Adele Archer's Blog

Heartening news…

It’s my own stupid fault, I know. But my husband took it upon himself to book some flights to Slovenia next month (like one does), so on hearing this cheering news, I languidly ambled upstairs to double-check my passport would cover the period of travel – plus six months. And low and behold, it did not – it expires in August 2022. Even then, I was still fairly chilled about it; the holiday was in eight weeks so I decided I’d sort it out that weekend – after I’d had my hair dyed (y’know, I didn’t want a passport photo with grown-out hair! Ha ha! Do I look like some kind of chump to you?). So I dutifully got my hair dyed the next morning and it was only then that the hairdresser advised me that my eight-week cushion may not be enough. ‘You do know there’s a ten-week wait for passports right now?‘, she said. Hairdressers know everything, they get all their news from old people, and old people know everything too. So you don’t want to ignore the advice of a hairdresser (or an old person). Apparently, there’s a 500,000 application backlog. ‘Oh, is there? Oh…right…’. It was only then that the panic began to set in. Eight weeks and counting; my old passport sitting at home and I hadn’t even applied yet.

I’m thinking she’d get ‘life’…

Post hairdresser, I was supposed to meet my daughter at our local work-from-home cafe (so she could revise for her GCSE’s and I could write a blog – I only seem to be able to write blogs in cafes these days – it’s getting expensive; buying copious coffees, lunches, and cakes so I can warrant being there – I do hope you appreciate this extra expenditure). So, walking down to the cafe, I hurriedly rang her and asked her to bring my old passport and an envelope, which she duly did. Before we could set to work on blogging and GCSE-revising, I forced her to take a few ‘passport-office-approved’ head and shoulders shots of me in the hallway against a neutral beige wall. I mean, I had newly-dyed hair, what could go wrong? The designated ‘house photographers’ (my husband and eldest daughter who take photographs professionally) were away that weekend so my youngest child was forced to do the job. Not that I am casting aspersions about her budding photographer skills, but the photos taken were some of the worst of me that I have ever seen. I say this without any hint of humour – I just look God-awful. I’ve had bad passport photos before, but this is something else. You know when you see those mugshots of female killers on the news – you know, the ones who have murdered their last four husbands or something? And you think, ‘Ooh yeah, she does look evil, doesn’t she?‘. But secretly, you’re congratulating yourself because you’re positive clever old you would certainly have spotted her evil intent as soon as you met her; those dead-inside eyes being a complete giveaway. She could never have got the jump on you – and subsequently have murdered you. Well, my chosen photo looks just like one of those women. I kid you not. If somebody told you I was a dangerous and psychotic serial killer, you’d look at that photo, and by God, you’d believe them. Yes, my friends, and that is the photo that will grace my passport for the next ten years. It’s so bad I’m really deliberating over putting it in this blog as evidence – ah shit, it’s on my f*cking passport for the next decade, it can’t get any worse than that.

Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up!

Anyhoo, time was running out. I did the online passport renewal whilst in the cafe too, and the app ‘photo-check’ was only super impressed with the very worst of my serial killer photos, so that was the one I chose. That was the level of my desperation. After coughing up £75.50, clicking ‘submit’, I stuffed my old passport in the envelope and left my daughter (finally able to get on with some revision) and literally ran to the post office. At 1 o’clock (one hour before post office closing time) the passport was on its way – tracked, so next working day delivery. Unfortunately it was the Saturday of a bank holiday weekend, so the passport would presumably get there on Tuesday. Eight weeks and counting until the holiday, baby. And so we wait.

I sent it two weeks ago!!

It took two entire weeks for the passport office app to actually update from ‘send your old passport, you stupid, lazy shit-for-brains!‘ and advise me that my passport had even been received. Two days later, the passport was ‘approved’. Two days after that, the passport was being printed and sent over to the ‘delivery suppliers’. Yesterday, the exciting emails got less exciting. The passport office were merely advising me to ‘sign my passport with a black ballpoint pen’ – when it arrived. Whenever that may be. Thanks for that, I have my black ballpoint pen at the ready. It isn’t even out for delivery yet. And I know what you’re thinking, ‘why didn’t you just do the expedited passport service?‘. To be honest, that didn’t even cross my mind at the time, but it isn’t just a case of paying a bit more (it costs about £142). You have to book a face to face appointment at one of the passport offices. One of our friends has just had to travel from Brighton to Newport (Wales) to get hers, and another of our local friends has just had to travel from Wiltshire to Durham to get his (he couldn’t get an appointment at our closest Newport office). So he had the expense of a return train fare ticket on top of the the inflated fast-track passport cost. And you currently can’t even get an appointment at all (at least you couldn’t when I checked today). So I, in my cheap-arse way, have decided to trust my fortunes to fate and just hope it arrives on time. We are now at the five-week mark. Five weeks until we are heading to the airport…with my printed passport sitting…somewhere…awaiting delivery.

Hallelujah!

I must admit, I am feeling slightly more chipper about things since the passport app updates. Perhaps I shouldn’t be; there is plenty of potential for things to go tits-up. But surely the passport should be out for delivery in the next few days, right? And surely the delivery service can’t be that slow, can it? Unless it’s being put on a slow boat from China… (I wouldn’t rule out anything at this point). But you never know, maybe I’ll be gleefully swaggering through passport control in Slovenia yet, new passport in hand, hoping the guy at the desk doesn’t think he’s seen me on a recent episode of Crimewatch. Anyway, I’ve told my family they are going abroad with or without me. If I have to sit at home and tearfully wave them off, so be it. I’ll just have to find things to do on my staycation (other than sit around the house crying). I will keep you posted. There will either be a ‘Holiday!’ blog, or ‘I’m So Lonely I Could Die!’ blog. I know which one I’d rather be writing.

Now, there’s nothing worse than a regular gym-goer telling the novice what to do and what not to do. And let me tell you right off the bat that this isn’t going to be a post about clueless newbies starting out at the gym with improper form, or lifting too light, or being one of those who will only run on a treadmill for an hour without touching the weights. We know NOTHING about strangers at the gym; what their goals are, what their current strength is like, whether they’re nursing an injury. I’ve been going to the gym for a few years – heck I have a qualification in it – and I like to think I know what I’m doing. But I’m sure there are still a few beefcakes (the ones who hog the weights room) who roll their eyes and I think I should be doing things differently. I honestly don’t give a shit at this point. Ego doesn’t belong in the gym. The gym should be a welcoming and accommodating place for everyone, from every walk of life. There’s nothing I like more than a gym-full of elderly people and middle-aged women forcing the buff beefcakes to wait for the squat rack. Go to the gym and do what you enjoy – so it’s sustainable, so you’ll be motivated to come back. You do you. No, this is a post about rather mundane and insignificant annoyances that may only piss me off. I don’t know, you tell me. Myself and my daughters attend the gym regularly; we’ve pretty much named every other regular in the gym (some nicknames are flattering, some not so much, but it’s really only so we know who we are talking about when discussing who was at the gym today). ‘Winking man’, ‘old man’, ‘other old man’, ‘very old man’, ‘man-bob’, ‘man-bun’, ‘rowing man’, ‘gloves’, ‘socks’, ‘horrible parking man’, ‘supply P.E. teacher’, ‘Annie Lennox’ . It’s all in fun, and they know nothing about it. They probably have a name for us too, I hope mine’s a good one. But there are some, who not only get nicknames, but we secretly despise them because of their ‘gym don’ts’.

Reenactment with daughter – note creepy stare.

