Very merry earwax

I'd planned to visit my parents in Cornwall earlier in December, but a cold meant I had to cancel. 

It felt wrong not to see them at Christmas.  They must be longing to see me.

But how could I leave my own home with Christmas approaching like an express train?  (Express sleigh?)  My teaching has continued late this year, and I'm a little behind.

But then, however much time and effort I put in, would I ever be ready for Christmas?  I never do get the house as smart as I would like. And there's always one last card that didn't get delivered, one last elusive gift that would have made somebody's Christmas perfect. 

So I bought a ticket for a flying visit to Truro anyway.  Then I picked up the phone - I could just imagine my parents' smiling faces.

'I'm coming! Arriving tomorrow afternoon!'

Long pause.

'Well, we already have a couple of engagements tomorrow afternoon - Mum's having a visit from the optician and I'm getting my ears de-waxed.  See you then, I suppose. Goodbye. '

As I said, it will be good to bring my parents joy at Christmas, even if not as much joy as the optician or the wax-removal lady.

I don't have any Christmas photos yet this year so thanks to Mary Bee for the above.

Shed Roof

Mum and Dad are very independent and are still doing jobs in the house and garden that I would either put off or pay somebody else to do. 

Usually, my offers of help get turned down and I feel I haven’t been terribly useful, apart from driving them on outings.

But last time, I was more insistent and instead of rejecting my offer at once, I could see Dad turning it over: “There is one thing…”

“Good,” I thought.  “Maybe a little weeding in the garden or a touch of spring cleaning in the house.”

 “…The shed needs re-roofing.”

My heart sank.

The garden shed was a large one – ten foot by five.  It was nearly as old as me (i.e. old) and was gradually attaining a rhomboidal profile as it sagged over the years (unlike me, I’d like to point out).

Was re-roofing even feasible?  In many places, the wood was rotten.  Inside lived scary, poisonous false widow spiders.

“That’s fine Dad.  How are we going to do it?”

“Like I’ve done it the last two times.”  He produced a large plastic tarpaulin and together we hauled it over the shed roof. 

He then handed me a rather small staple gun and it was my job to ping in the six million staples needed to attach the tarpaulin round the eaves. 

The staple gun jammed on every tenth shot and nipped my fingers as I fought with it.  The sun came out and made me sweat in the long-sleeved top I’d donned against the spiders.

But when I finally screwed the guttering back into place, I had a definite feeling of satisfaction – this time I really had been useful.

Generation Sandwich

Being in the Sandwich generation leads me into absurdity.

To my children, I seem “unutterably old”.

At least, that’s what Perran said when I asked if I might go with him to a Mr Scruff gig.

I try not to tell too many back-in-the-day stories as I hate to see the incredulity on their faces.

I can’t possibly have been the girl who danced in the street during a thunder storm, or who experimented with home-made fireworks and set off all those fire alarms.

Yet to my parents, I am forever young.  

When my mother leans on my arm for support, she doesn’t realise that my back hurts.  She thinks the walking stick in the boot of the car is a spare for when she forgets hers, not an aid that I use when I go walking.

But there are advantages to being in my mid-fifties.  

At my age people are reported to be at our most content.  We have achieved some of our goals and relinquished our most unrealistic ambitions.

Better enjoy the view from the top of the hill while I’m still at the summit.