The Day Before Mum Died

Christmas Day 2023

I walked up through the woods in my wellies, enjoying the peace and solitude of nature. My prayers earlier had been for the grace and courage to ask mum about her funeral arrangements, specifically where it was, as I knew she had written it down. And she had told Ellie and I exactly what she wanted to happen too, I just couldn't remember all the details. I also prayed that I would find the strength to tell her all the things on my heart, which she already knew, but I wanted to say them out loud again, so she could hear straight from my heart to hers.

Please God, give me strength and courage to say what I want to say to mum today.

There was a strong sense of urgency to do this as Sunday's visit was not good with mum being quite agitated and talking a bit strange. Stopping to chat to a friend on the cricket field lane for a few minutes broke my solitude but humbled me, as he is forcing himself to keep going out on walks since his stroke over a year ago. We encouraged one another, reminding ourselves to keep moving forward as much as we are able to, whatever our circumstances.

Arriving around midday, I walked in calling cheerfully up the stairs as usual, 'Hiya Mum!'

'Hiya Susie!' came her reply, fairly loud and clear which it hadn't been lately and was such a nice surprise. Sat up in her borrowed hospital bed in my old bedroom, she looked brighter and calmer, although she said she was feeling quite hot. It was a huge relief to see her false teeth back in place as they had fallen out the day before. Dad had been cleaning them for her which I found truly astounding and amazing.

Going over to the bed I gently hugged and kissed her, so happy to see her more relaxed again. I hadn't been there long when Lindsey from the local hospice came. It was great to meet her as both mum and dad had told me how caring and lovely she was. Dad and I had a really good chat with her and asked all those difficult questions like, 'What else can we do, who do we phone if mum dies in the daytime or at night because neither of us know, we're struggling now, please can we get any more help or support?' She was very kind and reassuring, telling us what to expect over the next few weeks and days as mum would become weaker. She went upstairs to spend some quality time with mum then left us saying she would come again next Monday. She was so lovely and helpful.

Going back upstairs myself, I was happy to find mum still calm and even more chirpy. What I remember most vividly is how we were able to have a two-way conversation again. She seemed able to speak without stopping to catch her breath and it didn't seem as hard work for her, despite being on continuous oxygen. Plucking up the courage to ask where her funeral notes were she clearly replied, 'Over there on the dresser in an envelope with After I'm Gone written on it.' 

Gulp. 'Brilliant! Thanks Mum.'

She asked what my family were doing, nodding at each answer, seeming pleased that they were busy at work, college and Uni. When dad called me down for lunch mum sat up comfortably in bed, looked directly into my eyes as I stood in the doorway and said with a beaming smile, 'See you kid, I love you.' It was so poignant, breathtakingly clear and pierced straight through my heart. She was saying goodbye to me.

'Mum! I'm only going downstairs for lunch, I'll come back up.' I attempted to smile back through my cascade of more tears.

While trying to swallow down whatever dad had rustled up I was anxious mum might die there and then, but she didn't. After lunch we chatted more, watched some daytime T.V favourites of hers; Bake Off and quiz show repeats. It was so good to talk together, like we always do, and when the appropriate time came I said all the things I wanted to say, with another flood of silent tears pouring down my face.

'I love you so much Mum, you've been a great mum, thank you for being my mum. I will miss you so much when you go but I know you are going to heaven and you shouldn't be scared. We have had some really good fun together over the years haven't we?' 

Mum agreed and smiled. It was so great to be able to tell her these things on my heart. 

Noticing that her nails had grown again, I asked, 'Mum, do you want another manicure?' 

'Go on then,' she replied.

I gently washed her hands in the old, yellow camping bowl, half-full of warm, soapy water. Then scrubbed with the nail brush before cutting and filing each finger and thumb nail. I never normally do stuff like this for mum but somehow felt compelled to. It was intimate and special. Still, not quite as awesome as dear dad scrubbing her dentures.

'Are they OK Mum?'

'They're fine love, thank you.'

My brother phoned for a chat. It was more difficult for her to speak over the phone, but she did. At the end of the call she clearly said to him, 'OK darling, I love you. See you. Bye.'

We chatted more and mum randomly remarked at one point,' I've had a good husband.'

'One of the best Mum, Dad was really good looking when he was younger.'

'He still is,' she simply stated, which made me smile through yet more tears.

