Princess pieds

I am back from Berlin, 'twas ace and fabulous and you should all go there. I will post pictures when I stop having a strop with my iPad. To be fair to the iPad, it's not its fault, I am struggling to have text and photos  in a manner pleasing to your auntie. I shall not be defeated, I expect my husband will post with better photos as well so go and see him HERE


So today I am going to whine about my feet, when in Berlin for the 48 hours I was there I racked up 67 thousand something steps, that's a lot of steps. I love a good walk but I am now beginning to struggle with my feet or more precisely I struggle with footwear, my feet don't match me, they're not the feet of a middle aged stoical lady, my feet belong to a Princess who is currently wondering why someone has stolen her feet and swapped them with trotters belonging to a peasant.

My feet hate all shoes now, the balls of my feet are a trouble but my heels are the most princessy part of them, anything touching my heel for more than a nano second sends them into a swoony faint and they demand a chaise longue and a wee rest. I can work with this in the summer, I wear fit flops which are very cushioned underneath so I can walk and my heels are naked, my heels like naked, they are the only part of me that does. I have lovely fit flop slippers which leave the requisite heel to fresh air ratio,  I have even managed to find fit flop boots, they saw me round my 67,000 steps of Berlin, so why am I moaning?
Dear reader, they are not the most attractive of footwear and they don't suit anything other than casual wear, normally this is okay as I'm not a dressy up kind of auntie, I wear maxi dresses and fit flops in the summer and I wear jeans and fit flop boots in the winter, at home I wear the slippers. I am not geeing my ginger with this, I can adapt, my feet look special but they are continuing to move the auntie round, I'm not complaining but...
 I have to go and speak at a conference this week and for some reason the lecture I will give will not be understood by the attendees if I show up in my maxi dress and fit flops. For me to get my point across I need to be in nice lady clothes, again nae bother to your auntie, I have loads of serious lady lecturing outfits. None of them, sadly, work with fit flops, boots or slippers, I know, completely #firstworldmiddleagedladyproblems.
So enterprising wee soul that I am, I have sourced and I have paid good cash money for a pair of black high heeled suede mules and a packet of something called party feet, they appear to be wee gel cushions you put in your shoes. I'm not sure I would class the Royal College of Nursing's Education conference as a party but us middle aged ladies with bad feet have to take our kicks where we can find them.

Whatever happened to the heroes

Mr auntiegwen and I have very little music we both like. This is due to the fact that I am 4 years older than the lovely mrauntiegwen (if you click on the name it will take you directly to his blog, it's better than this one and he can put pictures on without his laptop having a midlife crisis like mine) and the fact that I listened to nothing other than the wheels on the bus and wind your bobbin up from 1992 to 1999 (when the beautiful baby daughter went to school and I went back to listening to the Sex Pistols and The Stranglers, all this was when mr auntiegwen was listening to The Cramps and the Violent Femmes.  I don't know what's worse.


The one band we both loved was Simple Minds and we found out that Sarah  Cox had Jim Kerr on a tellybox thing, we settled down and prepared to sing along.


You forget that the people you thought were cool and good looking age just like you do. Somewhere in the last 2 decades Jim Kerr has morphed into a mix of my ex husband and Alec Salmond. I haven't put the photos in, because I am a kind auntie, you're welcome.


Best just to remember them in their prime

Ageing

Yesterday I received a letter inviting me for breast screening. Jings, crivens and help my boab (the husband and I have given up swearing, it's going quite well but I did slip when I had my legs waxed)  Had I  turned 50 but was too busy to notice?. Apparently not, they are extending the screening age to 47. I'm pleased about that, I expect the excitement of being able to go on Saga holidays and breast screening would have been way too much for me in the same year.

In which I am temporarily deranged

Last week I was complaining about my mother and then almost to illustrate the point that I am turning into her, I completely lose the plot. Do you need a middle aged woman alert? thought not, that's what you expect now really.

