Stay well – friendship and summer holidays

This is a piece which I have deleted twice. Don’t know how but it’s a senior moment. Two senior moments. If I lose this I shall feel a right twerp.

Very interesting articles recently in the Times (July 25th). Ysenda Maxtone Graham (Lazy days with nothing in the diary) and Sheridan Voysey (Friendship). Arguably the same thing, certainly lots of overlap.

One of the things that has got people thinking during the pandemic is just how we spend our time. Talk of learning a language, doing a Phd, writing a novel. Then, for those with family, especially up against it in the towns and cities, the amount of time spent keeping children occupied. Another connected thought comes from how we spent our summer holidays back in the 1950s. We entertained ourselves and didn’t  cost anything. Indeed back then rationing and austerity were still around. Being careful and thoughtful with money was a virtue, particularly when food and eating were involved. Somewhat different to buying loads at the supermarket at the start of the pandemic.

These reflections resonate with today’s 60 and 70 somethings. My mum worked and granny supervised. I was out roaming the spaces near where we lived. Freedom. Waste ground next to the railway and an abandoned quarry were parts of our territory, so free and risky as well. And then there were hills, hedgerows, fields and streams. ‘Our territory’ meant we had a gang. 10 year olds. Wandered and played football and cricket together until we went our separate ways after the eleven plus. This was the time before housing estates, before traffic jams and paedophiles, before the attraction of youth clubs and girls. Before ipads.

Did we go away on holiday? The family had a week on the east coast. Went on a Hanson’s bus and stopped half way for refreshments. One large battered suitcase which took all Friday night to pack. A caravan or a chalet. Teenagers didn’t with parents. Camping and walking as part of school or youth club parties. Butlins and the Norfolk Broads for others. Even went abroad – Yugoslavia and Austria. Long tiring trips on trains. We were part of another gang.

Our holidays since have been more frequent and shorter. Regular visitors to Gower, Cornwall, the Lakes, Ireland, Northumbria and an assortment of canals. Yes and abroad – Brittany, Italy, Spain. With friends and now more with family. Friends from sport and work with whom touch is lost when moving about.

We have never been regular restaurant visitors. A legacy from the 1950s? Value for money surely comes into it. Even if food is good I fail to see why I should spend ninety odd quid on two meals. Similarly I baulk at a pub meal  advertising a pie which is clearly stew with a crusty hat. The finer points of cuisine, red wine and classical music have passed me by .

So, lots of references to pals and friends. Last Thursday was National Friendship Day. People with whom you share interests and values. Some are listeners. Others tell you how their day was. Consoling. People to check out your thoughts and feelings with and not simply rely on Radio4 and the Times newspaper. The childbride is never off the phone. I’m never on it.

I do have friends. Pete and I played junior rugby league for Dalton St Pauls in Huddersfield. I went off to seek fame and fortune. Pete stayed in the local business world, finishing in the publishing section of the Examiner – and a revealing scepticism about the press. When the family moved back to the W Riding, I tried to play squash at Honley. Met Pete again (and Geoff) and so began a saga of walking in the Dales. We also share mid life stories of health and retirement. I saved Geoff’s bacon in Hawes with a Mrs Doubtfire skill.

Big Dave and I played veterans and blind pimply faced youth rugby in N Yorkshire. A Barnsley lad, he went down the pit, then a musician in the army and eventually a BT lineman in the dales. Over 20 stone and shinning up telegraph poles – phew. We share a love of high lonely places and spent time walking, camping and caravanning in Scotland and N Yorkshire. I am not aware he had a mid life thing, but he was certainly there for me.

Then there’s Eric. Psychiatrist and serious. Walking again: White Peak, Coast-to-Coast and Hadrian’s Wall. He’s move near Portsmouth. A good pal.

Others along the way – Liverpool, Cardiff, Saddleworth, N Yorkshire – colleagues, cricket and a rugby. More recently the old farts from the residue of Almondbury Casuals CC, stiff pilates mates, out of tune New Mill Male choristers.

My bestest pal is my childbride. Rubbing along all these years. What does she see?

So 1950s brought-up-to-date summer holidays and friendship. We remain fairly close to those early beliefs and values. I now vote for the economy and a occasionally wear a waistcoat with pocket watch. Bigger houses. Keen on self-reliance – 1950s plus parental expectations and being from Yorkshire. Some difficulty taking advice maybe. Our friends accept who we are.

……………………………………………………………………………….

Let Me Die a Young Man’s Death?

Trying to keep the above piece safe I came across something from 1997 I think. About old age. Before adopting one space after commas and full stops. And getting it’s right.

