photo credit

“I got chiiills, they’re multiplyin’…..”

Don’t worry, I’m not about to launch into a rousing rendition of Better Shape Up from Grease – not least because with a slight hint of a ‘tache and pasty un-made-up face I look more like Danny than Sandy right now. No, I’ve got chills because I’m sick.

Since we live in a ridiculous time when “sick” can now mean both violently ill and also amazingly cool, allow me to clarify: I’m sick in the old-fashioned sense. Did you really think a forty-something woman would be using the word in the new trendy slang way? Nah. That would not be “sick”…that would be embarrassing.

Sam…or Slimer?

So I’m sitting in my bed, bolstered by pillows and cushions to keep me bolt upright, since whenever I tilt even a few degrees to one side I leak snot like some kind of Ghostbusters blobby thing oozing ectoplasm, when it suddenly occurs to me: I’ve not been ill for ages. Sure, I’ve had the odd hangover, but that’s entirely self-inflicted and doesn’t exactly classify as illness; I mean, anyone who downs wine, jäger bombs and cocktails over the course of a lively evening hardly expects (or deserves) to wake up feeling full of beans, right?

No, what just struck me was how rarely I feel as rubbish as I do now, which is as an extra from Thriller might do (i.e freshly dug up) and ergo, how lucky I am. I can’t remember the last time I had a day off sick from work. Certainly not in the last two years (and I’m not about to start now: no-one likes a Sicknote). Health is something we all simply take for granted…until it’s not there.

Just as we don’t really appreciate our parents when we’re kids – the endless dinners prepped, expensive trainers, school trips, dad being our personal taxi service, ferrying us about (mine still does sometimes – cheers Pops) – we also don’t always appreciate feeling “normal”…until we don’t. It’s just taken as a given that we feel fine, thus allowing plenty of time to focus on the big stuff – like the size of Kim K’s ass, Queen Bey’s baby news, or our mutual loathing of Trump.

So this post contains no big revelation; it’s just a simple expression of gratitude for my health. I’m not particularly religious, so I’m not quite sure who I’m addressing it to – not God, exactly. The Universe?

It’s the same when it comes to discussing the ageing process. Of course I’d love to be gazelle-like (or maybe Gisele-like?) forever – springing about all plumped and pumped with the vigour of youth – but getting older is actually something to be proud of. I spend my days peddling “anti-ageing” products in my job as a beauty boutique manager – it’s big business – but why are we so ashamed of getting older? Yes, I’d rather look like Bambi than a taxidermist’s mishap, but a lived-in face shows character and experience. It says: “Oh I could tell you a story or two…..” delivered with a sly, crinkly-eyed wink

photo credit

I reckon we need to change our attitudes towards ageing. I mean, we made it this far – so many don’t. The alternative to getting old…is not getting old at all. I know plenty of amazing people whose lives were cruelly snatched like a rug from beneath their feet long before their time – some in their twenties and thirties or even younger.

Of course I bemoan the crow’s feet when I look in the mirror as much as the next person, but the overwhelming feeling is gratitude that I’m actually still here. I’ve put my body through a lot over the years, but still it soldiers on and serves me well (even if it is starting to creak and click a bit in protest).

So although from the outside it might look like a sorry scene in my bedroom this Sunday afternoon: me slumped in bed during the day clad in fox-print peejays (well Andy did say to “buy yourself something foxy”) accessorised with a big red bulbous hooter, sore from being blown umpteen times – I’m actually feeling decidedly upbeat.

Feeling bleugh: Netflix and a chill

I might on the surface of things be feeling fifty shades of meh; the scene more “Netflix and chills” than chill, but underneath the mountains of Kleenex and trashy magazines is an ashen-faced 40-something who’s actually bloody grateful.
Grateful that this is just a cold.
Grateful that in a few days I’ll be right as rain.
Grateful that by next weekend I’ll be back to drinking wine and dancing with friends and taking my health for granted all over again….

About last weekend…clubbing with the gorgeous JenKat

But in the meantime, I’m just chillin’.

