The Question of Image, Still on my Mind.

IMAGE
The opinion or concept of something that is held by the public.
To be an example or epitome of.
Typify.

     It's only gradually dawned on me that we cultivate an IMAGE, deliberately or otherwise. We 'see' ourselves in a certain way whether we like it or not. Whether this is the same 'image' others see is interesting in itself. What was it Robert Burns said.

O wad some Power the giftie gie us

To see oursels as others see us.

'Two 'instances' have recently brought these thoughts to the fore.

    As recorded in my post July 19th my wife and I (sounds very regal) recently bought a new car. Now what are old couples supposed to drive. Years ago proof of arrival would have been owning a Rover. Nowadays geriatrics who have arrived probably own a Volvo or a Lexus; staid, safe, uninspiring, you get the picture. (Expect howls of protest from owners of either, Grumpy!) Part of this train of thought has come about by the young Seat salesman asking us to put in order our rating of six considerations: Performance, Safety, Reliability, Image, Comfort, Economy; we chose IMAGE!

Plus geriatrics are not supposed to be into: bucket seats, tinted windows, spoiler, stripes, sports gearing and suspension; turbo chargers and superchargers. So what did we specify our purchase must have? You've got it: bucket seats, tinted windows, spoiler, stripes, sports gearing and suspension; turbo charger and supercharger.

    Now what does this tell you?  Grumpy is not very keen to accept the limitations of growing old He certainly has no desire to grow old gracefully. He's not too keen on conformity (He never was) and he'll go out of his way to 'buck the system' so to speak. In general, he loves to be different, he has a 'tongue in cheek' somewhat irreverent  view of life and it shows! All very harmless, bordering on daft for daft's sake. In a way it's playing at or up to an IMAGE. Except that this image thing, however subtle, however unconscious is more important than you think.

    I went to a wedding recently. The groom is a military man, a serving soldier; also present were several of his military colleagues. It would be unprofessional to identify them further. They were uniformed, superbly turned out, immaculate men, young yet hardened, seasoned campaigners, men who would be proud to defend you in times of strife. They were lively, noisy at times but no matter, they epitomised the joy of living particularly associated with youth.  And then it all went a little 'haywire' to say the least. The soldiers and friends became involved in a 'drinking contest' that went too far, too long. The competitive drinking of 'shots' (Someone please explain to one old man, what exactly do 'shots' consist of) resulted in one ill, and I mean very ill groom; dangerous in the extreme. Yet no-one in the group itself saw the dangers and attempted to curtail the contest. As a geriatric observer I reckon I know why.

   Its an IMAGE thing. All involved saw themselves as 'macho', individuals, male of course, answerable to no-one. Part and parcel of an elite group within society, invincible and so on.  (the regiment's motto suggesting invincibility was uttered whenever a participant struggled to complete the 'downing' of yet another 'shot'.) All totally insane yet understandable to this old bystander.  In other words, the participants of such a sad pastime were merely conforming to the IMAGE they believed was expected of them.

    I am lucky enough to have followers from all over the world. And I bet you they all are have image 'problems' to a greater or lesser degree. A member of the WI or Mothers Union? Do you see yourself as an upstanding member of your community; useful, hardworking, caring and compassionate? Or maybe you are a councillor, or even a county councillor. Someone everyone looks up to, someone who is important and has definitely 'arrived'. You might be a member of the professions,  in which case you probably don't even have to try, you already are sure of your personal superiority. Pity the poor devil who digs holes in the road for a living. He's probably one of the best blokes in the world and nobody notices.

    People are strange in the extreme and not always funny ha ha with it. I have a cousin who I seldom see. For years whenever I met him, usually at family functions, his first question to me was 'How much do you earn.' How strange is that! I  knew of a young man from a poor part of Derby who moved to a nicer area a few miles out of town. One of his first actions on moving was to step outside his new house and offer to fight anyone in his new neighbourhood. I have a friend from the 'south' who, of an evening,  changes clothes before sitting down for an evening meal. (I realise that commenting on such things makes 'us up north' seem working class in the extreme but I suspect remnants of the class system and all that means are still firmly with us.) 

    We all adhere to an IMAGE whether we like it or not. So how do you see yourself? And do you like what you see? But more important, how do others see you? 

Life.