‘Old age has a great sense of calm and freedom. When the passions have relaxed their hold you have escaped, not from one master, but from many.’ (Plato:  The Republic)

I’m not sure where the phrase ageing gracefully comes from, but Plato’s quotation is one among several suggesting that aging might have its benefits. There are others, with Lear leading the way, which support the opposite view. 

‘You see me here, you gods, a poor old man, As full of grief as age; wretched in both:’ (Shakespeare: King Lear)

My problem is I just get more puzzled. Each room in our house has a television – why? I can spend up to two hours in a car and go nowhere – pointless. An old lady gets mugged for pence – an outrage. Events I don’t understand are happening everyday: locally, nationally and internationally.  The Twin Towers atrocity beggars belief. What is going on?  I don’t know, so sod aging gracefully, I’m aging angrily.

I enrolled at the local university yesterday. It’s freshers week. I’m a second year trying to complete the first year – a slow old hand with a swagger. I cycled in – we smugly only own the one car which the childbride uses for work.  Student  registration is all done on computer. It doesn’t recognise my number or password so I fill in a form. Takes me thirty seconds.  I cycle home.

Its my second spell at college. The first was thirty years ago, and today I’m trying to book bed and breakfast so we can go to the reunion. The local tourist board have put me on hold, all their operators are busy. The hold tells me it values my custom. After five minutes the hold asks me to leave a message, “We’ll call you back”. I’m still waiting.

We might have booked earlier, but the phone’s been off for a week. No one rang, I was in heaven. I’ve heard it said that some people carry a phone around with them all the time. Fancy that.

So I’m a crosspatch. And, when something daft happens, I’m cross twice-over because I accept that’s the way things are. What kind of attitude is that? In the sixties, when we first went away to college, Roger McGough was one of the local poets. He’s done well. ‘The Way Things Are’ and ‘Let Me Die a Young Man’s Death’ neatly capture learning to accept on the one hand, and challenging the ‘norm’ on the other. A father’s advice, to soften a child’s growing sense of disappointment, and an enraged geriatric.

‘Do not become a prison-officer unless you know what you’re letting someone else in for. The thrill of being a shower curtain will soon pall. No trusting hand awaits a falling star,

I am your father, and I am sorry, but this is the way things are.’ (Extract from ‘The Way Things Are’ McGough) 

They say more of us are going to live longer and still be fit. More and more ‘greys’ remaining healthy enough to be angry. Angry health. Is that an oxymoron? My inherited 1901 Chambers’s Twentieth Century Dictionary (strange place for the apostrophe) defines oxymoron as,

‘n. a figure of speech, by means of which contradictory terms are combined, so as to form an expressive phrase or epithet, as cruel kindness, falsley true, &c.  [Gr. neut. of oxymoros, lit. pointedly foolish-oxys, sharp, moros, foolish.]’

‘Or when I’m 104 and banned from the Cavern, may my mistress, catching me in bed with her daughter and fearing for her son, cut me up into little pieces and throw away every piece but one.

Let me die a young man’s death, not a free from sin tiptoe in candle wax and waning death

not a curtains drawn by angels borne ‘what a nice way to go’ death’. (Extract from ‘Let Me Die a Young Man’s Death’ McGough)

Yes, the world and my life are often contradictory and foolish. 

And nothing dele

Reflections on blogging

daw for blogBeginnings

When I started, there were ideas of the pitfalls and joys and humour of being an older person. I was especially keen to promote exercise and laid out the NICE guidelines. Also keeping mentally alert and active and using older role models as inspiration.

The dark side

This followed a long period of reflection on where my strengths and weaknesses came from and what I might do about them. I have insight enough to realise I live with them and just get on with it. I am regularly reminded, thoughts coming to mind in the small hours of the morning and sometimes in quiet moments like reading a book. The dark times produce unpleasant memories, but I also need to celebrate. Here is a verse I wrote for ‘Don’t let the old man in.’

Many things we have done/Some good and some bad/Leave your sorrows behind/Enjoy the love that you have

 I have a vague itch somewhere that suggests I’ve said most of what what I want to say.

Lighter notes

There were lighter notes on travel, senior moments or gaffes, coffee, family matters and the garden. These were largely for my benefit and anyone who cared to read about me. There have been loyal supporters who enjoy content and style. But it was never going national.

We can continue with a diary which will always be there for the family members that come after us. The other stuff about activity in older people has been now covered. There are still gaffes and inspiring role models and maybe the occasional helpful piece of advice.

