Amanda Larkman's Blog: Middle-Aged Warrior

They wouldn’t get away with it if companies’ customer service wasn’t so poor.

We’ve all experienced terrible customer service. Since Covid, it has got worse, with the message ‘we’re dealing with unexpectedly high call volumes at this time’ on repeat for the past four years.

This week it’s been British Gas and Evri who have made my blood boil.

My son saved up for a vintage jumper from the 90s (I don’t know what’s going on with Gen Z I really don’t, my teenagers’ wardrobe is exactly the same as mine circa 1996). He ordered it from Depop to be delivered by Evri. The order was late, then it was later, then it was lost. Contacting customer service and speaking to a human was impossible. I spent hours lost in an endless loop of ‘what’s your tracking number?’ follows by ‘that order has been delivered’ before returning to ‘what’s your tracking number?’. Me screaming down the phone, or typing furiously in capitals ‘IT HASN’T BEEN DELIVERED!’ had no effect.

The day after the parcel was supposed to be delivered, Son gets a text saying ‘sorry your Evri parcel has been delayed, there’s a problem with the packaging. Please click this link.’

Son clicks the link and arrives at what seems to be an official Evri site. He’s told he needs to send in his address and pay 24p for the parcel to be rewrapped. Luckily he was mildly suspicious, so used his pocket money card (which only had 50p on it) then thought nothing more of it and waited for his parcel.

24 hours later I received this!!

Within a day someone in MALAYSIA is using Son’s pocket money card to try and spend over £60.

When I finally got through to Evri (who managed to lose two of our parcels in a week) they said it was ‘very challenging as parcels go from warehouse to warehouse and they can obviously get lost.’ I pointed out that was their job, and if they did their job properly and delivered their parcels on time, then scammers wouldn’t be able to get away with their phishing texts about missing parcels.

Later I spent waaaaaay more time than I would have liked on the phone and webchat to British Gas to find out why they were (massively over) estimating my bills when I had a smart meter. After two days of persistent hassling, I finally managed to wrangle from them that my smart meter was broken and had been since November. They didn’t think to tell me or send anyone out to fix it.

When I asked when it would be fixed I was disconnected. This happened twice. After days of not getting anywhere, I resorted to Twitter to express my frustration. Now I have done this often in the past,contacting Amazon, car hire companies, Trip.com, Uber support, and so on to raise an issue. Sometimes you get a quicker response by raising a complaint publically. This time was no different. Or so I thought …

‘Please get back to me British Gas!’ I tweeted. ‘I can’t get through to anyone and keep getting emails saying my complaint has been resolved WHEN IT HASN’T BEEN RESOLVED.’

British Gas responded … ‘So sorry you’ve had this trouble,’ it read. ‘Please DM us your number and we’ll be in touch.’

This is not unusual, and many other companies have done this in the past. So I sent my number privately.

That afternoon I get a phone call from British Gas. The nice man listened sympathetically as I listed my complaints and apologised for the poor service I’d received. He said they would send someone out ‘the very next day’ to repair the smart meter, and would arrange compensation for the time and energy I had wasted trying to get their error resolved.

It was so nice to be listened to! He was patient, kind, and empathetic – balm to my wounded soul.

But…

HE WAS A SCAMMER!

As he was talking, I thought, ‘he’s being very nice … Customer service isn’t that nice …’ With a sinking heart, I checked the number he was calling from. Kenya? That can’t be right?

While he continued to talk, asking for my latest meter readings and so on, unease began to grow. I checked my Twitter. I’d been contacted by BRIITISH GAS not BRITISH GAS!

Yes. It was a scam. And I was about ten seconds away from him plundering everything from my bank account.

When I challenged him by saying, ‘You’re not from British Gas are you?’ he hung up. And I had to get a new bank card and change all my passwords. By the way, the real British Gas still hasn’t responded to my complaint or tweet. The scammer was MORE EFFICIENT THAN BRITISH GAS!

But this is the thing.

If I could get through to EVRI/British Gas customer service and speak to a human, none of this would have happened. These companies think it’s OK that their customers are spending hours and hours of their time trying to get through. Customers who have jobs to do. Customers who are being driven mad by bots sending them into spirals of endless loops where they don’t get anywhere and nothing is resolved.

I have lost count of the number of times I have yelled at the phone ‘IF I COULD RESOLVE THIS ON YOUR WEB PAGE I WOULDN’T HAVE TO PHONE!’

We shouldn’t have to put up with this. And, more seriously, scammers are moving in and taking advantage of incompetent and non-existent customer service. If I hadn’t had such poor service from British Gas I wouldn’t have had a scammer preying on my frustration. If Evri had done their job and delivered Son’s parcel, he wouldn’t have fallen for the text message apologising for the missing delivery that led to him having his card cloned.

Do these companies not want us to get issues resolved? Why do they make it so hard to speak to a human? Why don’t they have enough staff to ensure you DON’T have to wait for over 30 minutes to get through? Is this simply cutting costs? British Gas published HUGE, HUGE profits last year – why don’t they use that money to get more people into the customer services teams?

The trouble is they have us over a barrel. What other options are there? You order something and you have no choice over who delivers. We need to have that option as I never want to use Evri ever (see what I did there) again.

So rise up, people! Don’t accept terrible customer service from faceless bots and infuriating web chats. Let’s march upon the call centres and tear out the phone lines. Boycott companies who don’t invest in helping their customers. Write to your MPs!

But most importantly of all, NEVER trust someone who says they are from EVRI/BT/O2 if they sound helpful and offer compensation and apologise without prompting. Chance are they are a SCAMMER! Be careful out there.

Well Christmas is over and we’re looking down the barrel of the New Year. In the strange quiet gap in time over the last week of December, our house was awash with Quality Street tins, Roses boxes, multipacks of crisps, two types of chocolate logs, and towering piles of sweets.

I blame the teenagers. I’m Generation X and Christmas to me has always been all about treats. The toffee pennies, the puddings, huge roast dinners, double cream and brandy butter. But I fear I am showing my age. My children are Gen Z and it would seem this generation are not interested in these kind of delights.

Neither of them like crisps, chocolate, and sweets – they even turn their noses up at sandwiches. Two days after Christmas daughter asked, ‘can we have vegetables today?’ Son agreed with enthusiasm. He has also been on a campaign to remove sunflower oil from the house saying it is bad for us.

Is this just my children? Or are all young people now so interested in being healthy they’ll turn their noses up at a hazelnut whirl or a mini pork pie?

The upshot it there is far more food left over than I was anticipating and as husband is also not into junk food and sugar-soaked delicacies it has fallen on my shoulders to get rid of it all. Womanfully I have tried to rise to the challenge, but it turns out that I’m too old for such indulgencies and I fell by the way side when struck down by a bilious attack the likes of which I have never had before.

Lying on the sofa, belly swollen, surrounded by sweet wrappers I realised, as I do every year in the last week of December, this has to stop. I’m too old to eat like a maniac in Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory and the New Year would mark a return to my sensible ways.

The second of January was our first day back at the gym after three weeks off. It did not go well. I got so puffed on the treadmill one of the gym staff came over to ask if I was all right and the session on the stair climber (my Nemesis) wasn’t great either. My personal best on this torture device is six minutes. It took me three years to get up to that. When I first tried it I did 30 seconds and thought I was going to die.  I had to spend some time on my hands and knees before getting enough strength to stand up and ask the manager of the gym if they knew how to do CPR.