I stayed until about 6pm. It had been a long but lovely day. As I prepared to leave I gently hugged her as usual, told her I loved her and gave her a kiss on the cheek. She kissed me back, all as usual. Again, I felt another compulsion, this time I kissed her on her hot forehead and said, 'Night God Bless,' which I don't usually do. Mum would say this to me as a child, then as an adult ending an evening phone call, or when we were away on holiday together. I felt really peaceful. Mum looked peaceful. All was as it should be and couldn't have been any better really.

'Bye Dad, it's been a better day, mum has been so calm and bright. I love you Dad.'

'I love you too Susie.'

Walking downhill back home, smiling, peaceful and thankful, I didn't know then that it would be our last day together. I did know that it was very special though. In hindsight what a blessing.

Thank you Mum. xx

Thank you God 🙏

                                                

                                            

November 2021

            
        

Paolo Nutini - O2 Victoria Warehouse, Manchester 23/10/22

 

Photo courtesy of Josh Hoyle

son: 'Mum, Paolo is playing in Manchester tonight.'

me: 'Right, let's go kid, you deserve it!'

I'm not usually so spontaneous but all of a sudden it felt absolutely the right thing to do.

son: 'WHAT!!! Are you serious?' Scream (funk my life up).

me: 'I took your sister to a gig at sixteen, you've worked so hard and are an amazing human being and we're doing this. You can buy your own ticket with your cricket wicket takings and I will treat you by being the taxi service there and back, OK?'

son: 'WHAT!!! Are you joking, I have to buy my own ticket?'

me: 'I'm not joking, gigs can be very expensive. Listen to your heart what is it saying?'

son: 'OK, let's go mum!'

Mini-Me loves Paolo's music and has bought all his albums on CD. We possibly brainwashed him with the album Sunny Side Up, which came out in 2006, the year he was born. When he's singing along at full belt you know all is truly well in his soul. Just seeing him so excited made my heart melt; that he wanted to go to his first gig with his mum too. I am so fortunate that the kids want to come out with me, sharing the fun, creating memories and enjoying the simple things we do. I really did want to buy his ticket but could only just justify buying my own and it's a lifelong lesson to learn how to spend what we earn wisely isn't it?

We set off at 5.30pm driving headlong into a beautiful sky full of autumn watercolour washes which were subtly changing every second. Everything was bright, beautiful and full of high hopes. Thankfully, I did not succumb to being fleeced for a tenner at a pop up car park because we are mostly operating in a cashless society now, whether we like it or not aren't we?

As luck would have it we found a dodgy side street with a working pay and display machine. I magically produced four pound coins from somewhere and shoved them in the slot. I felt slightly unnerved leaving the old banger on these streets with only one other vehicle for company but needs must. And so I trust all will be well and it is.

It was only a ten minute walk to the Warehouse, passing right in front of a brightly lit up Old Trafford ground. No game on tonight thank goodness. As we queued like cattle then began moving up and down the gates carefully avoiding puddles, we both said cheery hellos and thank yous to the many security guards and stewards lining the way. They were equally friendly and polite despite probably being paid an absolute pittance. We both felt privileged to be able to have some spare cash in order to attend the gig. It's that awful feeling of guilt in doing these things, even though you yourself have worked so very hard, but you know others have much less and cannot even dream of going to see a gig, or show at the theatre or even a film at the cinema. Why are such life enhancing pleasures so expensive and elite? We should all be able to access the arts and creative forces in life in order to escape the harsh realities; to be reinvigorated, inspired and challenged.

It felt so wonderful and strange going to a venue with Mini-Me because I'm so used to doing this with psych undergrad, Romeo, friend or mum. I had forewarned him of my frequent need for toilet breaks but was slightly worried about leaving him alone when nature called as soon as we arrived. Note to self: Numpty he is not five years old anymore. He is growing up beside you and towering above you now.

At the bar:

me: 'What would you like to drink kid? Do you want a WKD?'

son: 'No mum, I don't need alcohol.'

me to bar staff: 'Hiya! Please can we have a lemonade and a coke?'

Bar staff: 'Would you like pints or halves?'

us in unison: 'Halves please. Thank you.'

It's a cool venue which I've never been to before and is standing only. Perfect for a first-time gig goer I think to myself and grin. We made our way forwards and pitched up about ten rows from the front, slightly to our left of centre stage. We soon got chatting to another couple, noticing lots of giggers were holding two pint plastic vessels in their hands. Our half-pints were fizzy sugar shots in comparison. I pointed out the safety exits and felt reassured that there were so many alongside the building, as I sensed my youngest becoming more of a worried man as the crowd got bigger.

me: 'It's OK, just relax, you won't notice the crowds once the music begins,' I tell both of us. It was quite a mixed, lively crowd; some handsome young couples, some older ones, nowhere near a million faces, so it still felt quite intimate given the 5000 capacity.

