Geriatric Acne

A post from eight years ago, when I had not been blogging for very long. It is reposted for the benefit of new followers, as it appears that only one person ever saw it. 🙂

beetleypete

I was lucky as a teenager. I missed the spots and acne that plagued so many of my contemporaries. Can’t say why, it just didn’t happen. They were all busting spots frantically, or being scarred for life along their necks and backs, and I just had a nice tan, and hay fever instead.

A life spent in a city, with traffic, smog, pollution, and fumes. Working all sorts of shifts, eating and sleeping erratically, stressed out like an over-tuned violin string. You would think that all of this would have played havoc with my skin. Smoking heavily, drinking lots of wine, and almost never enjoying fresh air and relaxation; surely the breeding ground for spots and associated blemishes? Apparently not.

Give up work and move to the countryside. Enjoy the freshest air you have ever known. Walk the fields and forests, stress free, and unworried by work and time commitments…

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Dressing Appropriately

Remember when you were young, reasonably fashion conscious, and always tried to dress appropriately?

Me too.

Socks with open sandals should never be seen, right?

Sleeveless vests (singlets) do not flatter the older man with a large belly.
No debate about that.

Brown shoes with a blue or grey suit?
In my day that was unacceptable.

There was a time when I laughed at people who did those things.

Last week, during endless rain, and before it got that cold, I had to take Ollie out in a downpour.

I was wearing a red T-shirt, and put on a baggy zip-up black fleece top over that.

Next came knee-length cargo shorts in blue. Military style, and loose-fitting.

Because of the rain and mud, I wore navy blue wellington boots, with some black and yellow long socks just visible over the top of them.

Umbrella up, I set off.

Not long after, I encountered a local lady who I know well. She was walking her three small dogs, and stopped to make a fuss of Ollie.
She is forty-something, and usually smart and well turned out. As she walked off with her dogs, she turned and smiled as she called out to me.

“Love the look. What kind of outfit is that?”

As I struggled to come up with a reasonable reply, I watched her from behind, her shoulders rocking as she giggled uncontrollably.

Yes, she was laughing at me.

My Last Year Of Hedge Clipping

Front of bungalow from across the road

In the photo above, (click to see full size) you can clearly see the larger and smaller beech hedges that are in front of our house. They are taller than they look in this photo, which was taken after they had just been trimmed, in late 2013. From street level, they reach to about eight feet in height, and are considerably higher than that when fully grown before they need cutting. On the plus, side, this height is reduced when cutting the back, as the ground level in the front garden is some twelve inches higher.

I bought some very good clippers when I moved here, as I also had to tackle the huge rows of leylandii hedges at the back. Compared to those, the beech hedges at the front were a breeze, easily finished off in a morning or afternoon. But then I got vertigo a couple of years back. And then I got older of course. I could no longer cope with the ten-feet high leylandii, and had to pay someone to cut them earlier this year. But I was sure I could still deal with the beech hedges.

After deciding that they were unacceptably shabby, I made up my mnd to cut them this morning. It is a hot day, 27 C, so I took Ollie out early, just after nine. On our return, I got straight on with the beech hedges, sweeping up the mess as I went. After managing just one quarter, the first battery gave up. I put it on charge, and went on with the second battery. I was very hot, and finding it difficult to stay steady on top of the step ladder as I tried to get the straggly stems in the middle. After two hours, I swept up, and had a lunch break.

When I went back out, I decided to use a proper ladder to reach the top, and jammed it as hard as I could against the hedge. But is was very wobbly once I got up there, and I was having real difficulty keeping my balance and cutting at the same time. When the second battery went flat, I had at least finished the biggest hedge, and can do the small one easily tomorrow. Sweeping up and tidying the things away, it dawned on me that will be the last time I can safely cut these hedges.

As of next year, I am going to have to pay someone to do it.

Pain Threshold

On an unusually hot and sunny afternoon last week, I was chatting to a fellow dog-walker when I felt an incredibly sharp pain at the back of my head. It was best described as being hit by an air-rifle pellet, or being stabbed by someone using a spike of some kind. I yelled loudly, and jumped forward, quickly turning to see if someone was behind me. The man I was talking to pointed to the space above my head, and declared, “It’s a horsefly”. I have had horsefly bites on my legs in the past, and they can be painful. But this one on my head was much worse, and was throbbing immediately.

I carried on with my walk, and by the time I got over the river onto Hoe Rough, the swelling was the size of an egg, and pulsing painfully. As I type this, I can still feel the remains of that hard lump above my right ear.

Yesterday afternoon, I was stepping into the bath, prior to getting ready to take Ollie out. As I did so, I caught the inside of my left leg on the edge of the bath. It was little more than a glancing blow, hardly even a ‘knock’. Yet it made me shout in pain so loudly, Ollie’s head appeared, to see what was happening. It was really painful, and by the time I was out of the bath and getting dried, there was a bruise appearing, the size of a coin.

