Retirement - Just Go With The Flow

Retirement.  That’s the time to wind down, take up a stress free hobby, go for gentle walks, watch daytime TV and meet friends for long lunches, right? Wrong. Certainly in my case.  

I’ve always been busy.  Babysitting came first.  In the sixties, parents, unbelievably, trusted an unknown 12 year old to look after their offspring.  I had three families on the go, one of them with four very lively children, all of whom drove me to distraction.  Once they were finally in bed I used to eat my way through the cupboards and spend hours on the phone to my best friend who was babysitting just across the road.  

At 13 I got my first ‘proper’ job, working in a mini market on a Saturday morning (10/- for four hours - that’s 12.5p per hour in today’s money) and then, in addition, at 15 I took on working in a dentists on a Sunday (I can’t remember the pay now, but I know I hated the whole thing).  One of the fathers from the babysitting job was a dentist. He was Jewish, hence the Sunday opening.  His practice was in Stamford Hill which was a fair way from where I lived in Southgate, and meant that I had to travel with him in his car.  I was a very shy teen and he was a grumpy, monosyllabic, old (to me) man, who probably had no more desire to take me with him than I had to be there, squashed up against him in his noisy Fiat 500.  Thankfully, that job came to an abrupt end when I persuaded my dad to phone Mr Cardash and tell him I was so busy revising for my GCEs that I wouldn’t be able to work for him any more.  In fact, most Sundays, I was lying in bed till lunchtime then spending about two hours on clothes, hair and make up, and meeting my best friend to talk about boys.

At about the same time I answered an advert in a shop window for somebody to look after a little boy and do some light cleaning.  I was hopeless at cleaning but I loved children, and the lady who took me on seemed pretty desperate so the job was mine.  It turned out that Myra Schneider was a writer and spent most of the time in her study whilst I looked after Benji and half heartedly wiped a cloth around the house.  Interestingly, I’m still in touch with Myra*, who is now in her 80s and continues to write, having had several books of poetry published over the past 50 years.  I’d like to think I played a small part in her success.  

To prevent this turning into a four page blog post (and, after all, it’s supposed to be about retirement - we’ll never get there) suffice to say my CV is long. In addition to the above, in no particular order: barmaid, shop worker, novelty cake maker, graphic designer, typographer, market stall holder, craft teacher, cafe worker, caterer, school dinner lady, deli assistant, factory worker (shoes; catalogues), teacher and GP admin assistant. 

And then came retirement. With hindsight, I was lucky that a new Head came to the school that I’d happily worked in for 15 years.  Without her appointment, the subsequent two year dispute and the final decent payout I would never have taken early retirement.  As it was, it coincided with the birth of my first grandchild, and the need for a childminder several days a week.  The decision was made, and at 55, I gave up half my teachers’ pension to relax and enjoy life.  Oh and look after a lively baby.  That’s one thing I’ve never regretted.  Fifteen years later, the relationship with my first grandchild is testament to the time we spent together.

Once my childminding duties had been cut down to just a few days a week (with three more grandchildren added to the mix) I felt the need to get busy again, and secured a part time job at a GP surgery.  I was taken on to cover for three months for someone who was off sick.  Six years later, I reluctantly gave in my notice, as my interest in photography became more intense.  

My life has never had a grand plan.  Things have happened to me by chance, and I’ve always been happy to go with the flow.  Retirement has been no different.  Fate brought me into contact with Claire Walmsley Griffiths and the original altBlackpool online magazine, where I could make use of two of my favourite activities: writing and photography.  I met more local creatives and seemed to be accepted into their midst, despite being at least twenty years older than most of them.  My photography took off and went from strength to strength. I began to feel that my life had gone full circle, from Art College in the early ‘70s to the Blackpool art scene 50 years later.  

Oh, and I wrote a book

Finally, in retirement, I found my ideal job. 

This week’s poem is not one of my own, but one I’ve loved for a very long time.  I think it was written for me….

Warning by Jenny Joseph

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple

With a red hat which doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me.

And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves

And satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter.

I shall sit down on the pavement when I’m tired

And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells

And run my stick along the public railings

And make up for the sobriety of my youth.

I shall go out in my slippers in the rain

And pick flowers in other people’s gardens

And learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat

And eat three pounds of sausages at a go

Or only bread and pickle for a week

And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry

And pay our rent and not swear in the street

And set a good example for the children.

We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practise a little now?

So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised

When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

Thanks for reading……..Jill

And thanks to everybody who has snapped me taking photos.

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Masonry - Best Left to the Experts

There's only one topic I can possibly write about under the heading of Masonry, and that's the husband and his DIY skills.  I use the word 'skills' very, very, very loosely.

I think I might have mentioned previously that Dave makes Frank Spencer (King of the DIY Disaster) look like Barry Bucknall (Google him if you're under forty) on a good day.  In the past, friends have looked at me with indulgent disbelief as I've regaled them with tales of the husband's attempts at even the most basic of DIY tasks.
'But surely he can....?' they begin, with broad smiles and encouraging nods.
'No,' I say firmly with a shake of the head.
'Not even.....?'
'Nope!' I respond with more vigorous head shaking.
Unless you've been married to a Frank Spencer (to the power of 10) you've no idea of the disasters that could befall you.