His & Hers: This is not what I and my daughters have really have named these characters, but I’m trying to keep this blog clean for the kids…or the kidz. There is absolutely nothing wrong with couples training together. That’s kind of cute. Couple’s Goals! Yay! What I don’t like is when one half of the couple just watches the other working out. It’s not like helpfully ‘spotting’ a chest press to ensure they don’t get crushed with a barbell. No, I assure you, it’s actually just…watching. One does the exercise and the other just stands there and stares. I mean, gym membership is a luxury expenditure, right? And there’s no way I’d be spending my precious hour in the gym just staring at my other half lift weights when I could be getting on with my own workout. There is a particularly odious young couple at my gym who only come in the evenings (hence why we avoid evenings) and she really must only perform two or three exercises of her own at most, the rest of the time is spent observing her muscle-bound other half lifting and grunting. Sometimes she films him and tells him how great he looks. I don’t know, maybe he’s a Fitspo influencer and he needs content, but I highly doubt it. The man is some kind of narcissistic halfwit who couldn’t manage the upkeep of that kind of account. Look, I’ve been known to take photos in the gym for the purposes of this blog but it’s hideously embarrassing and I get it done quickly and as inconspicuously as possible. And this isn’t an isolated incident, it’s every time we see ‘His & Hers’. What an utterly massive waste of time! Just let your significant other get on with their own training regime whilst you get on with yours. Come on!

…You done with that…or…?

The Gym Butterfly: Since the days of COVID, which are completely over and we no longer need to worry about them (ha-ha), sticking to one piece of equipment at a time has pretty much been an unspoken rule. Back in the day, you had to sanitise everything you used the moment you left it, so it made sense to just work your way around the gym, cleaning as you went. Now, you don’t have to clean the machines anymore (but you can if you want to), but social etiquette still requires one to use a chosen bit of kit (three sets of ten reps, for instance), and then move on. What you don’t do is nab a piece of kit (let’s say) the squat rack and do alternate sets with (let’s say) the cable machine WAY across the other side of the the room…in a gym heaving with people. And expect that piece of kit that you’ve left unattended to be there when you come back…in a gym heaving with people. And baggsie-ing the equipment by leaving your hoody and water bottle on it to be on the safe side…in a gym heaving with people. It’s just not on. Look, I have actually done this (supersetting two bits of kit) – in a deathly-quiet gym. A gym so quiet you could shoot a Howitzer down the centre of it and be pretty certain you wouldn’t hit a single person. But when the gym is busy, it’s common courtesy to use machinery or weights when free, then move on and let someone else have a turn. And not bagsie it with a solitary random shoe, or something. You might even need to adjust your workout plan to fit in with…*retching* other people. Use it, dissemble it, and get on with something else. Come on!

‘Fwah-fwah-fwah-fwah!’

Look-at-Me, Look-at-Me, Look-at-Me!: (aka Toxic Masculinity). Every gym has its fair share of these. When I first started out at the gym, I used to actively avoid the weights room because that’s where these types hang out. They are men. They lift HEAVY. They grunt. They noisily drop weights on the floor more aggressively than is strictly necessary. They laugh…REALLY loudly. Like this; ‘fwah-fwah-fwah-fwah!’. They shout across the room at one another, with a, ‘fwah-fwah-fwah-fwah!’. I mean, it’s cool. They probably mean no harm. It can, however, come across as a tad intimidating to women/people working out alone/newbies. But since the introduction of noise-cancelling headphones and baseball caps shoved down over your eyes (that’s a fairly old invention, actually), I care much less about them. I don’t avoid the weights room anymore. I can still see them hollering at one another, ‘fwah-fwah-fwah-fwah!’ but I can only see their lips moving, ‘****-****-****-****!’. All I’m saying is, if you are one of these men (and like I say, I’m sure you mean no harm), just know that you may come across as a tad threatening to others – or me, when I forget my headphones or they’re out of charge and I have to listen to you shouting (and shitty ‘KISS FM’). So maybe keep the ‘fwah-fwah-fwah-fwahs!’ down to a dull roar, if you don’t mind. This isn’t a nightclub. Come on.

My non-threatening gym set-up this morning

There is so much more; so many more don’ts. But I’ve overshot my word count (again) and I’m just coming across as ranty (again). There are other darker, more sinister don’ts which do not fit in within the confines of a humours blog. Y’know, things like men oggling women in the gym. I’ve never experienced it (partly because I’m mad-old and maybe I go to a better class of gym), but I know it’s a problem for a lot of young women And I know there are a lot of women of any age who will only workout in a women-only gym. Because they feel self-conscious about their bodies around men – and some guys come across as judgemental, or intimidating, even if they don’t mean to. I think it’s sad that women have to feel that way; have to wear their most oversized workout gear to feel anywhere near comfortable working out in a public place. I applaud anyone who is working on their own physical improvement. I personally care very little about what other’s think of me (I mean, I will always have the amusing secret nicknames, they can’t take that from me). My gym is largely a friendly place, there are a good few people I actively wave at or talk to (certainly not His and Hers, though). I generally don’t know my gym compatriot’s names, but I may know all about their work and social lives. And most of these people are actually men – usually the older retired ones. They’re great. They work out for social interaction, because their spouse died a couple of years ago, or to keep healthy during the ageing process. And they are my inspiration. That’s going to be me – I’ll still be there in my eighties, or as long as my body holds out. And I won’t let anyone or anything – not even the ‘gym don’ts’ – drive me away.

As good an excuse as any

I’m sitting here in a Work from Home Café (is that a thing? I was going to say Internet Café but we’re not in the 90s, so I think I’ll stick with WFH Café). I mean, a lot of people her are working from home…in a cafe, but you can also just sit and drink coffee and eat cake if you want to (and I am). But I thought I’d bring my laptop along and force myself to write a blog, since I’m a captive audience and all *sigh*. But lo, they’ve just announced they have no internet today (yay…! I mean, boo!). But never fear, I can use the laptop’s hard drive to write this post *sigh*, I just won’t be able to upload it to WordPress until later. That’s if it makes the cut, that is. It’s not that I don’t want to write a blog, it’s just so hard to sit down and commit to it. Once the first paragraph is done, though, I’m usually home free. Ah, first paragraph is done – not feeling especially home free just yet…

I’m currently on annual leave as we speak. OOO (out of office, I know…you knew that). I’m not doing anything special, just chilling out and hanging around. Y’know, all the things I do best. It’s Easter school holiday time here in Blighty, but I’ve got to the point in motherhood where I don’t really need to take the school holidays off anymore. My eldest has flown the coop to become a fully-fledged adult *sob* and my youngest is fifteen and is studying like a demon for her GCSEs – so in all honesty she’d probably rather I was at work and not pestering her to talk to me. And my husband is working away, so really, I’m just annual-leaving on my own here. Which is fine. And it’s made me do something I don’t normally do. I decided this week to be fairly sociable. Eeek.

They have a point…

Something you may not know about me (but you probably do if you read between the lines in any of my blogs) is that I’m a bit of an introvert. Not a full-on keep-to-myself stay-indoors-at-all-costs recluse-like introvert. I’m not agoraphobic and I hide my chosen solitude pretty well. I manage to hold down a job which requires me to talk to strangers and colleagues all day long. I think I might even come across as rather gregarious. My clinical banter is legendary. But it’s something I have to switch on when I step into the office, and it’s something that has worn down to nothing by the time I walk back out of the door. It isn’t fake; the jokes are real and I’d class myself as friendly and approachable, but the extrovert routine takes actual energy and after a while it drains my batteries. And I get to the point where I need to go home and isolate myself to recharge those batteries again.

The outer sanctum of truth

I come from a shy people. But I do not consider myself shy, especially. I would say I was probably the least shy of my six siblings (they may wish to fight me on this, but I stand by it). I have shyness in me, of course – but I find shyness limiting, so choose not to be. Some might say it’s not something you can choose, but it is something you can cover up. But you cannot escape those introvert genes. So, rather, I’d call myself a high-functioning introvert.

