USE IT OR LOSE IT?
We do it most weeks on a Sunday,
On low days and even on high days,
On bingo night, sports night and Monday,
When Stan pops around on a Tuesday,
Not forgetting mid week on a Wednesday,
Then we have a day off on a Thursday
On Friday we can, so we do it again,
And just after lunch every Saturday

We’ve had it outside in the summer,
While we choked on the smoke from the barbie
Eating onions and hot dogs with mustard,
And halfway through pudding and custard.
We do it with friends and with neighbours.
Once the milkman came round for a taste,
You use it or lose – isn’t that what they say?
What a sin if it all went to waste.

We’ve photos of every occasion
We’ve posted the best on the net
There’ve been some red faces over the years
And there’s still more to come you can bet.
Come on over and then you can tell me
‘What is your most favoured choice?’
Something soothing or fruity or maybe quite mild?
Something raging and powerful and wild?
Something shared with another -
A newly-found lover
Or that old man you married
The one who once carried
You over the threshold of life.

Tempt the devil and take what you fancy
Life’s short and we’re flinging our last
Don’t look too much to the future
And don’t lean too hard on the past.
All you need is a bloody good corkscrew
And a bottle or two of fine plonk.
Fill you heart full of flutters,
You speech full of stutters,
Sport a lovely red hue on your conk.

And that way you’ll find, when they question
Why you keep putting your gloves in the fridge
Or you have the desire to climb on the roof
And get wedged, straggled legged on the ridge
Or forget that you’re wearing pink slippers
When you nip out for bacon and bread
That it doesn’t dismay you or grieve you or sway you
And you can say, without loosing your head,
‘The plot isn’t lost and my mind is still keen,’
(though we know that’s just stretching the truth)
And they won’t understand
As they’re stroking your hand
That your age is more fun than their youth!

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BUTTERFLY FARM ANGELSEY

image

More than just butterflies.

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Dancing on the Table

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Seen on a plaque in Cornwall:
NOW IS THE TIME TO DRINK CHAMPAGNE AND DANCE ON THE TABLE
So, do we take it literally?  I think so.
Although, I’m not sure that it’s wise to encourage the more mature, though not necessarily more sober of thought (and action) members of society to be dancing on tables. It’s not so much the chance of a broken hip, it’s more the chance of a spilled drink.
Lets face it, some of us have reached that marvellous point in life where investing in long-term savings or believing that any diet programme will actually make a difference, is pretty pointless.
The only thing we believe in now is that life doesn’t last for ever and what we want or need to do cannot wait a year, a month, or even a day. The time is now.
Those things that were pushed to one side in the grown-up world of mortgages and family food bills begin to float to the top of the “things to do pile” in this new free, less stressful, slightly manic, let’s-do-it-while-we-can phase of life.   We don’t have to be so serious.  We don’t have to worry about how the world is changing.  It can’t be our problem.  We may have the answers, but no-one is listening.  We are past our prime, vegetating in our own rocking chair,  knitting bonnets for the next generation.
Except we are not.  Champagne is cursing through our veins.  Not literally.  Not always.  Sometimes on a Saturday.  Sometimes it’s just sherry.  But most times, whatever is in there is still running smoothly,  thanks to the daily aspirin.
Now’s the time to shake the shackles loose.  A bit.   Now we can take what our grandchildren taught us and use it. We can believe in their magic.

We have more in common with them now than with our children.  We understand each other.  We understand their innocence, their naivety, their thirst for all things exciting and interesting, their determination to stretch their parents’ patience to the limit.

And they understand our reluctance to roll in the snow and our willingness to do it if they ask nicely.  They forgive our shortcomings. They allow  us to be slower, to miss the goaly hole, to run like a three-legged camel when we play cricket.  They always know where we put our glasses and when they look at us, really look at us,  they don’t see the weariness, they look past the wrinkles, they don’t question the flaws, the faults, the forgetfulness.  They don’t see the years of doubt, of worry, the anger because things sometimes didn’t turn out the way we’d wanted them to.  They see us.  Plain and simple.

Growing up made us cynics, let growing older make us believers. We can allow the child that still lingers somewhere deep inside us to take the reins. Remind us how to live. Remind us that true magic happens everywhere, everyday.  We just need to recognise it.

Soon enough we’ll be sitting at the back of the room at weddings and christenings, one good eye on the time, wishing the music wasn’t so loud, trying to lip read in the dark and nodding in what we hope are all the right places. (I know. I already am too.)

