During the past week or so I have worn flip-flops and furry boots. I have ventured out in a strappy vest top and worried about whether or not I should have added sunscreen. And I have shivered in a knee-length parka with a furry hood.
I know, I know, this is pretty standard for Britain but in the new role I seem to have developed as a grumpy old woman I am fed up with it and have voiced my disgust with anyone who will listen. And a fair few who won't but can't escape easily.
Oh dear I sound like one of those rainmac and headscarf wearing biddies on the bus don't I but I think after my latest birthday I am entitled to a bit of random pointless moaning every now and again. It's one of the perks of getting older, to compensate for the urinary incontinence and wrinkles.
Don't start me on wrinkles. I have started paying attention to those TV adverts with older (airbrushed) film stars who blind me with pseudo-science boasting of mystery ingredients in their magic potions like bolloxium and gullible-arium.
I have a variety of serums and ever-thicker creams which smell pharmaceutical or of rose or lavender. 'Caue that's what old ladies like. Sadly I think the only hope for me is a camera lens liberally smeared with Vaseline. Or the airbrushing, blemish removing magic of Picmonkey. (see heavily edited picture below!)
Talking of the TV (she says with probably the worst link ever) I have started shouting at mine. A lot. Especially at idiots who blame their health conditions on gamma rays or aliens when in fact, mostly their ailments are down to a poor diet and no exercise. Much like mine. (diabetes)
I often think of my neighbour who lost a lot of weight and was asked by a more portly friend how she had done it. She cheerfully (and not terribly tactfully) replied: "I just stopped eating like a big fat pig."
Quite.
I add to my list of old lady moans, bin men who a. stop the sodding lorry in the middle of the road always when you are late for the doctors/schoolrun/train. and b. leave the emptied bin (which I have dutifully wheeled to the kerbside as ordered) dumped on my driveway so I have to abandon the car bin-lorry style in the middle of the road and get out of the car to move said bin.
And shop girls (as my gran used to call them) who ignore you because you are obviously too old and not stylish enough to warrant their attention or buy stuff in their boutique forcing you to say "excuse me" in a fake posh voice. It's only a matter of time before I'm singing "yoo-hoo!" like my Gran.
Add to the list of "minor things which irritate me out of all proportion" mad people on mobility scooters adorned with mouldy Beanie babies who hurtle recklessly around the high street clipping ankles and flattening small children.
Oh and I mustn't forget people who push into queues. I know this is a peculiarly British thing and maybe its a change in upbringing for the Yoof of today, or the fact that our Isle is now so multicultural and most nations don't appear to see the fairness of the queuing system, but nowadays you are much more likely to see a mob trying to push onto a bus, or pay for their shopping or to be insulted and interrogated by the doctor's receptionist.
At least it gives me a chance to "tut" and shake my head in mock sorrow as befitting a grumpy old woman. Which entertains me during the times I can't shout at the TV or radiogram.
I know, I know, this is pretty standard for Britain but in the new role I seem to have developed as a grumpy old woman I am fed up with it and have voiced my disgust with anyone who will listen. And a fair few who won't but can't escape easily.
Oh dear I sound like one of those rainmac and headscarf wearing biddies on the bus don't I but I think after my latest birthday I am entitled to a bit of random pointless moaning every now and again. It's one of the perks of getting older, to compensate for the urinary incontinence and wrinkles.
Don't start me on wrinkles. I have started paying attention to those TV adverts with older (airbrushed) film stars who blind me with pseudo-science boasting of mystery ingredients in their magic potions like bolloxium and gullible-arium.
I often think of my neighbour who lost a lot of weight and was asked by a more portly friend how she had done it. She cheerfully (and not terribly tactfully) replied: "I just stopped eating like a big fat pig."
Quite.
I add to my list of old lady moans, bin men who a. stop the sodding lorry in the middle of the road always when you are late for the doctors/schoolrun/train. and b. leave the emptied bin (which I have dutifully wheeled to the kerbside as ordered) dumped on my driveway so I have to abandon the car bin-lorry style in the middle of the road and get out of the car to move said bin.
And shop girls (as my gran used to call them) who ignore you because you are obviously too old and not stylish enough to warrant their attention or buy stuff in their boutique forcing you to say "excuse me" in a fake posh voice. It's only a matter of time before I'm singing "yoo-hoo!" like my Gran.
Add to the list of "minor things which irritate me out of all proportion" mad people on mobility scooters adorned with mouldy Beanie babies who hurtle recklessly around the high street clipping ankles and flattening small children.
Oh and I mustn't forget people who push into queues. I know this is a peculiarly British thing and maybe its a change in upbringing for the Yoof of today, or the fact that our Isle is now so multicultural and most nations don't appear to see the fairness of the queuing system, but nowadays you are much more likely to see a mob trying to push onto a bus, or pay for their shopping or to be insulted and interrogated by the doctor's receptionist.
At least it gives me a chance to "tut" and shake my head in mock sorrow as befitting a grumpy old woman. Which entertains me during the times I can't shout at the TV or radiogram.