The support act were NewDad from Ireland. I liked them, they reminded me of The Cure. As their set came to a close, naturally we surged forward as the crowd anticipated the main act appearing from backstage. 'It's a bit like a wave,' I told him, trying to remember when he first learnt to swim. 'Just go with it but stand your ground.' The two-pints party people were revving up a few notches by now and that can be daunting when you're stone cold sober, albeit naturally high on life itself.

We somehow surfed into the middle of the crowd in line with centre stage and still surprisingly had room around us to dance properly. When Paolo sang 'Through the Echoes,' my heart filled up, the flood gates opened and I burst into a million tears, seeing and hearing my son lose it so passionately, lyric for lyric along with an artist he genuinely loves and respects. I love this new song too, it's so beautifully emotive and can often be heard around the house. It begins in his bedroom, reverberates around the bathroom and drifts across the landing. Joining in from the kitchen below our heart-felt harmonies collide somewhere on the staircase. In times like these we are beautifully connected and everything seems blissfully perfect for the duration of the song, (3 minutes 41 seconds).

I cannot express in words alone, (although as a writer surely this is the sole purpose), how absolutely amazing Paolo and his band were live. 10/10 is not adequate enough either. There was so much positive energy whizzing around the Warehouse and yet at least three people had to be rescued from the crowd due to dehydration or something. The gig actually stopped for a few minutes as a man was carried out. Being the better man, Paolo, dedicated his next song to him but I cannot recall what it was now. This is the problem with writing in hindsight. Although I did scribble some notes soon afterwards which I am referring to now at the time of typing but often new perspectives come into sight when you allow some time to pass. It's like brewing a lovely cup of chai tea, waiting long enough before you sip it down smoothly and it makes you feel so special, warm and loved. Timing is everything and I'm choosing not to fear in being too late writing this as I have been writing lots of other stuff lately. It's as though a dam has burst its banks and nothing at all can stop it. I think it's because I resigned from school and decided to be a writer. I hope you feel my love through the words I write.

Rewind to the gig.

Iron Land stood out proudly in the set and we united as audience, band and front man in proclaiming some powerful truths proving that all genres of artists continue to Fight the Power, (ref: song by The Isley Brothers, Parts 1 & 2, 1975 and Public Enemy 1989, plus others should you wish to research for yourselves).

It got to the point where standing up for ourselves started to hurt, which is a huge part of being a human being. It was a blessing we were not wearing any new shoes to enhance further suffering.

son: 'My back's aching.'

me: 'Yeah mine too love.'

He didn't want to hang around afterwards on the off chance of seeing Paolo and possibly getting his autograph or offering thanks for a great gig. How alike yet different we are, I mused, as we detoured home via Manchester City Centre. Somehow, with or without Sat Nav I usually take the road less travelled, miraculously ending up where I am meant to be. Often prayer is involved after I have panicked, shrieked or cursed on occasion. It became clear we had to go via Longdenden through thick fog making it a mysterious journey home along the winding roads. I glimpsed an owl perched on a wall which made me smile even more and helped to keep me awake. Eating chocolate croissants, malt loaf and listening to Jamiroquai (which Mini-Me especially selected), also kept me on high alert. When I remark, 'That was a brilliant first gig to go to kid,' he asks me about all the other gigs I have been to. Quite a few now I think about it and decide to list them in chronological order of first ever to most recent, as far as I can remember correctly:

The Stylisics

Cliff Richard 

The Pasadenas

Rumillajta

The Dubliners

Christy Moore

Bryan Adams

Jamiroquai 

Simply Red

Radiohead

a-ha

Elvis Costello

Clinic

The Flaming Lips

The Saw Doctors

Kate Rusby

Eliza Carthy

Bellowhead

Soul II Soul

Arrested Development

Stereophonics

Jess Glynne

The Cure

Seth Lakeman

Paul Weller

The Temptations

Showaddywaddy

The Waterboys

Howard Jones

Villagers

Paolo Nutini

Sly 5th Avenue ft. Roberto Verastegui

What an eclectic mix and each at different life stages, in various venues and with someone special beside me. Although I did see The Dubliners solo. It was a challenge I set myself to see if I could do something independently in my early twenties. I found it really exciting going to Huddersfield Town Hall all alone, chatting to the stranger sat beside me, our feet tapping in time together as we sang along to Whiskey in the Jar. 