I did better on the weights but I was annoyed to feel I’d gone back a step having not been to the gym over Christmas. If you’re a middle-aged woman take it from me, free weights are your friend. The impact on your self-confidence is beyond anything I could have imagined. Sure, it’s hard, but channel your inner Geoff Capes and go for it. There’s nothing like the feeling of lifting more weight that you ever thought possible. Also, it’s good for your bones, endurance, gives you better posture and … best of all … makes you feel like a bloody warrior.

OK it does hurt afterwards. I’d recommend on upper body day you wash your hair as soon as you get home because if you’ve worked out properly you won’t be able to lift your arms on day 2. I learned the expression DOMS which means Delayed Onset Muscle Soreness and it’s a killer. But a few weeks later you’ll be carrying a heavy load of shopping, or wrestling a fleeing toddler grandchild to the ground and you’ll be grateful for those muscles.

The absolute best thing I have noticed is that not only do you feel bloody fantastic, when your body has more muscle than fat you can be a bit more relaxed with your eating. Honestly. I know, I didn’t believe it either, but after two weeks of wild and unrestrained Christmas eating – including my husband, daughter, and son’s stocking chocolates – I’d put on a pound. A POUND! Bear in mind that before I started working out I was capable of putting ten pounds on in a week.

If you’re still not convinced then try this. Sit down on the floor and get to your feet. Ideally no part of your body should touch the ground except your feet and knees. So no using your hands to push yourself up. This is a good test for fitness and strength as you age. The more bits you have to put on the floor to get to standing the less fit you are.

Five years ago I wouldn’t have been able to do that. I’d have had to pull on the chair, push myself up with both hands before giving up and getting husband to haul me to my feet. Now, after years of lifting weights I can get up easily. Apparently, I’m also less likely to fall, and if I do fall stronger muscles should hopefully mean I am less likely to break a hip.

Talking of falling, my watch has a fall detector. It’s supposed to be a real boon if you take a tumble as it will automatically contact emergency services for you. Interestingly, it was triggered twice during an enthusiastic game of ‘Taco, Cat, Goat, Cheese Pizza’ over Christmas but when I did actually go flying in the garden it stayed mute.

A spectacular fall in the garden – unnoticed by my fall-detecting watch.

In 2024 if you want to get a bit stronger think about lifting some weights. Most gyms will give you a few free sessions to put together a programme. You have to do it properly so you don’t get injured, but the benefits are out of this world. For older women lifting weights is proved to be more effective than cardio and (best of all) much less boring.

I’m living proof that it’s never too late; my only regret is I didn’t do it years earlier. The good news is that studies have shown it doesn’t take long for new gym joiners to reach the same levels as those who have done it for ages – so what’s stopping you? Go out and get those muscles pumping! Happy 2024.

So, Son has turned 18 and in a moment of madness we said he could hold a party in the garden. ‘It’ll be freezing at the end of September,’ I warned him, and we haven’t got any room in the house for anyone to stay over.’

‘It’s fine’ he said airily waving his hand. ‘They can bring tents.’

The words ‘It’ll be fine’ featured a great deal over the following days. I grew increasingly worried. Especially when he finally gave me the guest list and it had 65 names on it.

‘65 teenagers!’ I shrieked.

‘Oh, I forget to include me,’ Son said. ‘So 66.’

Thank goodness for the train strike. Because without a means to get home the day after the party about twenty said they couldn’t come – but still … 46 teenagers!

The day dawned warm, bright and clear so at least they wouldn’t freeze to death overnight. I’d told them all to get the tents up and ready BEFORE the party started. ‘It’ll be fine’ Son said again. ‘Everyone will help out.’

Everyone did not help out. At just gone midnight I discovered a poor lad trying to pump up a ten-man tent. The pump was broken. Various teenagers eventually came over to help and tried to blow the tent up with their breath like a balloon but as the tent was the size of a roundabout they were unsuccessful.

I left them to it and charged off to yell at five teenagers who’d decided to have a go on the (broken) trampoline.

The music was bone-shakingly loud, the lights danced around the garden and food and drink was plentiful. Everyone seemed to have a good time, but I was rather dreading seeing what the garden would look like the next morning.

Luckily Son was very good at tidying everything up, but I was disconcerted to see the ten-man-tent boy had given up on the pump and had gone to sleep with his head and torso inside a sleeping bag lying on top of the completely flat tent.

The following day, sleep deprived and twitching with stress I remembered I was going to see UB40 at Dreamland with a dear friend. More loud music and lots of drinking but the average age of the audience was considerably higher.

We got there early. Why oh why do big bands get you to buy tickets from 5pm but then don’t actually come on until 9? It means that you get there nice and early to get close to the stage but by the time the main band goes on you feel like your feet have melted into your shoes and your back has been filled with concrete.

The crowd were good humoured and clearly had loved reggae for a long time. Most were in their 50’s and above and were chilled and ready to have a good time.

This was apart from a small group of 40 something women who over the hours had sharp-elbowed their way to the front alongside us. They had strange contraptions on their back which we realised were feeding them Jack Daniel’s. Remember, these aren’t 16 year olds smuggling in alcohol because they are too young to buy it – these were well-dressed fully-grown women!

We watched in fascination as one of the women got more and more drunk. She was bouncing around ricocheting off the people standing around her causing everyone to start tutting quite loudly. The atmosphere was getting more and more tense, until eventually, a poor bloke, bringing cider back to his wife, bumped into one of the women.

Instant outrage! The woman who’d been bumped into started yelling at the man, and I marvelled at her hypocrisy as she’d been slamming her backpack against me and my lovely friend for the last half an hour. (In fact I need to apologise to my lovely friend because when she offered to swap sides I agreed straight away and she ended up getting terribly bashed. What kind of friend am I?)

Anyway, the guy carrying the cider started trying to explain, but she wasn’t having any of it, and her friends began to circle, and started shouting too. Someone pushed someone else and then it all kicked off. Within seconds two huge security guards appeared out of nowhere and catapulted their way over to the women, and the very drunk woman with a backpack was hooked out by her straps and we never saw her again for the rest of the concert.

‘It’s all go, isn’t it?’ my friend said. I agreed and pointed out how much better behaved my son and his friends have been the night before.

I tried to work out what the support bands were doing then realised how very old I was. The first one was a charming guy who chatted to the audience and – apparently this is the correct word  – ‘toasted’ over the records being played by his DJ partner. He also kept saying ‘Oggy Oggy Oggy!’ which made me feel a hundred.

It was entertaining and the reggae was good to listen to as the sun burnished the Dreamland stage. And then the next support act came on. Two men, one at the decks and the other walking around. The music blared out and the man with the microphone wandered about occasionally singing along to the lyrics being played by the DJ. It was basically reggae Karaoke. It has been explained to me that this is what it is all about. DJs mixing tracks together. ‘So what was the guy with the mike for?’  I asked a knowledgeable young person – they just shrugged, so I am none the wiser.

I did wonder what was the point of going to see a live concert if they just played records and sang along to them – but who am I to judge?

Eventually UB40 (featuring Ali Campbell) came on and the crowd went wild. From the first blast of trumpets and beat of the drums it was clear we were watching old pros who’d done this for years. The production was excellent but I was glad I had in my trusty wax ear plugs. Like the last time I went to a concert my watch kept flagging up increasingly concerned warnings about the noise level and the state of my ears, but I was safe in my little wax world where the volume was just right.

They played all the classics, ‘One in Ten’, ‘Please Don’t Make me Cry’, ‘Cherry Oh Baby’ and of course, the one that got the biggest cheer – ‘Red Red Wine’. I’m not a particular fan of UB40 – I don’t think I’ve ever bought any of their music – so I surprised to find I knew all of the lyrics so stood and sang along with the crowd.

My favourite part of being at Dreamland was that it was open air, the park looked great as night fell and the lights went on. Also, it was nice being in a crowd of people that all looked like they would remember Tiswas.

