A Retirement Blog by Caree Risover

The youngest returned today. Before she came, I made sure that I had erected and decorated our Christmas tree. The debate over artificial versus real tree continues to wage. I have come to the conclusion, however, that the only way to save the planet is to avoid both, but whilst I still have my artifical trees, I shall persist in bringing them out each year. The more difficult decision relates to tinsel. We have massses of it, stored away in a box with baubles and other ornaments. Traditionally the youngest and I have dressed the tree on Christmas Eve with a playlist of Christmas songs chiming merrily in accompaniment. The problem is that what should be a happy prelude to the season of goodwill, invariably dissolves into a debate over tinsel. I insist that it goes onto the tree second to the lights and that it is threaded through the branches aplenty. The youngest disagrees, declaring it to be ugly and draping it in unattractive loops to emphasise her point. So

Image by LouisBauer from Pixabay   An hour ago I returned from a Strength and Conditioning Class. The last Friday evening before Christmas and there were only six of us there. Six people without a Christmas Party to go to; no night-clubbing later and just well deserved dinners to go home to, after an hour spent lifting weights.  Of course, I'm glad I wasn't alone in turning up; imagine how lonely and unloved that could have made me feel! It's that time of year, when everyone imagines that everybody except themselves is partying and having fun. Well my class may have been sociable but fun it definitely wasn't.  If I can actually still move in the morning, I shall be relieved.  A survey commissioned by Thorntons Continental (pass the chocolates, please) has revealed that "a staggering seven in ten Brits will be apart from family and friends on Christmas Day." So much for the perception of everyone enjoying a family Christmas together. The res

I've just got back from another brief trip to London prompted by winning an opportunity to watch Alan Titchmarsh in conversation with Konnie Huq. Now it's not normally the kind of event that I would necessarily seek out to attend. However, as somebody who has waited until retirement to win something better than an Infant School Art Competition, some swimming certificates and the odd box of chocolates in a raffle, I felt honour bound to accept the prize. Staying overnight beforehand with the youngest, I had a morning free in London by myself until meeting a friend who was to be my plus one. It was a dry day, so I took the opportunity to visit St Katharine's Docks and from there walk along the canal, wharfs, and edge of the Thames to Limehouse Basin. Save for a brief visit to The Dickens Inn just after it had opened in the late 1970's and the docks were only at the beginning of their renovation, it is not an area of London I know at all. Once you lea

Finally Polling Day has arrived. It is an election where lying appears to be de rigeur with the leader of the Conservative Party repeatedly called out for it and 88% of its Facebook adverts judged to be erroneous. Purely for the sake of my sanity, I confess that I have tried to ignore, so far as possible, the ongoing hype over the political debate. However, when Fridgegate, Floorgate and Punchgate dominate the airwaves, it is difficult not to get drawn into  the unreality of knowing that I have a big decision to make with the fate of the country hardly resting on my solitary X on a ballot paper in a safe Conservative seat. With responsibility comes the need to consider and reflect (some might call it dithering). Even if all of those Labour ads have been regarded as essentially true, what about the rest of the noise? It has hardly been an inspiring election campaign. When the party favoured by the wealthy and privileged lies about lying and blames others for its deeply dest

We returned today from a long weekend in Crinan, the home of our retirement project . In light of the sub zero temperatures predicted by the weather forecast we set off with neither hope nor optimisim for conditions suitable for painting and varnishing. However, with a meeting scheduled with the lady who is going to reupholster the saloon cabin it was still important that we made the trip. Our pessimism as to the temperature was requited when, reaching Loch Fyne, it was apparent that the fresh water cascading from the streams was forming frozen ice floes on the surface of the seawater. Nor were we surprised when arriving at the converted barn in Crinan where we have stayed regularly this year and despite turning the heating on full blast, it was at least two hours before I ventured to remove my coat and even then I was still clutching two hot water bottles. Call it nostalgia but all those memories of  childhood winter evenings huddled in front of a fireplace, came floodin