I have not listed the few festivals and DJ sets I have found to be mind-blowing in recent times as this is work in progress. 

My last request for now is to keep going to gigs so I can smile, sing, dance and live. 

With love,

Susie xx

PS Words written in italics are some of Paolo's songs.

When Huey met Susie

Keep on Moovin

I settled on my flowery pink and turquoise lucky top with a pin badge attached saying IMAGINE, bright pink yoga leggings, trainers, mint green painted nails, various bracelets, rainbow beaded hoop earrings, lots of make-up, some glitter and a pink flower in my hair to cap it all off. Stage one complete. Feeling quite extra for a sabbath, I whizz off to pick up daughter (with her hangover in tow) from nearby digs and we make a pit stop at Tesco's for a much needed meal deal. It's not far at all to our destination and I'm super excited to be going to this festival again after we had such a fantastic time there together last year. 

Walking through Etherow Country Park passing families moving in the opposite direction pushing prams, looking at ducks etc, I notice most eyes veer towards my daughter's bounteous cleavage and I feel a mixture of emotions: WoW! She looks amazing, EEK! She is being oggled at lasciviously, AGH! I used to be leered at like that and OOH! I am becoming old and haggard despite being young at heart. Note to self: Do not judge a book by it's cover. And more importantly do not judge anyone. 

We soon catch up with others on the way to Whitebottom Farm where the festival is staged and have our day wristbands attached. We've arrived. Off we trot to the first of many trips to the portaloos. My outfit this time was perfect for portaloo usage. Last year I thought I looked great in my dusky pink jumpsuit, yet it was very impratical with its buttons and belt restraint whenever I needed the loo. Earlier this year I went to Let's Rock Leeds (the retro 80s festival) which was fantastic. As a group we all dressed in dungarees paying homage to Dexy's Midnight Runners. Another tricky outfit for the portaloos there. My lesson learned, I had no trouble whatsoever in the latrines this time. And remember, I was wearing my lucky top. More of that later.

It's a three day festival but who can afford such luxuries these days? This meant I had to choose our day very carefully, which was no problem at all as Huey Morgan was scheduled for bank holiday Sunday. His Saturday morning show on BBC Radio 6 Music is my favourite and I have danced and sang along with pure abandon at his DJ sets in Holmfirth, Manchester, Keswick and at this Moovin festival last year, with either bodyguard Romeo or psych undergraduate daughter for company. 'Money don't matter tonight,' because I know I'm getting, 'Lost in music,' dancing and trying to sing along to at least the chorus of Rappers Delight. 'SAY WHAT?'

We were chilling near the Mini Moo tent, devouring our bratwurst for dancing fuel, when eagle eyed daughter nonchalantly says, 'There's Huey Mum.' YES, sure enough there he was just walking along, heading for the back of the tent for his upcoming set. The current DJ suddenly started playing, 'I Wanna be Your Lover,' one of my favourite Prince tracks and one which Huey usually plays in his set. I was very annoyed with this track hijacking and remained seated on the grass in protest trying to spy Huey behind the scenes to make sure he was ok.

Time passed by as we crowd watched, got another toilet break in, stayed hydrated, chatted etc. I think I'm observant but darling daughter suddenly spouts forth again, 'There's Huey Mum.' Here we go again some weird chain reaction occurs, it's happened before wearing this lucky top when I met the band a-ha. This time I spring to my feet and chase after him down the field, (great decision to wear my trainers). Poor Huey flinches slightly as I hurtle towards his blind side. 'Where are you going Huey?' I ask him, slightly breathless. 'I'm going to the bathroom girl,' he replies, probably a bit annoyed with me and rightly so.

I'm suddenly ashamed of myself for not giving him his personal space and allowing freedom and privacy. What is it with me and this flower power top of confidence? I'm a bit sad that I may have upset him and talk it through with my beautiful psych undergraduate daughter, who questions why I did indeed run after him like that. As did my good friend when I pounced like a lioness seducing her mate upon poor Magne Furuholmen in his gym kit in a hotel foyer, pre a-ha farewell gig in Sheffield in 2010. I'm not even going to mention the tension between Morten Harket and myself over an old bedsheet. Oh well, just so you know I'm not misleading you, my good friend and I had created a banner out of an old bedsheet and politely asked the band to sign it for us. Morten struggled somewhat with this task telling us we had to, 'Hold it tight,' which to this day makes us laugh hysterically every time we remember it.

Moving back to the question very simply stated, 'Why did you do that?' My answer remains the same, 'I don't know?'