There was a pair of women dancing in front of me who were the coolest of the cool. One had her white hair tied up in little pixie knots and a huge white punky shirt, while her friend rocked a black leather jacket with grey dreads dancing on top of her head. I watched them sing the lyrics to each other, laughing their heads off and waving their arms and thought what a wonderful thing it is to dance to loud music as the moon rises with a cheerful crowd of people around you – it’s the same whether you’re 18 or over 50. I must do it again soon.

Dreamland, Margate

It seemed like such a good idea at the time. Having recently moved house we had piles of stuff that we didn’t need but was too good to throw away. We’d already taken over 500 books and random bits of bric-à-brac to all the local charity shops – so many bits and pieces in fact that they now shut the door and turn off the lights when they see us coming.

Then a neighbour mentioned a giant boot sale quite local to us, that ran every Sunday. ‘Brilliant idea!’ said Son. ‘Dad’s old Star Wars stuff will fetch thousands!’ So, as we unpacked and sorted we began to put aside things for the Boot Sale. By the time we got back from holiday the Boot Sale pile consisted of seven large boxes of random things.

‘Don’t worry!’ said Son. ‘I’ll help.’

Son didn’t help. He was quite good at carrying stuff to the Boot Sale pile of boxes, but wasn’t so keen when he learned he’d have to wake up at 5am on Sunday morning.

I was beginning to worry I’d be left to run the Boot Sale on my own (husband was in the ‘just put everything in the skip’ category and had washed his hands of all involvement very early on) but luckily Daughter stepped up.

‘We’ll have to get up very early,’ I said to her. ‘Very early indeed – like it will still be dark.’ As a fifteen-year-old who loves her bed, I didn’t think she would be physically capable of getting up before dawn but she proved me wrong.

‘You ready?’ she said, knocking on my door at 5.05 am.

Blurry eyed, heart pounding and hungover due to an ill-advised brandy sour the night before, I lurched out of bed to get dressed and brush my teeth. The house was quiet as Daughter and I crept out ready to take the already loaded car to the Boot Sale.

‘I can’t believe we’re up this early,’ I said. ‘But good to get there first thing as it opens at 6 so we’ll get the best spot.’

We drove in silence through the dark watching the sky gradually lighten. The first signs for the Boot Sale began to appear. Not a car was to be seen the whole way. I started to worry I was going to be the only boot there until we rounded the corner and headed towards the enormous farmers’ field.

It was 5.58 am and I thought I was dreaming. Ahead of us must have been over a hundred cars. The place hadn’t even opened!

The Boot Sale hadn’t even opened at this point!

Mouth open in astonishment I followed the cars as they wound back and forth, eventually forming regular lines that marched across the whole of the huge field. We parked up and leaped out of the car. Right! Ready to sell some stuff and make our fortune. I had a money belt already strapped round my waist. Actually, it was the dog lead waist band I use when walking Dog but it had a useful pocket for phones which I was hoping to fill with hundreds of pound coins.

What I wasn’t expecting was the absolute swarms of people who appeared as I opened the boot. I hadn’t even opened the boxes and they were trying to rummage through our stuff. These were The Dealers.

‘Any PlayStations? Any Games? DVDs?’ I had to slap their hands away as they reached to pry open the top of the boxes. It was quite overwhelming. ‘Give us a minute!’ I shouted eventually. ‘I haven’t got any PlayStation stuff!’ They were like ants.

Eventually they fell away after I threw a broken Star Wars X-Wing at them for the grand total of £3. I was later to discover that £3 was the sweet spot at a Boot Sale. It was very rare to get anything above that.

It was 6.05 and people were already walking along the rows, eyes sharp and pockets rattling with pound coins. Hastily, Daughter and I shook out the sheets we’d bought and laid out everything we’d bought.

The Dealers swooped in again, picking through our spread of belongings. Any named clothes were winkled out. ‘£1 for these three? Yes?’

‘Er no,’ I’d say, pulling the clothes out of their hands. ‘That’s a £45 pair of Nike shorts that have barely been worn – and those are Paul Smith trousers that were £100 brand new. I’ll take a fiver each for them.’

The Dealers slunk away; my prices too rich for their blood. I later realised I was completely mad to ask for £5 for a pair of designer trousers. The people there were expecting to pay 25p for each piece of clothing. I rapidly recalculated how much money I was going to make.

Daughter began to fossick about and I realised she was sneaking things out that she’d just realised she wanted to keep.

‘You can’t take out that ostrich egg!’ I said. ‘I’ve been trying to get rid of the ruddy thing for years!’

‘But it’s cool!’ she said, opening the car door and putting the ostrich egg box in the passenger footwell.

‘It’s been cool and in a cupboard for the past ten years and you’ve shown absolutely no interest in it.’ I said, but my words fell on deaf ears. Whenever my back was turned another item was ‘rescued’ from the pile. Piglet. A pair of old sunglasses. Andy from Toy Story (a toy that had languished untouched by both my children for twelve years). Big Trak. Another teddy. A handbag. A baseball bat (to play Netball with she said. I was completely confused until I realised she meant Rounders).

Eventually I gave in but only after I got her to promise that everything she kept had to be stored in her room – not in the house. ‘If I see it, I’m throwing it away,’ I warned. ‘OK’ she nodded, sweetly.

Some of the things Daughter ‘rescued’ from our Boot Sale display

It felt like we’d been standing in the now blazing sunshine for hours but my watch told me it was only ten past seven. More and more people were arriving and we began to sell quite a lot of stuff once I had got my head around how little I should ask for everything.

I did quite well on some 80s toys, a few prints and paintings and I ran a special deal on books (50p each 3 for a pound) which got rid of all the Mr Men and Miffy books. Daughter and I both felt a bit of a pang as they were carried away.

By nine we were both starving. I decided to walk over to the burger van. Joining the queue I heard a woman behind me say ‘oooh I don’t know how they could have a burger at this time of the morning’ and wanted to yell at her that I’d been on my feet since 5am and nothing was getting in the way between me and that cheeseburger.

I was a bit taken aback by the price. FIVE QUID! Five Quid! For a burger? I handed over ten pound coins from my money belt recognising Daughter and I would be literally eating our profits.

Three hours later and the Boot Fair was winding down. I started almost giving stuff away. I was quite pleased by the jingle of coins in my money/dog walking belt and resolved to count it all up when we got home. There was a sad lack of any paper money rustling away in there I realised.

We got home absolutely shattered and by 4pm I couldn’t keep my eyes open. I told husband I was going for a well-deserved nap and within minutes I was dead to the world.

When I woke up I screamed so loudly husband thought I’d been attacked. Daughter had snuck in as I slept and left the life-size hairdresser’s head on the pillow next to me. The one we hadn’t managed to sell at the Boot Fair. Without my glasses I thought it was a decapitated head; it was like that horse head in a bed scene from The Godfather. Daughter had taken pictures and circulated them to the family chat to much hilarity. I don’t think I will every forgive her. Teenagers, eh?

The Hairdresser’s head Daughter snuck onto my pillow as I slept. Me Sleeping

The good news is I made £93.10. Not bad, but once you take off the £10 entrance fee and the £10 for the gold-plated burgers – oh, and the coin that I thought was a 50p but was actually an East Caribbean States dollar – we made a total of £72.60. Just over seven pounds an hour but we did get rid of lots of stuff we didn’t need and it was lovely seeing all those well-loved books going home with happy children. Not sure I’d ever do it again though. And I’m going to burn that blooming hairdresser’s head.

