Author: Jackie Jillings

It’s that time of year again, when the autumn wind kicks up and I find myself unable to focus outdoors because of the unbidden tears. 

Today I went for my daily more-than-an-hour march around the local country park and realised that my right eye is noticeably worse than I remembered. Very rapidly my right cheek and the right breast of my jacket are tear-stained. I fear I am going to have to do something medical about this – even if that means I have to change the title of my website!

Still, the dripping did not deter me from my striding out in what was a rather pleasant afternoon. I continue my involvement with podcasts and quickly polished off the latest Brexitcast edition. I love Brexitcast probably more for the insight it brings to the job of being a reporter than the considerable insights shared regarding the process that is, or may be, Brexit. However, I still feel vaguely embarrassed to admit to myself that I once told friends I couldn’t bear to watch Laura Kuenssberg on News at Ten – while I now hang on her every word along with all three other presenters. Fickle, that’s what I am. Or perhaps she’s calmed down a bit?

Anyhow, one Brexitcast does not get me all the way round my constitutional, so I moved on to Off Menu – with James Acaster (I’ve seen him Live at the Edinburgh Fringe so it’s like I know him and like to keep up with him) and Ed Gamble (with whom I have no history) and an episode with Daisy May Cooper, writer of and lead actor in This Country (because This Country is actually my country as well, although I’ve retained less of the accent than Daisy/Kerry).

I would not recommend this episode if you are walking around on your own with the possibility of anyone seeing you – especially if one of your eyes is already watering uncontrollably. The second half in particular was problematic, as by this time I was back on pavements with far more people around and it was almost impossible to control my features. I am accustomed to the streaming tears and less self-conscious about it than I used to be, but I am quite sure I was grimacing and actually snorting from time to time. There’s something about listening to other people laughing uncontrollably isn’t there? Joyful!

But honestly, how can anyone have Pizza Hut salad for pudding…?

 

I was on my way last week to a former colleague’s retirement party – taking my old favourite route to work along the South Bank from Waterloo to London Bridge. As I approached the river I could immediately see the tide was high. I love it when the water is up. For some reason, it is more exhilarating and uplifting when in places I seem to be walking below the level of the water on the other side of the wall. It so rarely happened, even though I walked for more than four years on four or five early mornings each week. I guess there is a statistic about that – and it is surely logical – but I can’t be bothered to look it up.

Nearing the Oxo Tower, I could see the two odd little piers almost submerged. I stopped to take pictures, this time not for old times sake but because I felt the conditions were actually unusual. Last time I’d been on this pier, I had had too much gin, I now recalled. Haha!

Just a little further on, the path had flooded next to Blackfriars Bridge and people were paddling, carrying their shoes, in their haste to get to the station. I diverted ‘inland’ instead – I had time to spare – but returned to the riverside in front of Tate Modern to continue enjoying the top of the tide. Further leaks could be seen between the flood-wall panels near Southwark Bridge. I suppose I should be worried really. 

I arrived at the pub to be greeted by a few people I hadn’t seen for the past 9 months. ‘Retirement’s clearly suiting you!’, was the first comment. I was at pains to point out that all I’ve done is dye my hair a lighter shade and spend more time outdoors. Nice to find my lighter mood is reflecting in my appearance somehow.

It was lovely to catch up with friends, including the newest escapee embarking on his own retirement and one of my younger colleagues who filled me in on important gossip. I went home happy for sure – by tube to Waterloo, as the tide had receded.

Next day, I heard from someone who had missed the event. He’d heard I now look like Debbie Harry. Hmm. She’s 74!

 

I think this might be described as a mid-life crisis – or maybe a slightly-later-than-mid-life tiny-bit-excitable predicament.

Now that I’m nearly three-quarters of the way through my first year post-retirement, I had expected to be on an even keel and settled into routines and a new way of life. Strangely, that is not the case. 

I will admit to the occasional day of boredom and listlessness. These are few, and I’m very positive about that, Perhaps it would be better if I could accept a bit more listlessness, but instead I have become more keen than ever to see and do everything. I always thought I was fundamentally a lazy person. Not physically – I have been a circuits enthusiast, a runner and am now still a manic walker – but I was never a great one to challenge myself intellectually, for example. Diligent – I always did the bare minimum required –  but not energised to go beyond the brief.