I could cite you several examples of my losing what few marbles I have, I could regale you of how I am so unenamoured of my new smart phone (cue hoots of derisory and slightly maniacal laughter from your auntie) and how my handbag (Cath Kidston large canvas tote, greyey bluey with polka dots, what? I know some of you were wondering) seems to keep accessing the interwebs upon it, resulting in 02 texting me to tell me I have used up all my data allowance. This has resulting in me keeping my phone switched off and I now switch it on once a day to check if anyone has texted or rang me. So, to recap I have a fancy phone that I chose so I could tweet and bookface and blog and email and chat and text etc etc all the time, so I could be part of the digital revolution and I now keep it switched off and check once per day. It is driving the beautiful children wild, all that technology going to waste. I am only feeling slightly superior to my mother in that I can actually text on it, albeit at arms length and with very wild spelling (the keys are very small and it's a qwerty keyboard, c'mon it's dead easy to hit the key next to the one you were aiming for.)Plus, I do keep it with me at all times just in case I need it, it's not in the kitchen drawer with the tea towels like my mother's.

I could recount the middle aged lady noises I made when I received a work email and in the signature at the bottom, not only was there the person's name and job title, there was also a photograph. A sultry pouty pose peering over one shoulder with a startling heavy blusher application to confirm that indeed the 12 year old child sending me the email was indeed a (and I quote) human resources executive.

We will brush over the fact that in the middle of the new James Bond film, I got overly excited and at a moment of much action upon the screen (I think the lady with the curly hair was kicking someone/something - I had eaten myself into a sugar coma at this stage) I exclaimed, in a not as quiet as it should have been, voice "Those are the Jimmy Choo's I want, they're called Lace" I don't think all the James Bond fans who were appreciating the film needed my fashion interjection.

And finally, in a shamefaced, fess it all up fashion. I completely lost the plot and spent £210 on madly expensive goop for my face. And as if we needed any more proof of how mental/old I am, I couldn't even read the damned instructions on how to apply it (even at arm's length), for all I know it could say " Ha ha ha, we have your money old woman, you are old and now £210 poorer, you don't need instructions, you will still be old even with the £210 cream, it matters not a jot in what order you apply them, in what way, use liberally and come back and buy more, sucker"

I still feel queasy when I think of what that money would buy, I have tried all the justification maths but I can't justify spending it at all, in any way, shape or form. This is nice lady things gone mad. I could give you my top 3 excuses as to why I succumbed to the hype

I am old, I would say I am middle aged but unless I live to 92 I would be lying

My skin tone would be scary to the general public if I went out with a naked face

My daughters are in that lovely youthful bloom stage and I just look awful by comparison (maybe I should make friends with some 80 year olds? then I would look better)

I just want to look like the best version of me I can, I am getting older, I don't look as good as I did 5 years ago and I'm doing all the right stuff, I run, I drink water, I eat healthily, I don't drink much now at all, I sleep well and usually 8 hours a night but I still look old. I have to accept the inevitibilty of ageing but I don't want to yet.

Thank God I don't have the money for plastic surgery, you wouldn't recognise me.

End of Story

Shall we start with the nice bit? If you're in need of a cheer up, just read the next paragraph and look at the picture of the cute baby and then click away, after that it's fairly rantie auntie, you have been warned...

I have been home, my new nephew is beautiful and teeny tiny and was a bit yellow but grand now, look how weeny he is compared to my big heffalump of a boy

Okay, that's the good bit, from now on in, it's fairly grim, on your own head be it

I am so trying and failing to enjoy my visits home now, I could give you a list of my main reasons why but I just sound like a grumpy teenager and the world so doesn't need another one of them, my beautiful baby daughter is, in fact, the world's grumpiest teenager and I have no wish for you to see where she could have got that from.

I really struggled with my mother this visit, her need to have her own way at any cost and her refusal to compromise annoys the bejaysus out of me. Her anxieties and stresses about any tiny change in her routine of watching telly and watching telly exasperate me beyond words. This combined with her life long habit of not listening and not remembering make for a bumpy time.

My mother's memory is worsening. A few days of groundhog day conversations made me say that I was worried. Her vehement denial and her refusals to visit her GP over the last 6 months (for her usual BP checks etc) makes me think she knows her memory is worsening too. She is remaining in denial land, no matter how many times we tell her that things have improved hugely since her mother's dementia demise, she remains resolute. There is no problem, she is absolutely fine. End of story, those 3 words are my mothers final and much repeated end to any argument. I must have heard them hundreds of times in my life.

I can't help wondering if her inability to accept any change and her lack of doing anything are because of her mental state. Is it the chicken or the egg? Does she stay at home watching telly and not go out because she can't go wrong? does she not listen to us so she can blame that for not remembering? when did she start having the word finding difficulties?