    Anyone who knows me well is aware any email I send always carry the 'monica' Life. Thats what its all about, this 'existence, time on earth, this earthly adventure', call it what you will. We live and we die, simple. Some believe in more, but I tell you, if there's a God up there, he's taking the micky, having a laugh. You will grasp I guess from the tone of this post it been yet another 'funny old week'.
    My leg surgery is not going too well. Slow, painful with little progress in spite of the physiotherapy, I'm bloody fed up. I put on a brave face in the main, but even septuagenerians need reassurance at times. I try not to be mardy (do you use the word mardy down your way) but I confess I've been fed up  recently. But then I noticed the date.
    This week would have been my mothers birthday;  she died in 1953 aged forty seven. I've lived for seventy three very eventful years and I'm moaning. My mother died at forty seven, worn out through no fault of her own. I bet she was fed up at times but I never heard her moaning. She deserved so much more from life. My only regret in life is that she did not live longer so that I, being older, could have done more for her. It was 'payback time' that never materialised.
    On occasion I try to remember 'life with mother', but always with great difficulty. I certainly revolved around myself at the time of my mothers death. Are boys particularly prone to living in a world of their own I wonder? At times I cringe as to how preoccupied I was at the age of thirteen. Everyone of us has different experiences as we grow up.  These have some say, however subconscious in way we turn out, so to speak. I remember my mother in part for Little Miss Muffet Junkets. Also for the fact that she constantly emitted a 'humming noise' when she worked. An unconscious habit which I inherited; I am amused, many are mildly irritated.

'There was no greater love in my life than my mother. But it was a love not based on kisses and cuddles. Mary, my mother was far too busy, and often far too exhausted to show maternal affection in an everyday family sense. That she loved my sister and me was never in doubt. But a constant round of cleaning for various well to do families in the village, plus hours in between as a school cook was all consuming. Add ironing, home cooking, clothes mending and shopping and it was obvious that the burden was awesome in the extreme. On my mother’s death certificate, at the age of forty-seven it read, ‘cause of death, pneumonia’. It would have been more honest had it read ‘death due to overwork’.

There appeared in the Derby Evening Telegraph, on the 10th of September the stark notice informing of my mother’s death.

Stevens. Sept 8th 1953 at 24 The Ridings Ockbrook. Mary Elizabeth aged 47 years, widow of the late Ernest Stevens. Funeral at the Moravian Church on Friday at 3pm.

Neither my sister nor I attended our mother’s funeral; a statement that could be taken by the uninformed to suggest indifference, or lack of respect. The truth is we were not invited. Someone in their wisdom decided that a mother’s funeral was no place for children of eleven and thirteen. We were not asked our opinion, nor were the subjects of death, funerals or life thenceforth ever discussed. If they were, they were lost in the dreamlike haze that hung over me for many, many days, if not months that followed. I have no recollection of what I did that afternoon, but in a way that was the day I grew up.'
(From A Childhood Revisited"

Life May be Hard but no Cause to be Miserable.

    I've been blogging for around four years, posting roughly weekly. Not sure why I blog, but it's a personal and somewhat addictive pastime that keeps the old braincells working. Having said that, I find it difficult at times to find something interesting to say. Are you, dear readers the same?

    For some time I have attended physiotherapy twice a week at a local hospital and am struck at how our little group (around 20 people) is a world of its own. 'We' have become a group isolated from the 'real' world; we don't care, at least for ninety minutes what is happening beyond the walls of the centre; neither do 'they' know or care about us. We peddle, we pump, we sweat, swear and toil yet the rest of the world doesn't know and doesn't care as to our efforts. We are in the main at least middle aged; we are nearly all sporting replacement knees and we are trying, oh so hard to return to the world of less pain and more mobility.

    These are harrowing afternoons. Painful in the extreme, usually followed by at least as painful following days. Doubt and uncertainty often rule; I frequently doubt my progress and it shows; yet in a way it's an experience not to be missed. The staff, occupational and physio therapists are without exception brilliant, caring people. Professionals whom it has been a privilege to meet. Plus knee replacement groups are made up of a random cross section of the population. Thus memories will no doubt linger on long after our afternoon efforts return us to 'the land of the living'.

    Whatever the stage in life we are at, however fleeting the moment, there are always people who help in our 'time of need'. Michael, discharged last week is such a man. A cheerful if diminutive man, very Irish with legs that would have no chance of stopping a pig in an entry; born one of nineteen children, he maintained academic prowess had never been his strong point in life. I will particularly remember Mick and the physic classes with affection, particularly for two stories, tales that Mick related to me during our all too brief acquaintance. (I know, I know, we were supposed to be working ALL of the time! Old men can 'chatter as well as old women; perhaps even more so!)

