Silver Fox

They call me the silver fox.
I’ll steal your heart then forget your name.

I sway along the pavement - rolling hips still all of my own - while making sure I keep my head held as high as the crook in my spine will let me. I trail long silver hair, still with a streak of brown, behind me to float in the breeze and occasionally whip strangers about their shoulders. There’s no perm or blue rinse in my future, oh no, I’ve still got some youth in these old follicles yet!

Why is the idea of growing old gracefully such a sin these days? You young women spend a fortune plumping your lines, lifting your faces, filling out your breasts, basting yourselves with self-tan and tattooing eyebrows and lipstick on (how ridiculous is that going to look when you’re 60?). Darlings, there’s no shame in showing the lines of a thousand laughs, the sagging skin that stretched itself out to give your children somewhere cosy to grow and silver hair you can make shiny with decent shampoo and a pint of stout.
Look at me - all eyes if you please as I do love the attention - I’m 75 and I still catch men staring with lust in their eyes: young ones, old ones, middle aged. All are fine by my standards and I do love to be alluring (much to the horror of my sons and dismay of my daughters). I’m probably the only O.A.P in town to own orthopaedic stilettos and strut in the same sized clothes that I could in my 50s.

Who wrote the rules on what a grandmother should and shouldn’t do?
I feel far too vibrant to sit with other old women drinking tea and discussing soap operas, or to collect china plates with pictures of kittens printed onto them. I'll glide and dance and shock sales assistants in stores when I pick up raunchy underwear with genuine interest rather than resign myself to off-white fabric and itchy elastic. There’s still far too much kick in my curves, as well as wisdom in my creases, for me to crumple and hobble and smell like lavender and act the way I’m expected to.

Oh don’t grimace at me like that!

It’s taken so many years to appreciate what the Good Lord gave me and he did do some damn good work!
I feel good in my skin, even if it is drooping away from my bones.That’s not me being vain or anything of the sort, I just feel like all my experience has moulded me into a shape to be proud of, both inside and out. Doesn’t mean I don’t care about what I’m supposed to or that I’m purposely hiding from what’s expected of me, I just am who I am and there’s no point in resigning myself to a life I’m not ready to live just yet.

Maybe when I’m 90 I’ll tone it down a bit and go easy on the low necklines?

I’m not weak, and I’m not feeble. None of my croaky voiced loafer wearing O.A.P sisters and brothers are either, even the ones I try to avoid becoming. We’ve had lives so long and eventful that it’s about time, now that we’re in the prime of our lives, to finally let loose, have a little fun and embrace ourselves exactly the way we are. Hey, we may be the last ever generation to ever do that.

Christmas...

There was always war waged between the kids and the adults during Christmas gatherings at my Grandparent’s house. Not the usual wars such as arguing over the last drumstick, or over who left the stickle bricks on the floor for Granddad to tread on. This battle was actually known as the war of the chairs.
The first members of the family to arrive at the house would all settle down along the sofas that formed a square around the middle of the room where the food table had been set. Any kids would take up the remaining seats or perch upon an available lap. As the doorbell rang, more uncles, aunts and cousins would filter though, meaning that all the children would begin to be booted off the sofas and down onto the floor.
We were left to sit on cat hair and crumbs of dropped crisps, that of which the youngest would usually go around and eat anyway. The house would eventually get so packed out that all of the kids had to move into the room next-door where our uncle would watch us. Not that he wanted to, he just couldn’t get his wheelchair past us all and no one could manage squash in and lend a hand.
It was bedlam in that room: screaming, arguments, fistfights and bits of Barbie and Buzz Lightyear scattered everywhere. After the first hour or so, we would begin to devise plans on how to escape and get back to the comfy chairs and jelly babies that weren’t stale or already chewed. After plotting our exits, we would sneak out in twos, crawling under tangles of legs and wheels, just waiting for someone to stand up so we could slide into their place, the theme tune to The Great Escape ironically blaring from the TV in the background. It never really worked though, especially if you did it to the wrong person. I remember two of us slipping into the chair of crazy Aunt Susan once, to which she responded by hitting us in the shins with her walking stick until we moved.
Another of the plans was crying. Putting your all into pretending to be so upset that you needed to sit on the comfortable chairs and be made a fuss of. That didn’t work either though, as one of two things would usually happen: You’d either be allowed to sit until you’d stopped sobbing then get chucked straight back into the room, or you’d be taken home early; before Nan had offered up the cake and before Aunt Sharon had offered up sneaky sips of wine.
As family would leave, the chairs would slowly become free again meaning the remaining children could wander back in and sit down. It only lasted for around 5 minutes though, just while our parents went to grab coats and the remaining shards of our new toys.
Come to think of it, the chair wars still go on now. The only difference is that there are fewer kids and they’re a lot sneakier than the first generation of us faced with the dilemma of how to escape the room. It’s now mine and my older cousins turn to sit on the chairs and drop crisp crumbs down that the youngest picks up to eat, it’s our turn to leave the stale jelly babies in the bowl as we gather to watch The Great Escape with our aunts and uncles. As we do, we spot feet poking from underneath the pile of coats chucked on one of the cushions, and some of the kids are pretending to be asleep on their parents lap.
There are loud echoes of high-pitched squealing and fighting in the dreaded room between the ones who haven’t plotted an escape yet.
As we all see this happening, we former inmates of the room look at each other and laugh nostalgically before picking the kids up by the arms and slinging them back in once more.