  Image by Mabel Amber, still incognito... from Pixabay More than the gate has been creaking recently around our home. All that damp weather I blogged about in my last post has taken its toll on the joints. Although my knees have long suffered from degenerative changes, recently I have been conscious of arthritic pain in my fingers too.  Any correlation between joint pain and the weather has frequently been dismissed as an old wives' tale but I lie not when I say that lately my hands have become almost as adept as a barometer at identifying the rises and falls in atmospheric pressure. Trust me every time it's wet and cold, I find myself prompted by discomfort to examine my fingers for evidence of any misshaping to accompany the stiffness and have even started to wear fingerless gloves indoors on the coldest, wettest days to provide some protection and relief. Thankfully it appears that I am not suffering from a furtive imagination as well as arthritis. A stu

  Image by markito from Pixabay The interminable rain continues. I think it has been more or less unrelenting since my trip to London on 18th November which was one of those beautiful, frosty, blue sky days. This morning when leaving the village by our main access (a narrow, unmarked lane between hedgerows) a deluge of water was running off the fields and over the ditches onto it. Fingers crossed the weather forecast is now correct and we are going to have a spell of dry but cold conditions as I really don't fancy the idea of being trapped in my home by running water. We have very much given up on the idea of  an autumnal tidy-up in the garden now. Even with a dry spell, the risk of disturbing hibernating hedgehogs (yes that's how overgrown it is) will be too great. Hopefully, however, the sodden ground will dry out before winter is over, allowing us to at least give a much needed prune to overgrown shrubs and trees.  In the meantime, I have found the silver lin

Image by Ale MaGu from Pixabay A little boost to the old morale this morning at the gym when I had my progress at turning flab into core strength checked and was rewarded with a decline in my metabolic age to 49! Keep this up and I really will be back in my second adolescence before I know it. Mind I appear to have been aided by adopting a new dietary regime. Plant based diets are gaining so much in popularity of late that you can hardly move for them. In my defence, I have been forced into exploring mine as a result of an auto-immune disorder that has wreaked havoc with my skin for decades. I tell you, it is a good job I love spinach, beetroot and squash as well as developing a penchant for all kinds of legumes and pulses, because not only is red meat off the plate, but also aubergines, potatoes, peppers and, my once staple food, tomatoes! Wheat and dairy are discouraged and processed foods are completely prohibited. On the plus side, eggs are in and I'm still eating

Antony Gormley is, of course, the British sculptor renowned for using the human body as the subject for so many of his works. At the beginning of the week I travelled to London to see his exhibition at the Royal Academy and meet up with the youngest for some mother and daughter time. It's an easy enough journey by rail and setting off just after 9am, the youngest was greeting me at Kings Cross a mere two and a half hours later.  It's strange but when I was working and travelled to London for conferences, I rarely lingered, detesting city life and the oppressive busyness of the streets. Now, in retirement, there's a definite spring in my step heading for the bright lights. Perhaps without a briefcase in my hand I feel better able to attack the vibrancy on offer or maybe a rural retirement is so quiet that there are occasions when a faster pace is alluring. I enjoy too an exhibition of one person's work showing the progression of themes over several decades. I

Image by Susana Martins from Pixabay Sometimes this crazy place called Retirement has me in absolute stitches. There's no need to go hunting for laughter, because it is around every corner when you interact with others. We are told not to  talk to strangers when we are little but, now we have grown up, there can be so much fun in doing so. Take the examples below from the last few days which still bring a grin to my face when I recall them. Standing outside the gym the other morning was a butler. Now I have been a member for ten years and never before has a gentleman in bow tie and tails greeted me. "You must be waiting to carry my bag," I declared, and he duly did! Then there was the afternoon I caught up with my mother at the checkout of a local self service store. I was chatting away to her when, after ignoring me and paying, she suddenly fled. "Aren't you going to wait for me?" I queried, as she scurried out of the shop even though I was d

