Author: Mother

Without doubt, I have finally attained “that certain age”.  It occurs to us all and may embed itself at any age.  A teenager, a twenty-something, a thirty-something or more; one moment nothing and then, without warning, “that certain age” assails us, moves in, leaves its boots in the hall and takes over all the wardrobe space!  “That certain age” has come home.  Manifesting itself in a variety of unmistakeable signs and symptoms, it has arrived.

I find myself no longer merely enraged by passing matters.  Oh no, high dudgeon firmly wedged in place, I race headlong to challenge every hint, whiff or smidgeon of idiocy.  Eyes fixed unswervingly on the cause, mallet in hand and ire at full throttle, I charge.  Once, I was conciliatory, meek, compromising; “that certain age” has grasped, crushed and disposed of such hesitancy – without permission, apology or even a backward glance.  I have been transformed.

Don’t abandon your detritus, inconvenience or discomfort others, or expect to live unchallenged; there is a growing army of outwardly sane-appearing, disguised with gentility, rapidly enraged chameleons on the march.  “That certain age” has come with its reminders that life can and should be lived positively, productively and powerfully – and it has taken over!

Today is the culmination of almost a month of assumption, mischief and mayhem.  To reach this point, I have negotiated the alien and fearsome world of pressure cookers, meandered along aisles of fruit, vegetables and spices, before grasping victory with the acquisition of four kilos of mutton/goat.  It has been a trek, but triumph is in sniffing range.

Remember the extraordinary manner in which my mouth volunteers my body, my home and my family as soon as anyone around twitches in a slightly needy fashion?  Well, it struck again a month ago.  The joke, as usual, is on me; the “nurse”, for whom I felt such sympathy, proved to be a consultant gynaecologist and obstetrician who was not, I later discovered, overwhelmed by the vagaries of shift patterns combined with house cleaning and daily family life.  The result (after all, the latest eccentricity is irrelevant without the result) is that up to 100 people are due to descend, at lunch time, for a cultural event.

I admit that I was flattered to be invited to attend, but fairly bemused from the onset of planning at various meetings.  Grossly ignorant of every dish mentioned and failing – dismally – at retaining a “poker face”, I was challenged to produce something culturally significant as my contribution.  (I should have muttered that offering my property as a venue was fairly culturally significant, but my mouth was failing to co-operate at the time!)  So, I offered to prepare curried goat.  After all, how hard could it be to find goat/mutton and all the necessary spices, fruit and vegetables in an area where knowing the location of popping corn has proved challenging?  (My cousin-sister insisted that I simultaneously mastered the art of pressure cooking, as her recipe for curried goat required it.  Hence, the hurried purchase of a pressure cooker.  The ensuing feverish practice is a picture I am sure you can clearly envisage!)

The only saving grace – which I will hug happily to myself all day – is the knowledge that I am not the only person travelling on winds of assumption.  With great glee, I discovered that I was assumed to be Kenyan (why, I have absolutely no idea), which is why I am hosting a significant annual African Celebration.  My connection with Africa being no closer than an ability to locate the continent on a map, I shall be chuckling smugly in the background whilst attempting to identify moin moin and the like.

Lesson learned; go with the flow, but keep one’s mouth closed until ALL the facts have been assembled!

In the capital a visit, from a neighbour, inevitably signalled a blocked drain (ours was the “end of the run” and our vigilant – retired – neighbour closely monitored any variations of depth of water), a community protest to the council or the handing over of a package from Amazon. Not so in the country. On Saturday, the visit, from a neighbour, heralded the intriguing mystery of the unexplained presence of a brown hen. An interloper had been found in the hen house and a neighbourhood trawl was underway to re-unite the girl and her owner. Our five were quickly counted and returned to their foraging and disastrously broody behaviour. (One black hen is determined to hatch an egg and pays no attention, whatsoever, to the cautionary tale of Jemima Puddleduck.) The quest, however, went on. The hawk who, ten days ago, calmly butchered then brazenly consumed a wood pigeon in our back garden, has not returned for dessert. But Solomon, the squirrel, is disarmingly persistent in his determination to bury every horse chestnut, from an adjoining plot, (Why grow inedible horse chestnuts rather than succulent, satisfying, sweet chestnuts?) in our lawn. One peers through windows with some trepidation, each morning. Pheasants, squirrels, doves, wood pigeons, hawks, nomadic hens – they are all passé. There is a very real fear that we may become a “must be seen” holiday destination for flamingoes, llamas (from the field up the road) or “a herd of wilde beest stampeding across the plain”. It truly is a jungle out there!