In these moments of looming ennui, I have traipsed down the YouTubes and into the rabbit holes of old comedy series (I find I still LOVE the TV series Green Wing with a strange passion and have miraculously uncovered many ‘deleted’ or ‘unused’ scenes to enchant me when it’s raining) and peripheral film and TV star interviews which lead me to watch snippets or even whole productions that I had somehow missed in the past. I can become temporarily obsessed with people or productions very quickly, searching for more and more related material, listening to random podcasts to spike my interest yet further.

It is all a bit like being a teenager again, with little crushes and fads, but much much faster moving than it could have been back in the 1970s when we had fewer than a handful of TV channels, only really one radio station I knew about (unless there was a decent local one – I did not live anywhere metropolitan, although I think we could catch BRMB sometimes, so there was a chance of hearing Jasper Carrott!) and limited magazines we had to pay for or share. 

I think in fact I feel a bit more like someone in their twenties – just out of education and looking to carve a pathway. I want to do some of the things I was not able to do when I was younger because I made different choices then. I have no regrets about those choices, and have a family and a lot of friends because of them, but it is exciting to experience – for example – the field of drama in my increased visits to the theatre and in participating as an Extra.

(Note – I have been unable to shed those hyphens!)

Today I took my first ever part as a supporting artist in a short film. I schlepped over to Stoke Newington for 9am, dressed head to toe in black and carting several alternative outfits to accommodate, I hoped, the rather vague brief I received just yesterday.

We were filming a funeral scene in an old church. I expected this to be a student film, but no – on arrival I immediately recognised a couple of the actors (female – can’t call them actresses these days I think). Imagine my excitement when a further, even more famous, male actor’s name was bandied about.  Sadly, although he is in the film, he was not in the scene we were filming today. (Whisper – it was that Mr Whishaw, who had spookily been moonlighting as my day-trip guide in Slovenia – see https://onecryingeye.com/walking-trousers-in-a-world-of-tiny-shorts)

I was assigned to a waiting area in a box pew, where I managed to finish my latest Kindle book, and chat to several of my fellow ‘extras’ (not supposed to call them that, either) before we finally got going at 11ish.

At last, we were all standing at the front of the church to be picked one by one for the seats in the congregation. It was like being back at school and waiting to be chosen for the netball team. This time it seemed to be an advantage to be of average/small height – I bagged a front row seat!  I think that makes me on a par with the other side of the aisle front row which was all the ‘names’. I’m expecting a re-call to do some more – haha.

The congregation included several rather stunning drag queens. I had serious thigh-boot envy of one whom I later followed up the aisle behind the coffin…

Despite the ridiculous amount of waiting around – which, in fairness, I was completely expecting, hence the Kindle – it was great fun to see how it all worked. The young female director regaled us with an endless stream of ‘wonderful’, ‘fantastic’, ‘excellent’, ‘thank you, thank you everyone’ and – her apparent favourite – ‘beautiful, lovely, beautiful’.  I wish I had counted them all. I also lost count of the number of times we carried the coffin up the aisle, but it was perhaps fortunate that I didn’t have those thigh-boots on after all. ‘Still rolling, go again!’  Again? And one more time…

Sadly, after all the weeping my stupid eyes normally do, the best I could muster for this funeral was a saddish frown.

Day trip in a foreign land. Early start – just about managed to stuff enough breakfast down me in the hotel restaurant to last a few hours on the road, and stagger to the allotted location for my minibus pickup. There were already two young Dutch ladies in the van, each less than half my age and wearing easily half as many clothes, but annoyingly twice as awake and busy on their phones.

Our guide suggested I sit in the front with him. He reminded me vaguely of someone – everyone does these days.

We picked up two more ‘girls’ – Canadian this time. Similar clothing quotient – teeny tiny shorts and strappy low-cut tops, with long legs and fashionable trainers (if that’s what they’re still called these days).  They piled happily, and wide awake, into the back.

Finally, the last two arrived, and our guide had clearly won the jackpot today, as it was yet another pair of young women. To ring the changes, one of these was wearing a denim mini-skirt instead of short shorts, and both sported statement mirror sunglasses.

What was I wearing? A very sensible acreage of thin trouser and a sleeveless vest. In my terms, not much. But by the end of a hot afternoon beside a beautiful lake, I was inspired to sneakily remove the lower portion of the trouser legs (yes, they were uber-sexy walking trews) and finished the day only one-third more covered-up than the youngsters. Flashing a bit of knee for the benefit of the driver/guide. He seemed to have no luck with the girls in back, poor man.

Despite our differing attire, respect is due to all of us that we had, to a woman, chosen sensible footwear and easily achieved the walking challenges set us – even up 553 unexpected steps at the final waterfall.

