So many things I almost did,
So many roads I almost took,
Then something, someone came along
To save me from myself.
I think of the almost times
When I almost said something hurtful
and risked losing a friend,
When I walked into the road without looking
and almost got knocked down,
When I almost went out and left the milk pan boiling
Or the lights blazing or the tap running,
Luck – or my guardian angel –
held me back from the brink and all the things I almost did.
Today I want to be extravagant
To do, to be, to experience something extra
something outside my usual dull round
Of daily dreary activities
Meaningless actions, getting nowhere, achieving nothing.
Today I will break free
And for once be extravagant.
Wandering outside my comfort zone
Trying new things, exploring new possibilities.
But what shall I do?
I know, I’ll buy a cream meringue and eat it with a double cappuccino!
Compass needle pointing to North
Never wavering, never deviating
Solid, strong, unchanging, unbending.
Showing the way to the uncertain traveller.
Some people are born with an inbuilt compass
Know from the start where they are going to.
I’d like to be one like that
But alas I am not.
I struggle to make sense of maps
To plot a compass bearing
To set the map so it faces North.
Perhaps I need a Satnav
A firm voice telling me
“Turn right”, “After one mile, turn left”
You have reached you destination.
I lie awake An ache like toothache Will not go away. Nothing feels as empty as a double bed With a single sleeper. Nothing as empty as a solitary life Where once there had been two. I rise, dress, prepare to meet the blank day Automatically I set two places for breakfast.
I am clumsy. I’ve only recently come to admit it, but I am clumsy. It’s partly age – after 65 you are bound to be less agile, less dexterous, less flexible – plain clumsy in other words.
Add to age-related clumsiness, arthritis and subsequent joint replacement operations, plus incipient cataract – my optician says I need it removed – “a mere twenty-minute procedure, a routine op. The eye surgeon does dozens of them every day.” Maybe he does but I don’t!
Once I could sew and knit – not brilliantly but adequately, now I struggle to thread a needle. Once I could write if not beautiful copperplate at least a legible hand. Now I am profoundly grateful for word processing and spellchecks. How would I have coped if I’d been born fifty years earlier?
I like to think I’ve reached the stage of “knowing my limitations” as our gym teacher used to say. I admire delicate things like Faberge eggs – but from a distance: I don’t pick them up lest I drop them. I’ve been called “ambi-sinister” the reverse of ambidexterous- and it’s probably correct.
I wish I were stylish I wish I had style Perfect taste, perfect dress sense I’d stand out a mile. Every head would turn When I entered a room Poised and composed Perfectly groomed. A true fashion icon Elegant, chic Moving with grace A delight when I speak. I suppose I should face it I’ll never be stylish Except in my writing Style’s clearly not my dish.