't read it…

'Elegance is an attitude'

Kate Winslet…

which unashamedly grows on you, when you pick up

a fat cheque…

Oh and a free watch.

I'm back!

Watch this space for my thoughts on

'Am I too old to…'

Correct me if I'm...

wrong...

but do the words...

National Theatre Live mean to you that

you are paying £17.50 per ticket

to see a live performance beamed to a

cinema near you...

actually live...

as in... happening now?

On Thursday evening a fellow lover

(not literally, naturally!)

of Alan Bennett and I took ourselves

off to 

'The Habit of Art'

Two large large ladies of mature years,

her of ninety summers and me not far behind,

deposited our ample girths into the

embrace of the pneumatic armchairs that pass themselves off

as today's answer to the 3/9d's.

With huge glasses of wine to hand we settled comfortably 

in for the long haul.

We did pass on the giant tubs of popcorn for two reasons

a)  they didn't sell it

b)  and even if they did... 

we would have been hard-pressed to balance it on our tums.

Settling back for a night of being part of the audience

of the National Theatre made my heart sing.

Alright the fact that the National is a good 20 miles away

as the Albatross flies is a mere bagatelle.

This was live theatre...

and one of the countries finest to boot.

Hold tight...

roll of drums at this point please maestro.

Now I am fully aware that I'm not the sharpest

tool in the box, however it didn't take me long to

realise that is was anything but live...

Why?

You might well ask!

W H Auden was played by Richard Griffiths

who sadly died this year.

The mark of a truly great actor is one who
will come back from the dead in order that
 the show must go on.

The play was another Alan Bennett masterpiece
about the imagined meeting after twenty-five years of
W H Auden and his friend and collaborator 
Benjamin Britten.
The queens of creativity of yesteryear had
had a fall out about who knows what, and this was them
getting back in touch.

Rent boys, peeing in sinks and other unsavoury
aspects of old artisticals in decline 
were the order of the play.
And very good it was too...
but wait...
I did have a few uneasy moments 
not for me you understand...
but for my 90 year chum,
when W H Auden described what 
he wanted to do to the rent boy!

If it's showing in your local flea-pit and you have £17.50
to spare I can highly recommend it...
although take it form me...
it ain't live...
one of its cast is most definitely dead.

Richard Griffiths
1947 - 2013

The sad tale of the fat lass...

the Fly boots and 

the throbbing thumb.

Picture the scene...

all is dust settlingly quiet in

Rapunzel Towers.

Ted is away for the day,

leaving me, his able assistant

to take our Saturday night's ill-gotten gains

to the Air Ambulance base.

Imagine if you can my spiff-chick, splendid

Smart car, stuffed to the parson's nose and 

beyond with coins of the realm.

In order to look the part of an honest upright

citizen I decide to dress up and don some

normal gear.  The all forgiving palazzo pants are 

thrown with a flourish onto the floor.

Proper linen trousers are the order of the day

according to my perusal of Berk's Pearage.

The ensemble is topped off with a lawn blouse,

jaunty red silk paisley scarf.  In the half light of early

morn, you could be forgiven for thinking me normal.

Bum in the air, I locate by means of apparel sat-nav,

my Fly boots cowering in the back of the cupboard.

'Your time has come...

let's hit the road running!'

I cry.

With stocking feet I dust

the aforementioned footwear, as I descend the storeys.
No time for boot black!

I'll just pop them on, then the job's a goodun.

Wrong!

I strained, I huffed, I puffed,

I even lowered the zip of my trousers

in order for a rent not to fill the air.

Linen fatigue...

 a well known event around these parts!

I did try to use my right hand...

the pain!

I honestly thought it would come loose and fall off. 

Fast forward to 4 p.m. and Ted arriving home 
to the sight of the latest

Damien Hirst art work...

'Severed Thumb on Parquet Floor

with Blood and Gore'

circa 2013.

It took me a full 15 minutes...

leg in air

leg over the arm of the sofa

to get the flaming things on.

