Spot the Oldie

I was feeling unusually disconcerted yesterday when I went out shopping in Brighton, where I’m staying for a few days with my son James, his wife Jaimy, and three week old Penelope “Sweet Pea” Porch (who wasn’t due to arrive for another three and a half weeks!).

“That’s strange,” I thought to myself, “why do I feel so peculiar?”

Then I realised that the streets were full of young people, especially late teenage girls, and I had the unpleasant notion that I was the oldest person out and about in Brighton. It was most demoralising I can tell you. I can’t say that I’ve ever felt old before and the prospect seemed daunting. Now that I’m a grandma, will anyone notice? My sister, Mary, was just thirty-eight when she became “Granny” – and she still doesn’t look old.

Suddenly, I was scrutinising people passing by on the pavement. There were hordes of girls, some in laddered fishnet tights under miniskirts (must be all the rage), many in black leggings and multi-coloured tops; there were redheads, yellow-heads, black-heads, white-heads and blue-heads, and some with hats; there were tattooed girls, pierced girls, highly made up girls; they were tall and leggy, short and broad in the beam, hippy types and city types. I wondered why nobody was working at such an hour. How heartening it was to see a black man of around twenty-five – he had dreadlocks and a big smile. Hooray, there were a couple of bearded chaps with very neat hair, perhaps thirty years old and wearing checked trousers like Rupert Bear! A ginger-haired man of about forty-five disembarked from his bike and looked side-ways at me, without speaking (they don’t speak unless invited to in these parts but when you initiate a conversation they are inordinately pleased).

An old man in his sixties (an exception to the rule) approached and offered to recite a poem for a coin – “For a hostel” – and seemed disappointed at the sight of a paltry one pound coin; nevertheless, he honoured his promise with a poem about his foot, which was quite good (the poem, not the foot – he had a gammy foot!). I was pleased to meet the old man… until I conjectured that he was probably much younger than he appeared, considering his circumstances. It was with some excitement that I spotted a middle-aged woman walking towards me, not that I could see in detail from that point but she had a figure and walk that denoted a certain amount of age. As she neared I noticed that she was wearing face paint other than make-up – a curly yellow pattern painted on the bridge of her nose and ending in flourishes on her cheeks. Also, she wore a bright green and yellow silk scarf tied around her head and knotted at the front – rather like the “Mammy” in “Gone With the Wind”. It didn’t go with her harem trousers and I thought she might have been slightly bonkers. Then I laughed to myself… I was wearing royal blue harem pants myself!

To avoid being downhearted I took to photographing any, and every, person over forty in the streets of Brighton. I ended up with about ten. Incidentally, I was not walking aimlessly – I was looking for the “Waitrose” supermarket but I couldn’t find it. Well on the way to the next town of Hove, at last I decided to ask someone for directions. A couple of ladies, one quite old, had stopped to chat (how unusual!) and so I interrupted them.

“Excuse me,” I said (they were thrilled that I, too, had stopped), “I wonder if you could direct me to Waitrose?”

“Oh,” beamed the older lady, “it’s quite a way. Just jump on a bus and it’s the next stop. Do you see that bus up there? Waitrose is the building with the scaffolding on.”

She noticed the look on my face and added:

“No, you could walk.”

Thank goodness – the old lady recognised, rightly, that I was quite young enough to easily walk the hundred metres up the road to Waitrose!

How to Get Off a Train One Stop Too Early

It’s really not that difficult to alight a train at the wrong stop, as I found yesterday when I was on my way to Brighton to see Jaimy, Jim and Lady Penelope, the latter being my new granddaughter who came into the world on the 18th May at six and a half weeks early (maybe she gets it from me!). however, my early exit from the Waterloo train actually made me late.

Admittedly, I had been so excited at the prospect of meeting Penny Sweet Pea (I know I’m a bit “nappy-brained” at present) that I had less sleep than usual, and then there was the early start, and a change at Exeter, so I was fairly tired three and a half hours into the journey. But that’s not the main reason I alighted at Woking rather than Clapham Junction where I was to make the final change for the Brighton train on Platform 13.