Change

So, going with the experts, a blog must evolve. Stop, start, carry on – a mantra from my management development days. Stop – there are too many subjects and labels. Content is diluted and needs more focus. Keep to single figures in the topics I cover, with clear labels as themes. I haven’t discovered a way of deleting labels/categories in shallilo-foreveryoung and the new format makes it very hard when you have already 50 or so to choose from. Moving to WordPress makes this easier. Google blogger has lost all my photos. Thankfully I have not deleted the originals.

Carry on – the basic content outlined above continues in shallilo-foreveryoung, concentrating on less than 10 topics. This will help with key words. I could not work out whether these were purely for the blog or were multiple and topic based. If it is the latter then less than 10 topics will reduce the key word work load. Good images as well.

Start – a more story-based blog with lear-youngatheart, whether it be family history, cricket or walking in the Yorkshire Dales and Scotland. I am going to pay more attention to what goes on under the hood (SEO).

  • There is not a lot of time left
  • It’s not about being in a rush
  • It’s not about being trivial

Haiku, line drawings, photographs, bite sized personal moments, short stories – sketches.

It’s still a personal blog.

 

Awaydays in Scarboro – Easing of lockdown

Walking in the spa gardens and on south cliff

Awaydays in Scarborough
The Italian Garden and spa view
Awaydays in Scarborough - the Clock Cafe (not open), the shop (open) and deserted views towards the town
Awaydays in Scarborough – the Clock Cafe (not open), the shop (open) and deserted views towards the town
Awaydays in Scarborough - the pond and frog walk in the Italian Gardens and the Rose Garden
The pond and frog walk in the Italian Gardens and the Rose Garden
Awaydays in Scarborough - South Cliff and the Red Lea hotel
South Cliff and the Red Lea hotel – small insect with purple wings

Easing of lockdown and chance to catchup and slow down

This was our first chance to take a break. Social distancing was good. No visits to pubs or supermarkets. Nothing open down on the foreshore. To make sure all was well and tidy up any projects.

The lintel on the flat’s front windows rubbed down and painted with hammerite. It took minutes to complete, but hours to move carpets and furniture and, afterwards, to clean me up and some of my clothes. At home, our family bubble has now been meeting almost daily and we do our own shopping, so Scarborough sort of took us back into lockdown. It describes why we go – time and space. Back to normal at home – we are running out of them.

The wheel was half constructed on the site of the Futurist Theatre. Sadly I didn’t have my camera.

Lots of talk about how the pandemic is an amplifier and accelerator. The cracks that have been around for a while have suddenly got wider. Social inequality, social care and racism are examples. Just how much will be done remains to be seen. Our very presence in Scarborough highlights the gap between the ‘haves’ and ‘have nots’. Climate change hopefully will bring forward innovation ahead of time – as long at it makes money. Reasonably-priced electric cars sooner than expected maybe. Will opening up the economy be the same for everyone?

I wonder where the second team play?

Revision – 2014 (Dyce is me, coy in the first person. Eric was a walking pal going back to 1994 when my mental health first began to deteriorate. He was also a psychiatrist). This piece could be a prologue. I can’t just see the date of the first drafts, but around 2000 and after.

A busy sunny Spring Saturday afternoon. Two men in their sixties, Dyce and Eric. A Derbyshire walk over the Great Ridge overlooking Ingleton and the Hope Valley.

  “It’s not something that happens to you,” said Dyce, “Back in the day, other people used to have nervous breakdowns. Even when there was no one else for miles, my mother would whisper with a knowing wink, ‘He had a nervous breakdown.’ We hadn’t a clue what that meant. We imagined someone drooling and saying daft stuff. Or one person one minute and another the next. A dark room in the loony bin. Dad said they were ‘mixed up’, a curious disorder that teenagers were allowed to have in the nineteen fifties and sixties, until they discovered they had to earn a living. And dad’s solution? ‘A spell in the forces would sort them out. They should never have stopped conscription.'”

  “You sound as though you know something about it,” said Eric. 

“Well every second person you meet has had some form of emotional wobble. Not a train wreck that ends up in casualty. It’s more gradual. An experience that friends and relatives have. Becoming slowly unpleasant. Until you can no longer do normal stuff. No surprise to anyone but yourself.”

  “So not at the time, later maybe?”

