I'm sure most of us need and crave our personal space. To me, some time alone is as important as precious time spent with family and friends. I'm certainly not a loner, but since retiring I've realised just how much I appreciate a little time all to myself, preferably in my own surroundings. Sadly, it's a rare occasion I ever get any. Mental claustraphobia is as bad as the physical equivalent.

I may have mentioned a few (hundred) times before my hubby is not an outgoing, social animal and prefers his armchair and television to people outside of the family circle. Since we gave up work at the same time it has become a problem of ever-increasing proportions for me. He cannot understand my need to be alone and refuses to make any effort to improve the situation. Sometimes the thought I'll never spend one evening alone in my home for the rest of my days sends me into panic mode. But you know me, never one to complain.

The only respite I ever get are his intermittent rounds of golf, but as they start in the early hours of the morning and I don't, it's not the best of solutions. Besides, as winter approaches, many games are cancelled due to inclement weather. Being a fair weather golfer in England means a lot of cancellations.

No, my only escape is to go out. I take a lot of walks, visit my dad, go to the local shops and meet with friends and much as it's not ideal, it's the best on offer. Wednesday is my favourite day, when I board a train with friends for a whole day and evening in the city of Nottingham. We shop and drop, have lots of laughs then finish off with a pub meal and vino. I look forward to it.

This week the city seemed incredibly crowded and very much unlike the way we expect it to be. There were queues outside the doors of one shop holding a Penny Bazaar and bodies battling at the counter of another offering a ten per cent discount. On arrival at the town centre Market Square we were confronted by knee deep crowds awaiting the official switching on of the Humbug lights.

Turkeys, puddings, elves, crackers and fairies batted around on skateboards while Santas Ho Ho Ho'd in every shop doorway. Vulgar coloured lights assaulted our eyeballs from all angles and the scent of mulled wine and cinnamon filled the air. Carols in the right ear; Humbug Hip Hop in the left. It was all we could do to fight our way through the crowds to slump down in our favourite pub and have a good grump.

What are we coming to? It's the middle of November for God's sake. Five more weeks of this and I really may be tempted to leave the planet, if I could find a way. I know about being stuck between a rock and a hard place, trapped between the devil and the deep blue sea, but it seems I'm sandwiched between Hubby and Humbug. Something I really don't relish. Want fries with that?
 

My sister stayed over this weekend which led to two very late nights and feeling ropey. Last night I was determined to get to bed earlier, so quickly caught up with mail and WDC, then made a warm drink and signed out of everything. My last port of call most evenings is Facebook; I try not to spend too much time on the site and don't consider the activities on there my top priority. I like the idea of leaving simple messages for people, but am getting a little bogged down with everything else. I hadn't signed into Facebook for three nights, but was staggered when I did to find almost 100 requests for various things.

I'm someone who doesn't like to click on Ignore buttons or hurt anyone's feelings, but I found myself clicking on gifts for so many different activities and returning so many hearts, smiles, hugs, farkle chips and such I ended up staying up later than intended just to clear the backlog. So, for anyone here who uses Facebook and the applications involved, can I just make a request please. For the sake of my sleep, clicking finger, time and (in) sanity could you please only send the very occasional gift or request.

I appreciate friendship very much, but just don't have the time or energy to run virtual farms, zoos, cafes, towns or play never-ending games. I think Facebook has far too many activities going on now, most are counter-productive and I also am wary of the rumours of hackers on the site attempting to steal identities. So, please help me limit the time I spend on there and I will respect your wishes too. I realise it's my choice and I could simply not bother using Facebook, but would feel guilty if I thought you considered I was ignoring you. Even computers mess with our heads.

It was back to the humdrum today with sis back home , so of course the supermarket was first port of call. It's starting to get busier every week now, more frantic as those who can't wait start stocking up as if there's no tomorrow. The glittery, sparkly, tinselly aisles are expanding and it grows ever more difficult to ignore the Humbug hype. Every year sees the introduction of more and more frivolous, ridiculous, over-priced and unnecessary items for the great day. But this morning I noticed something that took the biscuit. Literally in a way.

