Letting them Go

“It is always sad when someone leaves home, unless they are simply going around the corner and will return in a few minutes with ice-cream sandwiches.”

Lemony Snicket

As new parents, the moment we gaze upon our newborn child, we begin to experience a sacrificial but also interdependent love like none we have experienced before. Our child depends on us but we too begin to depend on that feeling of being needed by them. We feed and clothe our children while training them for independent living. We even fool ourselves into thinking this time of nurturing continues forever – but eventually, for most, the time arrives, somewhat brutally, when we have to let our children go and begin their own journey in life.

The moment my eldest daughter entered her final year of Sixth Form, the day when she would leave home and go to uni came into view on the horizon. Not like the welcome first sight of the sea, more like the beginnings of a massive industrial build about to block your view of the countryside.

Still, I courted that day by helping my daughter choose which universities to apply for and taking her to their open days. I would sit in a lecture theatre listening to someone talk about the wonderful time my daughter was going to have at said institution – how she would even have the opportunity to study abroad, in some cases – for a whole year! I would feign enthusiasm until I believed it, while looking round impersonal halls of residence and imagining my daughter all alone in one of the little, bare rooms.

A gut-wrenching homesickness and sense of not belonging had tarnished my own time at university, forcing me to eventually leave after a year. I travelled home every weekend. Every Sunday after I waved my Mum and younger brother off, as they kindly always drove me back to London, I would cry into my pillow and hope Friday came quickly. The Top 40 countdown jingle on a Sunday evening and the view of the city just near the Scratchwood Services (now London Gateway), still bring feelings of unease even today.

None of this I wanted for my daughter. So, we talked about the importance of Freshers Week and getting to know people, of joining groups she was interested in and that any investment in settling in to uni during that first term would make the rest of her time there so much easier.

The dreaded day arrived and as I fussed around helping make her bed look homely, breathing in the slightly nauseating smell of noodles that was coming from the communal kitchen, I could feel my toes on the edge of a cliff of misery. We eventually dropped her at a meeting point on the college campus, where some nerdy types were going on a Pokemon Go walk and we said our goodbyes. I thought I would choke trying to stay cheerful. As we drove out of sight I sobbed.

For those of you with young children, that day for you must seem far off. But, believe me when I say that it comes around in an instant. I still hate the goodbyes. Four years down the road I still feel a tightness in my chest as I drop my eldest daughter outside her current house-share. The times apart are fine, strangely. It’s just the parting again after a visit – but it’s more of a tug inside my heart than full-blown tears now.

This year I start the same rollercoaster ride with my youngest daughter as she ponders the university courses she is interested in. I worry she will feel like I did. But maybe not. And so I paint another enthusiastic , encouraging smile on my face and brace myself once more for a slightly broken heart.

Ten Year Challenge

January. Some people see it as standing at the foot of a glorious ascent into the magnificent unknown. For others it’s a clean slate – a new start – maybe a chance to make amends to others, ourselves or the body. And for those like myself, it can seem like a leap into the yawning chasm of uncertainty as the friendly hand of the old year releases its grip. I seem to anticipate loss rather than gain. It seems safer than to be hurt or disappointed.

The start of the New Year brings the obligatory looking back at the previous 12 months. In addition, this year has had people reviewing the past decade as we move into the 20s.

Social media has had its new decade ‘thing’, with people posting pictures of themselves 10 years apart. For the young this is an often funny, sweet delve into the cute clothes, smiley faces and chubby cheeks of their childhood snaps. For me I found myself poring over Facebook photos from 2009/10, trying to pinpoint where my thoughts were at that time, whether the age spot on my face was smaller then – if I had fewer wrinkles.

In 2010 my children were still young – 12 and 7 . They needed me every day and the kitchen table was a hive of activity rather than the solitary work station it is today. Life revolved around school, dance classes, nit-combing, helping with homework and cuddles. I often felt exhausted and overwhelmed. As it all became too much to juggle, I took a two year break from work until my youngest had finished lower school.