To be honest by this stage of the game I'm also feeling a bit giddy because Huey called me girl. Although this could have been in a slightly remonstrative way as in, 'I'm going to the bathroom, LEAVE ME ALONE YOU CRAZY WOMAN!' which is quite understandable. And more likely it's just an American turn of phrase.

I'm so sorry Huey. I was worried that you were leaving before doing your amazing set because I love what you do and I just wanted to say Hi.

I can't quite remember whether the above happened before or after a yellow hula hoop came hurtling towards me in the field, which I caught and expertly rolled back, (I have become highly skilled in hoop throwing having been taught by one of our SEN students at school over the past couple of years). As soon as the yellow hoop left my hand I was swiftly rugby tackled by an exuberant male who grabbed onto my waist really tightly whilst laughing manically in my face. WOW! My job at school has prepared me so well for such unexpected happenings.

'Look what you're doing to me, I'm totally at your whim all of my defences down.....' We sing and dance along together with everyone else, spellbound under Huey's set. A group of Liverpudlian lads had latched onto us, twirling us round and around when we let them. Psych undergraduate escapes for a solo toilet break and one of them asks me, 'Where's your friend gone?' I laugh, look him straight in the eye and reply proudly, 'She's my daughter.'

Seemingly unaffected by Grand Theft DJ Wainwright, Huey sticks to his guns and plays the aforementioned track. I dance and sing my heart and soul out, while silently giving thanks for Prince and his amazing music. It's all over far too quickly, it always is, but there's still Roy Ayers and his band on in the barn before The Magnificent DJ Jazzy Jeff and so we hurry once again to the toilets.

'No way to control it, it's totally automatic whenever you're around.....' My lucky top magic strikes again when I least expect it just five minutes or so after the set had ended.

Huey was stood right in front of us by a car, presumably his getaway vehicle, (it's so tempting to write a Fun Lovin' Criminal reference in here but I'm going to resist). He was really close to our preferred toilets of choice. Seriously, I could not believe my eyes. He was chatting to another woman, or more likely, the woman was talking to him. She then asked for a photo which she gratefully received. I own a great photo of Huey and myself outside the Picturedrome in Holmfirth from 2019, so there is no need to pester him for another. I just want to offer him my sincere apology.

'Great set Huey, I'm sorry about before, you know bothering you when you needed the toilet.' He was kind and said it was ok, he just needed the bathroom. The other woman then asked him for a hug, which he obliged, so I politely jumped on that bandwagon. 'I'm Puerto Rican I hug everybody,' he said and gave me the biggest, friendliest bear hug ever. It was almost a good as the ones my Dad gives me. Gracias amigo.

You have to imagine the smile upon my face at this point beaming up to the heavens and back again, possibly re-routing any satellites straying off course. I love meeting people, especially those who bring me joy and happiness through music, literature and the arts, whether they are famous or not. I can only hope and pray that when I bump into them, as I sometimes seem to do, that I can make them smile a little and know they are valued and appreciated.

To think that I almost put my lucky top into the last charity bag collection. Fate knows better, she always does.

Keep smiling, keep singing, keep dancing and keep on moving forwards.

                         With love (& peace too) xx

Rusty still in repairs

Walking Home with an unexpected special guest appearance

I began to feel the strong urge around the middle of the week. By the time Friday arrived it became a compulsion and so I sensibly prepared by pacing myself throughout the school day. Walking home is something I really enjoy and can take up to two hours but is so worth it as it's such a lovely route with beautiful views. It's mostly uphill for the first hour with birdsong, sheep and lambs for company. Feeling a bit weary as I approached The Golden Cock, I considered stopping for a swift half by myself but decided against it. No rest for the wicked and upon reflection a brilliant decision. Up to this point I had only encountered five people, two of those were at a distance, which meant that I had only chatted to three other humans in the last hour.

My cheeks were naturally a bit flushed and thank heavens I was wearing my best bra. Did even my underwear drawer have some psychic powers that fine morning? I was proudly wearing my purple school T. shirt with its badge hovering over my properly supported left breast; Victoria Tower and the rainbow moving in natural rhythm with every step I made. Having changed into some comfy flowery trousers and walking boots at work, shouldering my rucksack and carrying a Co-op plastic bag with my school trousers and shoes inside, I was merrily on the straight and narrow as the landscape flattened a little at this stage.

There is NO WAY upon earth that I was expecting what happened next.

As you already know I only need glasses for reading and the optometrist said my long vision is very good. Spotting a couple up ahead walking towards me along the thin path, I had already decided that I would step aside to let them pass when we got too close for comfort. Do not fear fellow travellers, I have gratefully received both of my vaccinations. 