Dance, fucker, dance.

Writing when your mind has more or less gone blank is a tricky thing to try and do. You start out with the best intentions but then your mind starts to drift and you end up distracted by the most stupid of things. All this is made worse when you really should be paying attention otherwise you miss what it is you’re supposed to be doing…or even not doing! My attention’s downfall was a bird that shot past the window during the task explanation. One minute, you’re trying to absorb everything being said, and the next some tatty excuse for a magpie catches you off guard and you end up gazing blankly at where the branches have engulfed it. The problem then moves from watching that, to being hypnotised by the swaying of the leaves. By the time you finally snap out of it, you miss a huge chunk of what you should have been listening to.

Stream-of-somethingness

I'm tired and my body aches. It's a contented ache where even though my bones are creaking and groaning I'm also smiling and finding it all very amusing. Sometimes arguments with your partner really are the best, purely for the crazy ways in which you get to make things up afterwards.
Gah! I still haven't thrown that juice bottle out, that really should go because it's cluttering up my room and making it look even more untidy than usual which is tricky in the first place so wow...damn the clutter. He knows where the bin is but now he just dashes out and doesn't chuck the damn thing away. I really am crap at staying mad at him for long periods of time. Actually I'm crap at staying mad at anyone for long periods of time. Emma springs to mind. I'm never mad at that woman for as long as I should be.
I think the conversation with the girls may have helped things along for yesterday. It was nice to vent and gave me an idea as to how to make this damn spell of ARGGHHHNOOMGSLIPPINGNONERVOUSARGHHH disappear at least for one sitting...or squatting...I don't quite know what you'd call it but it sure as hell as fun.
I have a headache and am wondering when Eastenders will be coming on. Is it on a 2 or 3...it was on at 4 the other week. I do find it very hard to keep up with the BBC's weird timings. You think someone in that strange little place would own some kind of watch and grasp of a schedule but , alas, nope. I'm actually very hungry as well now as it goes the last thing I ate was Ice cream and that was yesterday evening and it wasn't very nice. I let him choose which meant he ended up buying the manky tasting baked Alaska one...although the chocolate polar bears were rather tasty. I much prefer the haggen-das restaurant place. That was the best hot chocolate I've ever had ever. Even better than the one at uni in Frobel canteen. If you ask for cream they pile it high and throw masses of marshmallows on top making it look like some kind of snowy mountain. all it needed was a miniature goat on top...

Got bored.