2010 was also the time I parted ways with organised religion. I had spent the previous 20 years exploring every flavour of Christianity there was – and found myself back at vanilla. I needed space to ponder and ask questions – the answers of which I hadn’t yet found in the four walls of a church building or amongst the ‘other worldliness’ of the Happy Clappies. I was feeling let down by it all.

Some friends too appear to be cyclical. The school gate and church seem to account mostly for these. Friends I was close to a decade ago I hardly ever see today. I knew their landline number by heart and yet now I know nothing about their lives. Social media allows a brief connection to some, but those who never joined or who are concerned about privacy, have slipped away, along with my memory of their phone number.

So, what have I achieved in the past decade ? Sipping a ‘rather too heavy on the gin’ and tonic the other evening I had declared to someone who had popped up on Messenger, who, coincidently I hadn’t spoken to for a decade, that I hadn’t achieved anything since I last spoke to them. It feels like that sometimes when I look around at my physical surroundings. My kitchen drawers certainly feel that way as they bravely hang on in for another decade. In truth, though, I have achieved quite a bit – just not things that can be easily measured .

* In 2012 I started the job I am still in today, This brought me some new, wonderful friends and a wealth of new knowledge.

*I have learnt to question my faith and be happy with that, without losing it completely.

* I have done my very best to be a good Mum to my girls and today I have my eldest, a confident young woman, living , working and studying away from home and my youngest, happy at 6th form college.

* I took on a little rescue dog from Cyprus, who has brought so much joy to our family.

* I have learned to fight against myself less -to make a decision and stick to it and to not expect change from others. That has been the primary reason I feel more content than a decade ago.

* I am now honest about what I like and don’t like – I have learned to say ‘No’ and not seek the approval of others for my decisions. I probably like myself better than 10 years ago too.

The next decade will have different challenges. I am ageing – gah ! – and so are those I love dearly, including my little dog. The risk of unwanted change is greater as you age – especially when you cross the half-way line !

At least there is one thing I can nearly be sure of when this next decade ends. I won’t be counting more grey hairs – not visible ones anyway, and not on my scalp ! My lovely hairdresser sees to that.

The Long or Short Straw ?

There’s something about your fiftieth Birthday that makes you confront your own mortality. It’s a major turning point and there’s no dressing it up. You remember your own parents turning fifty – and you thought they were old. Now you are them.

You have become the target audience for over-50s life insurance, funeral plans and Saga holidays and when you reach fifty-five you can then add retirement housing to your list. Advertisements aimed at you have greying, benevolent-faced men and women, sporting chinos and Cotton Traders shirts. They, of course, are beginning their fun-packed, travel-filled retirement – I, on the other hand, am desperately making up my pension years, with little chance of retiring before I have to re-apply for my driving licence.

On the health front, I liken myself, this side of fifty, to a ten year old car. Things have started to go wrong and I probably need my cam belt changing. I am not as reliable as I once was and use a lot of oil. Sometimes I have the enthusiasm and drive of my youth, but mostly I prefer a calm life and taking it easy. Just a couple of prescription meds keep my show on the road, for now. And gels. Lots of gel.

I have both longevity and premature death in my genes. My Mum died at the age of 57 from a massive brain haemorrhage. She was otherwise healthy and in good shape. According to the neurosurgeon, she had probably had the aneurysm that caused the bleed since childhood. All sorts of factors could have contributed to its rupturing, but the main one was Bad Luck. And so I wonder about my luck. Do I have some ticking time bomb inside me like she did ? Has Fate marked my card denying me my old age, or will I follow most of my relatives and reach my 80s. It would be good to know because I could adjust my behaviour accordingly.

The other week, Spring poked its head around the corner and Costa decided to refresh its frozen drink range. I had walked into town during my lunch hour and had settled down in a corner with my frozen Fruit Cooler and a piece of tiffin to watch the street outside. On taking a sip of my drink, a searing pain shot up my neck to my head, just above my eye. ‘So, this is it,’ I thought. ‘It’s the short straw I’ve picked and it all ends here in Costa Coffee !’