We were fast approaching a chance meeting on a collision course seemingly set by fate herself.

They walked nearer,

I stepped closer. 

They continued, 

so did I. 

As we gravitated towards one another

they came into clear focus. 

OH MY!

My face erupted into a gigantic grin when I recognised it was none other than my local literary hero and travelling companion, (possibly his wife). Here is a transcript of our brief encounter:

Susie: All Hail Poet Laureate (in a sing-song voice with a hand sweeping flourish)

Simon & companion: both snigger/laugh at me

Susie: I always hoped that I would bump into you again someday around here.

Simon: (smiling) It's a dream come true.

Susie: (also smiling) It is! (raising both arms above her head in elation)

I complete the second hour of my walk home in audible giggles and bouts of laughter. There is always a million things I could have said but I think I handled it pretty well this time. I'm proud of my minimal communication with my literary hero and his companion. I have met him a few times after various poetry readings/book signings and also in the local record shop (read my Poet DJ in motion blogpost for more). It was beyond brilliant to bump into him again though, especially out in the fields, in nature, at the end of another busy and tiring week at work. Just the inspiration I needed to fuel the writing, to keep persevering, to keep believing. Simon Armitage's future ignited when he won a poetry competition and this is what I cling onto when I need extra courage, or a spark of faith in my own scribblings.

After all, it really does seem that dreams can come true.

With love xx

PS Keep walking

Blurred Vision

 

Another trip to Specsavers and this time I find myself coming out with my first ever prescription for some reading glasses. My eyes are also tested for glaucoma as Mum has it and I'm happy to report the optometrist assessed that my pressure was good. That's reassuring, unlike my blood pressure which was sky high when I used my own monitor recently. Was that because I had just had my first wild swim in a local reservoir in April? What hypertension? It was flipping freezing. I will possibly write more of that adventure another time when I have thawed out fully.

Back to the eyes for now. Let's see if we can create a clearer picture for you readers. Blimey, this font size is just as small as the bottom line of the close range reading test I could not decipher at all. I was quite horrified as Dad didn't need his first pair of reading glasses until he was 50. That was also my goal. My mission has failed with 7 months still to go to reach that half-century milestone. Fear not, I have already purchased a new party frock to redress the balance.

Clark Kent (to protect his true identity), was given the challenge of helping me choose my first glasses, poor lad. I was feeling quite giddy by this stage because I realised it signalled yet another sign of ageing that I have to fully embrace. I am desperately trying to transition smoothly and gracefully into this next stage of my life.

Glancing wildly around the store, I saw a poster with a lovely auburn haired female modelling some perfect frames and blurted out, 'I want to look like her!' Clark was probably grimacing behind his mask whilst thinking, fat chance of that you daft woman. He chose instead to remain professionally focused and politely laughed along with me. Regaining composure, I changed tack by suggesting that I wanted to look intelligent instead.

Due to stricter hygiene requirements, every time I tried on some frames I had to put them in a special tray for a super duper deep cleaning process, so I felt a bit guilty trying on lots of them. This further increased the challenge before me. 

It was also going to be very hard to choose my first pair of glasses because I had cycled in, (to defeat the signs of ageing), and therefore my hair was a mess and, of course, I had to wear a face mask. Lovely young auburn haired, perfectly framed goddess looked nothing like me. Was she actually smirking down on me with her effervescent youth and beauty? Watch out, your time will come perfect poster model.

The designer range was my first real hurdle to get over without upsetting young Mr Kent, who was wearing a very nice pair of glasses by the way. Were they real or just for show? I genuinely believe other people really suit glasses, tattoos, grey hair and laughter lines.

Romeo wears contact lenses and glasses but usually not at the same time. Both have great advantages for me because when he is lens free he still thinks I look lovely even at close range. This is brilliant news because we all know how often looks can be deceiving.

'How about these Karen Millen ones?' Clark proffers them forth.

'Agh! NO WAY man, I cannot do designer, it's just not me. Haven't you heard Suzanne by Leonard Cohen. I am the very same charity shop rags and feathers wearing woman.'

'And you want travel with her, and you want to travel blind 

And then you know you can trust her

For she's touched your perfect body with her mind....'

Undeterred he thrusts a pair of Kylie frames towards me with silver encrusted arms.

'NO WAY!! I love Kylie, everyone loves Kylie, but I really can't see myself in them.'

He's finally getting the picture. 'No bling then.' 