We bought our house seven years ago but we’ve only just moved in permanently and I’ve always regretted that we hadn’t been able to make the Grand Dog Show run at the end of every summer in my local village. But this was the year – with no work and now an official village resident I was determined to go along, taking Dog with me.

The events on the poster were varied and intriguing … ‘prettiest girl’, ‘golden oldie’, ‘Dog the judge would most like to take home’ and (the one that I was sure Dog would win) ‘Fastest sausage eater.’ She would have been a shoo-in for ‘prettiest girl’ as she’s the most beautiful of all dogs, but even I would have to admit she wasn’t looking her best.

Usually, Dog is a great ball of silvery-white curls – she is often compared to the dog in the Flash advert by admiring passers-by. Well she doesn’t look like that at the moment. Basically she had a very brutal groom – an extremely brutal groom. So brutal I didn’t actually recognise her when I went to collect her. I hadn’t realised how much of her personality was expressed by her eyebrows and whiskers until I saw her after they’d been clipped off. She looked hideous. A gangly, malnourished slink of a thing. The children were horrified when I got her home.

This is what Dog should look likeThis is what she looked like after her brutal, brutal groom

‘Well, the only things I think we can enter her for are ‘most expressive eyes’ and ‘fastest sausage eater,’ I announced to the family. ‘You definitely need eyebrows and whiskers to win the pretty prize,’ Son agreed sadly.

Husband was working in the garden and Son was off being battered about on the rugby pitch so I persuaded Daughter to come with me. It was the most glorious day. The sun shone hot in the sky above and a cool breeze kept us comfortable as we walked round all the stalls.

It was such a lovely event. Everywhere I looked were dogs of all sizes and shapes. From the unbelievably huge Newfoundlands that looked like bears, to the tiniest of chihuahuas, every type of dog you can think of was there. Out in the best of the Kentish countryside it was a glorious day for it, though I quickly regretted not bringing a hat.

It was the epitome of the best of Britain. Packed full of volunteers raising money for all sorts of charities, they had strung cheery looking bunting all over the field and were working hammer and tongs putting together scones with cream and jam in the village hall. There was a homemade cake stall that also sold home-grown tomatoes. I couldn’t resist the proper, old-fashioned fairy cakes with little wings arching out of thick icing. Further on we found a stand dedicated to dog toys and treats, and, my favourite a raffle. It wouldn’t be a dog show without a raffle. I bought five tickets early on then daughter and I set off to register Dog in the ‘appealing eyes’ and ‘quickest sausage eater’ rounds.

The MC was cheerful and spent most of his time ragging his friends in the audience and making jokes about the missus and heading off to the pub. ‘I think we’ve travelled to the 1970’s’ I muttered to Daughter.

It was getting hotter and hotter. I started to look round to see if anyone was selling hats. I sent Daughter to buy ice cold cans of diet coke and we queued up to buy tubs of Solly’s Ice Cream – delicious. With the sun battling to get through my layers of suncream Daughter and I watched the classes. ‘Waggiest Tail’ was won by a jolly Labrador and then the entrants for the ‘Dog that looks most like its owner’ began to stream in.

Daughter and I discussed our favourites. Who would win? Was it the Dalmatian accompanied by the woman with the polka dot top on? The gorgeous collie whose owner had a full outfit (including tail) to match her dog’s white socks and black coat? We admired another for dressing in sweltering black – including a balaclava – to pair with his black terrier.  But the standout for me was the broad shouldered gentlemen in a check shirt and British flag T-Shirt walking proudly in with his enormous bulldog.  He won first prize and the pair of them swaggered off with their doggy bag and giant rosette.

Bunting, sunshine, volunteers and lovely dogsA hot Newfoundland

Dog did not do well in the ‘endearing eyes’ round. She kept squinting, and without her eyebrows, eyelashes and whiskers she certainly wasn’t at her most endearing. We did have a nice chat with the lady next to us who had a gorgeous fluffy white dog and shot resentful glances at the chihuahua who came first. ‘You can’t even tell if it’s sitting down or not,’ Daughter said as the judge put the chihuahua though its paces. ‘It’s so small it doesn’t look any different.’

All my hopes rested on the sausage eating contest. Dog is the greediest dog I’ve ever known and we’d deliberately not given her any breakfast so she was nice and hungry. We eyed the other competitors. I was a bit worried about the grey hounds who looked pretty quick and the way the chihuahua was snarling at everyone I was worried it would end with a doggy punch up.

The nervous looking MC admitted this was the round he was most worried about. ‘It all went a bit Pete Tong last year,’ he said, and the judge nodded in agreement. When the enormous box of sausages was carried out, all the dogs pricked their ears and began to drool. I wondered what had happened last year. There must have been forty dogs spread across the competitors’ field and every one of them had their eyes fixed on the sausages. ‘100% meat!’ the lady holding the box told the crowd.

Dog licked her lips. A cloud scudded across the sun, we all felt a slight chill and I saw owners hold onto their dogs’ collars a little more tightly. Dog took a step towards the sausage box, as did the terrier on my left and Labrador on my right. ‘Hurry up!’ someone yelled.

Adjudicators were rustled up from the crowd to stand behind each owner. The dogs were taken to stand twenty paces away. I sent Daughter off. ‘Hold onto her really tightly!’ I said. Each owner was given a fat sausage and Dog began to bark. Daughter struggled to hold her still. Dog’s eyes skipping from one sausaged hand to the other. ‘This one!’ I called, waving my sausage in the air.

‘Remember, put up your hand ONLY when the ENTIRE sausage has been consumed AND swallowed,’ said the judge. Dog was getting really agitated. She loves sausages; they are her favourite thing. ‘The adjudicators will be checking so no cheating!’ Come on! I thought. Dog was beginning to drag poor Daughter across the grass towards me.

‘3 … 2 … 1 … DROP YOUR SAUSAGES!’

The sausages fell, the dogs were released and surged forward. ‘Come on, Dog!’ I shouted. She was a blur of white as she bounded towards me. The sausage was gone. ‘Yay!’ I yelled, throwing up my arm and nearly knocking out my adjudicator.

‘Dog got through to the final!’ I texted Husband and Son back home.

We watched the heats, seeing sausage after sausage guzzled by twenty different dogs. ‘That’s our competition,’ I said to Daughter as a smiling Dalmatian bounded past and all but inhaled a sausage. Six other Dogs joined Dog in the final, including the Dalmatian. Again, the owners lined up opposite the dogs and held our sausages aloft.

‘3 … 2 … 1’ they were off again! But oh no! Dog’s gone for the wrong sausage! She trying to wrestle it out of the next door dog’s mouth.

‘No Dog! Here! Here’s your sausage!’ But Dog had the bit between her teeth, she was going for that sausage like her life depended on it. She had disgraced herself. Luckily, due to what the judge described as ‘underhand shenanigans’ it was decided the dogs would run again. More sausages were brought out – where were they all coming from? I wondered.

I thought we were in with a chance; Dog had got the taste of the 100% meat sausages and wanted more. I imagined bringing Dog home with a large rosette. It was so close I could feel it. We lined up again.

‘Go!’ Off they raced, straight to the sausages. Dog was at my feet in a flash. Sausage in her mouth, she started chewing. The adjudicator was ready to fling up his hand but wait! ‘She’s dropped a bit!’ he said. I looked down. Dog had dropped a chunk of her sausage and couldn’t get it out of the thick grass. ‘Here! Here!’ I shouted but it was too late. A forest of hands went up and Dog was out of the competition.

‘It was a good try though,’ said Daughter giving Dog a pat. Exhausted with all the heightened emotion, we slumped back into our seats.

‘I suppose we better go home,’ I said.

‘But what about the raffle?’ Daughter asked.

