Too Old For This Or That

Just little ole me at a June festival.

You are too old for kicking up your heels, too old for acting the fool, too old for wearing a sleeveless dress and having your hair long; it looks such a mess.

You are too old to wear those boots, they’re for the beautiful, the youthful ones like models and teens. Not old exhibitionists and women unrefined, not sixty-five-year-old Grandma’s with faces all lined.

You shouldn’t wear red at your age, it’s just not the done thing. How can you be taken seriously if you dress like that and as for that hat! What were you thinking, what sort of example do you make? Out wearing lipstick and rouge. Stockingless legs, … I’ve never seen such a thing.

Holding hands in public, are you scared you’ll take a fall? Turn your cheek, an air kiss is best for someone your age. Smile, don’t giggle you are long since being a girl. No dancing, leave it to the young you had your time, and frankly, your time is done.

So, as you can see, I take no notice of being too old for this or that. I dare to be sleeveless and wear a hat, I drink fizz when I want to and dance to a tune. Kick up my heels and occasionally light up a room.

I can stomp at a festival swig drink from a can I can swear like a sailor if the occasion seems right. I can mix with the poor of pocket, those down at heel, as quickly as I converse with any ladies n gents. I can hold court with the best that there is. Because I am no worse or no better, there is no ‘Class’ in how we were bred. Just human beings with thoughts in our heads.

Below, is myself reading the poem for those who want to hear rather than read.

I hope you enjoyed a poem inspired by some of my Mother’s ‘suggestions’ but remember who suggested them. At 91 her thoughts differ somewhat from mine. Let me know in the comments below if you have had any such suggestions I would love to know.


Three Hours Digging With A Two Pronged Fork.

Before you get stung. Long before your back aches and nettles have numbed the pads of your fingers, Stop! Assess the situation, what do you need? Before you take on the task. What tools are available and can you actually achieve what you’ve promised with the equiptment that is there.

Pulling on one blue disposable glove found in the conservatory drawer, I remember thinking, … It’ill do. That was before wriggling my hand into the second glove. A gentle tug at the cuff removed all the fingers, like some 1950’s cartoon.

Mother hides the key to the shed in a closet, why? Mum says, ‘Better safe than sorry.’ In my deck shoes, one blue glove, a blue plastic covered thumb and wrist, I just get on with it. ‘Put your back into it, a bit of elbow grease is all it takes,’ said Mum.

Dad had all his gardening implements in order, clean, hung and in excellent condition. Nine years since Dad and longer since I really took stock. On the surface every thing looked fine. I had taken the mower, rake and hoe for a workout on occasion without a problem. But that day I needed more, so delved deeper to collect things. The bucket had lost its handle, the watering can was missing the rose, secateurs were nowhere to be found and the garden fork had only two prongs.

The day was balmy, the sun, had very little heat as it is early May in England. Everyone who is anyone knows May is the month for catching you without a coat. Last week it was hail with a smattering of snow, like flour on the floor when I bake. But the bright day enthused me to the task. An hour in and I stop, wipe my face and look at the barely touched, rock hard earth. Either dust or concrete Mum suggests tea and a rest, apparently I look a rather good shade of beetroot; thanks Mother.

A Robin had been watching from the fence post, … worm waiting. Mother quipped ‘It’s Dad, checking that you are doing it right.’ Armed with a walnut slice and a napkin she placed in front of me, and nodded towards it. ‘Eat up, you’ll need your strength.’ I cracked on. Two Robins got very close to the two pronged fork looked at each other and twittered. I swear they said. ‘She has no chance.’ And flitted back to a nearby shrub.

Perseverance was the key to success, as three hours in I had wrestled brambles, nettles and bind weed. I had trimmed the ornamental grass and weeded. I planted some random seeds found in an old lone Wellington boot and watered what was left of the 12 foot long flowerbed.

The almost full garden bin was the proof of my labour’s.