It isn’t that I didn’t want to see the friends and relatives I have managed to meet up with this week. I did. I knew (deep down) I was going to enjoy myself and have a laugh and a catch up. But it was something I needed to psyche myself up for because I knew my social energy reserves would take a battering. And most of the people I choose to be friends with (or be relatives of) know my failings and understand me. A lot of them share the same trait – which is why I choose to be friends or be related to/with them. It isn’t standoffishness or a general dislike of people; it’s a personality trait you cannot change. You can overcome it and rise above it for a time, but you will always be an introvert. 

Not me, just for the LOLs

My children will forgive me for admitting that they too share these introverted genes. My eldest has to write down a rough outline of her patter prior to an official telephone call. My youngest will pre-arrange and rehearse conversation pieces before going out with people she doesn’t know terribly well. But they manage life fairly splendidly in my opinion. Every parent evening I ever attended had the obligatory teacher advising me that my kids didn’t put their hands up in class enough or interact in group work enough. Yeah? And? So? Do they get good grades? Yes? Then what does it matter? I believe being an introvert (whether in childhood or adulthood) ought to be acceptable. The older you get the better you become at blending in around normal folk. But you can’t dispel it, and there’s no point railing against it either.

You can’t argue with the stats

When I go out with friends or work colleagues (who are also friends, for the record) for an evening of socialising, it takes preparation. Whilst beautifying myself there is usually a gin and tonic to be had (I absolutely must make it clear that alcohol is something I can take or leave and I barely touch it at home, but one G&T takes the edge off when going out to meet people for the evening). Inhibitions abated, I arrive the life and soul of the party (go big or go home, that’s what I say [see picture above]). I’m super lairy (number 2 in the dictionary definition); the jokes are firing, the bants are flowing. I am ALL IN. But bear in mind it’s like winding up a clockwork toy, and the energy will inevitably run down. Imagine a toy monkey with crashing symbols – ‘CRASH, CRASH, CRASH, CRASH…crash…cra…*silence*. I can actually pinpoint the precise moment in the night when that happens. I no longer have a thing to say. I’m not angry or grumpy or moody. I just have zero left. I’m ‘squid-lipped’ (this is an analogy coined by my brother-in-law. It pertains to one sitting very quietly with crossed arms and pursed lips – nothing left to contribute). And that’s me – I’m done, no energy remaining to expend. The peace and quiet of my home will be calling. I need to be alone, read a book, do some yoga – recharge.

Out of Office

I tell you this purely so that you’ll understand the workings of an introvert’s mind if you aren’t acquainted with one. It’s not something to be ashamed of. I don’t think my sociable husband entirely gets it either; he maybe thinks me self-isolating. But I’m not. I like company, I’d go as far as to say I need it (in perhaps smaller doses than normal, even if I don’t think I want any). Okay, so my hobbies are largely solitary; lone pursuits (gym [AirPods in, baseball cap down over eyes], yoga [on my own in my bedroom with a scented candle and mat], writing [self-explanatory]), but I do attend a weekly choir for God’s sake, and there are actual people I converse with there! I just happen to be super happy with my own company a greater part of the time. I love my nuclear family – I can spend almost large quantities of time with them. And I love seeing other family and friends (even if I have to talk myself into it). As Barbara Streisand says, ‘people need people’. And she’s right; as awesome as I am, there is only so much of me even I can stand. But I actually think it’s healthier to be content with yourself than not – and not be dependant on the validation of others. Because if you do end up entirely alone one day (it can happen), people like me will fare better. We have had an awful lot more practice.

Protein shake

*Trigger warning – diet discussion* I’m sorry. I’ve knowingly lured you in under false pretenses. Because this isn’t really about what I eat in a day – well it is a bit. But it’s more about how I’ve changed my perspective on (and my general annoyance over) diet culture. I’m sure you’ve seen the trend on Insta and TikTok (I don’t have ‘TikTok’, I’m fifty). Some twenty-something Fitspo (that’s short for fitness inspiration, I’m told) posts a video about…well, what she eats in a day. But not before she does a little ‘body check’ by pulling down her leggings a bit and showing you her sculpted abs. And the subtext really is, ‘I eat all this stuff and still stay lean, and so could you!’. Except you couldn’t, as she’s twenty-something and you’re fifty-something. I mean, there’s nothing inherently wrong with it. There are the more insidious types who post ‘what they eat in a day’, and it really isn’t enough food to sustain a small child – UNFOLLOW. But most are just tying to show you that you don’t need to be on a big ol’ diet to be trim. And that’s okay. Apart from the fact that you cannot compare your body and your metabolism to somebody completely different to you in age and genetics.

Low carb breakfast

I’ve been very much a convert of anti-diet culture for the last year. I was on a low carb diet before, but just got so tired of the restrictiveness and always having those restrictions control my life. And then I fractured my shoulder without even falling over, and I thought, ‘maybe there’s something missing from my diet – are the lack of carbs reducing my bone mass?’. There is no scientific evidence for this, yet. However, I stopped the low carb life I’d been living and ate in a more balanced way; all food groups back on the menu – carbs, yay! It was wonderful. I still rarely ate cakes or full-on sugary stuff (luckily, even though I REALLY like sugar, it doesn’t like me; it messes with my digestion). My weight stayed at an acceptable/maintenance level for a long while, and I started to build more muscle through the gym (I’d noticed stagnant muscle growth on the low carb diet, I guess my body just didn’t have enough of its prefered fuel source). So all was hunky-dory. Until peri-menopause started.

Chinese cauliflower rice, peas and chicken

I know I mentioned it the other week, but I’m steadily gaining weight – through, I staunchly believe – little fault of my own. I’m up a jeans size and I haven’t been this heavy in a long time. I have some fairly fancy bathroom scales which break down body composition, and my muscle mass is most definitely up – so much so, the scales have switched me onto ‘Athlete Mode’ without my even asking (athlete mode, ha ha *shakes head*). But it isn’t all muscle. The fat is up too. And I don’t deserve it. You know, my mother has the right of it. She has never been on a diet in her life. Never. And I don’t think she’s overweight, either. She just eats what she wants, and thinks (I’m not sure she thinks this as she’s not as foul-mouthed as me), ‘f*ck it”. I want to be like that. I want to just go to a cafe and have a coffee which is mainly full-fat milk that’s just had a passing glance at a coffee bean, and drink it – with a big slice of coffee & walnut cake. My mother would. It never did her any harm.

Did you know, and you won’t like this, a woman of fifty requires two hundred fewer calories per day than a woman in her twenties? And a woman of sixty needs four to five hundred fewer calories!? How is that fair? And where does it end? You cut and cut and cut until you eat barely anything at all? So if I hear one more Fitspo condescendingly telling me, ‘it’s science – calories in must be less than calories out – you simply need to be in a calorie deficit.’ F*ck your science. Come back and tell me that when you’re fifty and all your little tricks don’t work anymore – because they won’t. We’ve all thought we had a diet epiphany, ‘it’s so easy! I should write a book! Why doesn’t everyone do this?’. They did. It worked, and then it didn’t. The body adapted; it got wise. The REAL science is, eating a constantly low calorie diet just makes your metabolism even slower and reduces your bone mass. So, low calorie (which I’ve known for some time) just isn’t sustainable. And I apologise if I’ve ever lead you on this blog or anyone else in real life to believe that it was (yes, I’ve ignorantly peddled that bullshit too, but life is about learning from your mistakes). And these Fitspo really need to educate themselves on the ageing process.