Of course, it didn’t. It was simply a reaction to the icy drink and after a few grounding exercises I was back planning what I was going to cook for dinner and my pain was gone.

Joking aside, though, I regularly take my blood pressure at home and I keep a couple of aspirin by our bed in case of a heart attack. Other than that life goes on as normal and I allow myself to dream about the next phase of my life, where our girls are both independent adults and my husband and I can start running around sand dunes in our chinos and walking sandals.

Being a Square Peg in a Square Hole.

Conformity. From an early age it is something we are taught – to fit in, to be like others, to want to be like others. Society operates that way. It works on our deep-seated desire to belong, to act in a certain way, to meet approval , to want what we see is desirable that others have, or to own the things society expects us to have. A home, perhaps a car, a job – children maybe. It is a form of control, without which, I suppose, life as we know it wouldn’t function.

The majority of teens, today, will follow a pattern – hair styles that are deemed on trend, clothing from popular chain stores – nothing too ‘out there’, make-up inspired by YouTubers and of course the ubiquitous Sports logos. If you follow these rules you fit in. Those who don’t, risk the ridicule and suspicion of their peers. A sad but true fact. And many of us, as parents, buy into that need because we remember times when we, ourselves, didn’t fit in at one point and how that made us feel.

In my teenage years there was a trend to be ‘alternative’, which of course by becoming a trend, wasn’t at all. Depending on who you hung out with, you conformed. A punk rocker sitting in a pub on the King’s Road, London would barely have raised an eyebrow – but walking down a suburban high street may have rustled many a feather. Maybe you belonged to a group of Goths in your local town – but still you conformed to the group. To truly rebel you would have to have gone out with your black-eyed, spikey-haired friends, as a Nick Haywood/ Simon Le Bon look-alike to the local Goth drinking hole !

I am aware that I have always modified my behaviour, desires or appearance to fit in with others. Having to wear spectacles from the age of 6 to 13 was a huge dent in my confidence. I hated being ‘Four-Eyes’. When I hit my 13th Birthday I was told I could have contact lenses. Not the soft, comfortable sorts we wear today but lumps of glass that took forever to get used to. But it didn’t matter. I felt normal again.

School crazes are also part of this need to belong. When I was 8 we had a bizarre class craze of using Vicks inhalers. We would sit there unscrewing the things, sticking them up our nostrils then putting them back in our pockets or pencil cases – all day long !

Throughout my school life, there was always the girl that wore the best version of the school uniform, that I wanted to emulate. The hue and thread of the pullover would be slightly different, the skirt would be perfectly fashionable, the shirt collar just that little bit trendier than most school shirts. The rest of us would be playing catch-up.

Nowadays, I try to pretend not to bother about trends or brands, but I can’t help but get a feeling of gleeful satisfaction if I am bought something that modern society has declared desirable – a pair of Ugg boots or a Jo Malone perfume, or I treat myself to a lipstick from a high-end cosmetic company. It feels special. I feel I have bought a little piece of belonging to a different lifestyle. I remember my first pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses. They felt so good. I wore them with pride, happy to show off the logo. That sense of belonging to something better. Weird and somewhat embarrassing to admit !

In many ways, though, my life has not conformed. I dropped out of university. I married a foreigner. I have never had to worry about rent or a mortgage and I think that, in turn, has made me less ambitious. I turn my nose up at spending money on bettering our home and prefer, instead, to spend money on a holiday every year, much to my Dad’s bemusement as he observes the state of our kitchen floor and misted double-glazing.

Sometimes, I wish my home life and marriage was more like others. But of course we all think that. We all have the version we present to the outside world and the truthful reality, with all its nuances, known only to the people involved. And life has shown me that there is no right or wrong way to conduct a relationship, as long as both parties are happy.