Around ten that night I noticed the phone flash with several missed calls from Mum. ‘Hello Mum, are you okay?’ The line crackled she stumbled her whispered words. ‘Someone has been in the garden, they have stolen all my plants up the back, left it bare they have.’ I pause to check myself so as not to make the confusion worse. ‘It’s okay Mum It was me, that was what I was doing weeding and tidying, … this afternoon?’ ‘Oh, yes yes of course, you should have told me dear, I was a bit worried. I am ninety you know, fancy giving me a fright.’ … I guess that being 90 and nearly one, has its downside on occasions.

Lessons learnt 1. Brown owl was right one should always be prepared. 2. Mothers frequently know best. 3. Robins are as astute as Mothers. 4 being over 90 is not always perfect.

This was written for Esme’s prompt Go here to join in or read others responses.

A northern flicker.

Although not a Northen Flicker My Robin seemed to fit the bill nicely. If you liked? it let me know in the comments.

The Dirty Sun.


This morning, I woke to a pink sky. For the first time in weeks the wind and rain had stopped battering us, leaves stopped swirling in never ending circles on the lawn. Squirrels could collect and bury their nuts without their tails slapping their faces as they did so.

The sun streams through the windows to remind me of the things I need to do, or didn’t do as well as I thought. I refer to this type of light, the sort that comes in low and shows up every speck of dust and glass streak it can find. ‘The Dirty Sun.’

Grunts and rumbles can be heard from overhead, a tap runs a cistern noisily empties.The Husband wanders down stairs fresh from sleep, scratching his head and looking about the room with a bemused squinting smile on his face.

I get it in first. ‘Can you see what this dirty sun has done to the table and windows?’ Without stopping for breath. ‘How very dare it leave such a mess.’
‘Let us just close the curtains then we don’t have to look, … what do you say?’
He smiled and replied. ‘It makes perfect sense to me.’
Such a considerate man. > I sigh <
I go back to writing while the cups clink in the kitchen and his voice heavy with laughter said, ‘Tea.’

I would love to hear your comments, at least to read some. I follow other commenters blogs and would love to get to know you. “How’s your morning?”

Thank Goodness all wishes don’t come true. The wish I made #99wordstories


At five I wished on a candle stuck in a little soldiers head, impaled in the icing of a Victoria sponge cake. My wish was sent out to the universe to be granted and promptly forgotten, … as spur of the moment wishes often are.

If I had to guess, I expect it was to be allowed to strip off the icing, to eat it first. If so, it would not have come true. Today, at 64 I send out daily gratitude affermations. I thank the universe for the wonderful life I have now; and of course for saving my teeth.

This is for Charli’s Monday 99 word story prompt, you can read all the collection of stories > here <

P.S. I publish this on my first born’s birthday.

I would love to read your favourite best wish in the comments x

Tuscany Breathing.

My own photo.

On the outskirts of Volterra

In the heart of the rolling Tuscan hills.

With the windows thrown wide,

we lay still and listen,

We listen to the wonder of Tuscany.

When the Bullfrog’s and Cicadas compete for air time,

Wild Boar and Deer bark and call to their mates.

The firefly’s hop and prance throwing sparkles in their wake,

Specks of luminous green light whizz here and there,

As if being chased by the sunrise.

Silent streaks of Tuscan sun warm the distant hills.

All is still, hot, and quiet.

Except for the sound

of Tuscany breathing.


My own photo.

Bathe In History Through this door.

This is for Esme Slabs prompt Through the door press > Join in < to do just that.


This is The Husband and myself wrapped up from the driving wind one March day in Dorset in the UK..

A relitivly short but very steep climb took us to St Catherines Chapel. It is high on a hilltop overlooking Chesil Beach the swannery below and views of the Isle of Portland. The 14th century chapel was built by the monks of nearby Abbotsbury. Today the chapel still sits in isolation. I felt pretty close to God that day. This is a curious little chapel, full of secret ‘knooks’ and ‘wishing holes’ where local women used to pray to St Catherine and ask her to find them a husband. Luckily I did not need her help with that task.