(It’s a strange thing that as we’re gradually moved further towards the back of the room for happy family gatherings,  we’re moved in the opposite direction, finding ourselves in the front pew, at funerals.)

We are aware that there is so little time left for throwing caution to the wind, little time for once more grabbing life and ringing the hell out of it.

So it has to be now – the dancing in the rain, on tables, in Tesco.  Anywhere you like.

And if we spill the drink? A chance you take when your glass is full.
And if we fall off the table? Well, all things have to end.  Anyway, we had a ball didn’t we and we’ve got the memories to prove it!

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SPIRIT OF CHRISTMAS

 

 

The street is covered with a silent blanket of stillness; shop lights shimmer behind the veil of steadily falling snow.
Beyond the veil, behind the glass, sitting in front of a painted fire, surrounded by smiling elves, Santa nods his robotic head.
Three hours to midnight, Christmas Eve – goodwill to all.
Jimmy is sitting, alone, under a street lamp.
‘There’s a place,’ a man had told him, just as the first flakes of snow fell. ‘St. Mark’s. Up the road there. They’ll help you.’
But Jimmy had refused help, so the man gave up, pressed some coins into his hand, placed a brown carrier bag next to him and left.
Jimmy is sixteen. The world that he knows, his world, is killing him, slowly, inside.
A small group of party-goers dance past him, in a wide circle. The tallest one leaves the group, walks over to Jimmy and kicks at his leg, sneering at his hopelessness. Jimmy doesn’t move. The tall one laughs, picks up the brown carrier bag and looks inside.
‘Sausage rolls, sandwiches, apple,’ he calls to his friends. ‘Who wants it?’
Jimmy keeps his head low. Once he had the energy to fight for his life. Now he just wants to close his eyes and never open them again.

Sally is five years old. She lives with her mum, but loves being with her dad. Tonight they’re visiting her gran.‘It‘s a tradition,’ her dad tells her. They always visit gran on Christmas Eve and take a gift off the Christmas tree, just as an appetiser for the big treats to come tomorrow. No matter what goes wrong in her life, the traditions of Christmas will always be sacred to Sally.

It’s late and she’s getting sleepy but she doesn’t want to go home yet. She wishes she could stay here with her gran and her dad. And she wishes her mum would stay too. But, even a five year old can understand that some wishes may never come true. Some hurts can never be made to feel better.
Her gift is a small teddy that fits nicely in her hand. Sally loves her teddies. This one is purple. He’s soft and warm and she holds him tight as she pushes her hands deep down into her pockets.
Gran is fastening Sally’s coat, while mum stands stiffly near the door, making an effort at conversation. The separation is still new. The anger is still raw, but they are all trying. For Sally’s sake.
Mum has brought wellies. The snow is getting deeper and as much as Sally enjoys it, tonight it’s hard to walk through. Her legs are already too tired and she has barely walked down the path before she is asking Mum to carry her. But Dad has noticed and suddenly he’s there, at Mum’s side and he scoops Sally up and sits her on his shoulders.

Harold doesn’t like the snow either. It’s hard enough to walk with the thick black boots on without the added inconvenience of what is now approaching three inches of the stuff.
And as for his costume, he feels like a fool. It’s alright while he’s surrounded by children, but here, halfway down the high street, he feels like a joke. He always feels like a bit like a joke. At five foot five and as round as he is tall, he is used to being mocked. And it isn’t just his shape. His face, as they tell him, must have challenged even the most devoted mother. He wonders if that’s why she left him, because she couldn’t bear to look at him.
Harold’s world has taken the best of him and given him nothing in return. His world has diminished him.
Tonight has always been the best night of the year. Nobody mocks him. Nobody makes comments about his face. No-one sees Harold. They see Santa.
He is Santa and everyone loves him.
The party has been wonderful, but now the party is over. He’s on his way back home to his not quite so welcoming wife who should never have filled the role of Mother Christmas.
He’s just entering the high street, the faces of the children still vivid in his mind. He hears the laughter, thinking it’s a memory that refuses to be silenced.
He hears it again. A child’s laughter? At this time on Christmas Eve?
He scans the street. The Christmas lights swing gently in the still falling snow.
The shop lights are bright, their displays as glitteringly artificial as ever. Reindeers, elves, jolly plastic Santas are everywhere. The myth of Christmas is all around him.
And then he notices the shape under the lamp.