Of course! The raffle! I pulled the tickets from my bag and we waited for the number to be called. Well, Dog may not have won a rosette, but Daughter and I won not one, not two, but THREE raffle prizes! The best thing of all was that one of the prizes was a beautiful, homemade Shaun the Sheep bathmat. Daughter was over the moon and it’s been laid pride of place on the bathroom floor.

We had a wonderful day, met lots of lovely people, and saw lots of gorgeous dogs including the magnificent Beach Buddy working Newfoundlands. These local village events are to be treasured; well done and thank you to all the volunteers and companies who made it possible. Here’s to next year!

Dog wondering where the sausages went.

After three weeks of packing up twelve years of stuff and moving over 200 boxes into our forever home it was time for a break. We need sunshine! I declared. ‘But what about all the boxes?’ husband asked. ‘Sod the boxes,’ I said – not wanting to see a box for at least two weeks.

So off we went. The first time we’d gone on a plane since before covid hit. Very quickly I remembered why I don’t like to fly. All that hassle queuing to get through security and passport control. It didn’t help that I inadvertently managed to smuggle four bottles of liquid through security – they were at the bottom of my giant handbag – and I didn’t realise until I got called over by a stern looking officer at the x-ray machine.

All the stress of moving house and travelling drained away as the plane circled the island of Lesvos, the sun-drenched piece of heaven that was to be our home for the next two weeks – with not a moving box in sight.

Ah, the wonder of opening the curtains to blinding sunshine after weeks of sodden grey clouds in England. The food! The crystal-clear waters of the Aegean! The lovely smiling people!

It was bliss. Everyone else in the small hotel we’d booked was Dutch and it was lovely to go out on non-beach days to relax by the pool and order cocktails from the bar. No worries about anyone bagging beds with towels – everything was very civilised until the third day …

On the third day we woke up unexpectedly early and thought we’d spend the morning by the pool. A bonus to getting up before nine being we’d be early enough to get the extra-special four poster sunbeds. There were only two of them and they were highly prized. Our hearts lifted as we approached the pool area. It was empty – the sun was barely up, and it looked like the day was going to be a hot one. Perfect weather to lounge on the four poster beds with their hanging muslin curtains.

But wait! For the first time in the holiday, I saw the empty beds were strewn with towels, We stopped. Looked around. Nobody in the pool. Nobody in the little restaurant eating breakfast. Nobody walking about. Had somebody got up early and … bagged the beds!?

But that didn’t happen here! We were all very civilised and courteous with each other. The Dutch guests were beautifully mannered, and us British were far too honourable to indulge in the distasteful practice of bagging beds with towels. Wasn’t it the Germans who did that?

We found alternative seats and I sat fuming, checking my watch as the hours ticked by. Nine, ten, eleven … we got to two pm and the be-towelled beds remained empty. ‘This is a bit annoying!’ I said to the hotel owner. ‘Are people allowed to reserve beds and then not use them?’

He shrugged and smiled. ‘It happens everywhere,’ he said. ‘You could move them.’

But being too polite (or you could just say a coward who didn’t want a fight) to move the towels I just sat and fumed instead. My mum, brother and friends on Instagram urged me to throw the towels aside but I just couldn’t do it. When the (BRITISH!) family finally turned up to claim the beds at 2.30 in the afternoon I settled for giving them a Hard Stare and moaning about it on social media.

The next day we decided on a trip to a local town on the tourist train that travelled along the coast. We got up bright and early and walked down to the stop. ‘I don’t believe it,’ said husband as we crossed the road. ‘What?’ I said. ‘It’s them!’ he hissed. ‘The towel people!’

And sure enough, there they were. The British family, right at the front of the queue perfectly placed to nab the best four seats up at the front. ‘I bet they’ve left their towels on those nice beds,’ I muttered. ‘Even though they’ve gone off on a day trip.’ (We later found out that’s exactly what they’d done).

For days the towel family haunted every trip. In front of us on a boat trip so we couldn’t see the view. At the front of the ice cream desk where they took the last of the caramel crunch ice cream I had my eye on, and finally on the air plane home where they got their hand luggage into the bins right above our seats so we couldn’t store our bags there. Infuriating!

We didn’t let them spoil our holiday though. My family was united by moaning about the towel people for many hours over long dinners – a sense of unity you don’t experience often with moody teenagers.

Most importantly I rediscovered my love of Greece. We hadn’t been since the children were born and I’d forgotten how wonderful the food was, how beautiful the sea and how warm the Greek people were. They kept telling us off for walking around in the midday sun and offering water and sun cream.

I loved that on our first taxi journey the driver stopped, got out of the car, and walked off. We looked at each other puzzled and a bit worried before a big, bearded guy with a striking resemblance to Zeus appeared and got behind the wheel. ‘My father!’ the retreating taxi driver explained before disappearing into a nearby bar. We arrived at our destination safely and the fare was two euro less than quoted – result!

I spent days lazing in the sun not bothering with make-up and barely moving out of my sarong and swimming costume. I lost my comb on the first day so was forced to let my hair just nest into a mad frizz of salty curls. Every day I faced the wild woman of Borneo in the mirror and didn’t care.

Eating out was a dream – halloumi, feta, prawns, souvlaki – we managed a Greek salad every day and would score restaurants on the quality of their feta cheese. Every restaurant prided themselves on making their own feta from the goats that wandered about bells clinking. If you’re interested, Nikos’s restaurant in Petra won first place for their feta which was crumbly, creamy, and delicious.

The FOOD!

We went to beach bars and pretended to be young, drinking overpriced pina coladas and watching the sea crash against the rocks. I even ticked something off my bucket list by jumping into the Aegean from a boat. I will never forget the joy of leaping into the hot blue air and diving into the water so clear I could see fish flickering across the sand fifteen feet beneath me.

One thing I did notice was this new fashion in young women to hoick their bikini bottoms right up to form uncomfortable looking wedgies. Can anyone explain why they do this when they could just buy a thong? My family think I am ridiculous for wondering about it so obsessively, but I find it really annoying! I champion any woman’s right to bare bottom cheeks but why not buy a bikini designed for that purpose? Then they won’t have all that extra cloth!

Anyway. We returned relaxed and refreshed ready to face the challenge of finding places to put all our mountains of stuff. The only fly in the ointment was the day after we flew back the skip we ordered arrived. As the delivery man was leaving, he managed to knock over a walnut tree with his big, skip-carrying truck. Before we could do anything, the tree toppled over and landed on our car.

Stress levels are back to normal. I’m going to need another holiday.

Son turned seventeen last September and the second the last present was opened he asked the question Rob and I had been dreading… ‘So when do I start driving lessons?’

The main problem is that, in my head, Son isn’t seventeen, he’s nine – and there’s nothing more frightening than being driven round in a car – a dangerous machine over which you have no control – by a small child who had absolutely no experience of traffic and roads.

Not to mention the expense. Blimey! Thirty quid a go and a quick Google advised the average number of lessons needed was FORTY-FIVE HOURS – and that’s just the lessons! The RAC also stated that the average learner needed a further twenty hours of practice. And of course, don’t forget the insurance and cost of petrol.

One of the problems with having teenagers is the realisation they are living their best life and you – the parent – are paying for it. Daughter goes out for lunch with her friends, does a bit of shopping at the weekends and visits the cinema – all paid for by me and Rob. Son is driving, going to parties in London and combing vintage shops for cool designer clothes – again, paid for by us.

Rob and I would love to go to parties in London, go out for lunch and trips to the cinema but we can’t afford it! You know why? Because we’re supporting two teenagers who are having a whale of a time – that’s why!

Ah well. They’ll be leaving home before we know it and I know I will miss them both dreadfully.