The local parish holds occasional services throughout the year, which are open to the public. The acoustics inside are amazing so accopella voices are the best thing to hear as are the choral voices of Children at Christmas. So going through this door, … delivered atmosphere, surprises and history. #NationalHeritage

Picture on loan from the English Heritage page Here

Press here to Listen and watch

When Asked In A Prompt What would I do if I won €100?#Goodworks

Press the three words in blue to join in #prompt5 📢 Come and see 📍

Thank you Tenor

It is not a question I ponder often. Winning prizes is rarely achieved by me. I have won three ‘competitions’ in my 64 years, at least, that weren’t for writing. I enter things like flash fiction, poetry and writing competitions, but that is work and as it should be. This time, the answer was a no brainer, a Fait Accompli as it were.

For when I win, (one has to think positive) I will scream and shout, wave my knickers in the air and whoop, as I simultaneously danced around the floor.

Thank you Tenor

Of course, it goes without saying, … the knickers would be unworn, probably new ones, my special occasion knickers. I would never remove mine, mainly because the jumping and twirling may show the parts that nobody’s eyes should meet.

I would call my daughter. She and some wonderful friends give up their own Christmas morning. As they prepare, and cook from scratch fresh food, providing all manner of traditional fare, including a sumptuous dessert. They give serviettes, baubles and a few sweets as well as cheese and biscuits. They deliver them hot to their homes. They wrap colouring books and pencils, crackers, baubles and a few treats. It is a piece of Christmas that they otherwise would not have. They feed families facing hardship from the three Schools (about 60 people at last count get fed) to give them each a memorable Christmas. One that many have never had.

The money is gathered from fundraisers at the three schools and people who try to give a little. They sell things, make things, and care. But it always depends on how much they raise as to how many they can feed. Also, she pursuades the director for use of a school kitchen and some monies towards it all.

Mostly it is her and her team of people with big hearts that pull this off. They plan, shop and gather the information long before the day. I am proud of my daughter’s ingenuity, haggling skills and sheer determination that she has for feeding them all. She is a constantly busy lady, as the director of school improvement, overseeing three schools and head of a large school herself. I don’t know how she pulls it together. Her time is precious and rarely spare. This cause is where I would gift the prize, if or when I win. One hundred dollars will feed a few more. I would like to wipe the shadow from my daughters eyes, that would be something. The shaddow that comes when she has no more to give. After all, neither mouths nor tummies should be empty any day, but especially not at Christmas.

Thank you Tenor.

What would you do if you won? Answers in the comments please. … Or press the red link at the top to join in or write ✍ a post.

Time never holds its breath

When you can’t catch yours.

The sun doesn’t forget to rise,

from behind closed doors.

Strength appears from nowhere,

It slips beneath a storm filled cloud.

Allowing us to breathe in its beauty,

To hear nature sigh out loud.

Our world continues turning,

Despite sadness in our eyes.

Or the sound of the earth failing,

The throbbing beat of babies cries.

Our Earth begins to rumble,

Beneath the dying sea-floor.

For the Wildlife, there is no saving,

Sea-creatures will be no more.

Only the cries of number 52

As he sings his lonely song.

No partner tuned in to hear him

His opportunities long gone

Too late, we see the destruction,

Earth destroyed by human greed

It will be with enormous sadness

As floods drown out the last seed.

To hear the facts of no.52 press here

To extend the life of Earth as we know it we must work now. Simply turning the thermostat down 2°, not putting heating on until the evening, wear a sweater if you are cold, think twice before turning on air conditioning, shopping once a month instead of weekly. Use public transport or share space in your car, walk or bike where possible, recycle ♻️, home cook, grow your own,  eat what you need not what you want. These are a few small changes that will help our planet prolong its life. Which do you do? Leave a comment I would ❤ to know. 

Every day I become more fearful for our world if only each of us took it upon ourselves to change one thing … we could prevent my words from coming true.

” What could or do you do to help?” Leave me your thoughts, I love to chat. 😇

Our lonely planet Is left with the worlds Lonliest Whale, singing forlornly in the incorrect Hertz