Not me now…

The anti-dieter in me thinks, ‘oh well, your body is supposed to change, and weight gain isn’t necessarily a bad thing’. But then the medic in me says, ‘well, you can’t just let things get out of hand; become so heavy that you have a huge mountain to climb to lose it – what about type two diabetes? What about all the health implications that would bring?’. So after Christmas, I tried to work out my ideal calories in a scientific way. I calculated my BMR (Basal Metabolic Rate) multiplied by my TDEE (Total Daily Energy Expenditure) – it’s a big old calculation and you’d have to look up the equation but I was allotted 1,800 calories a day. It should have worked. But alas, because I’m fifty – and I have the genetics I have – I just carried in getting heavier. And now, much to my chagrin (but just for the month of February) I’ve put myself back on a low carb diet. I know! I know! I don’t want to be doing this, but it’s really more of an experiment. I’m not really enjoying this kind of food anymore, I feel a bit queasy with all the meat and fat, and I’m bored stiff of salads, and I’m worried about the reduced carb fuel source. But I felt I needed to shock my body out of a funk. I’m not hungry, at least. And it worked before – but don’t all diets? It’s too early to tell you if it’s working this time. Honestly, it’s just for the month of February *she reiterates again because there has to be an end to this*. And after that? Maybe a Mediterranean diet (not really a diet at all, but rather a lifestyle)? I want and will have carbs back on the menu, but perhaps not go quite so mental on the bread.

Low carb spaghetti bolognaise

Look, I don’t want to be skinny. I’m not genetically built for it. I don’t come from a skinny people. I just want to be athletic – or strong enough to live my best life, it’s not really about aesthetics anymore. That’s why I’ll always go to the gym; I truly enjoy it and my body needs it to age well. Perhaps, food wise, I’ll just live my best life the way my mother does. Y’know, I could get hit by a bus tomorrow, and what will all the weight-watching and restriction have been for? How shit would it be if you knew life was going to end tomorrow and you’d never enjoyed the delicious food; the slice of cake, the Bombay potatoes, the fish and chips? I am NOT prepared to be on a diet in my sixties. Or my seventies. I’m not even prepared to be on one now – after February, I’m done. It’s no way to live. And I’m tired of not really living.

NB: I do have another daily snack that’s not pictured. 2 squares of 70% dark chocolate (if you were worried).

Child’s Pose: My shoulder stops me getting any flatter.

In passing, I mentioned the other week that I’ve recently got into yoga and have practiced nearly every day since the beginning of October. So I think it’s a keeper even for a person like me who tends to go through ‘phases’. It’s a practice that I’d attempted off and on over the years but never really got on board with as there was always that nagging feeling that I ought to be spending my energies on something sweatier or which made me more breathless. You know, I basically thought I ought to be ‘hanging’ or it wasn’t worth doing. But it occurred to me that since my ‘high-octane’ requirements were very much taken care of at the gym, it might be a good idea to work on my flexibility (my hamstrings were so ridiculously tight that when lying on my back with my legs in the air, my knees were practically at right angles). But probably more importantly, it’s been wonderful for my mental health too.

Butterfly: Substitute kick-ass bolster with block or cushion.

However, as is often the case with me, I kind of get obsessed with things – so obsessed that I only want to do that thing and no other variation of that thing, (it was the same when I discovered HIIT – all other exercises were pieces of shit in my eyes for a time). And the most annoying issue about the gym (or tough home workouts/running etc) is that you need to have at least two rest days per week for muscle repair and growth. Yep, I’ve turned into the type of person who hates rest days – what happened to me? But with yoga, you don’t need rest days. Yay! The type of yoga which has taken my fancy is ‘Yin Yoga’. Unlike fast-paced or quickly-transitioning vinyasa, hatha or power yoga, yin yoga is an ancient slow-paced, passive yoga originating from China. It focuses less on the muscles but rather the connective tissues, fascia and joints. Stretches are held for long periods of time; anywhere between two and eight minutes. Yin yoga has three principles:

Pidgeon Pose: Note block under arse cheek for support.

1: Find your Edge: You have to respect your body’s limits. Once you’ve come to the edge of your flexibility, you shouldn’t be overreaching. You should never push to the point of pain. During the holding of a pose, you usually find your body softens anyway and can stretch further after a few minutes.

2: Resolve to be Still: It’s okay to fidget for maybe the first minute until you find (more or less) comfort in the pose, but once you have relaxed into it, try to be still…you are going to be there some time, so just accept it and focus on your breath.

3: Hold the Pose: Once you have found your edge, all you have to do is try to stay there for as long as the pose requires. And you’re supposed to be using as little muscle engagement as possible, all the stress in mostly in the tissues and joints.

Still in Pidgeon…

My flexibility has improved a great deal (not first thing in the morning – as per previous blog – I wouldn’t touch yoga with a bargepole until at least after 10am). But I think the best part of yin is the meditative quality. I was never very good at meditating; I always felt I should be doing something else more constructive – like cleaning out the cat trays or putting out the cardboard waste. But with yin yoga, you are occupied. And yin sometimes incorporates positive affirmations (like ‘I am enough‘, or whatever) and chakras too – I mean, is there anything worse than blocked chakras? Mine were RIGHT out of alignment before. But my root, sacral, solar plexus, heart, throat, third eye and crown chakras are in tip top condition these days. Most importantly, it’s time carved out of your day (maybe even up to an hour and a half) just for you.

Winged Dragon: *stifles sob*

Half the reason I like yin of all the yoga types is because it’s the polar opposite of the gym. There’s a lot of lying around on the floor. There is NOTHING I like more than lying on my back in shavasana pretending to be a dead body for five or so minutes. But that doesn’t mean to say yin isn’t hard. If you’re inflexible, you may find you have a lot of work to do. I think my husband would find it challenging as he has the worst flexibility in all the land (I am actually half convinced his body was fashioned out of a tree – and Geppetto forgot to carve him working joints). But yin is welcoming to all levels of ability; there is always a modification. And that’s where props come in. I am the kind of girl who needs to have the entire kit available on the market to successfully carry out any hobby (whether I really need it or not). All the gear, no idea – that’s me. However, in yin the props are a God-send. I don’t know where I’d be without my yoga strap, various-sized blocks, bolster and Mexican blanket (not just for lying under whilst pretending to be a dead body – but especially good for that). The props are largely there to bridge the gap where your body just isn’t flexible enough to hold a pose, or to provide support so you can stay there longer. But honestly, it’s fine just to use a couple of fat cushions, and a standard blanket (just come to terms with the fact that it isn’t Mexican).

Corps Pose: Obvs.

Anyway, give it a go. Your joints and your stress levels will thank you. And my yoga teacher recommendation is ‘Yoga with Kassandra’ who creates free yoga on YouTube. She taught me all I know. She’s the yoga QUEEN in my humble opinion – and has loads of yin videos (as well as vinyasa yoga too if being still isn’t your thing). ‘Yoga with Adriene’ is also very good. But Kasandra has soothing, restful Eastern music which swings it for me – and Adriene doesn’t have music and sometimes says weird shit that I don’t understand. But you know, in a nice hippy-dippy way. There you go, a new lifelong hobby for you which might just improve your life in more ways than one. Even if it’s merely due to the acquisition of a Mexican blanket. Om.

Namaste Yogis

I was going to write this blog when I turned fifty (just before Christmas), but you know me. I struggle to do anything to a timetable lately, and I’ve proven time and time again that I’m hardly consistent when it comes to writing. But I’m a captive audience today (aptly, sitting in a hairdresser’s chair having my [in reality] salt and pepper-coloured hair dyed blonde for the umpteenth time). And it strikes me sitting here in the salon trying not to be grey, and due to my recent turning of a century, this is the most appropriate post to be writing. I don’t like getting old. I just don’t. I don’t seem to be growing old gracefully and witnessing this slow decline is frankly depressing.

Ooh, Me Back!

