One of the consequences of becoming “single” at the advanced age of more than three score years and ten is that one becomes an available man and, as such, often receives more invitations than one perhaps deserves. There are far more women than men of this age who are single, either through divorce, widowhood or merely that they seem to lead separate lives from their husbands. These women often need company and, even after two nights of Bridge and one theatre or concert visit in a week, will still invite people for supper on Saturday night, so an extra single man is often required.
Thus it was that the other Saturday night I was invited to a Chinese takeaway evening by Andrea. Andrea is an impulsive lady who used to be married to an Italian. Divorced or widowed? I’m not sure, I suspect the former. I travelled with Jill, another single lady who lives near me with several cats and dogs. I was grateful for her offer to drive. On arrival at Andrea’s house we had to let ourselves in, key under the flower pot, welcome the other guests, serve them with drinks and await the arrival of Andrea with the takeaway.
There were seven of us in all, another couple I knew from Bridge and the most extraordinary woman called Sylvia and her husband Harry. Sylvia could have been anywhere between early sixties and eighty. She looked like a witch, with shoulder length blonde/white hair, black pencilled eyebrows and a slash of scarlet lipstick, high cheekbones and skin that appeared to be both wrinkled and taut. She had clearly had several G&T’s before arrival but soon got stuck into the Sauvignon Blanc with gusto. Harry gave the impression of being slightly gaga, but it soon became clear that this was the role he had chosen in order to compensate for his wife.
She was amazingly rude to him. “Would you like to sit next to Harry?”...... “Good God no! He’s the last person I want to sit next to!”
Naturally she dominated the conversation:
Sylvia: “Jeremy is going to Cambridge next week, I’ve asked him to take my husband’s shield to Trinity Hall.”
Harry: “Does this concern me, my dear?”
Sylvia: “Not in the least, my first husband was at Trinity Hall and I thought they might like the shield.”
Harry: “I was at Trinity Hall as well. I wonder if I ever came across him.”
Sylvia: “I shouldn’t think so for a moment. I didn’t know you were at Trinity Hall.”
Harry: “Well I was, which is why I thought it might concern me.”
Sylvia: "Well it doesn't concern you."
I wondered how I could break into her monologues with being too obviously offensive. My chance came when she was telling a story about how she had been stopped by the police.
“ I don’t know what name I gave them as I can’t remember which of three husbands I was married to at the time.”
As she paused while her glass was being refilled, I asked her why the police had stopped her. She turned and looked at me through narrowed eyes for a long moment, and finally snapped “Drink!”
On another occasion, I asked her what “career” she had enjoyed before her three husbands. Again, a long piercing look before she replied “Sales” and moved quickly on.
She was one of the most appalling women I have ever come across, interesting only as a curiosity to be avoided and I thought no more about her. Then, at Bridge about ten days later, Andrea told me that the previous week Sylvia had phoned asking for my telephone number as she wanted to invite me to lunch the following Sunday.
No invitation arrived but Sylvia had obviously liked me! I wonder if she'll ask me again? And, if she does, will I accept the invitation? I think I might, for I would quite like to see how Sylvia behaves when she is the hostess, and if Harry is any less subservient on his home territory.
Thursday 23 September 2010
Five Years Ago
Some years ago when I was teaching, I was talking to an eighteen year old who was having some problems.
“ Remember how you were five years ago and think how much you have changed. In the next five years you will change just as much and you will look back on this time and recall all the silly and cringe-making things you said and did.”
One is inclined to believe that, as an adult, ideas and opinions no longer change a great deal over a five year period. However I think I have always been able to look back five years and remember foolish thoughts and opinions held and stupid and crass things said.
Five years ago I would have had little time for the idea that counselling was of much use in helping a person with their problems. The idea that talking about one’s personal troubles and fears with a complete stranger could be beneficial, did not seem likely to me. Surely one must confront one’s problems, endeavour to sort out those that one could, and learn how to cope with the rest. And yet, a couple of years ago at the suggestion of my doctor, I found myself "on the couch" as it were. At first we jousted verbally but she, being more used to these sort of games, soon got the better of me and it wasn't long before I was pouring everything out. She did recommend at one point that I went on anti-depressants but I wasn't going down that road. After six sessions (that's what the NHS allows you for free) I acknowledged that we had made progress and realised I was going to miss our monthly get-togethers.