Advent calendars for dogs and cats. Now, no one loves animals more than me and I believe their intelligence is much undervalued. But I have yet to meet a canine or feline who can quote the story of the Nativity, makes a list for Santa or gets excited at counting down the days before it can open its presents. I'm glad I have no pets any longer, although I do feed the birds every day. Maybe I need to produce advent calendars for starlings, sparrows, wood pigeons and robins. Then there's the squirrel, the fieldmouse and stoat who sometimes visit my garden. What about the worms I rescue? Do they all need one too?

So you can see how busy I might be, without the added pressures of Facebook. I guess some of you will conclude I'm just a grumpy old woman and you're probably quite correct. Bah Humbug. My first of the season might as well get earlier each year along with everything else.
 

Hot on the heels of the revelation that carrots are posing topless in local supermarkets, I've had a few surprises today. Well, surprises in my little life may not measure up to the standards of others, but overall it's been a better day than anticipated.

First of all when I crawled out of bed this morning and signed into WDC I was delighted to receive a site burpday greeting for EIGHT years of service. Where the hell did all that time go? But you know, it reminded me I still love this site for its personal touches and the comments on my last mad blog confirmed people here get me on the whole. Not so much in other places but hey ho, that's life. Maybe like mould I take time to grow on people.

Then off we went to the supermarket. The eleventh commandment - thou shalt shop on Mondays goes back even further than my WDC membership. I carefully perused all the carrots, but am relieved to report I did not come across one with no top. There were peeled ones, scrubbed ones, ones with headgear on and innocent baby ones, but thankfully not a topless one in sight. My sister obviously shops at far sleazier supermarkets than I.

It was in the supermarket I discovered Robbie Williams latest album, released today at a snip of a price. I came away clutching my hero's latest batch of songs and know it will be played continuously until I know every word. I just love the song about to be released as his latest single, but when I saw the associated video, I just about bust a gut. (My first attempt at embedding a YouTube clip - bear with me) If you have time to see it through you'll realise how much he and I have in common. Singing vegetables and carrots rule the day.

But alas, it seems he has found himself an ideal partner. Still, it saves me the trouble of time travel, facelifts, liposuction, upsetting hubby and giving up my exciting adventures at the supermarket involving carrots. Oh well, maybe next life Robbie, carrots and I will live a life of perfect bliss.

Sis and I generally have a chat on the computer on Saturday nights. Last night we’d discussed the latest departure from Strictly Come Dancing and dissected the performances on the X Factor, then concluded we were sad sods for having nothing to type about but what we’ve watched on television. I suggested we change the subject, but having little to report sis concluded we should discuss the price of carrots.

I’ve been neglecting to check up lately , but told her I would study them carefully at the supermarket on Monday. She then informed me lately she’s noticed full carrots are generally more expensive than those without tops .

Now erotic vegetables are one thing, but topless carrots exposing themselves in shops is quite another. I suggested to her we should maybe report this to the Naughty Vegetable Society. She agreed possibly it would be an idea to whisper quietly in a few cauliflower ears and I said I would perhaps leek the information to the appropriate body. We concluded we could pass a few tips to a european asparagus group, but thought it better to keep it out of the hands of the swedes.

Moving on, I enquired what she was doing to marrow and she replied she wasn’t sure courgette. I told her we’d probably turn ip at our son’s place and they’d be welcome to join us, but as she pointed out there wouldn’t be mush room for everyone.

It was then hubby noisily blew his nose and I told her he’d almost given me a celeriac while clearing his broccolis. She warned me if he keeps blowing it that hard he could avocado arrest, but as I stated only in my aubergines. Left only with the weather to discuss we concluded it had been rather chilli but peppered with some sunny intervals. By this time I thought I might artichoke and she decided she needed a pea.

It had bean an interesting chat but we decided it was thyme to go to our seed beds and sleep, if our brains would lettuce. Mine was pickled, hers was mashed and we didn’t want to end up in a stew.

So another intellectual evening bit the dust, but I’ll certainly be on the lookout for those topless carrots tomorrow. Don’t you wish your life was as exciting as mine?


 

I've not felt much like writing recently and indeed have little to write about. But I'm wondering if my head has some sort of word storage compartment in it and left unemptied, it just gets more and more cramped and confused in there. Like a water tank, left unused it seems to fill up to the brim then rapidly overflow. And just like a water tank it chooses the most inconvenient times to spill over.