I work out. I work out a lot – five times a week at the gym to be precise (not to blow my own trumpet). Five hour-long sessions with a bit of cardio but mostly weight training. I’m getting pretty darn strong if I do say so myself. And for the last four months I’ve been doing yoga every day – Yin Yoga mostly (restorative yoga for flexibility with long-held poses, usually lying down on the floor, which is why I like it) *polishes fingernails on chest*. It’s great for my ailing joints and my ever-fretful mind. So it doesn’t seem terribly fair that I’ve begun to seize up if I sit still too long. When I get up in the morning, my lower back is so ‘on the edge’ that I daren’t attempt to bend down and pull on my socks until I’ve had a cup of coffee and two paracetamols. Honestly, I can feel my back ‘just about to go’ most mornings so I have to be very careful until my body has warmed up a bit before I do anything too strenuous – like pull on workout leggings or reaching down to put my coffee cup in the dishwasher. And my left shoulder (post fracture and frozen shoulder, which is only just starting to thaw) I’ve recently been told by my consultant will never be quite the same, he doesn’t expect me ever to have my full 100% range of motion – ever again. So that sucks. And my left ankle – the one I f***ed up when I fell down the stairs on the way to my gym instructor exam in 2019, that too will never be that young and nubile ankle it was. It still hurts at night with the weight of the duvet on it, and it doesn’t like to flex or extend or rotate anywhere near as much the other one. So, in spite of my impressive exercise resume, I’m still falling apart.

The Dreaded Perimenopause

This is to be expected at the age of fifty, the average age to reach menopause is fifty-two. I first noticed things were going a bit awry when, even though I’ve eaten a healthy diet for years, I had to go up a jeans size due to my increased waistline (and arse-line). I’d always been very proud of my hourglass figure up until now – I had abs for DAYZ! But alas, you can’t really see them anymore. It turns out, due to declining oestrogen, the body begins to lay down fat – often around the waist – as a weak form of oestrogen can be found in fat. Oh, goody. There were also other symptoms; foggy-headedness, increased anxiety and testiness (but the testiness dates back from the day I was born, so I’m not sure the menopause had much to do with that). Oh, and the dreaded night sweats – they weren’t a barrel of laughs. So I’ve joined legions of middle-aged women and commenced HRT. Since the arrival of the oestrogen patch in my life, the night sweats have been virtually eliminated, but the fat around my waistline? Not so much. Come on, body! What is wrong with you? I’m giving you the oestrogen you asked for, here!! It’s a tough thing to admit, but I may just have to settle for the body I have – not the one I had. I’ve recently become converted to anti-diet culture, but the yearning to be what I was is difficult to ignore. I’m doing my best to treat my physical frame just right, but I fear spring chicken-dom as left the coup.

I Can See Clearly Now

I’ve needed glasses for driving and for watching TV for some years, but I knew things were really on the decline as fifty reared its ugly head. I had to move my computer monitor at work a bit closer and turn up the font size on my Kindle and press my head virtually right up to the mirror when doing my mascara. A recent trip the optician has resulted in my very first pair of varifocals. And I DON’T LIKE THEM! It’s just like it says on the tin, parts of the lens vary in different places. The uppermost part is for driving, the mid-section is largely for computer work, and the bottom part is for reading close up. And these weird blurry bits at the edges that I don’t understand. Using them for driving is absolutely fine because that part of the lens is exactly like my old glasses – that part of the prescription hasn’t really changed. But for any other purpose, they make me feel a bit sick. I fear I am not going to get on with them at all, and they weren’t exactly cheap. The only function for which they are a godsend is choir practice. I was really struggling to read the notes and lyrics in my choir book then look up at the choir conductor without pushing my glasses down on my nose and back up into my hair multiple times. And now I feel I can just keep the varifocals on for the entire lesson. Other than that, I’m struggling with them. And what’s more, you’re largely confining yourself to wearing glasses all the time. And I don’t think I want to be described as ‘the lady in the glasses‘. I know what you’re thinking – contacts. But I’m just not up for that. Sticking things on my eyeballs is a ghastly prospect and I feel they’re a breeding ground for eye infections. Maybe one day, I’m just not ready to go down that road just yet.

I could go on, but there is such a thing as TMI, you know. And none of you really want to hear about gynaecological problems if you’re honest. I’m happy to grow old gracefully. I’ve no interest in fillers or Botox or enlargements or reductions. Of course I’m not as fresh-faced as I once was, and I could even kid myself that the wrinkles make me look distinguished if I were so inclined. I’m an oldie but a goodie – maybe even a straight-up snack (well, maybe not, but I can’t help but think I look better than the twenty-five-year-old photo above). I don’t feel the need to turn back the hands of time, I might even let my hair go grey one day (once it is properly grey). I just want my body to operate the way it did before. But as the old saying goes, age doesn’t come alone. No, it brings along all its irritating friends. I still have the emotional maturity of a twenty-one-year-old, and yet I don’t expect my physical exterior or interior to match. Just to function properly for, say, another fifty years would be smashing. I keep working on it; I’ll go to the gym and do my yoga just so I can continue getting up the stairs and get in the bath without adaptions for many years to come, so I can stand upright and not hunched over – up until they put me in a nursing home. And I guess I’ll just come to terms with the little bits and bobs that fail me along the way. Now, where’s that hot water bottle? My back is killing me.

I was going to write this blog when I turned fifty (just before Christmas), but you know me. I struggle to do anything to a timetable lately, and I’ve proven time and time again that I’m hardly consistent when it comes to writing. But I’m a captive audience today (aptly, sitting in a hairdresser’s chair having my [in reality] salt and pepper-coloured hair dyed blonde for the umpteenth time). And it strikes me sitting here in the salon trying not to be grey, and due to my recent turning of a century, this is the most appropriate post to be writing. I don’t like getting old. I just don’t. I don’t seem to be growing old gracefully and witnessing this slow decline is frankly depressing.

Ooh, Me Back!

I work out. I work out a lot – five times a week at the gym to be precise (not to blow my own trumpet). Five hour-long sessions with a bit of cardio but mostly weight training. I’m getting pretty darn strong if I do say so myself. And for the last four months I’ve been doing yoga every day – Yin Yoga mostly (restorative yoga for flexibility with long-held poses, usually lying down on the floor, which is why I like it) *polishes fingernails on chest*. It’s great for my ailing joints and my ever-fretful mind. So it doesn’t seem terribly fair that I’ve begun to seize up if I sit still too long. When I get up in the morning, my lower back is so ‘on the edge’ that I daren’t attempt to bend down and pull on my socks until I’ve had a cup of coffee and two paracetamols. Honestly, I can feel my back ‘just about to go’ most mornings so I have to be very careful until my body has warmed up a bit before I do anything too strenuous – like pull on workout leggings or reaching down to put my coffee cup in the dishwasher. And my left shoulder (post fracture and frozen shoulder, which is only just starting to thaw) I’ve recently been told by my consultant will never be quite the same, he doesn’t expect me ever to have my full 100% range of motion – ever again. So that sucks. And my left ankle – the one I f***ed up when I fell down the stairs on the way to my gym instructor exam in 2019, that too will never be that young and nubile ankle it was. It still hurts at night with the weight of the duvet on it, and it doesn’t like to flex or extend or rotate anywhere near as much the other one. So, in spite of my impressive exercise resume, I’m still falling apart.

