You have the right to arrange your own life

Last night the clocks changed here heralding the start of The Great British Summer. I am so excited by incremental increase in temperature that I could soil myself. The joys of Spring are everywhere – once again my breasts no longer imprisoned beneath 2 inches of knitwear have made their Spring t-shirted appearance and received the ‘Glad eye’ from passing motorists. Couples young and old in love are strolling about hand in hand. The Earth is waking up and it is beautiful.

And so in tune with my celebratory and indulgent mood here are a few things I found delightful this week:

A young couple in that lusty teenage-OMG-nobody-else-has-ever-felt-like-this-before-love.

A couple of advanced years in love. I like to believe they have been married for the last 40 years and still fancy the pants off each other (although I don’t like to imagine any pant removal as such).

"“When I needed to wear glasses, I decided I’d wear glasses. All the better to see you with.”

- Iris Arpel, 90 year old New Yorker, the Grand Dame of Fashion. Her fashion style is maximalist and relies heavily on Tribal jewellery. Adding her to my gromance list.

And finally, words of wisdom in the form of ‘Sharashkas’ by Russian poet Alexander Solzhenitsyn. A fabric print of this has been hung up in my parent’s bathroom for as long as I can remember. It makes for great mid-shit philosophical ponderation:

Sharashkas

You have the right to arrange your own life 
under the blue sky and the hot sun, 
to get drink of water, to stretch, 
to travel wherever you like....

What about the main thing in life, all its riddles?
If you want, I'll spell it out for you right now.



Do not pursue what is illusionary - property and position:
all that is gained at the expense of your nerves,
decade after decade, and is confiscated in one fell
night. Live with a steady superiority over life ...
don't be afraid of misfortune, and do not yearn
after happiness: it is, after all, the same: the
bitter doesn't last forever, and the sweet never 
fills the cup to overflowing.

It is enough if you don't freeze in the cold and if
thirst and hunger don't claw at your insides. If
your back isn't broken, if your feet can walk, if
both arms can bend, if both eyes can see, if 
both ears hear, then whom should you envy? And why?
Our envy of others devours us most of all. Rub
your eyes and purify your heart - and prize
above all else in the world those who love you
and who wish you well. Do not hurt them or
scold them, and never part from any of them in
anger; after all, you simply do not know: it
might be your last act .....

- Alexander Solzhenitsyn.

There now don't you feel better?

Staring down Death.

Myvanwy is fast becoming my favourite nonagenarian (barring of course any close family members of a ripe old age):

Yesterday over a lunch of couscous salad and curried potato and pea soup (she is not averse to my culinary experiments or chillies) we were discussing the issue of homosexuality, a dinner table conversation that I reserve for only the most open-minded geriatics:

Me: Well, I had this discussion with another couple I looked after, she is in her 70’s and he in his 80’s, and they told me that rather a lot of their male friends in the 70 plus age range had suddenly come out as bi-sexual. [Ladle spoonful of soup into open mouth.]

Myvanwy: [Behind dark glasses] Oh, my Godfathers! Nonsense dear, I suspect they were just tired of ‘giving it’ to the old girls and thought up this clever little cover story instead.

Me: Cough, splutter. Ergle. [Blindsided by a 90 year old mentioning sex I promptly chortle into my soup, in the process snorting up curried pea soup – rather singeing my nostrils.]

Myvanwy: [Chuckling at my perplexity]. Well I expect so dear, I was married twice, I know a thing or two about marriage.

Myvanwy’s sexual frankness was a complete surprise to me (as testified by the curried pea embedded in my left nostril). It has been my experience that for most O.A.P’s (old age pensioners) once the ovaries have withered any mention of sex is completely taboo. In my view the homes of most ninety year olds are asexual zones with loud ticking grandfather clocks (except for Hugh’s Playboy Mansion where I’m sure other noises fill the air). But Myvanwy is different - joking about sex and rather pragmatic about death. She tells me that her bridge club has been going through a rough time with everyone ‘falling off their perches’ and she reluctant to spend excessively on a new garden shed with a 10 year guarantee, as she is doubtful she’ll be around to see the warrantee out. Also acutely aware that she is in bootleg trousers when skinnies are in fashion she can’t bring herself to go shopping, “Oh my Godfather’s no,” she cried when I suggested it, “First there is the changing room trauma, the lighting in there is terrible. Secondly, the last time I tried I could barely get the trousers over my ankles and finally at this time in my life is there any point in investing in a new Spring wardrobe?” Remarkably none of this is said with any melancholia, just an acute awareness of the fact that at 92 there may not be too many Springs to be sprung.