Definitely no bling.

We jump down a couple of price brackets to the shop's own range. This is more like it. Why didn't we start here in the first place, I wonder?

'The trouble is Clark, there are so many to choose from. I mean, if there were only two choices it would be very easy wouldn't it?' I can sense him longing for his lunch break which is another galaxy away as it has only just gone 10 am. To help us both, I suddenly whip out my oversized sunglasses from the dazzling yellow cycling jacket I'm highly visible in.

'These are my sunglasses, but I don't want anything quite so big for reading with do I?'

This kickstarts a whole new phase where I can discern progression. Superman hands me some dark tortoiseshell frames which are OK, then another lighter pair. Like the blind leading the blind we are slowly getting somewhere. Finally, I settle on some pale tan coloured, faintly tortoiseshell frames which don't look too bad, I suppose. I'm sure I will be able to fashion my intelligent reading look in time. And really, despite all things vainly appearance related, I do want to be able to read comfortably for the rest of my life. There is so much more to learn, absorb, to be inspired by, and so little time for it all.

All of us must continue to make time for the simple pleasures in life.

Do not underestimate those things which make you happy and feel at peace. Strive for balance in work, rest, exercise and relaxation and try to enjoy all things in equal measure. This is my enlightened vision for my own future health and happiness. 

To fifty and beyond................................Suzz Lightyear to the rescue (of herself).

With love xx

PS If you're struggling to read this blog post please get your precious eyes checked, or simply alter your font size to LARGEST.

Family Affair

When I awake one of the first things I see when my eyes adjust to daylight, is a 10 years younger version of me staring straight back. No, I am not so brave that I dare to gaze directly into a mirror, it would surely reveal the horror that I attempt to conceal with natural looking day make-up. It can only be the other plausible option; that being the family portrait hanging in our home gallery. Interestingly, this could be perceived as being even more narcissistic than observing ones reflection in a pool of water and subsequently dying. 

Surely everyone nowadays owns a family portrait painted on a canvas in acrylic (102cm x 76cm), covering an otherwise blank space in their home? 

If not, get that project on your 'to do' list.

It's quite scary to be honest but does capture us at a specific time in our lives, as a photograph does, but this remains unfiltered and raw, just how I like it. We four sit together on our second-hand sofa in the living room. From left to right we are: Still midlife crisis; myself, no fringe then and obviously wearing an ill-fitting bra; Mini-Me, cuddling the school teddy bear, now upgraded to the infamous Teenage Dirtbag title; Still Romeo, (can't change that one either), looking very stern and grumpy, probably due to what appears to be a dislocated elbow; daughter dirtbag, now blossomed into Psych Undergraduate, perched mischievously on the sofa arm.

A young talented artist painted the portrait for us from a photograph. We could not sit still for that long. He was one of Romeo's students when he taught art at the local high school. I am desperately trying to get a James Joyce reference in here but think it may be too contrived. We bought our beloved Rusty from the same young man in more recent history. 

Rusty currently sits in the garage after being stood still for far too long during lockdown. We all identify with that feeling don't we? She got clamped and un-clamped within an hour one harrowing day, after we forgot to tax her because she had a flat battery. Now legally roadworthy again she needs a new accelerator amongst many other things, including some welding and touching up. Well to be honest she could do with a full blown paint job. Hopefully now you can understand why we are not a pet owning family. I feel a bizarre physical symmetry with Rusty as there are indeed more and more body parts for me to worry about and keep in decent working order at this delicate stage of midlife.

We didn't know where to hang the portrait at first; it seemed to dominate in the living room, yet got lost on the landing. And so it ended up in the loft at the very top of our house. When I study the painting now I have flashbacks through time at high speed. The layers of colour and brush strokes recreate pictures in my mind of adventures already had and summon visions of how I should have been more prepared for coping with teenagers. I have reached the conclusion that it's really just about clinging on tightly to the mast while trying not to fall overboard. Bravely weathering the many frequent and often turbulent storms coming directly at you full force without any warning whatsoever. HELP, HELP ME, SOMEONE HELP ME!

Perhaps try something exhilarating like skydiving or swimming with sharks to remain focused and on high alert. That is, if you can abandon the family ship for an hour or two when the waters are surprisingly calm.

Still dance and sing whenever you can.