It takes bravery and supreme self-confidence to truly buck the trend of ‘normal’ living – to not care what people think of you and your choices – to know that all that matters is that you believe in you – to not seek the approval of others. I still find myself wanting to be a people-pleaser and to fit in, but age and experience now allow me to feel more comfortable in my choices and not to make it my goal in life.

It’s OK to be different.

Feel the Panic and Carry On

The first time I experienced a panic attack I was standing in a hotel foyer, as a teenager, in Lisbon. It was completely overwhelming. I felt distressed, my heart was racing and I felt lost, afraid and tearful. I frightened the person I was with and it took some hours to feel normal again. The exuberance of youth, however, allowed me to push it to one side and move on.

The first day on a new temping assignment when I was just married, was my second one. It crept up on me during the day. I felt a tingling around my mouth and a feeling as if someone was stroking my leg. Eventually, I had to ask to leave and on my way home I was convinced I was dying. I felt weird for the rest of the day and frightened that it would happen again.

After having seen my GP, I realised I had suffered a panic attack. We were planning a move to Portugal at the time and subconsciously I think I was worried. But this panic attack completely rocked my confidence. I became anxious about being outside in public places. My heart would race and I would feel light-headed.

As I went through my twenties I learnt how to deal with them. They always crept up on me unawares. And often when I was alone. Pins and needles, tingles, lightheadedness . Once back in a familiar place with people I knew, I would gradually feel better. By my thirties they had become so infrequent I no longer thought about them.

Recently, having gone through menopause, I suddenly feel vulnerable again. I worry about losing those I love. I am feeling my age. And with that those familiar feelings of panic have reappeared. . When this happens I feel I want to pull a blanket over me and hide. I cope with work – if anything it is a distraction. But days off bring over-thinking, which is exhausting. I lack motivation and a sense of purpose and forget how to be my own best friend. Instead, I accuse myself of not doing enough, not stretching myself and I have to make do with achieving the bare minimum. Sleep is my friend. It puts my scrambled thoughts into order and quietens and soothes any distress.

But on the good days I remind myself that the bare minimum is ok. It is keeping the show on the road. It is being Claire. That’s who I am. An over-thinker, a worrier, a frequently disappointed , yet continuing optimist. I will find my sense of belonging again in this new chapter of my life. And until then I will just be.

I’m sorry but it hurts !

The pain was excruciating. It hurt so much. I had to tell them to stop. She hurt me. He hurt me. I was in tears when I left. All from the mouths of women who have had bad experiences at gynaecology clinics. Today I had yet another conversation with a friend who felt they had been hurt and had their request for anaesthetic seem an annoyance to the clinician.

Why does this happen ? Why is it ok to think that it isn’t painful for women to have their reproductive organs examined or treated ? Is it because the access to them is a well-trodden route ? Sex, tampons, coil insertions and of course childbirth, when 3-4 kilos of baby is released into that superhighway, the vagina, all take their toll. Surely such a used, sometimes scarred and weathered place must be able to withstand significant pain ?

But the fact is – for all the vagina’s traffic, it doesn’t mean that you can prod and poke around at what is at the end of it, without it hurting. It isn’t fair to make women feel as if they are being fussy and causing trouble to ask for an anaesthetic. Many times a local anaesthetic isn’t even offered unless it is requested. Women are just frequently expected to put up with invasive and painful procedures with nothing but gritted teeth.

Females are generally hardy, with an exceedingly high pain threshold. But are they really ? Is it just that they have been conned into thinking that pain is normal – for them anyway. From personal experience it is interesting that you can have an operation on your hand and be deemed worthy of having your meals brought to your bed, yet the local hospital post-natal ward is a self-service affair. Women who have endured hours of painful labour, shuffle along the corridor in dressing gowns, wincing with each step, like something out of a zombie movie. No special treatment for them – just another day at the reproduction office.