Back to the driving. Following his seventeenth birthday, Son spent every week having lessons, and most Sunday afternoons either Rob or I would take him out for a practice. God it was nerve-wracking. I’m not a great driver at the best of times and I would have been much better if I could have had a large gin before we left to help with my nerves – but apparently, that wasn’t allowed.

Son gradually got better and better and Rob and I became more and more happy about taking him out. We practised parallel parking, reversing round a corner, roundabouts, getting on and off dual carriageways – a great blur of traffic lights and yellow lines marked every weekend. I failed first time because I mounted the kerb so I was obsessed with making sure Son didn’t make the same mistake.

After a sleepless night for all of us, Test day arrived. Son disappeared off and we waited, chewing our nails with huge bags under our eyes. After what seemed like hours a text finally arrived on the family chat. He had bad news, he said … Our hearts sank until the next text pinged in.

‘Yay!’ we all replied, absolutely delighted.

But then reality set in. He arrived back, over the moon – hugs all round, all was good but then …

‘Also, Mum, I’m off to the beach with my mates, I won’t be late.’

‘Wait, what?’ I said.

‘I’m insured now, aren’t I? You’ve updated it to say I’ve passed?’

‘Well, yes, but …’

‘And the car has got petrol?’

‘Yes. But…’

‘See ya!’

And he was off. Just like that! An hour after passing! My little lad was out on the roads in a car.

The following day he took an hour and a half trip to Tunbridge Wells taking the A roads as we wouldn’t let him use the motorways until he’d tried them out with one of us by his side. Husband and I followed him the whole way using the family tracking app. Unfortunately, Son decided to save his data and turned it off ten minutes in so his position vanished off the map.

Did he text us to say he’d arrived safely? No, he didn’t. Did he text to say he arrived safely on his first trip on his own to the beach? No.

Husband and I were absolute wrecks until Son finally deigned to reply to our increasingly frantic texts. I was furious.

That was until husband Rob remembered the day he passed his test and he didn’t even go home – he went straight over to his girlfriend’s house. I then remembered the day I passed my test I took my friends Katy and Katie to the Farthing Corner service station for bacon and egg! Straight onto the motorway within 20 minutes of passing.

Ah, the confidence (and thoughtlessness!) of youth. Not once, not once did I think of my mum and dad worrying at home about me being out on the roads. And this was well before mobile phones there was no way for them to know where I was.

My thoughtlessness continued at university. I was in northern Ireland, no mobile phones, the only way my mum and dad could contact me was by writing a letter or ringing the owner of the local newsagent shop who would come and knock on my door to say ‘your mother’s on the phone again!’

It’s only now that my children have grown do I realise the impact me moving so far away and so out of contact would have had on my parents. They must have been worried sick!

To make matters worse I managed to hit a car while I was away at uni and had to sort out the damage on insurance. I phoned my mum to talk through a letter I’d received. I had to use a phone box as I didn’t have a landline in my digs.

While on the phone a great gust of wind pulled the letter from my hand.

‘Oh, sorry Mum,’ I said. The wind’s blown the letter onto the train tracks. I’ll just go and grab it. I’ll call you back.’ And hung up.

And you know what I did next? (A great wash of guilt and shame hits me whenever I remember this). I ran to get the letter, went home, AND DIDN’T CALL MY MOTHER BACK! If my son or daughter had done that to me I would never forgive them.

I left the poor woman stuck in England with no means of contacting me convinced her only daughter had been hit by a train while clambering onto the tracks. I still can’t believe I was so stupid.

My mum still worries about me and I’m in my 50s. Now I feel terrible for all the times I’ve forgotten to call to say I’ve arrived safely, or set off across Europe with nothing more than my passport and a handful of francs in my pocket – or not let her know I hadn’t been smushed by a train.

And now it’s my turn to worry. My teenagers have turned out to be as thoughtless as I was – talk about Karma.          

So here we are, Rob and I, huddled over our phones checking our teenagers are safe as they scamper about the country with friends. Relief only comes when they are back safe and sound in their beds under our roof. I have a nasty feeling that I will always worry about them, such is being a parent.

So really what this post is about is not getting so cross with my son when he goes off on a jaunt without a backward glance but most of all, most of all, it’s to say … sorry Mum.

After twelve years we are moving home. A new chapter approaches and I can’t wait to start living in the new house which has a lovely big garden and is miles away from everywhere. The trouble there is the slight problem of moving twelve years’ worth of stuff from one place to the other.

We started with the quotes. ‘Let’s be sensible!’ we agreed. ‘We’ll get three quotes from three reputable removal companies and go for the cheapest. Let’s get them to do all the packing for us so we can sit back and relax while they do the work for us.’

An insight into how much money this move cost

The first quote was so enormous I almost lost the ability to speak when company number one called. Moving had clearly become considerably more expensive than when we last moved over a decade ago. ‘Can I get back to you?’ I eventually said, ‘I was hoping for a lower price than that.’

‘You won’t find one,’ removal company man said tersely as he rang off.

‘Never mind,’ husband said. ‘That’s why we got in three companies to give us quotes – let’s wait for the next one.’

The second company was a THOUSAND pounds more and the third £500 on top of that. I couldn’t believe it. The idea that we would pay for them to do the packing for us (at an extra cost of £900 PLUS VAT) very quickly went out of the window.

‘We’ll pack ourselves,’ I said airily to husband as I called the first company back. ‘It’ll be fine – I’m on holiday and we haven’t got that much – we’ll probably throw most of it away.’

 Removal company man didn’t actually say ‘oh, you’ve come crawling back to us, have you?’ but I could hear it in the tone of his voice. We booked him for the end of the month and handed over an eye-watering amount of cash.

Dog wishing the packing was all over so she could go outside and talk to some other dogs

It was then I discovered the packing boxes, wrapping paper, and parcel tape weren’t included. So I paid over more cash to receive 95 boxes of varying sizes. When we started to put them together we discovered the parcel tape had strange powers. It was so strong you could only cut it with the very sharpest of scissors (that disappeared completely whenever I put them down) and yet was so weak that it promptly peeled itself off when you tried to affix it to the packing box. Not fit for purpose. No point in having the strongest tape in the world if the glue is so weak a post it note would have stuck better. It reminded me of that urban myth about a spider that has the strongest venom in the world but fangs to weak to actually bite anyone.

Boxes, boxes and more boxes. Wrapped with lots of poor quality parcel tape

In the end the only way you could seal the boxes was by wrapping the parcel tape round and round and round the boxes until they resembled the cellophane-wrapped Lucozade bottles of the 70s. We have already got through ten rolls of the stuff. There’s no way I’m getting any more from the company so a trip to WH Smith was in order to pay out even more for parcel tape that actually stuck onto the box and held it shut with only one strip.

Once the boxes were put together and ready to be filled, I sat back and surveyed the flat. Over twelve years of living in a flat – two adults working full time, two children growing from five and three to seventeen and fifteen – and a spoiled dog – had led to the place being filled with all sorts of junk. In fact, I had vastly underestimated the amount of stuff we had accumulated over that time.

Why did I still have booster seats for children who are taller than I am? Why did I think I still needed the baby bjorn baby sling? Why am I physically incapable of throwing away any mothers’ day card, badly drawn sketches of Sponge Bob square pants and Disney princesses,, any reports, any exercise book, any handmade Christmas decoration and tangled bits of wool my children have made over the years?

My teenagers show no such sentimentality. Without a care in the world they have been ejecting great bin bags full of precious childhood toys, expensive clothes, lovingly bought children books that we used to read to them every evening, into the corridor outside their rooms.