I have been lucky so far in life. I have not had to have any major surgery, and have never broken an arm, leg, or even an ankle. There have been my fair share of falls, bumps, and cuts over the years, and I did break four fingers on my left hand in a very bad car accident when I was 32. But whatever injury I ever had, I never thought too much about it, and never once made a fuss.

So how is it that I suddenly have zero pain threshold for things like a small impact on my leg, or the bite of an insect? What changed along the way? I’m sure it cannot just be age, as I know older people who have bravely endured surgery or broken limbs quite recently. Is it my perception of pain that has altered, or can a body actually change how it registers levels of pain?

Whatever the reason, I don’t like it.

Thinking Aloud On a Saturday

Getting a man in.

This occasional Sunday post is a day early this week, because I woke up thinking about that phrase this morning. I remember in my youth when a widow or elderly man would say “I will have to get a man in”. That referred to having to get a job done, or something fixed. Generally, it was because the elderly person could no longer do it, had no idea how to do it in the first place, or didn’t have a relative nearby who could help.

My Dad took pride in never getting a man in to do anything. If he couldn’t do something himself, it wasn’t done. But a change in his job meant that he wasn’t always around, so when we needed new wallpaper in the house, he got a man in. This was done with a sense of achievement, not regret. He now had the income to pay someone to do jobs that he was capable of doing, but didn’t have the time to do them. He could even be boastful about getting a man in, as it meant he no longer had to do repetitive or manual tasks.

When I was old enough to own my own home, I also had a good income. I got a man in to do things I was capable of doing, but didn’t want to have to do after a hard week at work. I got a man in to paint the outside of the house, and someone else to do electrical wiring. When some fencing fell down, I got a man in to fix that too.

Some time later, living alone, I no longer had the luxury of spare cash to pay people. I did my own painting, and turned to friends to help with two-man jobs. The only thing I didn’t attempt was anything to do with electrics, but if a friend couldn’t help, I had an uncle who was an electrician. When he got older and moved away, I finally had to get a man in to sort out electrics.

Then I retired in 2012, and had more time on my hands, though only one third of my previous income. I tackled most things on my own. I painted rooms, cleared gutters, maintained the garden, and cut all the hedges. Very soon, I started to realise that this hard work was getting beyond me, and if it was going to get done, I was going to have to get a man in to do it. It was no longer something to be proud of, and I certainly didn’t have the funds to pay for everything at once.

But I got someone in to do the painting. Then I got someone in to do the electrics, and someone else to fit new carpet. As I wandered around the house watching them work, I had to face the fact that I had arrived at that time in my life where getting a man in was going to be the first option, not the last resort.

Last Friday, I got a man in to give me a quote to cut all the hedges and shrubs. That used to take me close to sixteen hours, over the whole weekend. Then I had to remove all the cuttings, and take them to the recycling centre in two or three trips. The genial garden man looked at the job, and announced it would take him around four hours. He would dispose of the cuttings and branches, taking them away in his pick-up. We agreed on his very fair price, and he will do the job in January.

I am now sitting here wondering what else I might have to get a man in for.
If it comes down to employing someone to type up my blog posts, then I will know it is close to the end.

Ollie’s Poorly Friends

As any dog-walker will tell you, regular haunts mean meeting lots of other dogs, and their owners. At one time, Ollie enjoyed the company of the same afternoon gang. We could have up to eight dogs in a very happy pack, and they would play together as we chatted walking around Beetley Meadows, or Hoe Rough.

Sadly, some of those dogs have since died, or owners have moved away. Each year, the old canine faces become fewer, and new ones arrive to replace them. But the boisterous new arrivals rarely interest Ollie, and he still scans the paths and fields for a sight of some of his ‘best mates’.

Just lately, we have been hearing some bad news about some of Ollie’s oldest friends and companions. Winston is fifteen now, and has recently suffered a stroke. He can still come out, but only for around ten minutes a day. Big Rocky the Newfoundland has suffered a complete collapse of his back legs. His owners bought a special cart to wheel him around in, as once in the river, he can still swim to his heart’s content. But he can no longer walk without assistance, and wears a harness with handles so that he can be lifted in and out of his cart.

Yesterday, I heard some sad news about Spike, the Rhodesian Ridgeback. He was born in February 2012, the same time as Ollie. For many years, they were firm friends, and used to enjoy the rough and tumble of dominant play. But for some time now, I haven’t seen him around. I spoke to his owner yesterday who informed me that he has a complete deterioration of his spine, and can hardly walk. If he stands still, he falls over. The prognosis is not good, and they are just ‘keeping him comfortable’.