The Dreaded Perimenopause

This is to be expected at the age of fifty, the average age to reach menopause is fifty-two. I first noticed things were going a bit awry when, even though I’ve eaten a healthy diet for years, I had to go up a jeans size due to my increased waistline (and arse-line). I’d always been very proud of my hourglass figure up until now – I had abs for DAYZ! But alas, you can’t really see them anymore. It turns out, due to declining oestrogen, the body begins to lay down fat – often around the waist – as a weak form of oestrogen can be found in fat. Oh, goody. There were also other symptoms; foggy-headedness, increased anxiety and testiness (but the testiness dates back from the day I was born, so I’m not sure the menopause had much to do with that). Oh, and the dreaded night sweats – they weren’t a barrel of laughs. So I’ve joined legions of middle-aged women and commenced HRT. Since the arrival of the oestrogen patch in my life, the night sweats have been virtually eliminated, but the fat around my waistline? Not so much. Come on, body! What is wrong with you? I’m giving you the oestrogen you asked for, here!! It’s a tough thing to admit, but I may just have to settle for the body I have – not the one I had. I’ve recently become converted to anti-diet culture, but the yearning to be what I was is difficult to ignore. I’m doing my best to treat my physical frame just right, but I fear spring chicken-dom as left the coup.

I Can See Clearly Now

I’ve needed glasses for driving and for watching TV for some years, but I knew things were really on the decline as fifty reared its ugly head. I had to move my computer monitor at work a bit closer and turn up the font size on my Kindle and press my head virtually right up to the mirror when doing my mascara. A recent trip the optician has resulted in my very first pair of varifocals. And I DON’T LIKE THEM! It’s just like it says on the tin, parts of the lens vary in different places. The uppermost part is for driving, the mid-section is largely for computer work, and the bottom part is for reading close up. And these weird blurry bits at the edges that I don’t understand. Using them for driving is absolutely fine because that part of the lens is exactly like my old glasses – that part of the prescription hasn’t really changed. But for any other purpose, they make me feel a bit sick. I fear I am not going to get on with them at all, and they weren’t exactly cheap. The only function for which they are a godsend is choir practice. I was really struggling to read the notes and lyrics in my choir book then look up at the choir conductor without pushing my glasses down on my nose and back up into my hair multiple times. And now I feel I can just keep the varifocals on for the entire lesson. Other than that, I’m struggling with them. And what’s more, you’re largely confining yourself to wearing glasses all the time. And I don’t think I want to be described as ‘the lady in the glasses‘. I know what you’re thinking – contacts. But I’m just not up for that. Sticking things on my eyeballs is a ghastly prospect and I feel they’re a breeding ground for eye infections. Maybe one day, I’m just not ready to go down that road just yet.

I could go on, but there is such a thing as TMI, you know. And none of you really want to hear about gynaecological problems if you’re honest. I’m happy to grow old gracefully. I’ve no interest in fillers or Botox or enlargements or reductions. Of course I’m not as fresh-faced as I once was, and I could even kid myself that the wrinkles make me look distinguished if I were so inclined. I’m an oldie but a goodie – maybe even a straight-up snack (well, maybe not, but I can’t help but think I look better than the twenty-five-year-old photo above). I don’t feel the need to turn back the hands of time, I might even let my hair go grey one day (once it is properly grey). I just want my body to operate the way it did before. But as the old saying goes, age doesn’t come alone. No, it brings along all its irritating friends. I still have the emotional maturity of a twenty-one-year-old, and yet I don’t expect my physical exterior or interior to match. Just to function properly for, say, another fifty years would be smashing. I keep working on it; I’ll go to the gym and do my yoga just so I can continue getting up the stairs and get in the bath without adaptions for many years to come, so I can stand upright and not hunched over – up until they put me in a nursing home. And I guess I’ll just come to terms with the little bits and bobs that fail me along the way. Now, where’s that hot water bottle? My back is killing me.

Ima’ just leave this here…

This wasn’t the blog I was planning to write. ‘TWO blogs in mind?’, I hear you cry. Well, it’s like buses with me. You wait forever and three come along at once. And then an entire year passes by with absolutely nuffink. Or perhaps you were hoping I’d go away again. Who knows? Either way, this blog post seemed a little more pressing.

Last Wednesday night was a special night. The England football team made it through to the final of Euro 2020 (why are we calling it 2020 by the way, when it’s 2021? And why is nobody else questioning this anomaly but me?). Anyway, I digress. Yes, I said ‘the final’. The first major football championship final featuring England since 1966. That’s a long bloody time ago – before even I was born. And I’m mad-old. But one can’t help but having this funny feeling – something’s coming, something good…

Oh what a night.

It isn’t fun being an England fan. I was brought up in a football-loving East London household; we must have thoroughly enjoyed torturing ourselves as we were also Tottenham Hotspur fans too. My dad instilled that love-hate relationship with football in us. I used to get pretty annoyed at the way he shouted at the TV screen, yelling at the players, and telling them what to do from his armchair – like he knew anything. But it turned out he did – I found out after his death he had a trial with Wolverhampton Wanderers when he was young (you’d think he’d tell us something like that), but it came to nothing through injury. Which I guess explains his love-hate relationship with football. So I guess he did know a thing or two after all. So I’ve experienced those momentous and heartrending games that promised so much and delivered so little, I’ve forced myself to sit through matches that were literally crushing my spirit because I believed that if I turned the TV off, England would lose, and it would be all my fault for giving up on them.

Possibly my first REAL introduction to torture.

I’ve sat through so many games that made me want to stop watching football altogether. I was watching in my childhood bedroom when Maradona’s handball put us out of the 1986 World Cup quarters. I was watching when a tearful Gazza got a second yellow card in 1990 in the World Cup semis, knowing he wouldn’t play in the final – not that it ever came to that. I was watching in the 1996 Euro semis when Gareth Southgate missed that penalty. I’ve roared with joy as we scored that unexpected goal, and I’ve cried my eyes out at the penalty shoot-outs which NEVER went our way (I hate penalties – they prove nothing and there has to be another way). I’ve told myself I would never watch England play football again – for years I didn’t, because the stress (over a mere game) just wasn’t worth it. The song lyrics from ‘Three Lions’ are so right – ‘thirty years of hurt’, except ‘Three Lions’ was released in 1996, so now it’s ‘fifty-five years of hurt’. And it really does hurt – so why do we do it to ourselves?

I’m not crying, you are.

There are people out there who think that football is a game for mouth-breathers. I’ve heard it called ‘Kev-Ball’ (how rude) in the past, and some of our ‘lowest common denominator’ England fans make me embarrassed to be English. Some say it’s an achingly boring game. And sometimes they have a point. Football can be frustratingly dull on a bad day. Over the years, a lot of people have assured me that rugby is a far better game. Which, coming from East London, I thought was utter boll***s, until I lived in New Zealand for a year or so and had to become very ofay with rugby and very quickly, or there would be nothing to talk about with my Kiwi co-workers. NZ rugby players were household names. Rugby is a great game. Like many of you, I watched England’s Johnny Wilkinson’s drop-goal in extra time to win the rugby World Cup in 2003. It was epic and euphoric, I was jumping around the room. England needed that win. But d’you know what? I can’t help but think we need this win even more.

If anyone has a replacement for penalties, I’m all ears.

For sixteen months the entire world has been devastated by COVID, we have all been restricted from every and any kind of enjoyment in our lives because of this awful virus. All work – no play. NO play. And every nation needs something good to happen – finally, something good. But, as a hard-done-by England fan, I think we need it more. Because we just do (that’s a very well-constructed and debated argument, which needs no further justification, I think). With every football championship I start out in the same vein; I try to stay reserved and aloof because I know it always ends up the same way for us, knocked out in the quarters or the semis. Good, but just never good enough. I’ve been burned one too many times. But I was sucked in again the moment we knocked out Germany. And I’m going to go out on a limb here – a huge limb. I’m telling you; I just have a feeling about this. This is the final – we haven’t reached a final in over half a century. It’s being played at Wembley – on home turf. The final is falling on my first-born’s twenty-first birthday (I once won quite a lot of money at a casino using her birthday numbers – if she isn’t my lucky talisman, I don’t know who is [even if she does hate football and is rather annoyed that the match is going to overshadow her birthday – but y’know, she’ll live]). On paper, Italy is the better team, our win over Denmark was arguably lucky and a bit ugly – that penalty was rather generous – but sometimes them’s the breaks in football (again, lest we forget ‘The Hand of God’ – we had to suck that up). England were the better team on Wednesday night, they made all the plays, and I’ll take that win. Can you imagine if Denmark had gone through on penalties after their performance? Oftentimes, it isn’t even about the better team. It’s about whose day it is, who wants it more. The stars are aligning. This will probably never happen again in our lifetimes, but the beautiful game won by the nation that created it…? Can’t you just feel it – taste it, even? Do you see how much is at stake here? And have you any idea what the odds are at Ladbrook’s, by any chance?