    Michael went into a Derby glaziers for a pane of glass. He carried with him no measurements. He indicated the size he required by holding up his hands and indicating a pane of glass that was 'roughly', very 'roughly' fifteen inches 'squarish'.  The glazier was not impressed but attempts at obtaining more accurate measurements from Michael fell on deaf ears. Somewhat miffed, definitely unimpressed, the glazier disappeared into the back, eventually reappearing with a pane of glass 'roughly' of the size indicated by Michael. Michael took the pane of glass, paid for it and turned to go. As he did so, the glazier, obviously thinking he was dealing with a customer of inferior intelligence to himself said, sarcastically, 'I hope it fits.' Michael stopped for a moment, turned and retorted to the 'superior' glazier, 'Oh, it will for sure. I haven't made the frame yet!'

    I was fascinated by Michael and his 'Irish history. ' Evidently the grandfather of Michael served with distinction in the Royal Irish Fusiliers in the Great War. But it would seem that those of Irish descent were often rated as inferior by those  English upper class leaders prevalent in all aspects of the British Army. Thus they were 'tested' on occasion by some eager to gauge the mettle of Irish soldiers.

    The two battalions were engaged in fierce close fighting on occasion. Each forced the other back but any gain was often short lived. It was imperative that the strategy of the Germans be obtained if progress were to be made. Pigeon carriers were often used by the Germans but were open targets and often finished up in the No-Mans Land situated between the two front lines. It was imperative that the British retrieve at least one of the German messages. And who of course volunteered for this important mission?

    Granddad Michael bravely entered No-Mans Land and diligently searched at great risk to himself until a body, complete with message was discovered and recovered. Triumphantly granddad placed the body in his rucksack and returned quickly to his battalion. His commanding officer was ecstatic, the Lieutenant- Colonel was summoned and granddad was presented before him.

'Well done, my man' said the Lieutenant-Colonel. 'And what does the message say?'

'Coo, coo, coo coo, coo' said granddad Michael! 

    Thanks Michael, you're a star. Now if your children suggest you 'should get out more' I'm not suggesting you join a 'knee group' in order to meet people. But if you do 'join' don't be too despondent. As the saying goes, 'Every cloud has a silver lining.'

'Its All About Image!.'

     I had few preconceived ideas as to what myself and 'her indoors' might choose as our new transport. (Though I had read many, many reviews\reports so I reckon I was pretty 'au fait' with what was available.) Not that that makes much difference when it comes to the crunch. the choice is mind bending.  So we wandered the showrooms, read, listened and looked; and our search finally ended.

    The showroom was bright, glitzy, modern, the cars on offer gleaming, the many (six) young salesmen scurrying hither and thither equally so. A young salesman, very presentable caught the eye. 'Jonathan', he introduced himself, 'Can I help you.' So began a very interesting, very informative discussion. Jonathan knew everything conceivable about cars; and a fair bit concerning customers, though not so much concerning geriatrics! His self assurance was amazing though not offensive. Mind you, if he'd been in my class when I was a teacher I'd have sat him in the front where I could keep my eye on him!

    Very early in our 'chat' I remember Jonathan mentioned six things to put into order of preference: Performance, Safety. Reliability, Image, Comfort, Economy. Now I rated IMAGE as being highly relevant. Strange you might find this where 'geriatrics' are concerned. But not strange in my eyes. As George Burns once said, 'You can't help getting older, but you don't have to get old.' Similarly  John Greier put it; 'You're only young once,  but you can be immature forever.'  Gone are the days when old men chose rather staid Rovers and nothing else. So a car evolved which suggested fun and frivolity foremost. We left the showroom some time later having ordered the car of our dreams. The car, a SEAT, for we were indeed in the SEAT Derby showroom; the model, Ibiza; but not any old Ibiza.