Sam x


Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (Life:ABird’sEyeView)
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

The post Netflix and Chills appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

My mum as a child with my grandparents

Imagine all your memories, amassed over a lifetime, handwritten in tiny lettering on a deck of cards, neatly stacked in chronological order. Then imagine someone deftly shuffling this deck: fancy fingerwork as they expertly weave and riffle the cards until there is no order whatsoever. They replace the shuffled cards carefully on the table in front of you and look you directly in the eye, stony-faced. You’re confused: why would they do that?

A sudden gust of wind from an open window blows the cards into the air, sending them in all directions. You scrabble to catch them, to gather your precious memories up and re-stack them as they were in the original pile, but it’s no use: some have disappeared out of the window; one has gone, unnoticed, down the back of the sofa. A few have slipped under the television unit. The ones you have left are jumbled and, try as you might, you just can’t seem to sort them into any logical order. Distressed and frustrated, you scatter them over the table, rest your head on your folded arms, and begin to cry….

My maternal grandfather has dementia.

As I contemplate the way the illness has robbed him of his memories, that’s the image that I conjure up in my mind’s eye: of an elderly man, sitting alone at the table in the modest council house he shared with my nan for most of their lives (before she passed away some years ago), desperately trying to remember things.

He is surrounded by nick-nacks and keepsakes and fading pictures in frames; stacks of old black and white films on VHS that he used to watch continuously but whose storylines he now struggles to follow. The decor is old-fashioned, the swirly carpet a nod to the Seventies, yet the house is neat and carefully maintained. Murphy, his faithful Irish setter, sits at his feet, his head resting on Grandad’s knee.

For several years we would visit him; the trips to the house in South East London taking me back to my childhood, when Nan would serve up beans and sausages from her 1950s stove for my sister and I; my grandad smoking a pipe and twisting his pipe-cleaners into stickmen for us. In the summer my nan would show us how the snapdragons growing in their little back yard looked like bunny rabbits, whilst grandad tinkered away fixing things in his shed. When my mum came to pick us up they’d wave from the gate until our car rounded the bend.

Returning as an adult always felt strange as the house seemed to shrink: I felt like Alice In Wonderland after drinking the potion. Years later I’d visit him occasionally after work; Grandad preparing milky tea and a Fray Bentos pie for me, whilst Murphy the red setter casually released silent stinkbombs under the table.

Gradually it became apparent that Grandad would not be able to live alone for much longer. He started misplacing things; getting increasingly paranoid, confused and upset; calling the police to report perceived thefts of “stolen” belongings; starting his morning routine with a wet shave in the middle of the night.

Eventually he moved into a care home. The thing with dementia is that long periods of total memory loss, whereby the sufferer cannot remember what happened two minutes ago, are interspersed with occasional spells of complete lucidity. It’s fair to say that many of the residents of the home have less frequent lucid moments than Grandad, so sometimes he gets bored. Recently, he spoke about “escaping” – breaking out of the secure residential building and making a break for freedom. My mum, who is also his main caregiver outside the home, brushed it off and changed the subject.

A strong-willed old chap, 89-year-old Grandad is in otherwise rude health. Never one to do as he’s told (I wondered where I’d inherited that trait from), he hatched a plan – a plan so cunning that the local mischievous fox would’ve struggled to better it.

Waiting till the dead of night, Grandad got out of bed and dressed silently, putting on an extra layer against the December chill. Tiptoeing along the corridors, he ducked past the carers’ office, slipping into the laundry room and out of the unlocked fire escape. Excitement building, he scurried down the path out into the crisp night air, leaves and twigs crunching underfoot in the rural setting of the Kent countryside. Freezing cold, but warmed by the euphoria of victory, he marched on…

Until some time later, when one of the carers noticed the open door and, panicking, alerted the police – who duly located him walking along a deserted street in the early hours of the morning and returned him safely home. It was the first time the home had ever had a resident “on the run.” When my mum got the call in the middle of the night, she immediately feared the worst. However, upon arrival at the care home at 5am, she was greeted by the sight of Grandad, ruddy-faced with cold and excitement, sipping a mug of hot tea as he animatedly regaled the police officers with tales of his escapades in Kenya during the war.