I finally worked out who the guide resembled whilst navigating these 553 steps. Ben Whishaw. Without the floppy hair. And, I thought, without the dimpled chin. But on return to the van, I noticed he did indeed have a slight chin dimple (surreptitious glances, careful not to stare, whilst sporting my bare knees). Now, on inspecting at home a few googled pics of Mr Whishaw, I am having a small debate with myself as to whether he has such a dimple.  Well, the guide still looked like him – a bit.

The next day, we were a more mixed-age bunch on the beach trip…but sadly, despite going without the lower portions of my trousers from the off this morning, I was immediately mistaken for the 32-year-old’s mother. So much for being blonde.

My eyes both closed in protest as perspiration rolled out of my hair and channeled down the laughter lines into the corners. Tears of my two crying eyes were sadly insufficient to mount a successful counter-attack  and for minutes I could do no more than sit on a park bench and hope no one could see me – I could not see them not seeing me anyway. 

Later, relieved and showered, but still a bit hot, I threw my supper calorie allowance at a cooling gin and tonic.

Turned out fine again. 

Copied on a summary of my career, produced by a former work-team following my star appearance on a conference call presentation of my ‘story’ a few weeks back, I was aghast at how pathetic the whole story sounded. Did I really have such a lacklustre 35 years?

Somehow the summary captured everything negative that I had said, in such a way that it astonished me how I had ever managed to maintain a career at all. Now, I am always terribly self-critical and I’m sure this was an added factor, but I was so deflated and upset that I felt compelled to write and point out at least the factual inaccuracies. On reviewing my original script, I realised that my career could be viewed in three parts –

1. Early promise – one of the most prestigious graduate schemes, first time passes in qualifying exams, quickest possible promotion and a strategic career move from public to private sector
2. Stagnation – realisation I was in the wrong specialism. Lack of ambition or focus at work – although productivity in the offspring department (babies!). Lack of promotion – but interesting experience and gradual change of focus.
3. Success – finally found the combination of work-skills that suited me and progressed up the greasy pole.

For a lot of Stage 2, I was pretty miserable and disengaged at work. I now see this as my ‘soggy middle’. Coincidentally, I matched that with a soggy midriff following my two pregnancies: a midriff I have never completely managed to firm up even now.

I’ve received a fulsome apology – am over it now! I find I am much more chilled these days. Wonder why that is?

I have failed in the middle-class stakes. 

With a few extended-pole brushstrokes and his cheery greeting, the window-cleaner starts my day on a positive note – only to crush my self-esteem minutes later by politely refusing my offer of a cuppa. It seems that my neighbour offers proper coffee ‘from one of those nice machines’ so he always stops off there.

When I had picked myself up, I glimpsed said proper coffee sitting neatly on the garden wall – in a proper china cup – while he finished the french doors.  

I cannot compete.

I am having a fad for podcasts at the moment. Although I have been familiar with podcasts for a while and in fact had a previous brief fan-period a few years ago, this time I am experiencing some interesting phenomena.

(1) I listened to the whole of BBC Sounds’ “Forest 404” in one weekend. Most of this was in the privacy of my own home, but a couple of episodes and the accompanying soundscapes were listened to on headphones whilst doing some al fresco varnishing in a rural sailing club. The podcast includes sounds from nature: rather restful and lovely to listen to indoors, but bizarrely outside I found myself looking around for the source of the birdsong and unnerved by the proximity of crashing waves. My body and my head were clearly confused by the mixed messages. Clearly in my living room the noises must be coming from the fictional soundtrack – but outside, I just wasn’t so sure.

https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p06tqsg3

(2) I was also struck just today by the incongruities we experience by  consuming a podcast or other recorded material whilst going about our business wherever we choose. I was on the top deck of a London bus, returning from a short visit to the privileged and beautiful Hurlingham Club in West London (on an “open garden” afternoon – I’m not a member!), travelling along the A3 past a large supermarket and an even larger crematorium, listening to a back-number Desert Island Discs with Cressida Dick, Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. One of her tracks was a hymn – “Lord of all hopefulness”. They played just the last verse, as we passed the crematorium, and immediately I was at a funeral. Out came the weepy eye.

https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/m0002g3t

How easily we are distracted and taken somewhere surprising. I know we have been able to listen to music in the car, for example, for years and years, but it just struck me how incongruous things can be now that we have almost anything on tap almost anywhere.