Sally is laughing. As they turn into the high street, she is astounded by the sight. The lights seem much brighter than usual and the reindeers, in Lewis’s , she could swear, are moving. The elves have broad smiles and Santa is….and Santa is under the street light, leaning down, inspecting some sort of lumpy shape.
‘Santa,’ she gasps.
Harold hears the child and straightens up.
‘Ho! Ho! Ho!’ he says automatically.
He is torn. The shape under the lamp is real. He’s a boy, no more than a boy, and he’s in trouble. But the child is a child and she is entitled to a child’s dreams and beliefs. And he is Santa. He can make this child’s wishes come true, but he’s also Harold, the office fool, and he doesn’t quite know what to do.
Dad puts Sally on the ground. He’s not quite sure what he’s seeing. Is that shape on the ground moving?
Mum sees clearly. It’s a person there, under the light, covered with snow. A dead person. On Christmas Eve. A dead person with Santa standing over him and her daughter watching.
She reaches out to grab Sally, but Sally is too quick and jumps over the snow to reach Harold’s side.
‘Santa,’ she says.
‘Ho! Ho! little girl,’ Harold says again. ‘Shouldn’t you be in bed?’
‘I’m going home now,’ Sally says. ‘I’ve been to my Gran’s.’
‘Good girl. Now off you go with your mummy and daddy and Santa will be along with your presents shortly,’ he says, adding a final, ‘Ho!Ho! Ho!’ for luck.
Dad is by her side now. ‘Well, Santa,’ he is saying, ‘What’s happening here?’
Jimmy opens his eyes. He hears the voices. They’ve woken him from a wonderful sleep. He was back, years ago, when things were good. When his mother was still his mother and not some name he hears now and again.
‘Is he dead? Is he dead?’ asks Mum.
‘No,’ says Harold, in his Santa voice. ‘He’s just been asleep.’
Sally looks at the boy on the ground. She too sees that he is no more than a boy. She sees his eyes and, with the innocent instincts of a child, recognises the sadness. She, in her simple way, can understand that there are many things in this world to be sad about.
‘Are you tired?’ she asks the boy
He nods and tears begin to form in his eyes and roll, silently, down his face.
Sally looks at her dad and Dad looks at Mum. They both look at Santa and he takes a step back.
He wants to shout, ‘I’m not really Santa. I don’t do miracles. I can’t do wishes. I’m pretending, for goodness sake. Look – false beard.’ But he doesn’t because Sally is watching him too and he knows that what he does, what he says now, will stay with her for ever.
‘There’s a place,’ he says to Jimmy, ‘I’ll take you there. You can’t stay here. Santa says so,’ he adds, winking at Sally.
‘We’ll walk with you,’ says Dad, still not sure.
They pull the boy to his feet and Dad and Harold help him along the street. Sally and Mum follow silently until they reach St. Marks. It’s not snowing as heavily now and Sally can see the stars in the black sky, which looks bigger tonight than she’s ever seen it before.
She holds on tight to her mum’s hand. Sometimes the world is just too big to understand.
Jimmy and Santa start the walk up the drive to the softly illuminated entrance to St. Mark’s church as Mum and Dad and Sally watch.
‘Where’s his mum and dad?’ asks Sally.
They look at each other.
‘Well, we don’t know sweetheart,’ they say, thinking that if they cared, if anyone cared, he wouldn’t be sitting freezing under a street lamp on Christmas Eve.
‘So he’s all alone,’ Sally murmurs.  She thinks, for just one moment, and then wriggles free of her mum’s hand. ‘Wait, Santa, wait,’ she calls.
She takes the purple bear out of her pocket and presses it into Jimmy’s hand.
‘He’ll look after you,’ she says, knowing that teddy bears always understand sadness and, though their cuddles are not as good as Mum’s or Dad’s, they are much better than nothing.

Sally is asleep. Her dad carried her upstairs and sat on the end of her bed until her eyes closed. He creeps downstairs now to where mum is waiting with hot chocolate.
‘It’s been quite a night,’ he says.
‘You’ll be back in the morning?’ she asks.
‘First thing,’ he says softly, knowing how much they have lost.
She hesitates only for a moment. It’s time to forgive.
‘Stay,’ she whispers.

