A Retirement Blog by Caree Risover

We didn't need Boris Johnson to cancel the Christmas festivities for us. Following my last blog entry, we did this for ourselves. The funeral was on 23rd and somehow it just didn't seem right to put up a tree or brightly coloured lights. We hosted my mother, with whom we bubble, for dinner on Christmas Day but to have had another two households over might have been a nightmare. As one wit on social media, after hearing that the police could order relatives to move on, queried : "Can you make a booking for this service at the Police Station and is it free?"  Despite a local outbreak of Avian Flu that has placed us on the edge of a Disease Zone according to the road signs (Covid 19 by itself is clearly no longer sufficent) , we still ate turkey as well as a surfeit of trimmings, roasted vegetables and Christmas pud. In a bout of frenzied activity to keep my mind from wandering, I even made a cake; not your usual dried fruit and nut variety but what I'd like to thin

  Where there's life there's hope, they say. Do not believe them; it is not true. When life is ending and there is no cure, there is no hope: only acceptance or blinding rage and then acceptance. Yesterday was a bad day. I know what sadness feels like but that doesn't make it easier to confront. As I grow older, my experience increases but it doesn't inure. Covid 19 makes a bad dream a thousand times worse and adds to the toll. The restrictions impede daily life, contact and support for those coping with the illness of a family member. The tragic circumstances continue regardless. To see you back at home in your living room in a hospital bed, propped up on pillows in sedated sleep was strangely comforting. After weeks of enforced rules and separation, it was a relief to see you at last. To converse, albeit I did the talking and you, I trust, listened, was calming and the silent pauses meaningful. To hold your hand felt right, even with the barrier of a latex glove. As I

(Image by WikimediaImages from Pixabay )  I am not writing about therapy today, despite the title to this blog entry. Instead and arising from that wellness appointment yesterday, came the discovery that sadly I really am shrinking. A year or so ago, I had hoped that regular Pilates sessions might have arrested the progress of compression of the vertebrae that it seems the human body inclines towards as it ages. Indeed, there was a point when I was convinced that I had stretched myself out so as to regain my full height and even held lofty ambitions of perhaps adding another inch to my stature.   I had suspicions, however, that my efforts were no longer proceeding as hoped, aware that I now regularly struggle to open top windows or the upper shelf of a kitchen cabinet, even on tiptoes. The nurse delivered the slapdown with an adjustment of my medical records and that was it, a whole inch removed from the database. I suppose if we are all in the same boat then everyone of a certain age

  In light of the request to remain local,  many people in the village have been walking along the various lanes and footpaths that surround us. In joining them, Mister E and I have noticed two phenomena:  Firstly, we appear to have exhausted the number of new sights and changes to comment on, meaning that on Monday which is refuse collection day, and in what must have been sheer desperation, we found ourselves commenting on people's wheelie bins. Can you actually imagine wanting to waste your breath talking about such things especially when they bear no resemblance to the pretty coloured ones in the photograph that I snapped on a stop in Inveraray last year? Secondly, a trend seems to  have grown whereby fellow residents promenade just before the sun goes down. I imagine it has more to do with the shortening of the days than a linked desire to socialise at 3.30 pm whilst keeping one's distance.  Anyway I am pleased to report that time has moved on and the second phenomenon has

  Yes, December has arrived again and how much shorter the days are now. I'm not sure how it happens but every year, despite all my good intentions, I still find myself planting bulbs in the garden when sensibly it's far too cold and late to do so. Recently I've been trying to dig over and plant a couple of square metres a day and suffice to say, if the weather holds, tomorrow should see the completion of this arduous creaking-back task. Despite the low temperature, today was very pleasant for the couple of hours I spent outside. The sun shone and the soil turned easily, although there were any number of weeds to remove.  I have been ruing the fact that having decided to try my hand at soap making, so many recipes recommend picking your own flowers to dry and use for colour and decoration. Had I known in advance that I would have a sudden urge to turn to the chemistry of saponification this winter, I might also have had the forethought and good sense to gather and dry bloss

  (Image by Alexas_Fotos from Pixabay ) It looks like I wasn't so far off the mark yesterday when I forecast a grey day and the imposition of further draconian measures under the tier system. With Tier 3 areas to the North and South of us, however, we are probably lucky to be escaping with Tier 2 restrictions even if they are harsher than the Lower Tier provisions we were obeying 3 weeks ago. As a consequence of the current national lockdown, local case numbers, below the average for the country anyway, do appear to have dropped further but we have been stepped up a tier. Never mind, we are in good company, when it seems that only if you are living on a small island or at the very tip of the South West  have you been bestowed a pass to Tier 1. That said, as the biggest English county by land area, it does seem a little silly to be tying us down because of transmissions in a seaside resort 50 miles or more away. However, I probably don't want to be putting forward that argument