I see that Mr Johnson dug himself into another quagmire yesterday when he was quizzed on BBC Breakfast TV about his tea-making skills. There is a video clip that has been doing the rounds on social media, where he drops a tea-bag into a mug, fills it with water from a tap, adds milk immediately and then leaves the kitchen, mug in hand with the bag still floating in there somewhere. Unsurprisingly we don't actually see him drink any of it. Nevertheless, in response to Naga Munchetty's questioning, he stuck by his tea making method, declaring it to be delicious! I raise this only by way of sequel to my previous blog post, because at our village Pop up Café  I was asked if I wanted milk in my green tea and/or the tea bag leaving in. Personal taste perhaps, but no thank you. Before I retired, teatime was a custom carried out shortly upon arrival at the office and then again at 3.30pm. Yes it was made in mugs with teabags, but only with water from the kettle and t

  When I hear someone talk about Café Culture, images of pavement tables and Mediterranean sunshine always come to mind. Today, however, I have been able to demonstrate that even on a cold, damp, miserable November day, that lifestyle booms in North Yorkshire. Of course, I wasn't so much on a journey of scientific exploration as a voyage of necessity. After all, I already know that my local High Street (unusually for a Northern town, some might unfairly presume) has a preponderance of highly regarded tea and coffee shops, definitely more numerous than say its offering of bakers' and charity shops. Whilst the rain poured down this morning, I found myself in one such establishment, looking out through the window as foot and road traffic splashed its way through ever growing puddles. People-watching from indoors in those conditions always promotes a feeling of inner warmth, although it could of course have simply been engendered by the mug of berry tea I was

Image by Joshua_Willson from Pixabay There's plenty of criticism these days about the number of photographs people take, especially with their phones. As for all those pouting selfies distributed on social media: clearly an exercise in sheer vanity. Now back in the day, with an old box Brownie, black and white roll film and a dark room, people had to be a little more selective. Yes, we've all heard it haven't we? I just wonder how many people with their collections of photograph albums and boxes of photographs buried at the backs of cupboards, have been waiting for retirement to come around to finally sort them. Please don't tell me I'm alone in this quest. So five years into retirement and after days of rain, I finally started. Well I have, but only if the definition of "starting" is to lift all albums down from the high shelf on which they have been hiding and pile them up together with the boxes of photographs. My dilemma is what do I

Whilst we invariably think of our retirements as unique, the extent to which the exploits of so many people overlap giving rise to a collective experience never fails to amaze me. Perhaps I'm easily surprised because, of course, so many life events are shared globally beginning with childhood encounters and progressing through adolescence into adulthood, middle age and now what is invariably described as the third age. In retirement there seems to be an almost universal urge to simplify our lives, embrace creativity and rediscover our existence in harmony with nature. If that  boils down to a quest for the meaning of life or even to understand who we really are, then so be it. It may, of course, have made more sense to have lived life backwards with that knowledge intact, instead of embarking on a voyage of self-discovery in our 60's and 70's. Nevertheless, we are where we are and as a consequence I know so many people who have embraced outdoor activities particu

Image by flockine from Pixabay 2015, 2017 and now again in 2019. Yes, we are off to the polls once more. Election Fever: where the nation is divided between those with raised temperatures and those suffering from a general malaise. So much for the Fixed Term Parliament Act; it's proving as effective as a flu jab when it fails to protect against the prevalent strains of the virus that appear in a particular year. Remember Brenda from Bristol ? We are all now Brenda. Borrow from Spartacus and just say it: "I am Brenda." This time around it looks as though the captivating adverts from the major retailers as part of the mass marketing of Christmas are going to compete with party political broadcasts. Grief, I'd rather watch It's A Wonderful Life for the 38th time; I wonder if the broadcasters can be persuaded to bring forward its seasonal continuous loop, just to oblige me? Let me cry over a genuine heart wrenching fantasy rather than this tear jer