To cheer up when I got home I watch a few of those “funniest bits from Good Morning” which keep popping up on Facebook. I was soon laughing out loud again. There’s nothing like a bit of nonsense to keep us going. By the way, I have never watched Good Morning and probably will never risk it now, because I will expect it all to be one long laugh and would undoubtedly be sadly disappointed.  I used to walk past the studio each morning but had no idea of the larks that were going on inside.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uL-Z0lfDa9E

A quiet Sunday between an energised Saturday and a (likely cold) Bank Holiday Monday, with the prospect of the Sunday newspapers all to myself for once as I’m home alone.

In recent weeks, the paper has been successfully delivered into our front porch. There’s no external porch door, but it is a large covered space, just perfect for leaving parcels or other material too large to squeeze through a normal-sized letterbox. Not today. Whoever delivers the Sunday paper – very early – has clearly reverted to their “chucking it from the street” technique and it had not quite made it all the way up our path. “Never mind,” I thought, “it’s not actually raining this time.” Last time this happened, the larger parts of the Sunday paper spent several hours draped over the radiators before they were just about functional, despite the thin plastic wrapper.

It was only when I got today’s package into the kitchen that I realised it had been sitting in a small puddle after all. And, by the smell I suddenly recognised, this had been a small puddle of fox wee. Oh joy.

I think I have got rid of every trace now – aside from a couple of drips and my hands (aaaaargh!) the paper had not been contaminated. The familiar aroma certainly surprised my cats though, who made themselves scarce quickly, thus avoiding the customary game of pestering me to feed them before totally ignoring my generosity and begging me to open the door for them to raid the rest of the house instead.

Now I think about it, we should really campaign to get rid of the plastic wrapper anyway on environmental grounds. But a paper wrapper would have failed completely today and the whole publication would have reeked irretrievably of fox. First world problems eh? I know, I know, I should walk to the corner shop…

With pensions in the back of my mind, I just remembered a detail from a visit to my 82-year-old aunt last week. Whilst we were there, enjoying M&S sandwiches and looking through old family photographs, the phone rang. My aunt put on her best telephone voice to answer, then her face lit up, she winked at us and proceeded to rip the piss out of the unsolicited offer of help with her computer. She started gently, agreeing with statements and offering small encouragement that perhaps she might be interested. It was only when she asked the caller if they would personally come round and fix a different household appliance that was clearly unrelated to what was being offered, that whoever it was – very rudely and abruptly – hung up. “Oh, you don’t want to help me after all!” she said, mock-crestfallen. How we laughed.

She then regaled us with other examples where she had similarly led cold callers up the garden path – in particular, an occasion when she had asked a windows company if they sold conservatories. She lives in a small apartment on the first floor of a residential home for the elderly. In that instance, the caller had seen the funny side and had a laugh with her – probably losing their productivity bonus but enjoying their job a whole lot more.

I was so glad to see my aunt upholding a tradition of female wackiness on that side of my family. I was also glad that she was having a go at the cold callers. I have lost count of the number of times I have received a call asking me about the accident which wasn’t my fault. I have a script off pat for that now – although I caught myself actually weeping loudly in the street recently on my phone, pleading with the caller not to remind me of the awful trauma I suffered when I lost both my legs… (I have both legs – I know this is tempting fate and I will be punished, but I have been driven to it). Lord knows what nearby pedestrians thought of me.

No-one on the line has ever sympathised with my traumatic experience, although once I was put through to the next level of caller before they realised that I was mental and hung up.

I think it’s illegal now isn’t it?

I think I’m through the Shallows now. But another issue is troubling me – in at the deep end with pension planning.

Pensions are just impenetrable. I think I’ve got the hang of it, then someone tells me something new and it’s all up in the air again. The government expert I consulted this week (for free – hooray) was great, until we got to the questions I couldn’t answer for myself from online sources.

It really doesn’t help that I’ve randomly kept all the pension paperwork I’ve been sent over the years stuffed in a few different boxes around the house (like everything else) and, now I can’t work out which one is which. I think I’ve finally pinned them all down online now – which must surely be the most reliable place (??) – all those extra “strong” passwords I had to devise which I will no doubt forget because of the complexity of the clues I have recorded to remind me what they are. I think I’ll keep the papers just a little bit longer just in case one day it will all become clear.

Aargh.

I’m back home after my first big retirement holiday adventure, which I have inconsiderately documented elsewhere. My return entailed a 23 hour flight with just a one-hour respite spent in Changi Airport, mostly queuing to get through the in-gate security to get back into the same aircraft following its refuelling. Joy.