    We had considered a red car but decided black always looks smart and doesn't date. What was it Henry Ford used to say, you can have any colour you like as long as its black. Something like that anyway! The standard seats were ok, nothing more; I remembered bucket seats in my youth so bucket seats it has to be. Plus an automatic is a priority in our condition; its not exactly fun getting old! Tinted windows plus a stripe down the side, imagine an old man or his wife driving such a vehicle; so tinted windows and a stripe it also had to be! Not forgetting a spoiler, just the car to have a spoiler! Add mud flaps, reversing sensors, sports suspension, various paint treatments and and extra posh boot/trunk coverings (the boot is big enough to house a zimmer I trust) and you have hopefully one special, now unique motor. You couldn't of course put all this on any old model, so a top of the range FR model it also has to be. Good move, Mr Salesman, test drive them in a top of the range model. (Plus petrol engined after years of diesels; I suspect diesel engines are becoming unpopular with governments.) Jonathan completed the paperwork and we finally went home for a lie down, excited, and a little apprehensive; a truly busy, busy day at our age!

    We were informed that our purchase had arrived in Derby and we waited, somewhat impatiently as the extra 'bits and pieces' were fitted to the car. Finally, just over two weeks later we were informed our new car was ready for collection. Like children at Christmas two excited old people arrived at the showrooms. Just inside the showroom entrance was a bright orange cover, obviously hiding a motorcar. Labelled 'Mr and Mrs Stevens' it was an unexpected but very much appreciated gesture. Well done Jonathan and Seat!

    We had almost forgotten what we had purchased. Taking off the cover revealed a gleaming, sporting, individualistic vehicle that really looks the part. (The tinted windows  reminds me of a gangsters car, brilliant.) We're thrilled to bits. And do you know what really sets it off? The number plate I purchased some years ago, ready for such an occasion. 0009 RAM. Correct, we belong to that ever optimistic band of people, Derby County Football Club supporters!

    Jonathan efficiently completed the paperwork and patiently.instructed us in the complex matter of mastering all the knobs, dials, levers etc that are part and parcel of modern motoring. Most of which I promptly forgot, hence my wife drove our purchase home! 

    We have owned 'Rammy' for several days now

and the original excitement is still there. My oh my, the technicalities of modern vehicles is mind bending. Suffice to say I feel more like a pilot than a car driver. Out of curiosity I will 'post' later concerning our experiences. If anyone suggests senior citizens should adopt a more serious attitude in life, think on. I might be over the hill, but thats better than being under it. Whatever your age, whatever your aspirations, do it now, there are only so many tomorrows. As a wise man once said, 'Life may not be the party we hoped for, but while we are here we might as well dance.'

When Times are Hard, Find a Distraction.

    Its been a torrid year, at least from a health point of view. What with my wife being diagnosed with glaucoma and having a stent fitted, my replacement knee making only slow, painful progress and my 'dodgy heart' syndrome; as Victoria might say, 'We are not amused.'

    I don't know about you all, but we find we need a distraction when times are rough. Our old car is fifteen years old, money is sitting doing nothing under the bed, large white fivers  and there are no pockets in shrouds so an attractive distraction was mooted. Lets buy a new car!

    Now I'm seventy three, have never bought a new car in my entire life and am not renowned for spending so everyone and his dog were most surprised. Particularly my daughter Alison, who views her fast diminishing inheritance with less than childlike approval. But who nevertheless likes her ageing parents to be happy; when I'm less than grumpy, the family is happy! Thus began a fascinating few weeks.

When I was young and single, I was into Cooper S's, bucket seats, spoilers and the like. I was also into traffic police disapproval, cautions, tickets and youthful rebellion. Then I got married and was into bringing up children, Mosvich cars and poverty and hand me down clothing. (I did think of registering my family as a charity.)

    'In the country of the blind the one eyed man is king.' H G Wells. The last few weeks remind me of this saying so much. I first posted concerning buying a new car on the 26th June. Next Tuesday we fetch our new vehicle. Hallelujah!!! Not bad going for two somewhat clueless geriatrics! We visited showrooms. We viewed cars at the bottom end of the market, Skodas, fine, nearly purchased, to Lexus, expensive, ok, but somehow not really 'us'. We were blinded by science, bombarded with figures (the going rate for discounts would appear to be around 8%.) Everyman and his dog (Yes the same dog that was surprised at our rash spending) gave us advice. Which of course we in the main ignored as is our style! Anyway, the die is cast, the deed is done. We fetch our new motor on Tuesday, God and the manufacturers willing. So what have we purchased. Watch this space!