Jimmy is warm. He has eaten. He has changed into dry clothes. It’s a long time since he believed in Santa, but this Santa he will believe in forever. This Santa helped Jimmy change into dry clothes; he sat with him as he ate the thick stew that was placed in front of him and he said nothing, knowing that sometimes an understanding silence is better than a thousand words.
And then, each deep in their own thoughts, they listened together to the sound of the music drifting over them as the choir raised their voices in celebration.
‘You are somebody,’ Santa told Jimmy, before he left. ‘We are all somebody. There are people who care about you. You don’t know them yet, but they’re there, waiting for you. Give them a chance.’

Something has changed. Tomorrow lies ahead, fresh like untrodden snow. Harold has taken off his Santa outfit. He is now just Harold. He stares at his reflection in the full length mirror. His face is his face. If people don’t like it – so what? But the rest of it – it’s down to him. He isn’t the worthless article his wife tells him he is. He isn’t the pitiful office joke that keeps the juniors amused. He is Harold. And tonight, he saved someone. Tonight he made people happy. Tonight he did something good.
He stares again at the reflection.
‘I am Harold,’ he says proudly.

Sally is asleep. She doesn’t know that her mum and dad are still cuddled on the settee, still talking, still making tentative plans for the future. Forgiving each other – and themselves.
She doesn’t know that Harold is lying, contentedly awake after telling his wife that life will change for them in the new year. That he will be a better person, a stronger person and she must change with him, or he will leave. He has known that this time would come. He’s ready.
Somewhere in her dreams, Sally believes that Santa is hard at work, that one day her mum and dad will be together and a boy who she will never see again, but will always remember, will be holding a tiny purple bear in his hand. And she will know that it will be with him for the rest of his life.

The street still lies silent beneath its blanket of snow; the parties are over, the children, at last, are sleeping.
In the high street, the lights still blaze out the myth of Christmas. But tonight, as three very different worlds collide, the spirit of Christmas outshines them all.

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IT’S HARD TO BE A WOMAN

Oh! for all the joys of Christmas Eve
When Santa’s bathed in glory -
But the truth that lies behind the myth
Is quite another story!

********
Oh, it’s hard to be a woman
While the washer’s on the blink
And last night’s dirty dishes
Still languish in the sink.

The wrapping-up is way behind,
The turkey’s still in plastic
And the plumber’s trying to stop the leak
With a spanner and some mastic.

The kids won’t eat their dinner
‘Cus there’s cartoons on the telly
And their should-know-better dad
Is building crisp towers on his belly.

The lights are playing up again,
The tree is looking tatty,
His relatives are on the way
And I know they’ll drive me batty.

Yes it’s hard to be a woman
What with Granddad’s lager spillage
And a dog that chases next door’s cat
In circles round the village.

Then there’s Granny, bless her
Shiny little alcoholic nose
Cursing at the telly
While reciting purple prose.

And the vicar keeps on asking
If I’d like to come to Mass -
On Christmas Eve! Oh come on love
I’ll very kindly pass.

It seems as if it’s going wrong
And it’s more than I can stand
It wouldn’t matter quite as much
If I’d got just one more hand.

Still, there is this little friend of mine –
When the going starts to toughen
It’s me and it and nothing else –
I’ll take a sip – and stuff ‘em!

(c) Lynn Smith September 2010

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THE SINS OF AUNT EVIE

(Part One)