The primary route into the village was closed towards the end of last month to allow for much needed repairs to a bridge across the lane and above which runs the East Coast main railway line. It's proving to  be a real inconvenience when I need to travel to see my mother or visit the supermarket. However, and on the plus side, it now offers the opportunity for walking along, unimpeded by vehicles and with the added benefit of tarmac underfoot. It's not a surface I normally enjoy stomping on but when the footpaths and bridleways are damp and muddy underfoot, it comes into its own. Hence, today the sun was shining but, after rain overnight and this morning, conditions dictated against anywhere soft and squelchy for exercise. The ideal opportunity therefore, to march on a road I would normally only ever drive along. Mister E donned sunglasses for the occasion but, not being so "cool," I preferred the "uncovered and out to absorb Vitamin D and boost the immune system

  Yesterday evening the Prime Minister was urging us to have "a jolly careful Christmas." This evening a joint statement covering the four nations of the United Kingdom has been released indicating that up to 3 households will be allowed to meet to enjoy a festive celebration between 23rd and 27th December. Sounds like the virus could be in for a treat, with payback in January just before the potential roll-out of a vaccine. Its last hurrah if you like! There are serious caveats. The joint statement itself warns that "this cannot be a normal Christmas," and, "even where it is within the rules, meeting with friends and family over Christmas will be a personal judgement for individuals to take, mindful of the risk to themselves and others." Conscious of our normal pattern of family meet-ups at the end of the year, the proposed relaxation of restrictions offers all kinds of possible permutations. Obviously we need to consider them in detail once we have bett

  (Image by Thomas B. from Pixabay ) "Retirement- what if it's not right for you?" was the intriguing title of an article in one of those financial magazines that plop through our letterbox from time to time. This particular periodical from a local firm of financial advisers arrived a month ago, but I am only now taking advantage of the colder, darker hours of this month's lockdown to get on top of the piles of correspondence awaiting attention on my desk. The gist, of course, was to keep working if you want to and for which there could be a myriad of reasons in support. However, you do need to be aware of certain taxation pitfalls, especially if drawing down on pension funds whilst working part-time. I suppose it wasn't quite what I was seeking to read when, apart from the obvious "but I can't afford to retire" argument, I was anticipating a lot more around the theme of being afraid of stagnation, so that I might have the opportunity to analyse it

  I noticed that some of the newspapers have reported on figures recently published by Public Health England suggesting that, deprived of their friendship groups, the retired are turning to alcohol for comfort during the pandemic. Apparently we need something to spend all the money we are saving as a consequence of being deprived of holidays and eating out. Constrained, lonely and flush with cash we are hitting the bottle! Speak for yourself (hic..) but it must be a trend that has passed me by. I confess that back in March,  lockdown did seem a little like the beginning of a long holiday, meaning that Mister E and I perhaps cracked open a bottle of wine on a school night or two. However, we quickly realised that we were potentially in the clutches of the epidemic for the longer term and the novelty soon wore off. In any event a more detailed analysis of the figures suggests that the percentage of the over 55's who admit to drinking more is actually a minority, so perhaps I'm no

  Image by ivabalk from Pixabay A week ago today we went back into lockdown, the calendar is once again empty and, unlike the springtime, the weather is less than inviting for lounging around outdoors. To be honest it's been one dank, grey day after another. We've still been outside even if the time has been spent keeping warm through the art of digging, with tools downed by 3pm when poor light inevitably stops play.  It may only have been 8 days but already I'm conscious that I'm struggling to recall the day of the week on waking and may have to resort to marking time by counting the number of Great British Bake off episodes watched. It's not that I'm even a great fan but sometime you just need something to make you drool and much better to examine cake from the side of the screen where there can be no temptation to consume. Heaven forbid  any further expansion of the waistline as a consequence of a circulating virus and an order to stay at  home. Of course, I

  Surrealism or beyond reality is closely associated with the art movement to which Dali, Miro and Breton belonged. There's supposed to be a clear demarcation between the surrealist movement with its creative depictions of subconscious awareness and those strange or ethereal experiences we describe as surreal. I'm not at all convinced that I understand the difference, least of all in recent days when the objective phenomena of the real world seem to have been taken over by the bizarre. Take the garden, for instance. Here we are at the beginning of November when I desperately want to tuck my pots and greenhouse up for the winter but still the plants are blooming. Will the tomatoes actually ripen before the frost bites under the unheated glass? How long before the geraniums fade and I can empty the hanging baskets? Should I feel at fault for picking the last of the summer's roses to enjoy indoors? Can the vegetable plot  actually continue to feed us through the winter? What o

