Crisis

Crisis

And here we are again, sitting with the intention to smash out my next batch of blog posts, to catch up on all the things. With the best of intentions I’ll see how this goes?

The best meme I’ve seen at the end of January 2025 stated, “This month was a long year!” and I whole heartedly agree.

That is to say by the end of 2024, it was a bit of a shitstorm. About a month and a half, ending in late November I was in absolute crisis. I’m relieved to say I rarely have had to resort to that particular word but it’s accurate.

You see, late last year, I moved my home. Well, just me and the contents. Not far at all as the crow flies, but packing up after seven comfortable years of more affordable rent the earth shifted and I relocated to my forever home.

The lead up to which, as much as I’d tried to have everything sorted and come together resulted in me not having the much needed funding, the extra carers and the so called promised help on the day. I’ve only just found the accurate word for how the big day moving was.

The following week after the trucks came, I had two Little Red Trucks (I only use them) and four people. They spent seven hours relocating me this one last time.

I have moved lots in my life. Plenty of times in my twenties, four times now since my disability and I’ve taken to making the statement, “I’M NEVER MOVING AGAIN! I’M GOING FROM HERE TO THE GRAVE! OK, I’M GOING FROM HERE TO THE FURNACE! WHAT! TOO MORBID? YES, I’M GOING TO BE CREMATED!”

When telling people about my new Forever Home, I’ve hinted at several things until I’m asked, “How much is the rent?” I smile just a little and shake my head in the negative. I’m never paying rent again. Quickly followed by “Don’t hate me because my father loved me!” Next.

Crisis

I’ve recently suffered another birthday. Did I suffer? No! Given the alternative, I’d rather suffer another birthday.

I turned 48, yes! I know you were all wondering, so I just ripped the band-aid off. I don’t even have an issue with being this age. What’s in a number?

I’m going to start to bring into my writing influences of age and wisdom. Maybe this post should be called that? But it won’t always be subtle, but it will be there.

My beautician (yes! I’m that age where I consider I have one of those), one day I turned to ask how her day was and she had spent her morning helping a younger lady because she was not even upset but distraught because she was about to turn (wait for it!) 30.

Did you hear me? Fucking 30! Eye roll!

I asked said beautician (let’s call her J), “Did you slap her?” I am not about to shame the much younger generation so hang in there. Allow me to teach you something?

Up until 20, you learn, you play really. You know NOTHING, you think you know everything. Then your 20’s. In your 20’s, you sort out who you are in life. You hopefully work hard, play harder, but you settle into the who you will grow up to be maturity.

Then 30, again, say it with me now. FUCKING 30.

That’s when you should be able to not need to make the big decisions in life. They should be done with and should still be working hard and be able to play harder too. So, it is to say, I know I’m not ‘young’ anymore. But I’m not old either.

I learned some years ago I was no longer ‘Young’, when I saw a ‘cool’ pair or streetwear jeans on a younger girl and she and her friend were getting off the same train I was getting off, I said “cool jeans!” and she said nothing and after getting off the train, she and her friend shared an embarrassing giggle.

I clearly wasn’t asking where to buy them. I did my streetwear jeans like a pro in my 20’s and now my left foot would get tangled and I would fall over. Let alone, I can’t get in and out of jeans in a hurry when I need to, or I just can’t do jeans anymore.

But a lesson to the ‘young’, when someone is giving you a compliment, be graceful. One thing is required of you and I want you to practice it with me now. Say “Thank you”

Some old lady (me in this case) used to be you and she just appreciates what you have going on, even though she no longer can. That is the correct and only thing required of you. Most importantly, you will be old(er) one day too. (If you are lucky)

Now, to the older generation.

I know, I’m not as old as you, I already make the noises you make when I get up and to the older generation. You have not survived two world wars, one maybe. My friend Bette survived the second world war. She was fostered out of London, from her parents to stay with a family on a farm back in that era. The government paid the families to feed them and she tells me they used them as slave labour.

Anyway, I digress

I’m saying, I am old enough to recall a time when there was such a thing as customer service. Oh, what’s that? It’s when someone greets you when you go into a store and just in passing asks you how you were, it’s a friendly way to let people know you are there if you need any assistance and you would assist people even if it meant directing them to another store. Because the mentality was, if you wanted good customer service they would come back.

The irony is even with my blogging process, my cafe/writing process and my now Girl-Friday typing up my posts and the fuck you Covid putting a serious kink in my access to cafes to write and here we are I only just turned 48!