 

The Good Old Days

There seems to be a deal of interest television wise in the past at the moment. What do they say, 'Nostalgia ain't what it used to be'. An obvious choice I suppose, especially as the years roll by and we look, sometimes with rose tinted spectacles at our past experiences.

A two part look at Workhouses, (Secrets From the Workhouse) was a case in point. Featuring actor Brian Cox and actress Felicity Kendal and author Barbara Taylor-Bradford, the programmes showed how three 'celebrities' had family connections with Workhouses that were moving in the extreme.

Workhouses were severe, austere institutions that affected the lives of the poor, the destitute, those at the bottom of society for the whole of the Victorian era and some distance beyond. The Workhouse System ran from 1834-1929 and affected the lives of millions of people.

     Several of the instances related in the programmes were of personal interest.  (I was orphaned at the age of thirteen) and I viewed the hardships endured by the relatives of the 'celebrities' with fascinated horror but I could not get out of my mind an aspect of it all that must be common to many.

    We, especially those of 'senior years' have memories of childhood, of an era long since gone. Memories of family, of events that make us cry, laugh and occasionally wince; not too often the latter I hope. We remember mums, dads uncles and aunts. And hopefully granddads and grandmas, and perhaps great uncles and aunts. Then the fun starts! Great granddad and great grandma; and great great granddad and great great grandma and so on. What do you REALLY know about your ancestry. There seems to be a fascination for researching family trees. (I have always suspected the people who research hope to find they come from 'superior stock'. (My father is\was unknown. A funny feeling when you are seventy three! It has been suggested my father was someone who 'visited the big house.' My mother was a 'skivy' for the rich for much of her adult life. She died aged forty six or seven.)

     In the years after war some of my contemporaries had 'dodgy credentials. Dad was really uncle. No dad present but who was the  bloke who brought stockings for mum when he called and often seemed to stay the night. The village where I lived, called Ockbrook is very sought after, very, expensive and 'posh' nowadays. Now why does the term used by an old relation spring to mind. ('All fur coat and no knickers.')

One particular point concerning the celebrities centrals on their workhouse connections. All are now famous people in their own right. All knew little of their ancestry beyond, say, a third generation. So, once again I ask, why do you REALLY know about yourself.

(If anyone is interested, click on the book 'A Childhood Revisited' at the top of my blog. It will take you to the book on Amazon. The book will appear. Click on it and you can read the first twenty pages for nothing!)

An apology
To those kind individuals who have replied to recent posts. I am struggling to hold things together after the surgery. Hence the spasmodic posts. I have read all comments. Replies will recommence in time. thanks to you all.

I'm in Charge. (Not!)

    It is now nearly five weeks since the trauma associated with Replacement Knee Surgery began. Life will eventually return to a state of near normality I hope. perhaps. In the meantime I live in the surreal world occupied by those out of work, retired, very retired, those immobile, indeed anyone not preoccupied by the necessity to leave the house on a daily basis. Jeremy Kyle has become my staple diet. I leave the house infrequently via an  unsprung vehicle, (ambulance) to be  further tortured by attractive ladies in the local hospital intent on returning me to a state of supreme fitness via all manner of machines. (Physios\ Occupation therapists)). Which of course will be very clever as my fitness prior to the operation was by no means 'supreme'. Life is still a hazy, drug induced existence but is getting better so some thoughts on the last four week, in no particular order.

    Drugs ruled\rule; my life, People, other people were now in control. My very existence was in the hands of others. I was in bed; how long decided by others. What to do and when decided by others. (Eat, poo, pee, decided by me. You must be joking!) No alcohol, not allowed; driving, not allowed; over a month of being fetched, carried, delivered. When, how, where decided by others. (The longest I have gone without alcohol for over fifty years! I have lost well over a stone in weight. Amazing!)

I have felt better but not really surprising as my daily intake of drugs includes:

Nefopam hydrocloride

Ramipril

Warfarin

Clopidogrel

Dilzem

Simvastatin

Omeprazole

Metformin

Enoxaparin (an injection)

Metoclopramide

    All somewhat depressing but hopefully I will look back eventually and smile again at the trials and tribulations associated with spring and summer 2013. On a positive note, I have met people who I would not have met, many worse off than myself. To cheer ourselves up, my wife and I have decided to buy a new car. (Our present vehicle is fifteen years old!) So its into the world of modern vehicles, turbos, sat navs, safety ratings, CO2 emissions, cruise controls and colour coded bits and pieces. Should be interesting!