One of the joys of being a writer in my mid-60s is editing out of my life all the things I really don’t want to do, don’t have time to do, or that other people mistakenly think I ought to do. Take running, for instance. I don’t run. I won’t run. I utterly refuse to run…
So it’s Autumn, season of mists and something somethings, as the poet says. (No, he doesn’t but that’s the best I can do).
It is therefore time for this creaky post 60 writer to think about drawing up my list of new year resolutions.
I clearly remember the day the job started. It was summer. Bright sunshine pouring through the open window of my daughter’s London flat. We were visiting for Sunday lunch and making small talk with her lovely husband while she put the finishing touches to the meal.
A couple of years ago I started minding my one-year-old granddaughter for two days a week when my daughter returned to work after her maternity leave ended. If you didn’t know, you can catch up with one of the weekly blog posts I wrote here.
The older I get, the more I am reduced to gibbering incandescence by all the red-tapery that loops round every aspect of modern day life. You too? Thought so.
I am a great fan of the internet in all its many forms, aren’t you? I love Twitter for the chat and the arguments. I enjoy fashion and makeup selfies from people who look to be just out of their rompers. I am fascinated by all those life affirming mission statements.
So, I’m busy deleting all those Facebook sidebar adverts for funeral plans, lawyers who will arrange Power of Attorney and annuity providers when it suddenly hits me: who the cotton-picking heck do these people think I am? Closely followed by: who do I think I am?
Who was it that said they wished they could get to the top of the stairs before they forgot why they wanted to go up there the first place? No, I don’t remember either, but the first three words of that sentence are kind of becoming the leitmotif for my life.