Sadly it is the elderly women, the shy and the ones who don’t like to make a fuss that get the worst deal in all of this. They are the ones who won’t ask for pain relief, who won’t say no to the student audience, who will walk away in silent, painful acceptance of whatever happens.

It is a nonsense that women should have to endure pain. Discomfort admittedly – but not pain. To my fellow Eves, don’t suffer in silence. Ask for pain relief – decide who can watch or accompany the procedure. And if you feel that somehow you have been treated uncaringly or made to suffer unnecessary pain, then make sure you report your feelings to PALS – the Patient Advice and Liaison Service.

Heaven is ….

Sitting in the sun, but under a parasol, with a good book and a view of the sea. Hotel accommodation – but not all-inclusive and not in an isolated spot. Within a four-hour flight from the UK, but not the UK. Accompanied by my husband and two daughters. That is holiday heaven for me .

Sun and warmth are a key ingredient for my annual holiday. Partly, I think, because so many childhood holidays were spent in pursuit of that elusive bit of blue sky, when you could briefly predict being able to expose your flesh to the elements. Jumpers and cardigans were not an unusual sight on a beach, even in August. We were a hardy bunch and as a young child it didn’t bother me at all – in or out of the water. As I entered my teenage years we all wanted that Duran Duran ‘Rio’ suntan and unless we slavered on the innovative (at the time) Duo Tan it just wasn’t going to happen on a beach in Westward-Ho !

The Parasol is important. Firstly, it protects from the blazing heat of Southern European summers, yet it still allows some rays through. You still feel as if you are sitting in the sun. Along with my Factor 50, a lesson learned too late to save my mottled skin from the die-hard sunbathing of my youth, it allows enough protection to spend the day outside enjoying the sun’s rays without burning or over-heating.

Reading – I love good story-telling , so definitely not non-fiction. I always feel self-indulgent as I pack my reading selection for any holiday. These books represent that I will have nothing to do, nothing to feel responsible for. That I can choose to pick up any one of them to read, whenever I want, without feeling as if I should be doing something else. And no, not a Kindle. I tried that and discarded it. It has to be a proper book.

Having lived in one of the UK’s counties furthest away from the sea, the first sight of the sea has always filled me with a deep sense of joy, relief even – like being able to take a deep breath for the first time in ages. For us Inlanders, who didn’t play The First Person to See The Sea on their family holidays ? For me, no view surpasses the sight of sea meeting land and so it is of absolute importance for my summer holiday. And it has to be sea – I have dismissed the Italian Lakes for this very reason.

My house is at the end of a no-through road. I don’t see much from my front-facing kitchen window ; the odd delivery person, the postman, the neighbour next door or the inquisitive sort who thinks it’s a short cut to somewhere else then has to turn round and do the walk of shame back past my viewpoint. Hotel accommodation, therefore, is preferable to a villa holiday because I like to people-watch. I enjoy the hustle and bustle for a change – especially a hotel in a resort rather than one standing alone on a headland.

Villa holidays also mean self-catering – which involves trips to the supermarket and preparing food – even if you eat out once a day. Yes, you get more space – but space isn’t an issue for a week or fortnight when your holiday isn’t going to be blighted by bad weather. Villas can also have a tendency to be dark inside, partly to keep out the heat – but the result is rather gloomy . I like the white, brightly lit walls, silky sheets, and generic art work of hotel rooms, along with a balcony to sit out on in the evening -somewhere to spy on the world from above.

Half-board is my preferred meal option. All-inclusive can make you a prisoner of your hotel – and the quality of food, drink and the inevitable queuing frequently unappealing. However Bed and Breakfast isn’t enough. As a family we are poor at making choices – we make good choices but take too long to make them. This can have a detrimental effect on finding a restaurant for an evening meal. In the past we have finally sat down for a meal only for a younger eldest daughter to announce that she was not hungry, tired and wanted to go to bed. The meal was aborted. Half-board has solved this issue. We all know where we are going and at what time.