  “Today, it’s almost cool to be on anti-depressants, apart from the side-effects. Imagine having to disappear for a crap, at the most inconvenient times, with seconds to spare. Boy scouts learn always to carry toilet roll. Well adults do too. Out walking on the fells is a risk. Do it in summer and keep to the foothillls for a while, home to safely luxuriant bracken. Afternoons can be awkward. Too high for bracken, you need to quickly clamber for that sheltered rocky spot. But take care to look behind or belt undone, half squatting, you could put that couple, fifty yards away, right off their afternoon tea.”

  “Needed a medication change.”

  “Or just throw the pills in the bin.”

They walked off Lose Hill and came across a wall, a stile and a junction of five lanes. Three of the names on the signpost read Hope, including the way they’d come.

  “Which way?” asked Rivers.

“No problem,” said Dyce, “It’s Hope whatever.”

  Ten minutes later, as they strolled along the riverside, listening to the bustle of Hope Show, a bloke in a flat cap and macintosh came in the opposite direction and asked a question that stopped them in their tracks, “Is this the path?” 

Dyce laughed, “Depends where you want to go,” he replied. They watched as the bloke trudged away toward five lane ends.

“He won’t get any help there,” said Eric and they both laughed, “It’s a John Bunyan moment.”

Later still they sat on the grassy bank in front of Peveril Castle. In the far distance there was a single rugby pitch. Dyce turned to Eric, “I wonder where the second team play?” Eric replied, “they probably play one after each other, you know, a double-header.” 

Dyce wanted the question to just hang there, left without an answer. He sighed, bemused, do we need to be that certain?

“It’s a story. There and back, and while you’re there. A simple three-parter. An innocent plan that turns into a tough schedule and a hasty rethink, peeping across and catching glimpses of other slower, more thoughtful trips. You finish in a strange place, ruffled and bruised.”

“You need to write it,” said Eric. 

Conscription may not have been such a bad idea, thought Dyce as he stood and walked back to the car park.

We do do illness 20.10.2018

Steve, older brother, had a brush with death a while ago and recovered (https://wp.me/P7LOzv-5K). Since then a series of illnesses. Around the time we went up to Lords in 2011 he was in and out of supraventricular tachycardia (SVT). Just the morning we were setting off he was having electroversion where the medics stop the heart and then restart it in the hope that throwing everything in the air results in important bits landing face up. Scary. Anyway he reverted to sinus rhythm on his own and we had a great 2 days in London. The beer was expensive and he is still on anticoagulants, miraculously compatible with alcohol. The things they do these days.

Then it was waterworks. He has had renal stones in the past, but this was accidents and some pain. Going a lot and needing lots of clothing support. The whole episode was coloured by delays and misinformation, depending whether anybody believes older brother anymore. At face value it was a shambles. The culmination was prostate surgery for benign hypertrophy, something we discussed right at the beginning of his symptoms. This produced the compliment that I had a reputation as a good diagnostician. I agree, simply because I always saw patients’ problems as puzzles to be solved. But it came from an unusual source. I wonder what people thought of the treatment side of things? That’s often complex however and buried in the activities of a multidisciplinary team and says nothing about my social skills.

Sadly he now has oesophageal carcinoma and is awaiting staging. We will hear about it soon.

July 2020

Update – courageous and heroic chemo at Liverpool Royal vanquishes cancer. Steve now resembles a medical text book with great outcomes.

Edward Turner

 

Hi, I’m Edward Turner, one of the newer recruits to the choir. I began as a boy soprano and joined Honley Male Voice Choir in my late teens. Sport and studying at Huddersfield Technical College unfortunately forced me to give it up.

As I have a captive audience I want to say few words to all you members and your partners. I was diagnosed with prostate cancer at the age of 55 and would like to make you all aware that it does not just happen to ‘old men’. Any symptoms, however trivial and you really must visit your gp. Early diagnosis is an important factor here and generally a simple blood test can say you definately do not have prostate cancer and even a positive does not necessarily mean that you have it.

I have been fortunate in that I have had excellent treatment both from HRI and Cookridge, though things have kicked in again and hence more treatment. Please, all you do if there is a doubt get checked out, and partners, do nag the men to seek advice.

Prostate cancer is thought by many to be easy to treat and is quite curable. Sadly, I know that is not always the case. I have recently lost my brother-in-law at a young age and he was diagnosed with the same units of cancer in his blood as me. So come on all you men and don’t let it happen to you. The prostate’s not the real problem. It’s the secondary cancer that gets you, if you leave it too late.

Gentlemen, out of nearly 50 men in our choir I am sure there must be others with the problem. Let’s be open about it and encourage as many men as possible to get an early diagnosis.

I’ve recently had to give up my sport because of aches and pains, but I still play tennis twice a week.