    It was a Wednesday, Harry’s day for trimming the lawn.  Monday was weeding and fruit cake, Friday was cleaning the shed and vanilla slices, but Wednesday afternoons he trimmed the lawn and ate warm scones oozing with strawberry jam and cream. On that particular hot and hazy afternoon, during which Aunt Evie morphed from a drab and very slightly hairy caterpillar to a less than stunning, but perfectly pleasant butterfly, Harry was nursing a badly sprained ankle so he didn’t come, but his nephew did. Harry was sixty three, proudly grey and a gentleman. His nephew, Tony, taut and tanned, was fifty, denied his age, Grecian- greyed his hair and was, in his own mind at least, God’s gift to the world of older, grateful ladies.
    Aunt Evie took up her position by the kitchen window and watched, managing to polish the stainless steel sink to perfection, without once taking her eyes off him.
He didn’t just trim the lawn. He manicured it.
    Aunt Evie was impressed. She filled the scones and fished the best teapot from the back of the cupboard. Harry always had his coffee in the blue mug with a sad-eyed puppy on and she almost reached that out too.  But she remembered, just in time, that Harry wasn’t there. And her stomach fluttered, just a little.
    She put the scones and the cup and the teapot on a wooden tray that was almost as old as she was, reached across the sink that sparkled with all the love she had lavished on it, because for years, there had been nothing else for her to lavish anything on, and lifted her hand to knock on the window, just as Tony stood up, stretched his arms, arched his back and took off his shirt.
    Aunt Evie lowered herself into the nearest chair and sat for a moment, fanning her flushed face with a starched tea-cloth she kept because it looked good even though, as a tea-cloth, it was useless. There was a map of Italy in the centre and she had always loved the thought of Italy.  It should have been more than just a tea cloth. It should have been a painting, or a photograph – some reminder of a life lived with a flourish, but it was just a teacloth. Lots of things in Aunt Evie’s life had not been what they should have been.
She felt her cheeks with the backs of her hands, smoothed her skirt, ran her fingers through her hair, knocked on the window and beckoned to Tony.
He looked up and smiled. That was the precise moment that Aunt Evie exploded. She watched as this almost-stranger strode up the path, trailing his shirt behind him, and she waited as he took off his boots at the door. She watched as he swung his shirt round his shoulders and started to push his arms through the sleeves. And she thought that it would have been such a shame to fasten the buttons when the weather was so warm, and the kitchen was so stuffy and his chest was so shiny and so – there in front of her.
  She was staring. Tony was smirking. The tea went cold, the scones went uneaten and he went at just turned nine. Aunt Evie couldn’t sleep.  She still had a slightly foolish fever.
    Her face was still flushed and her smile was a long way from innocent when she spotted Father Paul at the library. She kept her head down, sidled past him and Doreen from the bakery, who could smell a scandal before it occurred and headed home feeling full of sin and loving it.
    Tony came again on Friday.  She shunned the usual vanilla slices and experimented with one of Delia’s cheesecakes, blamed the weather, the economic downfall, the state of the world in general for her departure from all that knew was right and proper, and opened a bottle of Pinot Grigio that had been sitting in her cupboard since last Christmas.  On Saturday morning, following another long and disturbed night, she slid into the confessional box and took a deep breath.
    “Father I have sinned,” she said. “Twice on Wednesday, three times on Friday and I’m not sure, but I think I may be sinning next week too.”
    Father Paul smiled, told her she had committed no sin and wondered why it had taken Harry so long.
    Now, with the blessing of the church, Aunt Evie planned the coming week.  She laid out her clothes, shortened two skirts, re-vamped two blouses, visited town and caused confusion in The Undies for You store, which was discretely hidden at the lower end, behind the High Street.
    Tuesday she had her hair done.
    “Cut and blow love?” Claire asked.
    “No,” said Aunt Evie. “Let’s have a change. Re-arrange me.  I want to be a new woman.”
    “You want to try one of our facials,” Claire said, mentally calculating her bonus.
    Aunt Evie went home considerably poorer, but with her hair a gentle shade of ‘golden dawn’, her face deep-cleansed and still tingling and her fingers and toes sporting an amazingly garish nail varnish.  Over the next three weeks she lost half-a-stone, gained a self assurance and slid into the confessional box on two more occasions.
Then, on the Friday morning, three weeks and two days since she first set eyes on Tony, and with the bottle already chilling in the fridge and another Delia inspired offering  waiting, she heard the gate open, looked through the window, and saw Harry hobbling up the path.
    “Evie,” he called from the back door. “You in? You got me today love, Tony’s back home to Ireland.”
    She had thought she’d be disappointed when this day came. She wasn’t.  She was weary and more than a little relieved. Harry was definitely not his nephew. But he was there, like he’d always been. Week after week, regular as clockwork and almost as dependable. He was just the same old Harry even if she was not the same old Evie. She’d needed to change. So did he. If he was to continue enjoying her shed and her baking, things would have to be different – from today. From this very moment.
    She twisted the knob on the oven turning it from cool to full speed ahead. Then, with a sly smile, a silent ‘thank you’ to absent friends and the god of fortuitous sprained ankles, and a mental promise to visit Father Paul first thing in the morning, she said, “Come in then. Give me that coat, it’s hot in here.  And that shirt looks a little tight round the neck.  Why don’t we loosen the buttons Love?”