‘You should keep these for your children!’ I say, holding up ‘Ballet Shoes’, ‘Harry Potter’ and – what used to be a huge favourite – the ‘How to Train your Dragon’ series.

They just shrug. ‘Philistines!’ I mutter and squirrel away everything I think they will regret discarding and add it to the huge pile of drawings and homemade pom poms that I’m collecting. I have no idea what to do with it.

Husband is keen to streamline our possessions down to the bone. Ruthlessly his wedding suit, a stereo, tons of books, vinyl and cds are added to the charity shop pile. For the millionth time I have to endure the ‘I’ve now got this album on record, cassette, minidisc and CD!’ rant that always happens when he looks at his record collection.

I, on the other hand, want to keep everything. I’ve managed to part with some books for the charity shop, but my grandmother’s sewing basket and singer sewing machine aren’t going anywhere. I’m planning on installing a Shepherd’s hut in the garden at the new house (when I have the money) to use as an office. Whenever husband asks me if he can throw something of mine away I reply, ‘no! it’s going in my shepherd’s hut.’

‘You won’t be able to get into your shepherd’s hut at this rate,’ he mutters.

He’s probably right, but some things I just can’t bring myself to throw away. I know there will be boxes of stuff that I won’t open for ten years because as we prepare to move I have found boxes of stuff that I hadn’t opened from 12 years ago. Did I think – oh, I obviously haven’t needed this stuff for 12 years as I didn’t even miss it –  I’ll just chuck all of it.

No. I didn’t. Who knows? One day I may need that sausage mincer from the 1950s, or find the charging cable for that Sony Walkman.

The suitcase of letters between my grandma and her future husband written in the 1930’s – not something I will ever throw away!

I’m now at that horrible halfway stage where all the cupboards, drawers, sideboards and shelves have been emptied but not all of the boxes have been filled. I have sixteen monstrously swollen bin bags on the landing waiting to be taken to the dump as well as three bedside cabinets and a broken sofa.

I was quite pleased when I packed all the bedding and towels before realising we still have another week and will actually need bedding and towels.

The flat is stuffed to the gunnels with boxes that have been shoved up against the walls. Because every single sharpie pen we possess is on its last legs the instructions written on the boxes are mostly illegible. In fact, because they are second-hand boxes, the previous owners – who obviously had a much better set of pens than we do – have left very clear instructions that are much clearer than ours.

The previous box owners must have been very posh because they have things like ‘set of ming vases – fragile!’ or ‘antique grandfather clock – handle with care!’ on them. Instead of the usual sitting room/kitchen/bedroom destinations, they have instructions to ‘place in the Orangery’ or ‘put in wine cellar’. I feel sorry for the boxes, they must feel they have come down in the world as I cross out ‘Ming Vases to the Orangery’ and writing ‘dirty duvet and pillows – need washing before using!’ instead.

In between packing in sweltering heat while my teenagers swan in and out enjoying their summer holidays, I have been enjoying these two things that have cheered me right up. I hope you enjoy them.

Firstly, the best squirrel video I’ve ever seen – and I don’t say that lightly …

And this video I made for all those book lovers out there…

And finally – just to add some excitement, Dog managed to escape AGAIN! See my previous post about the last time this happened… Yet AGAIN I discovered through a local Facebook group that someone had spotted Dog on the roam. She had to have an op recently on some nasty lumps that had appeared. Thankfully she’s fine now, but because of the site of the wounds we had to keep her in for a while so she hasn’t been able to go on long walks.

I knew she was finding it frustrating but I didn’t realise how bad she was until I saw THIS.

Look at her! Striding about without a care in the world! Luckily she escapes so often loads of lovely locals recognised her and got in touch – oh, the embarrassment! – and I dispatched teenager (the one who was supposed to be keeping an eye on Dog) off to get her and return her safely home.

Well, I better get off and start packing the bathroom. Wish me luck and happy summer, everyone!

The perils of having a teenager with a will of iron is that Rob and I end up in ridiculous situations for which we are far too old.

The latest campaign launched by daughter was to see a band called Sir Chloe. I’d never heard of them, but that wasn’t a surprise. The only bands I know had their heyday in the 90s. The trouble was as Daughter is only 15 she not only had to show ID she had to be accompanied by an adult AT ALL TIMES. She had searched around for an adult but had been unsuccessful so eventually decided we’d have to be the chaperones.

There were a number of catches. Firstly we’d have to get up to London when all the trains were on strike. Second, the only tickets available were ‘unseated’ aka the mosh pit. Thirdly Rob and I are in our 50s. Daughter said the average age of a Sir Chloe fan was probably about 17. Great. To the youthful audience we’d look like we’d just stepped out of Cocoon. They wouldn’t get that reference as it came out 25 years before they were born.

The whole thing sounded like an absolute nightmare but Daughter wasn’t backing down. A long and intense campaign began. She sweetened the pill by promising we could go for a Chinese in China town.

Well that swung it for me – I’ve always been a sucker for a bit of lemon chicken and egg fried rice in the heart of London. To be fair it was lovely and I got some lovely photos of a sunny China Town to put on my Instagram.

Lemon Chicken, Duck and Noodles in China Town

The concert was at Heaven – a club I remembered from the 80s and 90s. Its name had a cool alternative glamour – – far too cool and glamorous for the likes of me.

Of course it still is too cool and glamorous for the likes of me but it was dark enough that Rob and I could slink about in the shadows and enjoy the music without embarrassing daughter and her friend.

I couldn’t help a rush of excitement (the bottle of wine over dinner probably helped) as we arrived at Heaven. Cool as all you like. Scary looking bouncers were at the door, neon strobes and pounding music were lighting up the darkening sky. Daughter and friend were positively vibrating with anticipation.

I asked the bouncer hopefully if he wanted to check my ID but he just laughed and shook his head – the git. To my delight the woman on the door made me hold out my hand so I could get it stamped. I can’t remember the last time I got a club name on my hand. Probably not this century.

Night Club stamp – cool. Liver spots – not so much.

The Heaven stamp on the back of my hand looked incongruous against the backdrop of my liver spots.

The warm up act were on and sounded fantastic. Daughter and mate disappeared into the crowd. ‘Don’t get kidnapped! Don’t drink anything! Don’t eat when you’re walking’ I yelled after them but they didn’t hear.

I’m not surprised they didn’t hear me. Within minutes of the headling band – Sir Chloe – coming in on Rob kept nudging me. ‘What?’ I yelled.

He pointed to his Apple Watch.

‘Warning! Noise level 100db’ it said. ‘ Just a few minutes at this level can cause temporary hearing loss. Repeated exposure to sounds at this level can cause permanent damage.’

Luckily Daughter had found some old ear plugs stuck on the bottom of her drawer – unused she said – and Rob and I had squished and squashed them deep into our lug holes so we could enjoy the music without being deafened.

But what about all these young people? I thought, and spent quite a lot of time worrying about them. They were only young! What damage were they doing to their innocent young ear drums? Were the musicians wearing ear plugs? I couldn’t see. Oh dear!

Husband and I were leaning discreetly against one of the arches where we were safe from the moshing crowd but could get a pretty good view. After a while, I became increasingly aware that the crowd of young people around us were shrinking away so that there was a clear semi-circle between us and their dancing backs. I felt like a teacher at a school disco.

The semi-circle of no man’s land between old and young members of the audience.

The only person present I felt any kinship with was the middle-aged manager who was bustling about making sure everything was running smoothly behind the scenes. She tweaked bar mats into neat lines and refilled hand sanitiser bottles, while the younger staff milled about looking like they would rather they were in the mosh pit with their brethren rather than mopping up sick and spilled beer.

Sir Chloe were great. I’d never heard them before but it was wonderful to see a live band having a good time with a strong set of high-powered (and short) songs that the crowd loved.