The beautiful game.

Maybe on Sunday night I’m going to feel very foolish (once again) as we slope home with our tails between our legs; the losers standing small. And believe me, I’m the MOST pessimistic person in the entire world (well, after my dad) – you should have heard me watching the game on my phone in bed and shouting at the ITV football pundits for tempting fate – raving about us being in the final before the final whistle had even blown! F***ing IDIOTS! My dad would have been irate! Still, I’ll say it again, there’s just this feeling. Maybe it is coming home (yes, that phrase is becoming a tad hackneyed). So I’ll see you Sunday night, because if we lose and you weren’t there watching it between your fingers to the bitter (very, very bitter) end, it’ll be all your fault.

PS: If you’re not English, my apologies, but we’d love to have your support as a neutral (if not Italian)?

PPS: Apologies for the repeated usage of the words ‘us’ and ‘we‘, I have never played for England in my life.

PPPS: Can we have a Bank Holiday on Monday next week either way? Because we’ll need a day off even MORE if we lose.

PPPPS: I can always delete this blog if the worst happens, so don’t worry, I can save face if need be.

Look, this photo doesn’t do the flood justice…

Hey! How’ve you been? Personally, I’ve been better, but we’ll get onto that in the next paragraph. My husband, with his intimate knowledge of blog-writing, insists one mustn’t start a post apologising for not writing a post for so long, but when you’ve been AWOL for 329 days (God, that’s nearly a year), I feel you need to at least give a passing nod to your absence. Anyway, passing nod duly done, I’m back (!) but slightly less mobile than when we last spoke.

On Mother’s Day, 14th March – British Standard Time – I broke my shoulder. It should have been a simple and pleasant day, filled with love and treats for the hardest working woman in the building, but it turned into a bit of a nightmare. We were still in the middle of Lockdown 3.0; coffee shops and cafes were still closed (my fave lazy-day Mother’s Day haunts), so I innocently agreed to a country walk. We’d be back in time for a soup and sandwich lunch (the lunch of choice for all old people…like me), then roast dinner was on the menu for dinner. And no cooking for me. Result. However, the three-ish mile country stroll turned into a military exercise when my husband decided to tack on a surprise extra four-mile detour. Isn’t Mother’s Day all about doing exactly what the mother in the scenario chooses? Yes. Was this freak accident at least partially his fault? Well…I’m saying nothing.

April 12th: First day of open gyms. Trooper.

It was because of my husband we found ourselves in a completely flooded country lane. We would never have been there if we’d followed the route I’d originally agreed to. But there we were, observing other walkers navigate the blockage by climbing up on a bank to circumnavigate the flood water. I guessed the middle was so deep, that was the only way. Ah, if only I’d thought, ‘sod it’ and marched right through the middle, but I wasn’t in wellies – merely low walking shoes. My socks would have undoubtedly been soaked through, and we had another three miles before we reached home – I mean, blisters, people! So following the crowd, I scrambled up the bank and held myself steady with my left arm hyperextended above my head to grip onto a drystone wall. Which would have worked remarkably well if my feet hadn’t slipped and my entire body weight was taken through my shoulder (if only I’d let go – damn my arm strength!). A pop/click was heard by all, a wave of pain shot through my shoulder and I found myself doubled over, groaning in pain and fighting the overwhelming need to throw up. But I didn’t lose my footing and my feet were dry. Worth it.

I knew it was serious because my husband (oddly) didn’t tell me to pull myself together and he and my eldest daughter frantically whispered about ambulances and taxis. Whilst my youngest daughter stood a good fifty feet away since she suffers with ametaphobia (Google it), and I had mentioned the ‘being sick’ phrase. Yes, that girl is going to come in handy in a crisis one of these days. A dislocated shoulder was suspected by my husband, who set about circling the offending shoulder whilst I tried not to pass out. Walking the final three miles home was soon deemed impossible and a taxi or an ambulance getting to this remote flooded lane anytime soon seemed unlikely. Luckily, a passing couple in a car kindly took myself and my eldest daughter (all masked-up in the back seats) home. Once my husband and daughter arrived back on foot, a super-fun Mother’s Day trip to Accident & Emergency ensued.

Ibby keeping a 12-mile distance…

The dislocated shoulder turned out to be a hairline break instead (a fracture of the greater trochanter of the humerus – in layman’s terms). So that meant an arm in a sling for six weeks, painful nights, and hospital and physiotherapist appointments a-plenty. But here I am in July, and the broken shoulder which was going on great-guns has become a frozen shoulder to add to the fun (adhesive capsulitis – in layman’s terms). Sometimes frozen shoulders are a spontaneous affair, but sometimes they result after an injury when the arm is left immobile too long. I’d like to admit to that, but things were going so well (before they weren’t) that I wonder if my frozen shoulder has resulted from doing too much too soon; lifting heavier at the gym than was probably wise, carrying heavy bags of shopping from the car because I was bored of being incapable.

Can’t think of a better place to spend Mother’s Day.

I don’t know if any of you dear readers have experienced a frozen shoulder, but if you have, you’ll know all about the pain, the sleepless nights, the limited range of movement, relying largely on your unaffected arm. Lateral movements are off limits (I could probably hold a football under my arm, but a beachball is completely out of the question – which is a shame because I love to carry beachballs). Frontally my arm cannot and will not lift above shoulder height. I’ve attended the hospital and the physiotherapist’s office so many times I really ought to be on their Christmas card list. I’ve had steroid injections and acupuncture, but I still live my life walking around with my left arm glued to my side like a T-Rex. It honestly feels like little ropes are tying my shoulder in place, like in Gulliver’s Travels (ooh, awesome literary reference); I feel the little ropes pull whenever I reach beyond my limited range. The ropes reach their limit and my arm stops short. But I’m pretty sure I’m well and truly in ‘frozen’ stage now (I skipped quickly through the ‘freezing’) and am impatiently awaiting the ‘thaw’. This may just be a waiting game as a FS is a self-limiting condition and can thaw by itself in a year or so, or it may mean surgery to speed up the process – medical opinions are mixed. The last Consultant I saw at Fracture Clinic, Mr Foote (you couldn’t make it up), laughingly insisted in his South African accent that he was a ‘hip and knee guy’ (not feet), so wasn’t really qualified to offer an opinion. So I’m now awaiting a ‘shoulder guy’ referral. Well, I didn’t like to say…

This man has clearly never had a frozen shoulder.

So here I am, awaiting the shoulder guy to cast his exacting eye over the sorry situation. The doctors I work with say leave the shoulder alone, the NHS physio says leave the shoulder alone, the private physio and my GP say surgery (an arthroscopic release, in layman’s terms) is the way to go. But the Shoulder Guy is King. Roll on the Shoulder Guy. I will be led by the Shoulder Guy – unless his name is Mr Leg, then I’ll have my concerns. The thing is, I have learned to muddle along. I can drive – albeit with uncomfortable gear changes. I can do my job. I can sleep – after a fashion – if the pillow configuration is just right. I can even do arm days at the gym – my biceps and triceps still work. But a plank or a shoulder press is a distant memory. Being like this for up to year is a depressing thought. I’m still asking my daughters to put my hair up in a ponytail, putting on a bra behind my back ain’t happening, I dread hair-wash days, and high shelves can f*** right off.