When we got our first house forty years ago I was quietly confident that I could knock the husband into DIY shape.  I'd always been a pretty practical sort of person, sorting out broken hoovers, building makeshift shelves from bricks and planks of wood, upholstering furniture etc.  I was sure I could talk the husband through how to tile a bathroom or put up a curtain rail.

After all, as a wedding present, we'd received a giant tome, covering everything from roofs to flooring, which hammer to buy and how to use it most effectively (by the end of our second year of marriage I was considering writing to the authors to dispute their most effective use of a large claw hammer....)  Admittedly, the book had been propping open a door that annoyingly swung shut every time you wanted to leave the room; and the huge toolbox my parents had optimistically bought us as a moving in present had been stuck under the stairs beneath a pile of old picture frames, shoe polish, light bulbs and redundant rolls of wallpaper.  Nevertheless, hope still sprung eternal in this naive twenty four year old head.

That is, until the day the husband decided to replace the bathroom tiles.  

When your two year old comes running into the kitchen to ask why his bedroom wall is falling on to his bed then you know there is a problem.  Taking the stairs two at a time, a worried toddler hot on my heels, I hear the unmistakable crashing of mallet on wall.
'It's fine,' is the calm response to my frantic questioning yell.  The banging continues,
'Mummy, wall - on Dan's bed.' says the child plaintively, pointing to the chunk of crumbling masonry that has exploded over his pillow.  I look up at the huge hole in the wall just as the mallet makes its trajectory past the opening towards the next disaster.

The plumber we employed to fix the bathroom sucked in air through his teeth, shook his head with a sigh and got on with filling in the hole.  He made no direct comment to us although I'm sure he and his mates lived out for weeks on the buffoon who tried to remove tiles with a mallet and ended up knocking half the wall down.  The toddler has finally got over his PTSD and now, thirty odd years later will sleep happily in a bed again. I, meanwhile, have lived through another three decades of disasters.

There were minor ones such as the time I made the mistake of complaining that the wallpaper in the attic was beginning to peel off the walls.  The next time I ventured up there to prepare the room for guests I was greeted by the sight of several dozen large headed masonry nails knocked haphazardly along the joins.  And the relief map of Africa that mysteriously appeared on the boys' bedroom ceiling after the husband had been despatched with a trowel and a bucket of plaster to fill a small hole.

Then there was the brick built barbecue that resembled a mausoleum.  That was one project I decided I would roll with.  I knew full well that the job would never be completed singlehandedly, and with a bit of luck the husband would accidentally entomb himself in the middle of this circular design and at least be out of action for any further projects in the near future.  At the end of three days, he stood back to admire his handiwork.  As if in slow motion the gigantic structure began to tip like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. For a few seconds, Dave stared, open mouthed as bricks and mortar parted company and fell to the ground in an undignified heap.  The next time I looked out of the window he was sitting head in hands, on the rubble.  I put the kettle on, fired up the computer and ordered a portable barbecue from Amazon.

These days the husband is much safer laid on a beach

There were numerous incidents over the years, most of them more annoying than disastrous, but nonetheless the husband, much to his delight, was soon banned from opening either the DIY manual or the toolbox.  One of the more serious incidents concerned a blowtorch, a four year old and several glasses of water (which I later heard - from the child - was to put out the fire between floors). Oh, and Dave up a ladder.  It's too long a story to retell here but suffice to say the four year old saved the day.

There was the performance with the curtain rail (the smashed window, broken table, injured husband) but as I've already written about that in an earlier post I'll leave you with another abiding memory of when DIY goes wrong.  Picture the scene: I am in the kitchen, cooking tea, the husband is upstairs, and has been quiet for a while. I'm guessing he's fallen asleep on the bed (this is pre children or I might have been alerted earlier). There is a knock at the door, I answer and find a strange woman on my doorstep.  Looking puzzled, she points up towards the front of the house, where the husband is standing on the flat roof, above the bay window. In his hands he holds a paint scraper and a blow torch.  Behind him are the scorched remains of some paintwork.
'I was passing,' she says, apologetically, 'your husband waved me down. He's stuck.'
I thank her as if this is a normal occurrence.  Ignoring the husband's cries I close the front door, ascend wearily to the attic, open the window and look down upon the top of his head.

'Put down the blowtorch,' I say patiently as though talking down a terrorist.  The husband obliges, looking sheepish. 'And the scraper,' I add. It clatters to the ground.

'How the hell....?' I begin.
'I jumped out the window,' he says, 'I was going to - '
'Never mind,' I hiss, 'jump up and I'll pull you back through the window.'
The husband crouches, stretches his arms above his head  and jumps.  I grab his hands and, feeling like the Incredible Hulk, hoist him back through the attic window.

'What about the blowtorch?' he asks.
'Leave it.' I command, 'you'll not be needing it any time soon.'



If I Had a Hammer by Jill Reidy, with apologies to Pete Seegar

If I had a hammer
I'd hammer off the tiles
I'd hammer down the bricks
I'd hammer up the wallpaper
I'd hammer and I'd hammer
All over this house

If I had a blowtorch
I'd blowtorch off the paintwork
I'd blowtorch through the gaps
I'd blowtorch till the flames come
I'd blowtorch and I'd blowtorch
All over this house

If I had a scraper
I'd scrape off last year's paint
I'd scrape at all the wallpaper
I'd scrape off every mark
I'd scrape and scrape and scrape
All over this house

If I had a toolbox...

The wife says I'm not to open it
Anywhere in this house.....




Thanks for reading        Jill

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