A four-hour flight maximum from the UK. Yes, it is limiting and I could be persuaded to travel further, but why for the holiday I enjoy ? All the necessary requirements are reachable in four hours, with enough variety there to keep it interesting. Why spend a whole day of my precious annual leave, sitting on a plane sipping room temperature white wine, hemmed in behind the seat in front for longer than is necessary ?

But the UK itself will not do. The uncertainty of the weather, the slightly sad and quirky seaside hotels with their carpeted bathrooms, the abundance of pebble beaches and freezing waters is only really week-end material. Then, it doesn’t matter if you have to pack a brolly and scuttle between teashops to avoid the downpours.

And finally – my preferred companions – my husband and girls. Yes, we argue, yes we like doing different things – but it works and we can be ourselves. No-one is going to feel offended – well not for long, anyway. Irritation can be addressed freely and still we shall all be talking at dinner time. Holidaying with others, whilst enjoyable, does require a bit too much compromise and biting of tongues to be a truly restful break.

So that’s the kind of holiday I would like this year. As my eldest daughter forges her own life now, the opportunities for just the four of us to be together are fewer and therefore more precious. I hope this year will be one of them.

Those who Run and the Rest of Us.

There is a section of my trip to work favourited by those who like to run. In the morning, lycra-clad Mums, sporting the latest designer leggings and heart rate monitors – or whatever it is they strap to their arms, with not a bouncing boob in sight, jog and puff their way along the pavement. I imagine their fridges full of halloumi and almond milk and their kids packed lunches a homage to healthy eating.

Men feature more heavily on the evening run and also groups of women running together. During the winter months, some have lights on their heads – like surgeons. I imagine how great they must feel, mentally and physically, at the end of it , when they finally kick off their running shoes. These aren’t amateurs or the Couch to 5K crew (although some will hide in their midst for a day or two before falling away ) – they are the elite crowd – the die-hards. They shame those of us who drive past on the evening run, just thinking about dinner.

I have tried many times to become a member of this club of people who get high on a sprint down the park. But try as I might – from an early age, running has always brought pain and wheezing.

Who can forget being forced to run the 800 Metres at school ! Even as a skinny 10 year old, by the second lap of the field I would be struggling to catch my breath and have a pain in my side. For the rest of the school day, I would wheeze each time I breathed. In fact, all through my life, whenever I have attempted to jog or run, each time thinking that today would be the day I relished the blood pumping through my veins as I pounded the pavement- the same thing has happened. It was only recently that a nurse told me I probably had exercise-induced asthma and that I had coped with it by avoiding the triggers, such as running. Hence why I wasn’t affected by it on a daily basis.

At this moment in life my dodgy knee rules out any chance of joining the Run for Fun brigade. Walking, pain free, is my aim these days and things are definitely improving. But any lycra I may buy in the future will probably only grace the hall of a Pilates class or Beginners Yoga and I think I will stick to black.

If you are a Runner, though, I salute you. Those of you who run, rain or shine, dark or light and think nothing of a cheeky half marathon at the weekend, for pleasure alone – you belong to a select breed of human being !

An Olive Grove in Tuscany

Do you ever think back to what you dreamed your adult life would be like? Does your life now look anything like what you had hoped for ?

I dreamed of living in Italy – looking out over a Tuscan olive grove. I had vague ideas about what I would do, but nothing concrete – nothing to work on really. My dream was a precarious one as I was always a home bird and relied a lot on my Mum for emotional support. Therefore things started to unravel the moment I waved goodbye to my parents on my first day at Uni and I sat on my bed, in a shared room with another girl, who I didn’t know. I felt sick with longing to return home.

Eventually after trying to fit in and struggling with the workload, I gave up. The dream of my Dad had ended. I was supposed to get a degree, any degree. But that was not meant to be. What followed was a series of jobs for a temping agency, none of which was very interesting. Checking crystal glasses for imperfections, calling out phone calls on an intercom while reading Mills and Boon novels and phoning directory enquiries all day asking for three phone numbers at a time to make up a contacts list, to name a few.