  Image by Suhas Rawool from Pixabay I see this week the British Press has picked up on a study published in New Ideas in Psychology. It's by Norwegian expert Hermundur Sigmundsson and is titled Passion, Grit and Mindset in the ages 14 to 77: Exploring relationship and gender differences.  The media reports are obviously easier to read than the scientific analysis and their coverage of your get up and go leaving at the age of 53 has been amusing to say the least. Despite conjuring for me an image of John Wayne in True Grit, it is nevertheless an accepted given that passion, grit and mindset are amongst the most important attributes required in order to be successful . Sadly the study shows that the correlation between the three has broken down by our early fifties. We can get through with sheer tenacity but the passion is gone, or we still hold the belief but lack the energy. I guess I'm living proof of creeping cynicism as I age, an increased boredom threshold and yes my vita

Image by Lynette Coulston from Pixabay I believe we are all getting just a little bored with the restrictions on our lives emanating from Covid-19. I'm certainly fed up with attending meetings on Zoom rather than in person and no, it has nothing whatsoever to do with my lack of photogenicity. I think what I miss the most though, are the casual face to face interactions with strangers and acquaintances; everyone seems so stressed at present that few wish to linger and chat, with or without a face mask. It was certainly a bit rough of Kim Kardashian West to rub it in, however, with her insensitive viral tweet: "After 2 weeks of multiple health screenings and asking everyone to quarantine, I surprised my closest inner circle with a trip to a private island where we could pretend things were normal just for a brief moment in time." Mind, I'm not sure which I'm more jealous of: a trip to a private island or the multiple health screenings. Neither are readily available

  My attention was drawn to an article in The Times the other day about a sense of  humour deficit. It referenced a book by Jennifer Aaker and Naomi Bagdonas entitled 'Humour, Seriously' which I vow I must read one day. Anyway the gist of the article was to point out that once we grow up and aquire the responsibilities of the workplace environment, human beings have a tendency to lose their sense of humour and give up on the giggles. It's a bit like all those surveys on enjoying life, we reach 23 and everything is downhill from then on. Or is it?  Just as life satisfaction picks up again in our sixties, it seems that cheeky sense of humour never really leaves us after all; it just lies buried under the myriad of red tape and bureaucracy that weighed us down for a few decades. Moreover a quick jump into retirement and a few weeks later there we are dancing to sunbeams and in my case laughing at sunflowers .  Clearly my own anecdotal evidence is probably in need of careful sc

I've been as busy as ever of late achieving very little, although I have read a number of books and pulled the information together to get my tax return prepared, as well as spending time in the garden, wrapping it up ready for winter. All of which is a bit of a shame because I did mean to follow up my last post about our trip to the lighthouse with a description of the culpability it evoked. You see our first evening there got off to a dreadful start when we sat down to eat. Mister E poured us both a glass of red wine and we toasted our stay in an amazing location. Putting those wine glasses down again, however, was a big mistake. Mister E noticed that the table top seemed to be at an angle and that there was a discernible wobble. He ducked down to take a look and then bobbed back up again. Splash! One wine glass fell over and its contents splattered over the pale primrose wall. Talk about guilt. Nobody can have felt so bad since George Washington chopped down a cherry tree. Even

If your dream covid escape involves a boat trip out to a rocky isle, we could not quite manage that last week. Instead, our vacation to a lighthouse keeper's cottage required the navigation of a narrow single track lane of some one and three quarter  miles in length with plenty of bends and sheer drops but very few passing places. Who would have thought that a dry land commute could be quite so exciting? It also beats queuing at an airport check-in, any day.   Deprived of this year's sailing season, seeing the sea was itself a novelty. Perched on a cliff on St Abb's Head in the Scottish Borders, we were suitably remote and our days were spent walking along the cliffs in both directions, including to St Abb's Harbour and beyond.   As the cottage was not part of the light itself, there was no circular staircase to negotiate and fortuitously, despite a vivid premonition of sleeping under a stroboscope, our bedroom window was not affected by the flashing light. Exploring on