Image by Barry Plott from Pixabay Last week the weather was somewhat grey and wet; when it wasn't raining, it was cloudy and miserable. We had also reached that point where autumn appears to be quickly turning into winter and the rapidity with which the days are shortening is now very noticeable. I think it is Alfred Wainwright who is credited with the phrase, "There's no such thing as bad weather, only unsuitable clothing." He may have had a point when it comes to walking in extreme conditions. Certainly, meeting a friend for a rainy ramble on Thursday, I zipped myself into my weatherproof coat and only noticed how wet I was when, three hours later, I came to undress in the coffee shop we had chosen for our debriefing session (translation: long lunch and leisurely chatter). So far as gardening is concerned, however, I may put on as many waterproof layers as I choose, but it doesn't stop my spade from squelching in mud and my boots sticking, as my

It feels like such a long time since I last settled down to write an entry for this blog. Of course I have no genuine excuses and as I doubt I have even been missed, my intention is simply to creep back discreetly. A couple of weeks ago we took off on one of those last minute holidays you never get the chance to do when you are working, benefiting from a hefty discount in the process. Oh the joys of retirement! Mind I do recall wondering whether I would ever really need that kind of sun and sand vacation in the laid back world that we now reputedly inhabit. The truth of course is that, as ever, I find myself taking on more and more and consequently the quest for periods of total relaxation and nothingness remains. Couple that concept with the last of this summer's Mediterranean sunshine and who could truly say they'd rather stay at home? Yes, we escaped to Greece once more, this time staying in a fabulous little hotel at the northern end of Corfu near to Acharavi

What’s retirement for, if not to taste new experiences? So last weekend, completely out of my comfort zone, I tried a green juice detox and have since followed it up with a string of vegan recipes where all those green vegetables and onions from my garden have been put to good use, along with handfuls of thyme, rosemary, basil and flat leaf parsley from the herb border. Flat leaf parsley, I never  knew what to do with my plantation of the stuff before and it actually tastes really good. The youngest, in the interests of sustainability, switched to a vegetarian lifestyle a few years ago. She seems to eat an enormous amount of carrots. Now all that beta carotene is surely having an effect because not only does it brighten her plate, but I swear her skin looks orange too. I guess if I can keep up my current fresh leaf overdosing, the next time we visit it will be billed as Green Alien meets the Oompaloompa. Watch this space!

Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay In my previous career as a divorce solicitor I was obviously accustomed to dealing with people escaping unhealthy relationships. Indeed, there were any number who sought advice as retirement loomed and they could not face the prospect of years at home together. I had never expected, however, to find myself in a similar predicament. Nevertheless, on returning from the Isle of Man on Monday evening, I began to have my doubts and then last night sealed it. Never before have I been witness to such despicable behaviour. We have disagreed over Yemen, with him insisting that the Government would never supply Saudi Arabia with arms that would be used illegally. We have disagreed over measures to improve children's literacy, with him claiming that the problem could be solved if all parents (even those who are illiterate themselves) simply read to their children. But, neither of those compares to how we have disagreed over Brexi

On Monday night Mister E and I returned from a visit to the Isle of Man. We remain somewhat nonplussed as to how best to describe it.    Northern definitely; elegant touches of Victoriana with its narrow gauge electric and steam railways as well as horse drawn trams; a 1950's seaside holiday vibe; magnificent coastal scenery; historic castles; a proud Celtic history; fairy glens; so much more. No we never solved the mystery of the origin of the three legged Manx symbol, despite paying attention in the museums that we visited and also failed to spot a Manx cat or even one of the wallabies that apparently now roam wild on the island having escaped from a private collection. We did however visit the old House of Keys in Castletown and saw the original site of the  Tynwald, the world's oldest continuous Parliament.  I apologise for the apparent oxymoron but the Slow Movement has been gaining momentum as a philosophy for life in which the aim is to