When Mum rang to tell me about Grandad’s little adventure it was hard not to chuckle, as we admired his sly determination and resourcefulness: “Good old G-Dad!” was my initial reaction (obviously after hearing that he was safe and well). “There’s life in the old dog yet!” I joked, marvelling at his “great escape.” Mum recounted how he’d told the officers with an eyeball roll that it was “like living in Pentonville.”

There was a brief pause, as we both let that comment sink in. The mood turned sombre. In the cold light of day, Grandad had absolutely no recollection of the previous night’s shenanigans, asking instead where various relatives were – all of whom have long since passed away.

We both know – we ALL know – the reality: that it’s not the care home holding Grandad prisoner.
It’s dementia.

My grandad and I

The post Grandad’s Great Escape appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

A year ago, when the calendar flipped round to March for the thirty-ninth time in my life, I started thinking of myself as forty to give myself a year to get used to the idea. Whenever people asked how old I was I’d say I was forty, with increasing confidence and defiance as the year wore on and the D-Day b-day approached.It didn’t work. Despite being in sunny Spain on 31st March this year, I awoke on the morn of my fortieth birthday feeling a tad….dare I say it…..OLD.It was as if the Grim Reaper had stood at the foot of my bed in the night, chuckling with glee as he decided not to actually take me, not yet, but just to wave his scythe around a bit and carve a few new deep creases around my eyes.

On that momentous day I woke with a jolt, stumbled bleary-eyed to the mirror and inspected my obviously 40-year-old face in the bright early-morning Spanish sunlight. Ouch! Not only did I have those new ‘laughter lines’ (I don’t know about you, but I don’t see anything remotely funny here), but I also had ‘pillow face’ whereby the once-bouncy cheeks now take a while to return to their smooth state after a restless night’s sleep (did I mention that insomnia kicks in around this age?). Oh, and my chest was looking a tad crepey too.

“What the….?” I said aloud to my concerned reflection, jumping in the shower in a vain attempt to steam away some of the creases. Was it my imagination, or did my make-up seem to be making me look older today, the peach-toned Polyfiller gathering like cement in the nasolabial folds despite taking extra care when applying it.

My year of pre-forty pep-talking had failed.

Of course, I don’t feel forty. I don’t think anyone really feels their age. This is why, working in the beauty industry as I do, I’m confronted on a daily basis by crinkly fifty-year-olds excitedly asking me the question every skincare consultant dreads:

“How old do you think I am?”

Instinctively, I take off ten years, add another couple, take one off again then tentatively say:

“Errrrrrrm. Fortyyyyy………..three?”

The customer beams with pride as she loudly announces “I’m fifty-two.”

Personally, I’d have pitched her at around the fifty-five mark, but I allow her the glory, acknowledging the boost it provides when someone, particularly another woman, chucks another credit in your age-o-meter.

Although we all recognise the tell-tale signs whilst pondering our reflections: the lines, the thinning hair, the sparse brows – we tend to skim over these giveaways of our advancing years because on the inside we are still eighteen years old, nervously chewing our nails as we await our A-level results or dancing without a care in the world on a podium in Ibiza.

The outer shell may be changing more quickly than I’d like, but deep down I’m still the risk-taking, fun-loving girl I always was: a self-conscious seething mass of emotions – albeit now cunningly concealed with a bolshie dose of bravado.

Naturally, age and experience has brought wisdom, cynicism and a dry, wry sense of humour, but underneath I’m still the lanky schoolgirl wondering if anyone will ask me to the prom. I regularly give myself the third degree, harshly asking myself if I’m doing the right thing/am I a good boss/a lousy friend? – burning questions that reverberate around my monkey mind at 3am on a wet weekday morning. By and large though, us grown-up gals know who we are and what we want, and we aren’t afraid to go out and get it.

It’s a well-known fact that women of a certain age wear a cloak of invisibility. As a twenty-year-old, wolf whistles and cheeky car horn toots are a regular annoyance, tolerated with rolling eyes. At forty, we’re almost grateful to receive them. “Still got it!” we say to ourselves, with a smile and a flick of the hair.

