Here is an unedited blog by lil after months of silence. It made me laugh, but I am too tired to do anything to tidy it up as normal. Lil writes well any way, but a bit existential.
I know, I know, I should by now be able to find a bloody book on this computer, but I can’t and I daren’t ask Fleur or Jasper, I don’t mind laughter but it’s the suggestion of advanced altzeimers that’s too near the knuckle. Hello! I haven’t been near the blog for several months now. I can’t claim to have been busy, quite the opposite, but don’t say a word, I’ve been ‘resting’, that is to say I’ve been lying on my bed, with my shoes on in case someone comes to the door ( chance would be a fine thing), thinking. No, that’s a lie, I’ve been lying there in a state of suspended gloom, made all the worse by that ghastly referendum. Do you remember the cause of the first world war? Princeps bopping off the heir to the Hapsburg throne in Saravego, well I see the Brexits triumph as the seed to a coming conflagration. Well, there you are. I’d like to write about my bowels but discretion isn’t my thing, all the same I had a camera shoved up my backside and I thought my gut looked rather pretty in a stalagmite sort of way. Unlike others I know, I went to the nursing home last week and just as we were about to get into the taxi, someone who shall remain nameless decided they wanted the loo. There is a limit how much one can dash in a wheel chair, we didn’t dash fast enough and everything, chair, every bit of clothing, the walls, floor and even his shoes were covered. The taxi had to leave, the clean up took Three quarters of an hour and we missed our lunch, this little outing costs me over £100 once a month. Why do I do it? I have loved him twice, that stomach fluttering, fainting feeling that here is the only person in the world that matters, it didn’t last, it rarely does, but now he lives a life of such stupendous boredom and monotony, such indignity and denial of all stimulation I feel I have an obligation, not to him, but to myself, does that make sense? Anyway, happier tidings, I’m off to see Mollie at the end of the month, at 99 she knows how to cheer me up.
Some of you remember the seventies, avacado and prawn cocktail, chicken a la last week’s Sunday paper, and choccy mousse. My bungalow doesn’t sit more than five at a squash so itsy witsy dinner parties are out, but Malcolm has waved miracles over Polzeath and I intend taking a house party down there for a long weekend. Those who can still walk will be invited to walk to Padstow for their lunch, a happy band I hope and the average age well into the sixties. So I’m surfacing from the gloom, still not ready to start housework, I did change the sheets the other day – second time since Christmas but ssshh don’t tell Fleur. The bath is a little scratchy and there are a few dead flies languishing, can you languish if you’re dead? I’ve tidied my cupboards and thrown out elderly jerseys which will surface in Nigeria I suspect. But life is definitely conspiring against me. I was given a camera for South America, or was it Uzbekistan, anyway it was a cheap and cheerful little thing, however, it needs charging periodically and how do you get the photos out? I seem to remember it requires the computer, now if I can’t get my writing out what hope have I get with a camera. I thought I’d take photos of my bungalow and the garden which looks particularly lovely in a bashed down nettle kind of way. I’m particularly proud of my rhubard with artichokes and a covering of campanula, my sweetpeas (grown from seed) are wilful and wringgle along the ground instead of shimmying up the bamboo canes, the perpetual spinach has been nibbled by slugs and the weeds are flourishing. But the gate and fence are mended so the resident rabbit plus friends and relations can bugger off.
Three out of four of the screws keeping my office chair together have disappeared and the chair has become a health hazard. I must relegate it to the garage en route to the tip and I’ve been using an upturned cardboard box for a table to put the telephone on, time to go to the auction for replacements. I really enjoy auctions, the cheap ones where crap goes for a song and the auctioneer keeps up running repartee with his audience. So there are good reasons for keeping out of bed, now I must try the computer again and struggle to unearth ‘Final Fling’ originally the name of a much beloved mare – the mother being fed to the hounds when the filly was weaned. Anyway, this Final Fling is the story of a couple who have a passionate affair in an Old Folks Home, it’s rather jolly but a little short. Oh there is so much to do but the call of the bed is still there and I might be dead in ten years time. I’ve deliberately laid off using the dreaded word ‘depression’, but I am better, I promise. Now to avoid speeding up, pacing the bedroom at three in the morning, and shrieking inappropriate jokes in public, whizzing through the days leaving a residue of embarrassment in my wake. The excuse that I can’t help it has worn rather thin after 74 year
Oh! I forgot to mention my car broke down irrevocably and I’ve bought a new second hand one. It’s black, french, I think, and I’m meant to be excited about it, I’m not, there has been a plethora of paperwork, including notification for a new driving licence, you know the kind of thing. You must send this back to the DVLA on one side followed by You must not send this back to the DVLA written on the reverse side. I had great difficulty finding the wind screen wipers and drove back in the pouring rain without any. Jasper’s fixed the radio
and Richard has filled me in on unidentifiable knobs so now I’m game for anything. But this is just werbling along saying nothing. I forgot, I’ve lost over a stone through Slimmers world and my trousers keep slipping down. I never have a clue who reads this, but if you do, I wish you well. LIL