Earlier this year, Buster the Lhasa Apso died unexpectedly from kidney failure. Paddy, the Collie who lives next door, is over fifteen years old. His back legs have crossed-over, and although he can still manage to walk, it is upsetting to see him struggling.

Some of the old gang are still the same. Toby the Jack Russell, as mad for his ball as ever. Poppy the Lakeland Terrier, still lively at ten years old. And a few of the new arrivals are slowly being accepted by Ollie too. Marley the black Labradoodle, and his terrier partner, Duke. Buddy and Walter, the frantic yellow Labradors, and Flossie the young Whippet, who trembles with delight every time she sees him.

Ollie is one of the ‘old guys’ now. Respected, sometimes avoided, but still in charge of his walking grounds.

At least as far as he is concerned.

A Random Memory

Wandering around on a cold bright afternoon with Ollie, it often surprises me what pops into my mind.

Once my Mum was in her eighties, and could hardly see, she often spilled things down her clothes as she was eating. On occasion, I would visit her to find her sitting in a top or dress that was obviously quite badly stained. I would point this out, and offer to find her something to change into from her wardrobe. But every time she was adamant that there was nothing there, that her clothing was not stained, and she was fine as she was.

She didn’t have any loss of mental faculties at that time, so I suspect her reluctance to believe me came from a mixture of embarrassment, and natural stubbornness. One evening, I was due to take her to a restaurant to celebrate some occasion. I arrived to find her wearing a rather fancy black outfit that was quite obviously spattered with stains from what she had been eating the last time she had worn it. I mentioned that she might want to change, as many other people would be there, and might wonder why her top had so many marks on it. She became unreasonably angry, and told me that if I was that bothered, she would stay at home.

I took her as she was, feeling sad that a once elegant and immaculate lady was perfectly happy to be seen in food-stained clothes by an assortment of family and friends.

Not long after this twenty year-old memory had been in my head, I saw a fellow dog walker, with her two dogs. One of them jumped up to me a few times, leaving muddy paw prints on my trousers, and then on the sleeve of my coat. She apologised, and told her dog off for jumping up. I assured her it wasn’t a problem. “They are only my dog-walking clothes, don’t worry”.

Maybe it runs in the family?

Old Man Hands

It is unusually bright here this morning, and as I was typing the last part of my fiction serial earlier, I noticed something.

It was something I didn’t like.

I have the hands of an old man.

Thin, papery skin, heavily wrinkled. Visible veins, and numerous red blotches probably caused by a lot of ice-scraping yesterday, as I defrosted a freezer. The slightest impact with the side of the appliance as I was scraping caused almost immediate bruising.

My hands have never been that big, but now they look puffy around the finger joints, and the sides of my wrists display a definite swelling that feels soft to touch. But my wedding ring feels loose, and is easy to slip on and off.

I am far from ancient, by modern standards. If I make it to next March, I will be 68 years old. But my hands are getting ahead of the calendar, and already look to be in their late seventies.

I took a photo of my right hand, and was going to add it to this post to illustrate what I mean.

But I didn’t like it, so you will just have to imagine.

It was a photo of someone else’s hand, as far as I could tell.

The hand of an old man.

Age and emotions

I found this post from my early days of blogging, back in 2012. It has had very few views, and just one comment. It was interesting for me to read it again, and to reflect on how I felt at the time.
Seven years later, much of it is still relevant.
Some of it even more so.

beetleypete

What is it about age and emotion? It seems to be on a sliding scale; as you get older, you become emotionally labile. Some days, I feel consumed by nostalgia, reverie, and reflection. Old films make me feel blue, and I can experience waves of sadness washing over me, for no apparent reason. I constantly look back over my life, re-evaluating past deeds, and regretting not doing others.

This is all a very new thing. Ten years ago, I got through the day, had a bottle of wine, and considered myself lucky to still be here.  There was no time in my life for regrets, and self-criticism; I would have considered it a luxury that I could not afford to indulge in. Analysing things in the past can be very self-destructive, and is generally not to be recommended. Wallowing in  nostalgia is usually unproductive, at the best of times.

So…

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Ten tips for Retirement

My thoughts on retirement in 2012, not long after I stopped working. They are still valid, seven years later.

beetleypete

I have been retired from work since March, so I would like to pass on this advice for others who are due to retire soon, or considering retirement at some stage in the near future. After nearly six months, I am no expert on the subject, I am really just passing on observations based on my own experience.

Walk about a lot. When you are still working, whether you realise it or not, you do walk around for a lot of the day. So, avoid sitting for too long, wander aimlessly from room to room if need be, or get outside for a stroll, if the weather is good. If this doesn’t work, then get a dog, and you will have no option.

Expect to use more toilet paper, and shop accordingly. You will not be using the facilities at work ever again, and you will be shocked at how…

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