I was so exhausted I had to get my breath back,

feet up sort of thing!

At this juncture, tired and crotchety, in need of a break,
I thought I'll pitch up

to the Virgin desk at Gatwick,

empty the pails of loot and say...

'Where will this lot get me?' 

as I tip the eleven overflowing buckets

onto their Late Booking counter.

Knowing my luck it'll get me to the

Maldives where...

'No News, No Shoes'

 is the order of the day...

And I won't be able to get the frigging boots off.

✈✈✈

Linda's law of activity...

1.  Don't!

2.  As a Garden Guide trodge around the garden 

at speed, in order visitors can't catch you and

ask you a question you haven't the foggiest

idea of the answer.

3.  The rule of thumb...

Never forget you can't use it!

e.g. hanging washing out

 the squeezing of pegs is sooo

painful as is...

peeling vegetables

cutting out

hand sewing

writing...

folk used to say

'You've got such lovely, unusual hand writing,

can't understand it mind!'

I now know why old ladies writing gets spidery...

it's their thumbs.

Pulling up drawers is also problematical...

the very reason I gave up thongs...

the twang as I lose grip positively

makes all sensation from my nethers

sing... I wouldn't mind, but not in the way

a girl would want them to.

I now have to wear lisle stockings

industrial strength because I have to use

my whole hand to pull them on.

You just won't believe the sheerest Wolford

stockings and tights I've holed in one before I've even

 got out of the clubhouse.  

I wouldn't mind but I don't even play golf.

What's a girl to do when the size of the latest

Booker prize winner - over 800 pages,
means she's not going to 

be able to literally, not literary, get to grips with it!

Download it to you Kindle...
 I hear you cry...

err, I gave it away.

Why?

Because I got it in my head that

all the books were

precised like Readers Digest Condensed Finest.

And no amount of people telling me they're not, will

persuade me otherwise.

Intransigence rules most definitely OK!

Last night saw super sofa slug out of her lair.

Biker boots, beret and scarves a plenty,

she was out shaking her booty with bucket in hand.

Thumb forgotten, she was on a mission.

Now we are a furry family member missing
i.e. Lettice,

we can go out together... a novel experience!

Tunbridge Wells firework display.

Ted orchestrated his troops

to collect for the

Kent, Surrey & Sussex Air Ambulance.

Me being a shrinking violet, decided I would 

raid the Christmas lights and bedeck myself

with same.

Beret... sporting twenty six poppies, (last week

we were abroad collecting... so perks of the job...

 you can snaffle a handful!)

lit up like a Christmas tree, I waylaid all,

as you might imagine.

An old chap I got chatting to, started saying some very complementary

things, what's a girl to do?  Especially with an eye to money

of the folding kind!

As he was pulled away by his friends,

I said 

'Don't worry I'll catch you on the way out!'

I'm not proud...

it was for a good cause after all.

'You can catch me any time!'

his words echoed through the gloom, as his friends

lead him away.

Senility can strike when you least expect it! 

Rapunzel is revolting...

From henceforth...

things are changing...

I'm letting my hair down.

From this day forth...

I'm no longer plucking,

a fruitless exercise if ever there was one.

My chin will bristle,

my tash will tassel.

I'm never going to

kiss anyone on

both cheeks, ever again.

When did we decide we

had to do it anyway?

We're not frigging French...

we're British, stiff upper lip

and all that...

okay from now on my upper lip

will be extra stiff with a hemp

fringe, but no worries.

I'm certainly never ever going to say...

'Moi?'

Instead I will cry...

'Wot me mate?'

I'm revolting in all quarters

and not one of them French.

My strops will become more astropalyptic,

my pontificating more pointed,

my thoughts on all and sundry more honest.

Never having had a horse, I'm taking up

horse riding, with the sole purpose of

riding rough shod over all who need

it telling... like it is...

Well in my candid opinion, that is!

Look out world...

I want to get back on!