I reckon Myvanwy must have been a real live wire in her youth. Widowed in her early twenties after the Second World War, with a young baby she just kept “calm and carried on,” through the wreckage of post-war Britain. She remarried, had more children and taught ballroom dancing all the while smoking 30 cigarettes a day until the age of 72. Now in her 90’s she gets through the day largely unmedicated, which is wildly unusual as in my experience Geriatric Britain is buoyed by the pharmaceutical industry, or the other way round. That's not to say Myvanwy doesn't medicate she does have a few fortifying sips of brandy for the ‘queer turns’.

She is my new Aging Icon, forget Madonna, who at 50, with her teenage body and army of toyboys is fighting the aging process each macrobiotic day at a time, I’m signing up for the Myvanwy school of aging, her motto ‘drive it like you stole it.’ Staring down Death with a steely glint in her eye and Brandy in her hipflask. What a gem.

#chancewouldbeafinething

My budding gromance with Myvanwy meant that for the first time in my distinguished career at the B.B.C (British Bum Cleaner) I didn't use my day off as an opportunity to bolt straight to London to immerse myself in retail therapy. This is largely due to the fact that a) I like Myvanwy's company so much I will willingly cook a meal and chat over a cup of tea without being paid to do so and b) I promised the Husband I would not spend excessive amounts of money on clothing etc.as we are saving for our escape from the Rock to a life in sunny, crime-infested South Africa. I have already failed in this regard as I spent some dosh on a rather dazzling haircut, which I like to argue is reminscent of a 1920's flapper (watched 'The Artist', am in love with 'Poppy' even practiced pencilling in a mole). The haircut happened last week on my day off when I took my shoulder length locks in for a 'trim', but uttered the immortal words, 'I'm not too precious about the length'. 40 minutes and £40 later I was virtually bald.

So this week in order to avoid spending money or coming home with a crew-cut I stayed in and spent an inordinate amount of time on twitter (@sallygypsytiger). As I only have about 11 followers I was almost besides myself with glee when moments after following the T.V critic for an upper class lady's magazine, he in turn followed me. As he is followed by some 5000 other people I like to think he is something of a celebrity, which places me a virtual one degree from fame myself. I don't like to dwell on the fact that he follows about 5000 other twitters. Of course the pressure is on to be witty and something of a messiah in 140 characters #chancewouldbeafinething.

I'm still not entirely sure about twitter culture. The Husband (armed with his iphone) created a twitter account after overhearing two lawyers on a train discussing how wonderful it was to have access to other lawyers views on issues almost instantly. Picturing a community of other like minded seamen (now, now children he is a nautical man) the Husband hastily created a twitter account but informed me rather sadly, "I logged on but nothing happened."

I tried to explain twitter to Myvanwy whilst discussing the topic of Aging. I wondered if my generation will be facebooking each other aged 90 and tweeting such informative pearls such as, "Send a search party, I've lost my teeth again." Myvanwy didn't think all this face-less communication was such a good idea. "Wouldn't you rather just hear a human voice or at least see the personal script of a handwritten note?" she asked me. Honestly? No. If a complete unknown middle-aged gent e.g. the upper-class-lady's-mag-t.v.-critic. were to send me a handwritten note of 140 characters to discuss the fate of the contestants food on masterchef, I'd find it downright freaky. Heaven forbid I should have to physically talk to half of my facebook 'friends' (except of course those of you who followed the link here, love you, chat later xx). In the end I really couldn't explain the relevance of an online community to a woman who for 92 years has lived in the real one, because I have to agree with her, "It doesn't sound like it has much soul."

I think the main problem is I'm too verbose for 140 characters.