I was out all day yesterday, tired and a little overwrought by late evening and perfectly aware I needed a good night's sleep. I tried tossing and turning for around half an hour next to the fifty-six piece brass band in the other half of the bed, but all to no avail. Reluctantly I moved to the spare bedroom.

My neck was aching, my heart rate too rapid, but I attempted to relax. I became aware my brain was thinking about my Mum, as it does at least once an hour, but I didn't want to become upset, so tried to empty my thoughts. That's when the songs kicked in but this time, nothing from the charts or my favourites. Having looked after the grandmonsters all last weekend renditions of 'If you're happy and you know it,' 'Heads, shoulders, knees and toes,' and 'Daddy's taking us to the zoo tomorrow,' rattled round my bonce.

I turned over, tried again then realised my thoughts had wandered to my son and his family and I relived the whole bizarre event all over again. Concerns will never completely disappear but I can't allow it to eat away at me. I visited the loo, climbed back in bed and tried once more.

Minutes or even hours passed. I became conscious I'd been thinking about all my family and friends from the past, boyfriends I did and didn't make a mistake with, wondering what they're all doing now and pondering why some are no longer on the mortal coil. Then I started wondering why I still am, how long I have left, what it's all about Alfie and why the hell I couldn't sleep.

Next, I was back at work, thinking about days in the classroom, people I worked with, kids I taught, some no longer here and the traumas leading up to my leaving. Problems since retiring buzzed through my brain at a rapid rate of knots and I realised sleep was not an option, no matter how tired I felt.

I got up, made a warm drink and finished reading a book. Rather an unsatisfactory ending, but then much in life is n'est pas? I started reading a new novel, then realised if I went back to bed with two novel plots bombarding my weary brain cell I'd probably never sleep. The brass bands had started a new concerto at an even higher level of volume, so I crawled back into my single bed and suddenly felt so alone.

Over the next hour or so I think I mentally relived my whole life. The highs, but mostly the lows. The good times, but mostly the bad. The successes, but mostly the failures. The choices, but mostly the regrets. It's a good job it's not been a really eventful life or I'd probably still be there now. I hate my negativity but don't seem to have any control over what thoughts invade my weary head in the wee small hours. Maybe it's just S.A.D. Been there before and with luck will be again.

Strangely enough I didn't feel too bad this morning and have been more energetic today than of late. But I am really tired again now, so maybe now I've emptied the word tank a little I'll be able to sleep better tonight. If I could channel all the jumbled, chaotic and confusing words that invade my head in the sleepless hours I'd manage a NaNo every month of the year. But maybe it's a good job I can't as they'd make crap novels.




 

I'm out of sorts lately. Having trouble sleeping, waking, writing, thinking or even functioning on some levels. I'm not sure what the cause is.

My friend Jane thinks I may have swine flu. This is due to the fact I have rashe(r)s, a stye and a pot belly. I must admit it made me snort when she offered her diagnosis on our way to market for some oinkment. We'd pigged out earlier on food and wine so had to dash back to her place for a wee wee wee.

It could be the time of year. Our clocks went back an hour last weekend and it's dark at five now. Soon it will be four and with the grey skies and gloomy weather there's little daylight to be had. Add to that the hype of Halloween, Fireworks and the Humbug madness already manifesting itself and I feel the urge to hibernate until spring.

It might be the aftermath of the drama of my Dad's last stay in hospital. He's back at home with his beer, television and servants at his beck and call, but my last nerve is still raw. Every time the phone rings or I hear a siren I have to be scraped off the ceiling.

Perhaps my age and bad habits are finally catching up with me. Do I have to start wearing pleated skirts, cardigans and brogues? Has the time come for a perm or a blue rinse? Should I start going to bingo and flower arranging classes? Or do I need to sign up to therapy groups to overcome my addictions or possibly join a convent? At least it would be peaceful there.

Maybe I'm short of other things as well as time, money, common sense and excitement. Vitamins and minerals perhaps. Not enough water, exercise, quality sleep or stimulating company. I can't remember the last time I had a really good day out. Well, actually I can but it seems ages ago.