Around thirty minutes before the expected time of arrival at Clapham Junction a new tranche of passengers boarded and I felt obliged to move over and share my table seat with the ginger bearded man who looked in my direction. I pulled my rucksack onto my lap to make room. It was rather cramped with the big bearded man beside me and the table was already filled with the computer and office paraphernalia being used by the lady opposite (who hadn’t made room for the other passengers). Then the bearded man brought out his computer and I felt even more hemmed in. My small, but heavy, case was in the rack aloft, as well as a large bag filled with new clothes and presents for Penny and I began to worry about getting out and pulling down my gear in time to disembark. The train was due to arrive at 11:36 and I would have twenty minutes to find Platform 13, assuming that the train was on time.

Actually, the windy weather overnight had brought down trees onto many lines but I didn’t know that so I wasn’t expecting our train to be running late; therefore I had no reason to assume that the stop we came to at around 11:36 was anything other than Clapham Junction.

“Is this Clapham Junction?” I asked the bearded man next to me.

“Yes, I think so,” he replied in a friendly manner. “Can I help you down with your luggage?”

He was a nice chap. He carried my bags to the door and made sure that I landed safely on the platform. Sadly, it was the wrong platform, which I discovered shortly when I asked a member of staff the direction of Platform 13.

“Ah,” the Indian man smiled apologetically, “this is Woking, not Clapham Junction, but don’t worry, there’s another train coming in six minutes!”

I could have kissed him – I might make it, I thought – then the news came over the loudspeaker:

“Logs on the line have delayed several trains. The train to Clapham will arrive within the next twenty minutes.”

Meanwhile the bearded man must have enjoyed the rest of his journey occupying the generous space afforded him by my hasty departure.

At last the Clapham train arrived. It was like “the slow boat to China” and I soon feared I’d not reach Clapham Junction in time for the next train to Brighton (at the other end of the phone Chris had found out all the times for me) and I might have to call Jim again to change his pick up time.

With only two minutes to spare at Clapham Junction I asked a guard for directions to Platform 13.

“You’ve made my day, Smiler,” the guard flirted.

“Will I make it?” I ignored his dashing smile (unusually for me) and felt panicked.

“I should think so,” he beamed.

Jim picked me up about fifty minutes later than we had planned originally and soon all the anxiety of day ended as, for the first time, my eyes beheld the wonder of tiny little perfect Penelope Pit-stop.

Dancing Queen

Yesterday morning our lovely neighbours and good friends Catherine and Martin finally tied the knot and had their reception at Rosie’s barn. It was beautiful and not entirely different to my niece Katie’s wedding a year ago, considering that she also had her reception at the farm. The rain kept off and the sun shone for the festivities. It was perfect. And today, whilst going through the photographs, I noticed that one little white-haired old lady had a spectacular time quite unexpectedly; the lady in question was Catherine’s mum and the reason for her excitement wasn’t altogether to do with the wedding. You see, she wasn’t counting on David the painter – and dancer – being there….

Dying is no Joke

Well, it is a joke in this instance. Our friend Roland (the Birdman from Brisbane) sent me this “Joke of the week” from “The Courier Mail”:

As the elderly man lay dying in his bed, he suddenly smelt the aroma of his favourite homemade chocolate chip biscuits wafting up the stairs. Gathering his remaining strength, he lifted himself from the bed, and slowly made his way out of the bedroom and downstairs, gripping the railing with both hands. With laboured breath, he leaned against the doorframe, gazing wide-eyed into the kitchen.

He couldn’t believe his eyes. There, on the kitchen table, were hundreds of his favourite chocolate chip biscuits! Was he in Heaven or was it one last act of kindness from his devoted wife to see that he left this world a happy man? Mustering one great final effort, he threw himself toward the table, grabbed a biscuit and started eating.

Each bite seemed to bring him back to life. He reached for another. But before he could grab it he heard his wife scream:

“Get away from those biscuits! They’re for the funeral!”

Bad News, Good News

Roger Moore

Yesterday was a bad news day. First, I heard about the genocide and injury to young concertgoers in Manchester; and later, the news about the death of Roger Moore, the actor we all knew as Simon Templar in “The Saint” when I was a child in the sixties.

My brother Bill, who is over from Australia and staying with us at present, had been out with my sister Mary and her family all day so I didn’t know if he’d heard the news.

“Did you hear that Roger Moore is dead?” I asked sadly as he entered the kitchen.

“No, really?” he was surprised, and he paused before continuing. “He’ll be with the other saints now.”

