Our Lady of the Chutneys

It must be accepted that there is a gargantuan gulf at times between how we see ourselves and how others see us. For example:

How Mz Kitty sees herself: a relatively well rounded individual, well travelled, had a few adventures, can still walk up small mountains, runs a department, has opinions and is not afraid to use them, may be slowing down a bit but can still dance over an entire Glastonbury weekend, handy with some yarn.

How the teenage waitress in the Pyecombe Farm Shop and Cafe sees Mz Kitty as noted on her receipt: 'woman with chutneys'.

🙀😳💥

I'm not sure the waitress understood why a 53 year old woman was suddenly recounting to her that there was so much more to her life than being a 'woman with chutneys', and I'm not entirely sure why I was doing it either, but I have now settled into eating the chutney and accepting that in a compartmentalised world there are those who will only ever know us as 'woman who works', 'woman who writes', 'women who travels', 'woman who knits', 'woman who likes chutney', etc. Just give thanks that we will always have that select group of friends who can join the dots.   

The affects of ageing ...

Towards the end of my 50th year a young man stood to offer me his seat on the Tube and in an instant I realised I had aged. The signs were there: I was overcome with waves of nostalgia watching T2: Trainspotting and re-listening to Alanis Morrisette's Jagged Little Pill' on their 20th anniversaries. And at Glastonbury I found myself trying to sing Mary J. Blige songs to two teenage poppets who'd never heard of her, but who, in return, sang me snippets of One Direction songs they liked.

The trouble with ageing, I thought, as I realised that I'd now been alive in the world at least 30 years longer than the poppets, is that I seem to have less patience brought on by being in sight of the terminus, but fortunately also care less about the small stuff. K.T. Tunstall wandered into the massage tent she'd left an earring in the day before where I was naked except for my bonds knickers, and neither K.T. nor myself could give a rat's arse.

That kind of contentment is worth getting old for and if we can get through life causing as little damage to ourselves and others along the way, we've done alright. Scar tissue must never be allowed to accumulate, and 'if onlys' lightly collected, dusted off occasionally and then forgotten about at the back of a high shelf in a room seldom visited.

So in honour and celebration of half a century, even in a world of Brexump, while revelling in the complicated entanglements beyond a Manichean universe of good/evil, left/right, long lunches and fairy lights have been (and will continue to be) interspersed with unproductive walking and hours of Jane Austen.

My deepest thanks to those who have travelled with me during various decades along the way, and the various posses over the last year of finding Wally.

Perfect Day

Today has been, by Mz Kitty's definition, perfect.

A run in the morning as the sun is getting up, through a frosty white Victoria Park with noone but the hardiest souls sharing the glories of a still winter's morning.

My sourdough bread finally, after two years of experimentation, rose to the occasion and actually looked almost like a proper sourdough.

Then on to join thousands of like minded souls in the streets of London, reminding the newly inaugurated President Trump et al that we will be watching them.

Back to the marché for my coffee and the London Review of Books, to finish reading a 10,000 word essay on the life and works of David Bowie, some esoteric poetry, and squeezing in the latest instalment of Alan Bennett's diary for good measure (which I shouldn't really find as interesting as I do).

Home just in time to receive my new Salomon gortex-lined trail runners (although feet still slightly encrusted from last Sunday's mud so might wait a few weeks before christening them properly).

Some more baking of chocolate custard tarts, complete with home made flaky pastry.

Then anticipating a few hours in front of the goggle box with my fella (who did all the cooking yesterday for the coming week) watching Taboo and finishing a jumper.

It can only be bettered by the knowledge that tomorrow is Jane Austin, Cocktails and Knitting Appreciation Society day!

I suspect I may have hit seasonally adjusted middle age, where the desire to go out dancing in winter is outweighed by the desire to stay on a comfy sofa.