But you know me, never one to complain. I shall endeavour to get my act together, sort myself out and make some new November resolutions.

I dusted off the Wii the other day and timidly stepped on it. It yelled 'Who the hell are you and who have you brought with you?' So it's back on the diet, low booze, more exercise, earlier nights and positive thinking bandwagon.

But, hey it's not November yet. I may change my mind tomorrow and just fly off somewhere on my broomstick.
 

My son and family visited us last weekend and talk turned towards Mey Ling's latest achievements.

First of all she's been assessed for driving and has had her first session in a specially designed automatic car adapted for the disabled. Apparently she did very well and has been told she's a natural. This doesn't surprise me too much as she's confident, bright and keen to learn. However, I think the two weeks she's predicted it will take her to pass her driving test is a little on the optimistic side. Whether she has the staying power or temperament to stick with it remains to be seen.

In the meantime Dylan now has shoes for walking. He keeps sitting down and staring at them as if he's grown some new blue appendages.

Mey Ling is also attending college and taking courses in basic English and Maths. She's already taken a couple of the teachers on one side and pointed out the errors in their teaching methods. She's not overly-thrilled with the classes as most of her fellow students are from Pakistan and other parts of Asia that are not Cambodia.

Without wishing to sound racist I cracked up when she told me many of them don't like England and are always complaining about things here.

'I tell them,' she informed me. 'You no like England, you go back to your own bloody country.'

Sometimes, you gotta love her.
 

Before we set off on our trip to the U.S.A. last May, it seemed sensible to cancel my gym membership. No point paying fees when you're not going to be in the country for weeks on end. The plan was to find a new gym with better facilities on return and get back on the treadmill of exercise routine.

But we all know what happens to plans don't we? I can't remember all the reasons, or maybe excuses, but it still hasn't happened. We did check out a very modern and conveniently located club with a great swimming pool, but viewing was as far as we got.

There's been Wimbledon, birthday outings, holidays, appointments and of course my Dad and his many falls and recent hospitalisation. To be honest, over the last month or so I've felt so exhausted by it all, it takes me all my energy to cope day by day, never mind fit in visits to a gym. But you know me - never one to complain.

So instead of getting fitter, I fear I'm getting fatter and my activity level at the end of the day is about half the level of a couch potato. But I really do miss my swimming and would like to think life may settle down to some sort of manageable chaotic level to allow me a couple of sessions a week at the gym.

Tuesday morning began with a visit from the Physiotherapist at my Dad's house. She asked him many questions, several times due to his refusal to wear his hearing aid and was quite hoarse at the end of the session. She brought along a booklet of around a dozen exercises for the elderly to do at home to build up strength and hopefully avoid more falls. After she'd worked through them with him, she packed her case and headed for the door.

'He needs to do the exercises three or four times a week for them to be beneficial,' she explained to me. 'I know you're probably busy, but if you could supervise him it would really help.'

Fine. I can do that between shopping, cleaning two homes, laundry, babysitting, cooking, arranging appointments, dealing with his bills and finances, sorting out his medication, organising repairs and gardening. In fact if you stick a brush up my backside, I'll sweep the floor while I'm at it.

Over the last few years I have seen professionals from more departments than I can remember. Doctors, nurses, health visitors, specialists, social workers, occupational therapists, care workers, geriatric helpers, financial advisors and physiotherapists to name but a few. But they all seem to have one thing in common.

They get paid for filling in a few forms, ticking some boxes, handing out leaflets and offering verbal advice. Then they go away. leaving me to do their work, single handed and free of charge.

So, now it seems I may not have time to spare to join a gym, but I can get involved in supervising three or four geriatric exercise sessions a week. Better get some practice in.

Up...Down...Up...Down...Now the other eyelid.
 

One thing I always purchase when my sister stays over is a jar of olives. I can’t stand the things, but she’ll eat them anywhere, anytime, in any number. We generally put together a few night time nibbles, including the olives and other pickles.