“When he arrives at the Pearly Gates,” my husband Chris chipped in, “he can tell St.Peter that his body is a templar!”

~~~~~~~

Shortly, Bill recounted part of a conversation he’d had with our mum (alias Supergran).

“My brain is really quite good and my memory isn’t too bad,” Mum assured my older brother, “I haven’t got that trouble other old people have – oh… oh… what is it called?”

 

An Urgent Delivery

There was a problem at the sorting office and a very old stork called Caesar was brought in for the extra-special delivery. Unusually, the tiny parcel, weighing in at 4lbs 12ozs, arrived seven and a half weeks early and is stopping over at the Royal Sussex for a bit of V.I.P. treatment before going home.

Penelope Zsa Zsa Kashmir Porch is exceedingly beautiful, as you can see, and has long slim legs and big feet (she has something of her grandmother about her – the big feet, not the slim legs!).

Both she and her mum are doing well and, in a couple of weeks, I shall be winging my way up to Brighton to lend a hand, and love and hug her. I’m so pleased that I shall be known as “Bebe” instead of Granny, and Chris will be called “Baba” (not to be confused with Baa Baa! Although he is a lamb.) And should Penelope ever become a film star she can easily drop a couple of her names…

Whilst talking about our gorgeous new-comer’s glamorous name my sister, Mary, was reminded of an interview between the beautiful actress Zsa Zsa Gabor and the Irish interviewer Terry Wogan many years ago, which she said went something like this…

– “So Zsa Zsa, how many times have you been married?

– “Eight times Darlink. Do you know that all of my husbands accused me of being a bad     housekeeper? But I proved them all wrong – I kept all of the houses!”

–  “I’ve only been married once and I’m still with my wife.”

–  “Really? Oh you poor man!”

Pandora’s Box Set of Teeth

Chris was avidly consuming a “Reader’s Digest” and I was reading the paper in bed at around midnight when I came across this article with the glorious colour photograph (below) of Pandora the dog wearing dentures. (Maybe you’ve seen it in the press already.) I burst out laughing and so did Chris when I showed him. The story, too, is funny but I’m not so sure I believe that a full set of dentures was left buried in the garden by the previous residents; perhaps the present owner is shy to acknowledge his ownership. We all know it’s a delicate subject for most people. Pandora has no such reservations, indeed, she must like the reaction she gets when wearing her second-hand false teeth.

I must admit that we Porch children, too, loved to wear false teeth. We thought them so funny – they way they never fitted right, the teeth were too small and they made your lips bulge out, contorting our faces – so hilarious! Then, of course, we devoured the delicious sweet confections and tried another top set, if we had any more, to see if it fit any better.

Occasionally, on shopping expeditions to Tesco’s at Newton Abbot, I succumb to the temptation to buy modern sweet “Lips and Teeth”, which are even smaller than the ones we had in Australia in the sixties. No, they don’t fit at all well but John, the security guard, and I have fun trying them on regardless. John’s a good sport and very popular with the ladies. He’s not exactly handsome but… with his shaven head and the tiny confectionery teeth he looks like a big bonny baby.

Pandora's box set

Cyber Attacks Worry Supergran

Supergran saves hundreds on runaway train in IndiaAs you can see from recent photographs, my mum Betty (alias Supergran), is, as always, very much concerned with saving the world; she’d do anything to help if she can. In fact Supergran is in her element saving runaway trains and acting as “auto-pilot” for planes with defects that might otherwise make it impossible for them to reach their runways. She is a “hands on” (albeit gloved) super heroine and will tackle any trouble… almost. Unfortunately, Supergran has her one weak point – her Kryptonite – in that she fears high technology, and rightly so, as we are all discovering.

The latest news about cyber attacks and ransom demands on the NHS and other institutions in Britain, and around the world, has been worrying Supergran greatly. At ninety-four our heroine is still ultra savvy and a force to be reckoned with but, occasionally, the wrong words come out (yes, it happens to us all). Yesterday, whilst we were in the car on our shopping trip (Mum may be able to fly under her own steam but she doesn’t drive – all part of the mild mannered great-grandmother act) – she was frequently deep in thought and highly worried about the NHS being held to ransom. Mum kept coming back to the subject.