With love xx

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

Rainbow Results

Opening the blinds on the morning of my second stage screening appointment, I catch a glimpse of the faintest rainbow in the otherwise grey, gloomy sky. Obviously, I squeeze as much of the coloured magic from it before it quickly vanishes, then pull my trusty rainbow socks onto my feet. The journey was awful as we were stuck in rush hour traffic despite it being our Easter holiday; other commuters needed to get to work. After a few detours we somehow managed to arrive exactly on time. This is very strange as we are usually always late. There were about four other older but equally miserable looking couples in the waiting room. As soon as I sat down I wanted to cry because I could see the worried looks of love on all the male faces, Romeo's included. So, instead I stared hard at the bright picture of tulips in a perfectly arranged park before me and blinked back the emotions because when I start crying, for whatever reason, it's like a torrential downpour which lasts for an age.

When my name was called I had to go into a cubicle and strip off from the waist upwards, depositing my clothes and unnecessary sports bra, in a blue, plastic shopping basket. Then, I wrapped around a well-worn, blue NHS gown and returned to the waiting room. A lovely, young mammographer explained that she was going to take some more X-rays. It was my right breast that was the cause for concern. As she carefully and gently coaxed it into the correct position with her blue gloves on, I imagined she was stretching and twisting some pizza dough. Please don't knead any remaining life out of this piece of sagging flesh, I silently prayed.

After about an hour, my name was called again and I went into a darkened room hosting two nurses and a Polish, male doctor. Disrobing on command and sitting facing him, while the women watched expressionless, was completely surreal. Rainbow socks, rainbow socks, Susie, think about those lovely rainbow socks. At least I didn't have to worry about my underwear today. As he began to juggle both breasts individually (with his BARE hands), I looked behind his head to see a giant, blown up X-ray of my right breast, looking quite perky but HUGE. Anxiety almost got the better of me but somehow I stifled manic laughter when I saw the cause for concern in the pin-up picture before me. It was, in comparison, very tiny. The next phase to undergo was the ultrasound; the only other time I have experienced this was during my pregnancies. Sprawled half naked on my back, on a hospital bed, with my right arm underneath my head and hair tied up, I could have easily been a model posing for either Monsieur Degas, Manet or Renoir in a private boudoir. Then, obviously slightly delirious, I began to have a Dali daydream about a foetus growing inside my breast and the doctor telling me he could clearly see the heartbeat, which was naturally in the form of a melting clock. Commence internal sing-a-long: Somewhere over the rainbow, way up high ........................

Meanwhile, in the waiting room a thoughtful nurse had flicked a switch on the side of the tulip picture, illuminating it into a psychedelic, hallucinogenic feature. It was trying too hard to be cheerful but somehow necessary I suppose. Maybe some Laurel and Hardy or Harold Lloyd films would be a better distraction?
Back to reality and following the ultrasound, my cause for concern now had a pretty pink sticker placed on it for the next round of intimate Pizza Xpress-rays. After a short wait, I returned to the doctor and nurses, this time for my results. It was such a relief to hear the words, 'It's nothing serious, just a lymph node which we will mark on your records.' Phew! At last, I could get fully dressed, go home and relax. Despite feeling a bit shell shocked I somehow remembered to thank the doctor and nurses for their care, rejoined Romeo and we both staggered freely together with my rainbow feet out of the hospital. My hope for now, was that all the other women would be OK too. Statistically, sadly, I knew that some would not be.

It is upon reflection days later I realise that the doctor who examined me is the only other male who has had the privilege to touch my breasts since 1990. He did not, however, manage to make an impression upon either my heart or soul; only very few good men can achieve that. What a revelation to write about and reminds me of a quote from The Great Gatsby:
'Everyone suspects himself of at least one of the cardinal virtues, and this is mine: I am one of the few honest people that I have ever known.'

To prove that I was alive and well following my ordeal and after watching Everest (2015), I decide to set myself a challenge; to cycle all the way from home up to the top of Holme Moss (524m), one soggy Saturday. Stopping for oxygen at each hairpin bend of the ascent, I felt elated as the fog and rain tried hard to suffocate me. Even the dead hare at the roadside did not deter me. At one steep point close to the summit, painted on the road in fading white I misread Go Froome for Go Home, as both Le Tour de France and the Tour of Britain have also enjoyed this route. Was it altitude sickness, the lashing rain smudging letters or do I need my eyes testing again? The usually magnificent views from the top were completely submerged in thick fog, so after devouring my banana and two small emergency chocolates, I quickly photographed the bike before my phone died and then began the freezing cold descent.

La reine des montagnes

I'm almost ready to submit another short story and a poem into a competition and currently reading On Writing by Stephen King. Thanks for reading my diary and I hope you continue to conquer your own challenges, however big or small.

With Love xx

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