What If This Bloke Had Popped His Clogs At 69?

From Sidey’s prompt, what if?

With apologies to Viv and all of my decade-ally-challenged friends.

I read an item today about a seventy-year-old man in Widnes who married for the first time.  He said ‘it was worth the wait to find the right woman.’

Talk about picky.

What if he had died before seventy?  He would never have known the joy of getting down on one knee to propose; and staying there.

He met his wife Rosemary Hipwood two years ago while on Holiday in Devon.  Think that’s her name or her next operation?

Jimmy made his move two days later.  Do I really have to say it?

Seriously, I think it’s wonderful to know that love, life and happiness don’t slow down in our latter years, even if our bodies do.  It’s good to know that when I finally snap and bump off the Hub by clobbering him with his own clutter, there’ll be another man out there, ready to love me, smiling in a glass on the bedside table.

I Predict A Quiet

Image via Wikipedia

What would cause you to protest or riot for something?

Apart from the false imprisonment of my children – and possibly my husband, if I was in a good mood – nothing.  I’m British: I don’t do apologetic complaint, never mind protest.  I write a strongly worded letter and feel much better for it.

I bumped into a riot once, by accident.  I can’t say I liked it.  As a teenager, I went to Manchester to audition for the Manchester Youth Theatre with a friend.  It was the time of the nationwide riots against something or other.  I can’t remember what, but I bet it had hatred for Mrs Thatcher at the heart of it.  We had a summer of exploding protests, when staid young men and women became screaming thugs for the afternoon.  We are seeing something similar at the moment in Bristol, because of Tesco.  It’s not quite the breaking of the unions or the poll tax, but a supermarket too close to your back yard is certainly a reason to lose all common sense, I’m sure.

We had been to the auditions and decided to visit the Arndale Centre for some retail therapy (or ‘shopping’, as it was called in Days of Yore when I wurra lass).  As we walked up somewhere, a screaming, running gang of young gentlemen ran down, straight at us.  I grabbed my friend’s hand and dragged him onto the nearest bus, going anywhere.  When we got to anywhere, we had to walk back again, to catch the train home.  No shopping.  What a wasted opportunity.

Trains and a long walk featured once again in my teens.  I went with different friends to Liverpool.  Plenty of shopping and no riots – Scouse youth being better behaved than Mancunian youth.  So much shopping was done, we were late for the train, asked which was ours, and jumped on it just as the doors closed.

I think I was in charge of the travel on that day as well, which explains why we ended up in Widnes instead of Runcorn.  We explained to the man in charge that we had been directed to the wrong train and he said well, in that case, he wouldn’t fine us, but we had to get off there and we couldn’t get on another train without buying a ticket.  Did I mention we had been shopping all afternoon?  We didn’t have the fare for one of us, never mind three.

Did I mention this was in Days of Yore when I wurra lass?  No mobile phones to call parents who didn’t own cars to not fetch us.

Fortunately – fortune being a relative term – Widnes is right next door to Runcorn.  All we had to do was walk home.  Loaded with shopping bags.  In heels.  A mere three hours or so.  I was ready to start a riot.

It’s Snow Good

I am so bored of this weather, and yet more snow is forecast.  One of the advantages of living in this country is its changeable but mild weather.  Britain is not keeping its side of the bargain. 

I am annoyed because I couldn’t go to the cemetery yesterday.   I never miss a cemetery date but I had no choice because it is in Widnes, half-an-hour away; the roads are bad and we are still being advised* to keep journeys to the essentials.  Stockport Council have taken that literally and so we have bin bags piled up in the streets.  Collections are confined to main, cleared roads.  The bags are not smelling, thank goodness, because the cold is preserving them.  Recycling bins are overflowing.   Dirty snow looks slushy but is frozen.  The heating is on most of the time.  Even the Hub felt the cold yesterday, which he hardly ever does because his CFS/ME keeps his temperature raised.  Today is milder: -1.  Warm enough to go out without hat, scarf and gloves and only three layers under my coat. 

My Mum died two years ago yesterday.  I still miss her terribly and I feel bad that I didn’t get there.  The Hub says she would want me to stay home and safe and, yes, she would; but I don’t visit the cemetery for her, I visit it for ME.  She’s not even there, really: she was cremated and her ashes interred so I’m visiting a wooden box and a carved stone; but I need to do it on anniversaries.  I’ll go when the weather clears but it won’t be the same.

Don’t mind me: I’m a little grumpy today.  I was expecting to have my house re-wired tomorrow but the engineer who visited on Friday declared that we have too much stuff and they can’t do it unless it’s all gone.  They won’t be able to access all areas as they need to, so it’s hard lines for us.  I have spent all weekend emptying the loft and Freecycling years of Hub-accumulated junk but I’m a modern Canute and I know I can’t stop the tide of crap rolling over me.   The engineer is coming again tomorrow to check on my progress, in the hope of doing the job next week; but I can’t see it happening.

Never mind.  At least now I have some space in my loft.  Maybe I should dig up Mum and store her there; I could visit no matter what the weather then.

 

 

*I find Government advice peculiar.  We often hear The Government is advising people not to panic; but we never hear The Government is advising people it is now okay to panic.