I know, trooper.

So, this is the state of things. I’ll keep you updated. Perhaps when I write my next blog in 329 days’ time, things will be totally different. I’ll be swinging my arm around my head in Pete Townsend-esque guitar circles. Just for funzies. We shall see, dear readers, we shall see.

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Well, things are undoubtedly easier: I can go out for a meal if I want to, I can go to the pub (I could, but I can’t be arsed), I can go back to the gym, panic-buying is over, and you can kind of see people again – within limits. Hoorah! Life truly has regained some of its normality. Things really have relaxed a fair bit since lockdown began, but a second wave could easily strip us of our new-found liberties. Like pretty much all of you, I can’t wait for this pandemic to be a thing of the past. It just hasn’t been a great year for many of us. Look, people died, businesses went under, people lost their jobs. But in a more trivial vein (you know me), I’ve got to say there is so much – barring a second wave, of course – I am going to be glad to see the back of.

1: Home Haircuts

[image error]Maybe she’s born with it…

On the very day the hairdressers opened, I was the first client in that swivel chair. No really, I was. 9am Saturday 4th of July – I had my appointment – first in the door. My roots were looking pretty darn bad; I hoped the grey streaks resembled blonde highlights, but I don’t think they did. But at least I could throw my hair up in a ponytail and pretty much tough it out. Not so for men. My husband cajoled me into cutting his hair mid-lockdown. I didn’t want to do it. I expressed that I didn’t want to do it. I knew the pernickety and exacting type of person my husband was, so I particularly didn’t want to do it. But his hair was crazily growing out at all angles…and I was forced to reluctantly relent. That was a mistake. My husband has a bit of a ‘backseat driver’ mentality at the best of times, so I knew when the vein in his temple began to throb and his left eye began to twitch that the experience was not going to be a pleasant one. Let’s just say he whinged and snapped the whole way through. ‘You’re not pressing the clippers hard enough against my scalp!’ (whilst using the clippers on grade 3), ‘you’ve cut it too short!’ (during the scissor blending for a short back and sides), ‘that’s not how my hairdresser does it!’ (every five bloody seconds for the entirety of the miserable sodding experience). Well, I’m not and never did say I was a hairdresser. Okay, I’ll be honest, it wasn’t a great haircut. If I said, ‘Hitler Youth’ it might give you a fairly good description of the result. But in my defence, no money changed hands, and I feel I did him a favour – out of the kindness of my heart. So, he doesn’t get the right to complain, wouldn’t you agree? Anyway, he shot himself in the foot because I refused to do it again. Unfortunately, he has got the taste for ‘free’ haircuts, so has cajoled my daughter into doing subsequent ones. God help her.

2: Face Masks

[image error]If only I could see a vein, or an arm…

This isn’t over, and I’m not entirely sure it ever will be. I truly didn’t appreciate how lucky I was in the past to just pop in and out of a supermarket without having to check if I had a mask in the car or my bag or not. I mean, things are better; you used to pull up in the supermarket car park only to find twenty-five people waiting outside the shop in front of you. And it’s not like that anymore – thank God. But I have to wear a mask much of the day seeing patients at work as it is (I had to ditch the visor because I couldn’t see well enough to take blood or give vaccinations – the plastic really distorted my vision and something had to give). And to legally be required to wear a mask in shops, steaming up your glasses and heating up your face, is just a pain in the arse. Okay, I accept it and we all must do it – but I’ve every right to despise it. And I won’t miss the experience when it’s gone – please God one day it’s gone…

3: Zoom

[image error]Me, top second left

I mean, it was a lifeline when we had nothing else. I did the odd virtual quiz, one or two training days, and tonnes of virtual workout classes. Zoom was the only way our choir could continue to meet at all, but the horrible delay when you’re trying to achieve close harmony is such a pain. You can only hear yourself singing and the piano backing disappears and you’re all out of time. Ugh. It doesn’t work, it just doesn’t – but it was all we had. Fingers crossed our choir will be allowed to meet in person by September. I’m sorry, but I won’t miss Zoom.

4: Animal Crossing

[image error]I.DON’T.CARE.

Just as lockdown began, both my children prepared themselves for the enforced isolation by purchasing a Switch Light and Animal Crossing to play on it. I will give them both credit before my tirade: My eldest worked hard from home before having to return to work a few weeks back, and my youngest stuck to her school hours like a slave before school holidays commenced. But in their free time…all they wanted to do was play Animal Crossing. And talk about the lands they were creating in Animal Crossing. And tell me about Animal Crossing. And expect me to feign enthusiasm about Animal Crossing. You won’t be surprised to hear I have no interest in Animal Crossing – or any other game for that matter. Their AC fixation has calmed down a little in recent weeks, though. Hallelujah! I sure won’t miss that.

5: Social Media Curtain Twitchers

[image error]Cheers, you annoying b*******

Ugh. You must know who I mean (not you, you would never do this). Those busybodies that call you out in your posts for standing a millimetre closer to a friend than the guideline two metres. The ones that judge you on the quality of your PPE. The ones that force you to write, ‘just out for a socially distanced walk’ in your status to avoid criticism (if I never have to use the phrase ‘socially distanced’ again in my life, it will be too soon). Those ‘curtain twitchers’ are usually on Facebook – so much so I had to take myself off Facebook for a while; you know how it gets on there – elections, Brexit, the opening of a new packet of biscuits – they’re never happy. And COVID sent those self-righteous know-it-alls into overdrive. And they’re usually the people who’ve been furloughed for fifteen-thousand years, so have absolutely zero right to question anyone about anything. They’re the same people bitching about having to go back to work in their vast offices where they can have a radius of ten metres between colleagues, or whining about sending their precious darlings back to school in September after spending five months lying on their backs in the garden. Those of us who have worked all the way through lockdown *trying very hard but failing to get off high horse* know the distancing rules better than anyone; we’ve had no choice but to put ourselves at risk right from the beginning. So, I don’t want to hear their opinions. Am I just bitter because I was one of those key workers who had to keep the country going, and had no choice but to stop panicking, and hasn’t had a holiday since February? Maybe, but I think I have the right to be.

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In conclusion, I guess this pandemic may have come with a few positives as well. Don’t forget those that had the mother of all extended summer holidays *sob*. Look, some people admit they had an amazing lockdown – I admire that honesty (in different circumstances, I would have too). But more importantly, maybe we’ll be a more appreciative society from now on – and we won’t simply assume we can have anything we want the moment we want it. Maybe we’ll be less of a throwaway society too. Maybe we’ll continue our love of DIY and gardening (love might be too excessive a word but my garden looks much better and it really wouldn’t if there’d been no lockdown). I for one will miss the eerily quiet commute and the cheap petrol.  Maybe we’ll no longer take for granted the family and friends we couldn’t see during lockdown – we’ll make time for each other from now on. Possibly, we’ll even take our physical health more seriously in future; cut back on eating crap and exercise more to boost our immune systems to fight this dreaded virus. As you know from the blog, I was poorly in early March; hacking cough, fever – you know the drill. And I always secretly believed I might have had the Corona Virus. But I’ve since had a blood test for COVID, working in healthcare, and I’ve no antibodies. So, either I’ve never had it, or I’m not immune… I’d been living under a false sense of security that I wouldn’t catch it again. So I’d better stay fit. Heigh-ho. Anyway, here we are, hopefully coming out the other side of this nightmare. And I for one won’t be looking back on 2020 fondly – no siree.

PS: Apologies for the slightly sanctimonious outbursts. It’s been a rough time for us all, and sometimes you just have to vent – I feel better now.

PPS: Next time, I’ll write about something non-COVID related…promise.