On Wednesday around midnight, after hubby had decided to go to bed; I prepared the plates and dishes of snacks. I sieved the onions and gherkins, removed them from their respective jars and put them in the appropriate compartmentalised dish. Unfortunately, as I was sieving the olives, the jar caught the side of the sink and shattered. I cleared up all the visible glass, but in order to ensure there was none inside the now jagged–edged olive jar, I emptied them out, rinsed them several times, and then put half in the pickle dish and the rest back in the empty gherkin jar, carefully disposing of the broken olive container.

Next morning, sis got up before me and was given the third degree by hubby. Apparently, the sight of the remaining olives in a gherkin jar had totally bewildered him and his highly-tuned detective skills went into overdrive. Where had I got the olives from? Why hadn’t I used the already open jar of olives in the fridge? What had happened to the olive jar? Why was there half a container of olives in a gherkin jar? He was obviously baffled by this very serious and life-altering occurrence. Sis told him she wasn’t sure, but vaguely remembered me breaking a jar. She also had to hide the smirk threatening to attach itself to her face at the thought of her own husband even noticing a six-foot olive tree appearing in the kitchen, let alone a few stray olives in an alien jar.

When I got up and hubby thought it safe enough to discuss the issue, the interrogation continued.

‘Why didn’t you use the olives already in the fridge?’

‘Well, frankly my dear, I’m not telepathic and didn’t think to look in there as it’s not very often we keep olives. Anyway, I wouldn’t have known how long they’d been in the fridge and wouldn’t want to give my sis past-their-sell-by-date olives.’ A fair explanation wouldn’t you think?

‘Then where did you get the olives from?’

‘Well, much as I’d liked to have nipped over to Greece and picked fresh ones, they actually came out of a jar in the cupboard.’

‘But, I didn’t know there were any in the cupboard. Where did they come from?’

‘’Well, unless it’s a trick question, I’d very much suspect the supermarket.’

‘When did we buy those then?’

‘Believe it or not, I haven’t kept a record of our olive-purchasing habits, but possibly you forgot we had them. It has been known for things to slip your memory when you get over-excited about a bargain on the shelves. Hence the ten cans of baked beans cluttering up the shelf.’

‘So what happened to the jar?’

‘I accidentally broke it in the sink. Don’t worry, I’ve cleared up all the glass, recited my five Hail Mary’s asking for forgiveness and not one olive was harmed in the process.’

‘But why are they in a gherkin jar?’

‘Given the choice of binning them, eating them, putting them in a casserole or safely in a different jar, I chose the latter. Is there a problem with that?’

Hubby gives me a funny look, humphs and shakes his puzzled head. Later in the afternoon, sis and I are quite staggered when he remarks:-

'I still don't understand about those olives in the gherkin jar.'

Virtually the same question and answer session ensues. Whether there’s a hidden agenda behind his line of inquiry or if he maybe suspects some hunky Greek God delivered the olives and more to us after midnight on that sinful night I’m not sure. We should be so lucky.

On Thursday around midnight, after hubby had decided to go to bed; I prepared the plates and dishes of snacks yet again. I emptied all the remaining olives out of the jar in the fridge and from the gherkin jar into the pickle dish and sis scoffed the lot. Much later, feeling a little inebriated and daring, we spied the now empty olive jar. We filled it with the remaining onions and gherkins and then for good measure we popped in a couple of raspberries from the fruit carton in the fridge, screwed on the lid and left it out on the kitchen surface. If Sherlock needed another mystery to solve, then we were quite happy to provide one.

I’m still awaiting the court case, verdict and sentence.

 

I made a terrible mistake last night. Knowing I needed to be up at some unearthly time today in order to meet my sister in Nottingham, I set my cell phone alarm. I put it on the opposite side of the bedroom to ensure I actually forced myself out of bed and vertical, so resisting the temptation to drift back to sleep.

It wasn't until I came downstairs, made a cup of tea and sat at the computer I realised my phone is still set to Greek time and it was actually two hours earlier than I thought.

Still, it gave me a couple of extra hours to faff around on here and now I'm still going to end up dashing about like a blue-arsed fly in order to be ready in time. So, better buzz off and hope the trains are all on time.

I have a feeling tomorrow morning might not see such an early rise or will it be a case of still being up putting the world to rights? Sleep is such a damned waste of time.