Ok, so, I had another birthday recently.
Ran out of fingers to count back on when I was 10. Id just spent a whole year thinking I was 53, going on 54, now I’ve got another year of being 53. Thank goodness for Facebook, I nearly added another year to my life. I was born sometime around tea time, as my Mum always reminds me, she missed her dinner that evening having to give birth to me. The theme tune to the 6.00 news was playing on the telly when I decided id make my way into this world. Not a fucking mention of me though. It was that year when the news was more focused on a football match it seems. ‘A world cup Willy’ baby, they said I was. Probably why I never liked football, I didn’t like being called a Willy baby.
Mums no help on this number matter. Now, I come from a long line of very strong women, but when it comes to maths and numbers, were a but thick, a genetic fault it seems. My mum is 78 now, we think. She lives in Dudley, West Midlands, comes to stay with me two or three times a year, this is her holiday home now. The price I pay for that missing tea, and all that messy birth stuff.
I love having Mum come to stay, were like a pair of elderly teenagers. Though I think that is because, there comes a time, not sure if it creeps on gradually, or happens over night, but we do turn into our parents as we age. Oh yes, it’s happening, I see the future ahead of me. Yes, I’ve started a list.
• We don’t need the clock to tell us the time, our mathematical knowledge is restricted remember, but one can learn to predict the time, by the actions of thy bladder. Mum knows exactly what time she will wake up to have a pee during the night and always must run through the timetable with me. Now, I’m only doing the 5.30 in the morning run so far. It’s happening though, I’m getting there.
• There comes that time in life, where we love our comforts so much, we just have to let the world know about it. that sound, when we sit down, you know it, ummmmppppphhh, followed by an Aaaaaahhhh that’s better. Yup, you all do it, except me of course, I don’t, because I have this seat attached to my arse all day. One of the benefits of using a wheelchair, you get to take your own seat wherever you go.
• We lose our shame with age, particularly when it comes to flatulence, getting up from the sofa, with that ‘ooommph’ sound, accompanied by a thhuupp, thurrrpp thup (fart noises) almost proudly followed by the question ‘ Ooooh did you hear that’? Yes, I heard it, what do you want, a round of applause? And what’s with that wafting action, why fan your arse? Keep it to yourself please. I remember a guy in work, who would catch his farts in a paper bag, carry the bag to the bathroom, and let it go. I always thought this was rather thoughtful of him, perfect workplace etiquette in my opinion. Though I pity the customer whose cup cake ended up in that bag
• Thankfully, I’m sitting on my square shaped arse much of the time, so my effort to compete in this activity is rather muffled, though if it’s a big one that escapes the muffle cushion in a crowd, I can always blame someone on legs (looks up in disgust, wafts, and tuts).
• Had to get an eye test recently. Optician confirmed I was bi. She asked if I wanted two for one, like one of each, oh yes please, one pair of specs for distance and one pair for reading, or I could have had a pair of those half and half glasses. So, being greedy, I went for the two for one option. Without specs, I’m considered borderline, legally, blind, according to one of those medical websites. Now they may be right. Because on the 5.30 piss run the other morning, I got most concerned that my most treasured and beloved cat, was lying, stretched out on the rug, unresponsive, deadly still. I talked to her, no response, I even used the B word (biscuits), not even a flicker of a whisker. Slowly, I leaned forward to gently stroke her, as I felt beneath my hand a cool, limp, lifeless, floppy pair of fucking leggings as the cat runs towards me meowing ‘did you just use the B word’. Shit, my giddy heart.
• The local pharmacy must love my Mum. The medicine cupboard expands from being a cupboard to becoming a small box room. Honestly, Mum, when she comes to stay, brings an over the counter remedy for any situation should it occur, from constipation to dihorreah, a sore throat to mouth ulcers, deep heat cream, insect spray, dry skin lotion, plasters, bandages, surgical wipes, hemaroid treatment, indigestion mints, TCP, support stockings, a hot water bottle, water retention pills and flatulence powders (that don’t work). I swear, next WCA for PIP, I’m just goanna open the door on mum’s collection and say it’s all mine. She insists on leaving it all here in case I need it, thanks mum.
At least this year I didn’t have to pretend to like the underwear, bought for me by a man. Got rid of him last year, wafted him away like a bad fart.
Guys, when you buy a lady underwear, remember, size 18 does not mean age 18. Seriously though, they call them knickers, you know the type I mean don’t you, Anne Summers misshaped, factory rejects sold on eBay. I mean, they don’t even have enough fabric to pull up over your belly, attempting to get them up that high leaves rope burns in the gusset area, come on now, that’s not really a gusset is it, I’ve used dental floss thicker than that. And what’s with the feathers? The last thing I need are fluffy, pink feathers in me knickers.
Anyway, as I said, got rid of him, he got caught with his pants down, his comfy. old, baggy, fart catching pants. Mister Men pants they were, Mr Ego, Mr deluded and Mr ever-so-tiny-like small. How do I know he still wears the set of Mr Man pants I bought him? The lady involved, the one he told me was his counsellor, helping him manage his anger and stress, well, she and I are now facebook friends, sisters stick together. He didn’t see that coming.
The advertising industry is cruel, and really does nothing to boost our confidence. As soon as you hit 49, they add you to their mailing lists. Junk mail arrives through the door, stannah stair lifts, saga holidays, funeral plans and sunlife insurance. And they always offer you a free pen, cause you’re so fucking old and out of touch, you don’t know how to use a computer, you need a pen.
Age is just a number though, that confirms how long we have lived on this planet, nothing more than that. And as im so shit at maths, I don’t really care. Be who you are, live life to the max, no matter how many years you have been here so far, here’s to the next, cheers.