“What do you think?” Supergran asked. “Will the government pay the random?”

Supergran takes control

The Introverted Extrovert

You wouldn’t know – I didn’t tell you – that I’ve been fostering a rather reluctant youngster for around four weeks now. Well I know that there are no guarantees about these things – you sort of take pot luck – but I must admit that I’ve been quite disappointed, worried even. You see at first she was a bright young thing and full of the joys of spring, so much so that I used to think of her as Blossom or Jazzy… She hasn’t been “jazzy” since that first week, far from it.

Luckily, I did “A Level Psychology” years ago, and now, with my newfound interest in philosophy as well, I have been trying to fathom the problem with my charge in the hope that I may be able to help. Unlike me – I’m an extroverted introvert (well you must speak if you want anyone to listen) – I came to the conclusion that Jazzy is an introverted extrovert, meaning that something has been preventing her from showing her natural colours. I just hoped it wasn’t me! I worried she was feeling “in the shade” although it has to be said that the neighbours were green with envy (if not ivy); but she’s not been doing so bloomin’ well since that first week – talk about shrinking violets and wallflowers!

A few minutes ago I went out to see Jasmine, thinking that perhaps she’s like me in the respect that I love the sun; I’d move her from the shaded wall up to the sunny balcony, and then I noticed something wonderful. Little pink buds are dotted all over her – she has nestled in and has decided to bloom again. It appears I can’t be such a failure as a foster mother after all even though we’re quite unalike.

Guantanamera, Guantanamera

Guantanamera – The Sandpipers – YouTube

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jm1anurhbeg

Now if you just want to click on the youtube link above and hear The Sandpipers’ well-known song from 1966 then please do so but, if you’re wondering at the title of my blog post, you may be interested to know why I looked in the mirror this morning and felt the urge to sing “Guantanamera” (not to be confused with Guantanamo, which my text prompt insists is the word I should use); and also, why all day long I have been breaking into bursts of conversation spoken with a Mexican Spanish accent.
“Hey gringo!”, I called out (adopting my “Speedy Gonzales” accent) from our bedroom door at the bottom of the stairs, “Are you wearing shorts today?”
That brought Chris to the top of the stairs.
“No I’m not…”, he paused and smiled as he observed me, “but as you’re wearing shorts I think I’ll join you!” (We’re very together like that.)
Actually, it wasn’t my Aussie red shorts that put the smile on my husband’s face, it was the new top, which I acquired at half-price from Tesco’s last Saturday. I kind of understood why they hadn’t been big sellers on the racks – they were so colourful! And stripey! And red, white, orange, black and pink… with a big, bobble-edged gathered flounce all around the shoulders (no, not like Coco the clown, but a cheerful Mexican or Peruvian!).
“How do I look?” I asked Chris.
“Guantanamera, da da da, Guantanamera,” he sang but he couldn’t sing more than that because he doesn’t know any more of the words.
“Si Señor, I, too, was singing that a minute ago,” I said (like Speedy”) and added, “Riba, riba… anderlay, anderlay (whatever that means)…”
“If you go to Rosie’s farm today the alpacas will get excited,” Chris said before taking a bite of his toast and marmalade.
“Oh, Señor, I suppose I do look a bit funny for Dawlish – I might go and change, anderlay, anderlay (or is it underlay?)” I suggested.
“No, no, you’ll be a trailblazer,” Chris said and hummed the tune of Guantanamera.
“The Mexican trail,” I laughed.
“If only I’d known I’d have brought my pan pipes,” he quipped.
Out by the front door I sang and hummed Guantanamera while I put on my sandals. Chris joined me and grabbed the car keys off the hook.
“Come on, riba, riba, let’s go to Mum’s and frighten her,” he said, “and don’t forget the guitar!”
Guantanamera
Guantanamera, guajira guantanamera
Guantanamera, guajira guantanamera
Yo soy un hombre sincero
De don de crece la palma
Yo soy un hombre sincero
De don de crece la palma
Antes des morirme quiero
Echar mis versos del alma
Guantanamera, guajira, guantanamera
Guantanamera, guajira guantanamera
Mi verso es de un verde claro
Y de un carmín encendido
Mi verso es de un verde claro
Y de un carmín encendido
Mi verso es un querido cielo
Que busca en el monte amparo
Guantanamera, guajira, guantanamera
Guantanamera, guajira, guantanamera
Songwriters: Peter Seeger / Julian Orbon / Hector Angulo / Jose Fernandez Diaz
Guantanamera lyrics © Peermusic Publishing, The Bicycle Music Company