I am not a film buff and rarely choose to watch a feature film, although perhaps that will change in retirement when I can dawdle along to mid-week screenings. However, in the past few years I have travelled regularly on long-haul routes as part of my work, and if I have watched a film at all, it will likely have been on a plane.

Leg one of the flight – still quite perky. In fact, I was buoyed up by the knowledge that we had an on-board VIP – Joanna Lumley (we weren’t supposed to know that, and of course we were rows and rows away from her) despite the fact that she seemed unwilling to act the safety video “live” – if you’ve not travelled BA recently, this won’t mean anything, but she has one of the best moments in that video, in fact the one moment that actually makes me laugh whereas the rest is generally just annoying now.

First film – “Can you ever forgive me?” All good, and a worthy accompaniment to in-flight dinner. Second film “A Private War”, and things start to unwind – I am becoming tired and, even without alcohol, emotional. Start to panic when I realise I’m watching Marie Colvin with one of my eyes covered – what if someone notices and thinks I’m taking the piss? Doesn’t stop me though – starting to get that headache I always get on planes…

After the Singapore decanting and readmission, another meal (I think) and I decide to watch “A Star is Born”. Watch it in two parts with 4 hours of fitful seated sleep in between. This is where the warning comes – I think it has infected me with something. I have been home for more than a week now, and every single morning I have woken to the ear-worm of Shallow. Not only the ear-worm, but a mounting obsession with the film soundtrack which I foolishly downloaded to try a purge. I have googled the Oscars and various film reviews – most of which have briefly intrigued me, then annoyed. Dragged me into the abyss of debate as to whether Jack and Ally really are an item irl. I mean, who cares? (Remember, these two are actors … )

Still, my every waking hour « in at the deep end » watching as she dives in, never hitting the ground – nor indeed ever hitting PAUSE. I tell you what, I’ll hit something soon if it doesn’t subside. With reference to an earlier post, I’m definitely shallow now.

I’m on the other side of the world, trying to experience experiences and get away from it all. But not in a hippie way because that isn’t really me. Hippo, more like, if I keep eating at the current rate and don’t do more exercise!

Has been exhilarating up to now (two whole weeks) but today I can neither do nor think anything right.

Mind you, my pre-holiday highlights and lots of sun mean that I’m blonde now so I must be having more fun. Looking like someone else!

I’m going off traveling for a while. This brings a small but very serious dilemma: what to do with my roots. My hair with the increasingly grey-striped parting. How can I be away from the salon for more than three weeks at a stretch without turning into a badger or a skunk?

So I have resorted to the popular “go lighter first and have some highlights done” plan. Sunday saw me sitting in the Hairdresser’s chair all foiled up, with blue paste oozing here and there. I am always nervous of doing anything new with my hair and have had the same style most of my life, if it can actually be called a style. I was almost as hot under the collar as the Christmas turkey with my similar shiny crown.

Actually the sort-of blonde is fine but taking some getting used to. I don’t suppose it will make me any more visible than I was as a brown haired person, but I’m going to see if I can have more fun anyway.

I have started using my son’s former bedroom as an office. He left it pretty tidy but today I noticed several piles of coins and a couple of containers of small change. Now I don’t work, I have rediscovered two things – available time and a keenness not to waste money!

There followed a trip to the bank (also good for my step count) to obtain the necessary little plastic bags – then a happy hour or more counting, putting in piles and bagging up all that otherwise useless metal. I feel richer for that!

Oh hang on though – it’s not actually my money ?!

I went up to London last night for my “official” retirement do. Thoroughly excellent.

Had to travel home alone late. I was half-way down to the platforms when I was made nervous by someone weaving around uncertainly at the top of the second long escalator. I was sure she had been confidently striding down ahead of me on the first one – how strange! But she must be drunk, I supposed. I am very wary of drunken people and have an almost-phobia about the possibility of someone vomiting. To me this spelled a horrible situation but I had little option but to proceed – I had to get home.

I got closer – and realised the problem. A tiny black mouse was nosing around to see whether it dared take a ride down to the trains.

Had to laugh. Two women paralysed – one by the mouse, one by the apparent effect of the other’s fear. And it was such a sweet mouse! (I know they’re vermin – but still I like to see them on the underground for some reason. I used to look out for them and imagine them plotting and laughing at us, in my less tired old days)

We made it down the escalator in the end. Sadly I’d misread my train app and the train I thought I’d catch didn’t even exist. It had been a merry evening…