As a six foot blonde, admiring glances haven’t ceased altogether (not yet!) but I occasionally catch a flicker of disappointment when a randy young lad realises upon closer inspection that I’m probably the same age as his mother.

Some women describe a sense of relief at their new-found invisibility, no longer feeling the need to constantly fiddle with their appearance. Not me! I want to be glamorous until the bitter end, groomed to perfection until I draw my last weak breath from a shakily-applied lipsticked mouth. Even if the teeth are not all my own.

Some say age is nothing but a number, merely a state of mind. I say let’s get in a state, then we won’t mind. Being a sozzled old soak may not be a good look, but boy does a glass of Sauvignon take the edge off a tough day…and when I gawp goggled-eyed into the mirror in the Ladies of the swanky rooftop bar, it miraculously takes the edge off the wrinkles too. Cheers to champers! I’ll be quite happy to grow old disgracefully, Patsy from Ab Fab style.

Having a younger boyfriend certainly helps and fear ye not single girls! There are no shortage of fit fellas seeking out a sexy middle-aged cougar. I’m not ready for a guy who likes to lounge in front of the telly with his pipe, slippers and a faithful beagle at his feet. No siree! Give me a hot young action man any day of the week.

A close-knit group of mates is also essential – many of whom I’ve been bosom buddies with since we started secondary school. Somehow they all still speak to me, which is miraculous in itself, since I’m not exactly known for my tact and reticence…

Throw in owning a modest home, a job I enjoy and a handful of family members and that’s all the ingredients I need to swerve a crisis. (And besides, I already had a mid-life meltdown a few years ago).

When I say you feel the same inside at 40 as 20, that’s not strictly true. Try spending an evening with a load of twenty-year-olds. You’ll soon change your mind. Although the changes may be subtle and you’ll always retain some of your youthful ways, at 40 you’re a fierce and fiery lioness not merely a pretty kitten. Mess with us at your peril!

In my teens I was on a journey of self-discovery, my twenties were wild partying mixed with occasional property purchasing. The thirties were about marriage followed by a miserable quest for motherhood before tearing everything up and starting my life all over again.

photo credit

Of course, we could vow to give up all the naughty-but-fun stuff, but you won’t necessarily live longer, it’ll just feel like it.

So buy the heels, drink the bubbles, spluge the savings…it’s time to get naughty at forty, ladies!

Sam x


Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (Life:ABird’sEyeView)
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

The post I said Forty not Faulty appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

Ok, so by the age of 40 most people have managed to get their shit together : you’ve got the big house, the fancy car, the fitness model husband, the adorable 2.4 rug-rats, the high-powered career….oh wait, let me check that….so I have a house, tick, and I’m employed….yeeeees, but the rest?

Before you switch to Facebook thinking this is going to be a pity-party post – stop right there!

So the Big 4-0 is definitely time to take stock of your life, have a bit of a happiness audit, make a few tweaks and culls as one sees fit….but I can safely say to all those dreading the mid-life deadline, 40 is a good age. Ok, so you might not have the picture-perfect life that you envisaged at 20, when 40 sounded absolutely ancient and as far away and unlikely a place as Timbuktu, but it comes around mighty quick, let me tell you young whippersnappers, and when it does I reckon you’ll feel…..well kinda proud actually.

That’s not to say that life will have dealt you a winning hand, not at all, by 40 you’re bound to have had more than your fair share of setbacks, disappointments, countless broken-hearted outpourings of grief over a bottle of white or six with your besties….but you wear your battle-scars like a badge of honour, “yeah I’ve been through the wars but I’m still here, I’m still loving life (mostly!) and I intend to make this decade the best yet. What you gonna do about it?!”

Before I launch into a cat’s-chorus rendition of Elton’s ‘I’m Still Standing’ (which could be a tad embarrassing on this packed train), let me welcome you to my new blog – a series of observations, musings and mundane day-to-day chitter-chatter about life as a 40-years-young bird…..


Life : A Bird’s Eye View

Sam x


Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (Life:ABird’sEyeView)
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

The post The Big 4-0. That’s Four….Oh!! appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.