Walking round and round in circles over the same grubby grey carpet held down with crooked nails, frayed parts patched over with strips of gaffer tape and all of it spattered lightly with blobs of old gum. The same off-white walls and MDF separator boards covered in balding grey felt set up to make cubicles around the room with company names stapled up in the top corners. Welcome to the Midas exhibition centre; the dullest place on earth to work as security.Exhibitors from all different companies are coming through the doors in dribs and drabs, carrying boxes and fold away presentation boards whilst trying to fumble around for their clearance passes otherwise Trevor, who got assigned to door duty yet again even though he was promised otherwise, has to radio the boss. Everyone else is either outside in the rain clad in fluorescent security jackets helping delivery trucks pull up or wandering around the floors to make sure the exhibitors are all OK. As for me, well I’m supposed to be circling the basement floor in order to make sure nothing suspicious goes on whilst the stands are being set up, but there’s a fat chance of anything exciting happening anyway since it’s completely empty down here. The main lights aren’t even on and there’s still a faint smell of chlorine from a leakage at some ‘port-a-pool’ convention last weekend. It’s fine by me though because there are rows of chairs set up for a presentation talk later on this afternoon, so I can sit around for a while at least, provided my supervisor radios in first and doesn’t just sneak up on me.
“...Foxy trotter to Mr Tango…Foxy trotter to Mr Tango. Come in Mr Tango…”
You never get 5 minutes peace with this job. The boss thought giving us all humorous nicknames on the radio would liven things up a bit around the centre, but calling someone ‘Bravo hot legs’ then following with a message about one of the visitors throwing up after too much free wine just seems to kill it every time.
“This is Mr Tango. State your business. Over.”
“There’s a woman at the doors making Trev feel uncomfortable. She just unclipped his tie and is now trying to get through without a pass by pinching his behind. Over.”
“Send Treacle up there to take over until she’s gone. Over and out.”
I sit up and search around my blazer pocket for my radio. Unfortunately, I’m the poor soul they decided to call Treacle on account of the fact that I’m the only female member of staff and they find it amusing.
“Mr Tango to Treacle…my lovely, are you there?”
“Yes Dean.”
“I’m Mr Tango. You’re not doing it properly…”
“Because it’s stupid.”
“Women…” he huffed “Anyway, Trevor is being fondled by some bird up at the entrance. Go up there and rescue him will you, dear. Over.”
“Am I any relation to Bambi? No. Over and out.”

I've discovered a blog...

Called the One minute writer. It gives you 1 minute writing prompts to follow for every single day. Todays one was a prompt asking what another person's first impression would be of you...here's mine:

Well you're a chubby one aren't you? I wonder what you're hiding behind all the make-up aside from the faint stirrings of past acne and re-growth of a moustache. Wow that's a lot of glitter, she either works with children or had a fight with a pixie...can I smell candyfloss?

Missed.

The floor creaks underneath your feet even though it’s covered in thick blue carpet. If you sit down there long enough you’ll notice clumps of fur stuck in the fibres and spiders wandering across to get up to the walls. The skirting boards are off-white with chipped paintwork, spots of dirt and spots of green paint from the walls too. Two shades of green, dark at the bottom and lighter at the top, brushed over a pattern that itself looks like deep brush strokes moving in different directions. The right hand corner has small windows with grubby net curtains tacked up over them, and thick psychedelic red, green and black curtains threaded over that, frayed at the edge where the dog sometimes likes to chew on it. All the furniture is mismatched with a squishy chintz armchair over near the door leading out into the hallway, a dirt smudged white chair next to it with a little table in between balancing coffee mugs, and a green sofa at the back wall with white cushions scattered over it. The smell of home made sausage rolls and cakes waft in from the door of the kitchen left ajar because Nan never likes anyone coming in and interfering, or the dog wandering in for her to accidentally step back on.
Opposite the chairs is a cabinet holding up a small TV, and a shelf next to that covered in keepsakes and family photographs and a blue clock bought as an anniversary present with a golden sun on one half of the face that moves into a half moon on the other side when night draws near. Above the shelf is an oval mirror with a gold frame made to look like crawling ivy, and more dusty frames with more family photos in, a painting of a Lancaster Bomber in flight as well as photo of one too.
There are scurrying noises coming from the ceiling where mice have burrowed and where birds are landing because Nan has just thrown some stale bread up on the roof for them, and rattling on glass pots being washed out ready for a fresh batch of jam to be scooped in then delivered to everyone else living on the road. Nan is singing old war songs over the top, sometimes humming because she’s forgotten the words, or sometimes stopping completely to change into a chorus of “I’m a secret Lemonade drinker…R.Whites!”

Before I get into the swing of this.

I don't claim to be a good writer.
I don't produce the best material ever, nor do I produce anything that is 100% perfect in terms of spelling, punctuation and grammar.
I don't claim to know what I'm talking about or claim to have some kind of profound message hidden behind anything I do.

I just write. I do it as a release. I do it to entertain myself and my friends. I do it to order my thoughts and feelings, I do it because my real voice gets hindered by problems.

I'm doing this to keep me writing because I don't tend to do it creatively and much as I should anymore. I don't care if nothing is punctuated correctly, spelt correctly or if it even makes sense. This is for me to just soldier on and DO SOMETHING. If it's too messy to follow then that's fine, but I'm not changing. No lecturer can nag me here.