  It's that time of year again, or so I was reminded when I went into the garden to be confronted by an enormous combine harvester bearing down towards me. Choking on the dust from the grain and sneezing incessantly, I dashed inside to escape. The next day the farmer returned and everything was neatly baled before being safely gathered in, two days later. Life in the vegetable patch isn't quite as mechanical, but I have been digging over the sunken beds that are empty, adding compost and tucking them up for the winter with a layer of weed suppressing fabric. I've also been doing a bit of gathering in on my own account, collecting the last of the beans, courgettes, peppers and cucumbers, although the tomatoes seem keen to go on and on for the time being. Yesterday found me harvesting lavender or to be precise its dried out flowers, after spotting a recommendation by way of variation to my porridge bathing . Briefly, I mixed oats and lavender, added essential lavender oil and

Image by rus33333 from Pixabay                                                                       I am a sloth! Typing it out might make me feel as though I am writing lines for some demented pedagogue, but sadly this week the cap very much fits.  Perhaps I'm just having one of those intermittent down periods that retirement frequently brings; a week where you need to recharge your batteries and re-evaluate plans before setting off again with breakneck speed into the distant yonder. Alternatively it could be that I am the product of months of restrictions, collapsing into a lethargic heap with the weight of them. I haven't done a YouTube exercise class for a week now and my efforts in the garden have been pretty much limited to watering the pots and hanging baskets. I have declined to the point of doing one thing a day, ignoring my To Do List and at a total loss to understand where the rest of the time has gone. So on Tuesday I hosted the good ladies from Reading Group in t

  Our favourite Spanish Tapas dish is definitely Padron Peppers; those small, green peppers fried in olive oil and served covered in flakes of sea salt. I'm salivating as I describe them. They are usually mild to the taste but occasionally you place one in your mouth to find it tingles as if chewing a chilli pepper; it's a game of chance or Russian roulette. Mister E and I enjoy them so much that in recent years I have taken to growing them in the greenhouse. The success of the crop varies from year to year. This year I planted 10 seeds and all grew into substantial plants bearing healthy peppers. Perhaps we should have harvested them earlier or maybe it was the specific combination of heat, light and water that they received, but this year finding a mild one is like looking for a white cat in a snowstorm. Some of us have less sensitive mouths than others, so whilst Mister E can tuck them away regardless and the youngest one or two a sitting, I sampled only one initially and tw

  We have returned from a week in the Lake District, primarily spent walking. It seemed very busy, overflowing with all those people who would in other circumstances have been in France or on the Costa del Sol. With heavy rain before and during our visit, there was no easy escape, only sodden hills with poor visibility. Instead everyone was on the lower walks; a vast melting pot of individuals from all over the UK and even the world I assume from listening to some of the languages spoken.   You really wouldn't expect social distancing in the countryside to be so difficult; after all we have been practising it quite successfully in our own local area since March. To see a total disregard for the personal space of others, however, was something of an eye-opener, although the youngest just shrugged and advised me it has been the same in London for weeks. I can well imagine after dropping down into the village of Grasmere at one point. The pavements were heaving and cafes appeared to b

  Image by Lockie from Pixabay There's nobody to fear more than a stranger, or at least that's the message that can be drummed into us from birth. Indeed I clearly remember as a child being told constantly never to accept sweets from strangers. Chance would be a fine thing, how many people actually went round offering me sweets? That said, I do recall a confusing occasion when at about the age of 5 or 6, I was waiting at a bus stop with my mother when a creepy interloper tried to hand me a piece of toffee. Exemplary child that I was, I politely refused, only for my mother to dig me in the ribs and tell me to take it and thank the man. It emerged later that my mother too had considered the stranger very weird indeed and hadn't wanted to upset or anger him by refusing what was assumed to be a kind gesture. I guess it's never easy sticking to rules in every instance. Take this past week when the youngest has come back from London to visit. We haven't seen her since Ch

Cabbage White Butterfly Following on from yesterday's vegetable themed post, I am delivering another update from the garden. This time it hails from the Brussels sprouts' bed. You will recall that I treated my lofty plants to a foam party last month and, as promised, have been repeating the experience from time to time. I've also been giving them a wipe, assiduously removing the yellow eggs of  the cabbage white butterflies, laid in batches of thirty or more.    The Aftermath Unf ortunately over the weekend vast armies of cabbage white caterpillars carried out a blatant onslaught creating laced leaves where once there were full leafed stalks. Their yellow, green and black bodies provide effective camouflage in the dark but by day were no match for my keen sight. I moved in with the soap but, when that proved inadequate, had to resort to plucking them off by hand. What I hadn't accounted for, however, were the undercover operatives, the caterpillars of the small white