My dad says he can't remember the last time she cooked a meal, or did some housework or even did the shopping. He has been doing it all. She either tells him things 5 times over ar not at all and then gets completely furious with him when he says she hasn't told him, saying he's the one with the memory problems. He has raised the subject about her memory but the ensuing arguments it caused made him not push the point.

My sister says my mother has stopped visiting, she used to drive the 14 miles a few times a week but she hasn't been for months. My sister has also noticed that mum listens less well and retains less but sees this as an ongoing problem, a gradual worsening, an inevitability.

I am not a good daughter to my mother, our relationship isn't the best or the closest or the easiest, I find it difficult to be with her. The parts of myself I particularly dislike are things I associate with my mother. I put a good face on it, I visit, we speak, I know she would help me if I needed it, I try but it doesn't come naturally to me, I don't have the ease with her I have with others.

I am not kind and patient like I am with others who suffer memory loss. I am not accomodating and cheerful and understanding, I am cross and tetchy and I find it incredibly tedious. I seem to lack genuine compassion for her, if she was your mother I would be much more understanding. And that is a huge shame, she must be so scared, she looked after my gran who had dementia, it must be like facing up to your own personal doom. This is a massive failing on my part, something I will have to really work on.

I don't understand why she won't go to her GP, I have an overwhelming need to know, no matter how bad I need to know what I am dealing with. I am an ex nurse, I believe in getting checked and seeing if any drug or therapy or lifestyle change can help. I believe in having the positive mental attitude, in matters medical I believe that early diagnosis is crucial. I sincerely hope she goes and gets checked out to see if there is anything that can be done to help.

But maybe I'm thinking about physical problems but it's not a physical problem, maybe if it was my mind I was scared of losing, I would be right where she is, in denial.

Texting for old people - a guide for the middle aged

My sister sent me this, as I near 45, she obviously feels I need to save as much time as I can

ATD - at the doctors

BFF - best friends funeral

BTW - bring the wheelchair

FWIW - forgot where I was

GHA - got heartburn again

IMHO - is my hearing aid on?

WAITT - who am I talking to?

You know you're getting old when...

You get to have breakfast at the weekend with your daughter. She is returning home after a night out and you're just getting up at 6 like you always do.

Weekend mornings become very peaceful, there is no rush to swimming/ballet/drama/rugby/horse riding. You are the only person awake till at least mid day.

Your son counts the beer bottle tops in his pocket when you ask him how much he'd had to drink. The vomit on his t shirt and in his hair kind of gave me a clue is was more than his allotted 3 shandies.

Everyone stares at you as you walk down the street, well at your very beautiful daughter beside you. You are now invisible.

You cry at the end of Toy Story 3, I won't spoil it as I know I've seen it early but it is particularly poignant for Mummies with teenagers.

Your child has a boyfriend with a mortgage, a car and a career and pension plan.

You know you're not as young as you used to be...

When a beer at your last gig cost more than your first gig and that included chips and your bus fare home.

When you decide that you'd actually rather stay home in your jammies than go out on a collegues leaving do. On a Friday night too. In town. With bars. And the possibility of flirting, red wine and sneaky smokes. I was asleep by 9.30pm.

When you remembered that November 5th 1984 was the day you became a student nurse. And then you realised that was TWENTYFECKINFIVE years ago. Twenty five, Christ that shook me.

When you know the words to the song on the radio from the first time round original version. And you prefer it.

Maybe this next bit is for the girls? If you're a male reader come back another day, click away now, nothing to see here.

When you make a show of yourself in Next by laughing (and I mean I've had 3 kids and my pelvic floor's not as it was laughing) at the floral leggings. You realise that even bad fashion comes back around. I sent a picture message of them to my friend Lou in Edinburgh, she replied by email and sent a pic of us in maternity T shirts and floral leggings, how chic we looked.

When you prefer your fit-flops to your peerie heels. Okay, my head is hung very low in shame, me the queen of shoe porn, I know.

When you can't wait to take your bra off and not for the reason that you used to throw it off with gay abandon.

When you decide that being single is an actual benefit as you no longer have to upkeep your Hollywood.

TMI

I have had to face up to an unwelcome truth today. As much as I try to avoid it with the copious amounts of anti wrinkle cream and the fashionable clothes and the vaguely youthful music, I am getting old.

This morning I noticed a grey hair, and it wasn't on my head.