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STORMY NIGHT

ghostly manor house

STORMY NIGHT

Lock all the doors, the stairs are all creaking,
The moon, very slyly, in windows goes sneaking
Witches and goblins, and black cats abound,
Stay safe in my arms child and make not a sound.

Buffeting branches; whispering sighs,
The hollowed-out echo of answering cries,
The breath of the ogre as slowly he heaves,
The shuffling movements that scatter the leaves.

A gate starts to dance to the tune of the night,
And creatures stand static, frozen in fright,
The crash of the thunder, the scream of the owl,
Death stalks the forest, grievous and foul.

Shadows in corners creep into the room
Twisting and turning in thickening gloom
The hum of the demons, silently creeping,
Steals into your thoughts and into your sleeping.

The stories you read, mere words in your head,
Bring life to your fears as you lie in your bed,
The evil that stalks through each turn of the page,
Delights in the night; engages its rage.

But the world that is shaking its anger tonight,
Will fade with the dawn in the cool morning light,
The moon will be still, the wind will be calm,
Go with your dreams child, you’ll come to no harm.

Peggi Lennard

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Sunrise over Norton

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Gentle Sunset over The Brecon Beacons

Gentle Sunset over The Brecon Beacons

This is when I wish I could paint.

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Dancing on the Table

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Seen on a plaque in Cornwall:

NOW IS THE TIME TO DRINK CHAMPAGNE AND DANCE ON THE TABLE

So, do we take it literally?  I think so.

Although, I’m not sure that it’s wise to encourage the more mature, though not necessarily more sober of thought (and action) members of society to be dancing on tables. It’s not so much the chance of a broken hip, it’s more the chance of a spilled drink.

Lets face it, some of us have reached that marvellous point in life where investing in long-term savings or believing that any diet programme will actually make a difference, is pretty pointless.

The only thing we believe in now is that life doesn’t last for ever and what we want or need to do cannot wait a year, a month, or even a day. The time is now.

Those things that were pushed to one side in the grown-up world of mortgages and family food bills begin to float to the top of the “things to do pile” in this new free, less stressful, slightly manic, let’s-do-it-while-we-can phase of life.   We don’t have to be so serious.  We don’t have to worry about how the world is changing.  It can’t be our problem.  We may have the answers, but no-one is listening.  We are past our prime, vegetating in our own rocking chair,  knitting bonnets for the next generation.

Except we are not.  Champagne is cursing through our veins.  Not literally.  Not always.  Sometimes on a Saturday.  Sometimes it’s just sherry.  But most times, whatever is in there is still running smoothly,  thanks to the daily aspirin.

Now’s the time to shake the shackles loose.  A bit.   Now we can take what our grandchildren taught us and use it. We can believe in their magic.

We have more in common with them now than with our children.  We understand each other.  We understand their innocence, their naivety, their thirst for all things exciting and interesting, their determination to stretch their parents’ patience to the limit.

And they understand our reluctance to roll in the snow and our willingness to do it if they ask nicely.  They forgive our shortcomings. They allow  us to be slower, to miss the goaly hole, to run like a three-legged camel when we play cricket.  They always know where we put our glasses and when they look at us, really look at us,  they don’t see the weariness, they look past the wrinkles, they don’t question the flaws, the faults, the forgetfulness.  They don’t see the years of doubt, of worry, the anger because things sometimes didn’t turn out the way we’d wanted them to.  They see us.  Plain and simple.

Growing up made us cynics, let growing older make us believers. We can allow the child that still lingers somewhere deep inside us to take the reins. Remind us how to live. Remind us that true magic happens everywhere, everyday.  We just need to recognise it.

Soon enough we’ll be sitting at the back of the room at weddings and christenings, one good eye on the time, wishing the music wasn’t so loud, trying to lip read in the dark and nodding in what we hope are all the right places. (I know. I already am too.)

(It’s a strange thing that as we’re gradually moved further towards the back of the room for happy family gatherings,  we’re moved in the opposite direction, finding ourselves in the front pew, at funerals.)

We are aware that there is so little time left for throwing caution to the wind, little time for once more grabbing life and ringing the hell out of it.

So it has to be now – the dancing in the rain, on tables, in Tesco.  Anywhere you like.

And if we spill the drink? A chance you take when your glass is full.
And if we fall off the table? Well, all things have to end.  Anyway, we had a ball didn’t we and we’ve got the memories to prove it!

 

 

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