Aged.

I think I might be having an Old Age Crisis. If I even knew one crisis from another. It’s always the same old same old with minor variations that don’t actually amount to anything. Enough to say that there is always something.

As it is I noticed that my hair if falling out at an alarming rate. Not bloody funny. I always had too much hair and sometimes wished that I didn’t have quite so much in the days when long and sleek were in fashion and mine always managed to be bushy and not at all elegant.

Fashion changed, but my hair was never curly either. It just sat there doing nothing. So I shoulder cropped it. I always did this myself because I was a bit broke by then and couldn’t afford a hairdresser.

Gosh. Memory escaped me there for a minute. I had the most amazing Hair Dresser in Singapore. Chinese as it happens. But he did wonderful things with my hair and always with a razor. I have never felt so good since. But then The Chinese have got weird hair.

But back to England where your average hairdresser ought to be shot. And then to France where I am still cutting it myself. It’s a bit long at the moment but I will crop it again when I feel like it.

Vanity dies hard no matter how much you try to pretend that it isn’t important.

But the point was that my hair was falling out too much. Until I started popping Siberian Ginseng again. Or is is Korean Ginseng? I shall have to look at the bottle. Any kind of Ginseng is better than no Ginseng at all. I had been taking it for fifty years, but I went into a period of wondering what was useful and what wasn’t during my days of real penury.

So what price my hair?

Marbles.

I often hope that I haven’t lost mine yet, although I doubt it would matter if I had. No one is even remotely interested in anything that I have to say. And I no longer care anyway.

I still know what I am doing, but then most of it is rote of many years and I carry on with the same old same old. This is not difficult. You don’t have to be a Rocket Scientist to know how to cook Carrots

I sometimes forget what it was I put in the microwave two minutes ago, but the I only have to open the door to find out. Oh my goodness, why was I cooking a cup of water? Golly gosh. A cup of tea. What else? Why else would anyone cook a cup of water?

I have long had this theory that Dementia isn’t a problem for those who are so afflicted. We don’t care. It is only those who feel that they have to deal with it that have a problem. I just laugh. What was it that I forgot? It is never seriously important. It is only you whoever you are that worry about it. You think that we might care. But I’ll tell you for nothing that we don’t.

Why did I go into this room? But then I’ve been doing that for years and years. Rinse and repeat.. And what did I do with my car keys? As if anyone ever knows. I made provisions years ago for that sort of rubbish. Put things where you think they should be and then you will always know. Or not. But someone else will.

As it happens, I don’t feel even remotely demented, beyond what I have always been, which has always been a bit demented. But then I don’t understand people. People are my only real problem. Most people have no conception of how to be kind.

Just don’t assume that your parent doesn’t know what is going on. And should your parent be a problem for you then rest assured that it will come for you one fine day.

Trala Trala.

I just suddenly have to tell you all something about my awful dog.

He chews bloody great holes in his quite nice woollen Blanket while trying to burrow and hide. Don’t ask because I don’t know.

He then gets his head and usually one leg stuck in one of the holes. Trapped as it were. And then he just sits there until someone notices. He never even so much as whimpers. Quite possibly because he knows it is his own fault. He just sits there looking pathetic.

I generally only notice because he doesn’t come charging at the back of my knees with love and joy at my mere presence, thereby nearly rendering me comatose on the floor and wondering what hit me. But he hasn’t yet actually knocked me over. Although a time might come. My knees aren’t that good anymore.

He never wets his bed for goodness knows how long he has been trapped. It could have been all night for all I know. I amn’t getting up in the middle of the night to check.

Dogs is dogs. This one is just a bit more particuliar than most.

Oh God.

Not the real one, I hasten to add. If there is any such thing. I am a Universe Person.

Nope. This desire to write about things. Any old thing will do.

Washing just crossed my mind. Clothes that is. Who needs it? Robin Dominic can produce dirty clothes by the bath load. Not that I think he does this on purpose, but I do suspect that he thinks it will keep me going into my dotage, which ain’t that far away. Who could possibly forget how to turn on a washing machine? Although don’t count on that. I just might.

We also don’t agree about how to hang washing on the line. My methods are perfect because I hang them up with intent to keep clothes in shape having first given them a good shake to get rid of creases. While he hangs them up any old how. I could have made a rod for my own back here. But never mind.

I used to be an ironer extraordinaire in the days when I owned a Laundry, but that nearly finished me off altogether because everything had to be perfect. There wasn’t any other way for me. And I did charge quite a lot.

The Washing Machine is now nearly twenty years old and didn’t even cost all that much at the time. But then I never treat machinery badly because I know how it feels.

It’s the Italian thing from my paternal grandmother, although I don’t think she ever owned a washing machine in her life.

And it’s why I was a good Wren Air Mechanic. I have a passion for machinery.

Write.

But what about? I am suffering withdrawal symptoms again, so this must be one of my communication phases. Probably coming up New Moon. Not that it matters. You either feel it or you don’t. When it happens is irrelevant.

Rain, rain and yet more rain, so the wooden garden chairs remain untreated. They were given to me and are really nice, which means that I have to try to protect them. But then I do have a habit of affording personalities to inanimate objects. And who’s to say I’m wrong. Have you ever asked your furniture how it feels?

I never have. I just assume that it wants to be loved and protected. Some of it was a tree once, often stolen from foreign lands, which makes it so much worse if it isn’t loved.

Most of my furniture was abandoned more than fifty years ago, until I rescued it from The Tip, or worse. It will well outlive me. And so I will go on.

However, some trees need to be culled to help the other trees grow. I am not averse to burning such wood because it helps The Planet and saves electricity and wood ash is good for the Roses anyway. I’ve got a lot of Roses in my very small garden, all with a wonderful scent. I feed them recycled Tea as well. Nothing goes to waste around here.

Except Effing Plastic. I loathe plastic. I see no purpose to it whatsoever. Three quarters of my rubbish is plastic and the Plastic Recycling Bin is always full. How did this happen?

For now I shall hope for a bit of temporary Global Warming. The River Blavet rises but it won’t get me.

I do so love Mountains, but it was only last week that I realised that I live on the top of a rather small mountain. I just never get to see it in context because I am there at the top. Now isn’t that a thing.