Having fallen for a Portuguese guy whilst on a summer course while I was still at Uni, I aimed to find a job in Portugal, so I could be near him. This resulted in a foray into the cut-throat world of timeshare. It was a disaster – in two weeks I only managed to convince two people to go and look around the hotel we were promoting. I spoke to the well-spoken lady who had recruited me in London – she was ‘in a relationship’ with the aggressive American in charge of the selling. ‘You’re too nice for this job” she said. Her American pit-bull just called me a drop out.

I never made it to my house in Tuscany. But I did make it to a house in Lisbon, where I lived with my husband – the Portuguese guy – for the first years of our marriage. We looked out on an area where gypsies had made their ramshackle homes, with their evening bonfires and frequent brawls. (These homes no longer exist and the people who lived in them are now rehoused in tower-blocks – a sort of cleansing before the European Cup in 2004). So I ended up with a city-scape on the Atlantic instead of my countryside retreat on the Mediterranean – but Portugal is my second home now. I can speak Portuguese and I love their food, wine and beautiful weather.

Bringing up children brought me back to England. But to this day I somehow feel I don’t quite belong. I have a job in a Drs surgery -a job that interests me and which I enjoy going to. but it will never pay for an interesting retirement or be anything more than a means to feed and clothe myself.

I still yearn to be somewhere else – yet I have no means of knowing how to do that. I am waiting for youngest daughter to finish college or Uni and then I will have to think. Fear makes me want to be safe – to be where I know how things work, where I have the NHS, where I have family and friends. But I also have another fear – a fear that somehow this is it – this is my lot.

Don’t get me wrong, I am grateful and happy for all that I do have. I know that many people are not as fortunate as we have been. But I want to surprise people – I want to be able to go “Look ! look what I have done!” And I just want my life to be more than general housework interspersed with shopping trips, being a taxi service and dealing with prescriptions.

I don’t want an olive grove in Tuscany any more. But I do want something different – something I can show my teenage self with pride – something to surprise those that love me.

The Fall

I struggle with my weight, like many women. I try hard to eat healthily – sometimes I succeed and other times I just fall into ‘fat mode’ and eat what I want. I do feel guilty if I eat cake or have a McDonald’s and yesterday evening was one of those times.

Youngest daughter and I had returned from depositing older daughter at the railway station and a McDonald’s seemed a comforting thought. A token gesture to wise choices was my Diet Coke – although I had planned to add a dash of rum to it when I got home. However it was not to be.

As we arrived home our neighbour’s kitchen light was on – in full view of our driveway. They are a pleasant couple – both hospital doctors and one is surgeon. I was keen to hide the fact we were returning with a McDonald’s – silly I know – but I always imagine they judge me. There’s that overweight, middle-aged woman not helping herself by stuffing her face with a Big Mac!

It was with these thoughts in my head that I strode towards the house, purposefully, keys in one hand and a carton containing my Diet Coke and a Mocha Latte for my daughter. Husband had sensibly asked for a bottle of mineral water – sensibly because, suddenly, my ankle just went over and I knew I had to break my fall with my hands – so Latte and Coke flew into the air and I landed on my hands and knees. Bottle of water lay intact by my side.

The shock is horrendous when you fall, as an adult. For a moment I just stayed on my knees, horrified what the healthy doctors next door might have seen. I had no idea if I could actually get up even. My lovely daughter, with concern and pity etched on her face, pulled me to my feet. I scrabbled about for the cups and lids that had fallen, hoping to hide the evidence, and limped back to the house feeling ancient and somehow deserving of my bruises.

She’s had a fall. She’s fallen over. She fell over walking to the house. She tripped. Some sound worse than others. Definitely want to avoid the ‘had a fall’ one. It reeks of old age and frailty. And just when I was getting on top of my arthritic knee !

The fall has made me think yet again about my age, my weight, my frustrations about what my body can no longer do easily. So I will use it as motivation to at least have a Good Week this week.