An Olive Grove in Tuscany

Photo by Julia Sakelli on Pexels.com

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.