Sir Chloe with supercool lead singer Dana Foote

The songs were called things like ‘Leash’, ‘Salivate’ ‘Animal’ and ‘I am the Dog.’ I couldn’t really hear the lyrics but that was probably just as well as I think they were pretty dark.

The lead singer, Dana Foote was super cool. Laconic androgynous, the crowd going wild whenever she spoke didn’t faze her. She wore a black dinner jacket suit with a big collared white shirt and a jaw length curly black bob. Pale face, black eyes and her big white rock and roll guitar was strapped to her like a shield.

 When talking to the crowd her voice was quiet and without inflection. But when the music began she roared and taunted with so much passion and energy I understood why all the young people were going bananas.

Thanks to the wax plugs my ear drums didn’t start bleeding, but it was clearly very loud as I could feel the bass and drums vibrating my sternum so hard I thought my rib cage would start juddering out from under my skin.

Just outside the main room, through the arches, was a big empty space where the bars were, and there I saw two girls with gloriously crazy hair and kooky outfits dancing to the music with wild joy and abandon – all by themselves. They swung each other round up and down before streaming past us and diving back into the heaving crowd.

There is no WiFi in Heaven and not even a single bar of 3g. Luckily I could still open my Kindle app, so when my back and feet began to ache I could go and sit in the corner and catch up on the latest Clare Mackintosh. (Her latest is really good, by the way)

Eventually the concert ended. Daughter and friend staggered out from the mosh pit bright pink and hoarse from scream-singing. They were incoherent with excitement and took about a billion selfies of themselves with the backdrop of the stage, the mosh pit area, the bathrooms and bars before they reluctantly agreed we could get going.

We stopped off for some Korean corn dogs on the way home as well as some bilog stuffed with ube icecream. Food I’d never eaten in my life until that moment. It was delicious.

Rob and I felt like country bumpkins as we blinked at the glory of the London skyline. The Shard, St Paul’s, the London Eye all lit up and showing off. It was a wonderful sight.

I still prefer trees and the sleepy Kentish countryside, but it was nice to go up town for a change. I couldn’t cope with all the people, noise and traffic for long but there’s no buzz like the buzz of London on a Saturday night. Maybe we’ll try it again one day. But I’ll be sure to wear trainers next time – my feet are still killing me.

I don’t know why I haven’t really thought about this before. Perhaps it’s a symptom of getting older, but when did the world change to become a much more greedy and intolerant place? Especially to the older generation.

I’ll give you an example. When I was young – which was a while ago now – you’d go to a car park and get a ticket that you stuck in your window. In those days they were transferable. So if you bought three hours’ worth and you ended up only parking for half an hour you would REGULALRY hand it to someone just coming in saying ‘is this any good to you? It’s got two and a half hours left on it.’

I used to LOVE this. It was just so nice. The parking space was already paid for, you didn’t need it any more – why not hand it over to some passing stranger who then got a free parking space?

Well no. We can’t have that. Good grief, two or more cars using the same space for a length of time only paying once? Oh no, dear me no. Let’s make people have to put their car’s reg into the machine so we can charge as much as possible for the same parking space

This change made me sad. It took away a chance for someone to be kind to a stranger.

Now, of course, it seems car parks are becoming increasingly discriminatory. My parents are getting a bit older and I spend time with my mother-in-law who doesn’t have a smart phone, credit card or the internet I can see how the world has made life so much more difficult for people like her. Many car parks nowadays won’t accept cash. So my mother-in-law can’t park there. She hasn’t got a smart phone or card. She prefers dealing in cash. Nothing wrong with that surely?

Last week I was horrified to see how much elderly relatives were paying for their water bills. Over FIVE HUNDRED POUNDS a year because they weren’t on a meter. I’ve got two teenagers showering a million times a day and our bill is about 180 quid. My relatives had had no idea they could get a meter and also had no idea that if they were on a state pension they would qualify for a discount of FIFTY PERCENT on their bill.

They don’t have the internet. They don’t have email. They find it impossible to ring customer service when their landline phone is in the hall – where it’s cold as they’ve turned the heating off to keep the bills low – because they can’t see well enough to push the buttons when they hear ‘press one for billing’. Or they get in a flap because they can’t remember the options and can’t press the numbers quickly enough.

I spent an hour or two on my phone doing some research for them. I discovered that with a meter and living on their own, they could bring down their bill to around £180. With the watersave discount (as they were just on a normal state pension) it brought it down to £90 a year. NINETY POUNDS A YEAR, instead of FIVE HUNDRED AND FIFTY.

Now I’m no technological genius but I found out the information fairly easily – but for them, finding this stuff out was impossible.

Now here comes the problem. Every company in the world wants you to use the internet to contact them. Well, my elderly relatives don’t have the internet. That’s their decision and their right and they shouldn’t have to be forced into getting internet if they don’t want it.

However, what it means is all they can do is phone customer services. (They don’t have whats app either)  As they found the thought of this rather anxiety inducing, I offered to do it for them.

This is what happened.

I called the water company. I pressed the numbers to get to the right department. After ten minutes I got to the point where I could enter the account number and date of birth. Great, I thought – nearly there. The minute I typed in 11/1/1926 the phone hung up.

My elderly relative immediately threw his hands into the air and said, ‘Oh give up, it’s not worth it.’

I was getting quite cross by this time and said – ‘No I’m not giving up – I’m going to keep trying.’

Now I was on the sofa on my smart phone with a cup of tea at my elbow. I was happy to wait. I was going to bloody sort this if it killed me. And I was comfortable. My relative, as I said, would have been standing in the hall, freezing cold, with arthritic hands and a dodgy knee. Ten minutes being on hold would have been too much for him.

So I phoned again. It took TWENTY minutes of being on hold before I got through to a human being. There is absolutely no way he would have had the patience or stamina to wait this long.

The good news is that once I got through to the water company they were delightful. They told me about all the benefits available including priority service – so that if the water went down he would be one of the first in line to get bottled water and so on – also that he could have a password on his account so that if anyone saying they were from the water board came down they would need to give a password. Brilliant. I also managed to get the meter appointment made and the low-income discount applied.

This took, in total TWO HOURS on the phone.

And don’t get me started on banks. I understand – everyone is using online banking – I do it myself. But my elderly relatives want to go to a bank and speak to a person. They don’t hear well on the phone – and also they don’t want to stand in the cold in the front hall with a gammy leg for half an hour. But the banks are closing their branches. It’s not economical. I understand that. But these elderly customers have been with your company for their whole working life. Don’t abandon them now.

Now don’t get me wrong – I know there are absolute scores of people in their 70s and beyond who are tech savvy, physically in great shape, and have no problem using the internet and phone. But there are many who aren’t, and I worry about how they cope. How many of them have massive bills because they don’t know about discounts available to them? How do they find out if they don’t have the internet?

I don’t know what the answer is. ‘Don’t get old,’ my gran said to me when I was in my 20s, and now I’m in my 50’s I know what she meant! But, it we are very lucky – we’ll all get old and won’t understand the latest technology. ‘I don’t want to have a chip in my head, son! I’ll just use my banking app like I always did,’ I imagine myself saying.

We want to be an inclusive and diverse society. We have made huge strides in challenging racism, sexism, homophobia and the like. But what about the elderly population? Are we making sure they are included? Shouldn’t they be able to park to go and see a show? Get some money from a bank? Know about how they can get help to afford their bills?

I don’t know what the answer is – but it made me very angry seeing the bewilderment and frustration elderly relatives go through. Thank you for reading my rant and let’s hope companies will listen do something to ensure their older customers are heard and supported as much as anyone else.