Five years ago I regarded acupuncture as a weird ancient Chinese practice, which, like faith-healing and African witch-doctory, could only work if you were a "believer". This summer, after three weeks camping and driving in France, I returned with a stiffness in the back and shoulders which would not go away. When the doctor diagnosed polymyalgia rheumatica and prescribed some sort of steroid tablets for the next two years, I went straight on-line and panicked when I saw the list of potential side-effects. These ranged from indigestion and weight gain through to acute suicidal tendencies. My daughter suggested trying acupuncture and/or massage so I gave it a go. Thus, much to my amazement, two weeks ago I found myself stripped to the waist, flat on my back while an enthusiastic young woman called Gabrielle administered needles all over my body. I had one in each foot, one in each thigh, one on either side of my navel, one just below the breastbone, one between the eyes and two in each ear! Gabrielle kept taking my pulse and assured me she could feel the energy surging round my system.
Although it did little to relieve the pain in my shoulders and upper arms, I'm sure I did feel better "in myself" for the next couple of days.
Five years ago my understanding of massage probably was limited to the vision of soft lighting, lush furnishings, aromatic candles and warm sweet-smelling oils gently applied by nubile Oriental maidens.
A week or so ago I found myself, again stripped to the waist, this time face down, being pummelled and probed by the same vigorous and enthusiastic young lady who had earlier applied the needles. At one point the isolated and intensely fierce pain in my lower back caused me to accuse her of having a sharp fingernail on the end of the strong, bony digit embedded deeply into my back. Gabrielle informed me that the digit in question was, in actual fact, her elbow. Again, the same problems remained but the unravelling and stretching of muscles and tendons was really welcome.
Eventually, after one night when I literally had no sleep at all (from 3.00 until 5.00am I watched a recording of Australia v South Africa, a cracking game,) I succumbed and have started taking the steroids. No nasty side-effects so far, and the doctor says that, when we start to reduce the dose, some sessions of acupuncture could certainly be beneficial. I may well try that. But I will certainly go for another massage in a couple of months.
“ Remember how you were five years ago and think how much you have changed. In the next five years you will change just as much and you will look back on this time and recall all the silly and cringe-making things you said and did.”
One is inclined to believe that, as an adult, ideas and opinions no longer change a great deal over a five year period. However I think I have always been able to look back five years and remember foolish thoughts and opinions held and stupid and crass things said.
Five years ago I would have had little time for the idea that counselling was of much use in helping a person with their problems. The idea that talking about one’s personal troubles and fears with a complete stranger could be beneficial, did not seem likely to me. Surely one must confront one’s problems, endeavour to sort out those that one could, and learn how to cope with the rest. And yet, a couple of years ago at the suggestion of my doctor, I found myself "on the couch" as it were. At first we jousted verbally but she, being more used to these sort of games, soon got the better of me and it wasn't long before I was pouring everything out. She did recommend at one point that I went on anti-depressants but I wasn't going down that road. After six sessions (that's what the NHS allows you for free) I acknowledged that we had made progress and realised I was going to miss our monthly get-togethers.
Five years ago I regarded acupuncture as a weird ancient Chinese practice, which, like faith-healing and African witch-doctory, could only work if you were a "believer". This summer, after three weeks camping and driving in France, I returned with a stiffness in the back and shoulders which would not go away. When the doctor diagnosed polymyalgia rheumatica and prescribed some sort of steroid tablets for the next two years, I went straight on-line and panicked when I saw the list of potential side-effects. These ranged from indigestion and weight gain through to acute suicidal tendencies. My daughter suggested trying acupuncture and/or massage so I gave it a go. Thus, much to my amazement, two weeks ago I found myself stripped to the waist, flat on my back while an enthusiastic young woman called Gabrielle administered needles all over my body. I had one in each foot, one in each thigh, one on either side of my navel, one just below the breastbone, one between the eyes and two in each ear! Gabrielle kept taking my pulse and assured me she could feel the energy surging round my system.
Although it did little to relieve the pain in my shoulders and upper arms, I'm sure I did feel better "in myself" for the next couple of days.
Five years ago my understanding of massage probably was limited to the vision of soft lighting, lush furnishings, aromatic candles and warm sweet-smelling oils gently applied by nubile Oriental maidens.
A week or so ago I found myself, again stripped to the waist, this time face down, being pummelled and probed by the same vigorous and enthusiastic young lady who had earlier applied the needles. At one point the isolated and intensely fierce pain in my lower back caused me to accuse her of having a sharp fingernail on the end of the strong, bony digit embedded deeply into my back. Gabrielle informed me that the digit in question was, in actual fact, her elbow. Again, the same problems remained but the unravelling and stretching of muscles and tendons was really welcome.
Eventually, after one night when I literally had no sleep at all (from 3.00 until 5.00am I watched a recording of Australia v South Africa, a cracking game,) I succumbed and have started taking the steroids. No nasty side-effects so far, and the doctor says that, when we start to reduce the dose, some sessions of acupuncture could certainly be beneficial. I may well try that. But I will certainly go for another massage in a couple of months.
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