fiftyfreeandsingle

Welcome once again to a missive from the rooftop garret of Martin, aged 57 3/4, rheumatoid arthritis warrior. 

To begin with I should say that today didn’t start well, I woke at an ungodly hour from a bad dream. This one featured the Big Ex*. Now this is a rarity, I do dream about women relatively often, rarely her. Well anyway in my dream it was four days ’til the end of the world, some unspecified catastrophe of the Comet crashing into the Earth and ending all life variety was about to happen.

I decided under the circumstances that I should prepare my way for eternity by not leaving anything undone, part of this process was to speak to the Big Ex., arrange to meet up, to just let go of any remaining ill feeling, either hers or mine. 

In my dream I phoned her, she said how nice it was to hear from me and that Yes! she would love to meet up, but that she was really busy, she had a client she was working with and there really wasn’t much time to spare. On asking what work could possibly be be so important with the imminent extinction of all life on Earth she replied that she had a business as a fashion advisor and had a particularly important celebrity client who she couldn’t name because of a confidentiality contract who needed assistance clothes shopping. She said she was just on her way now to meet the client in Hampstead, and that maybe we could meet another day. Somewhat miffed at this response I decided to go and see her, in my dream I had acquired the power of flight  so it was a relatively simple process to go straight from the skylight of my bathroom across the skies of North London to Hampstead. ( My apologies but I’ve no idea how I acquired the super-power of flight)  I flew above the boutiques of Hampstead at a height of a hundred or so feet for just a few minutes until I spied the Big-Ex leaving a store with another woman, both weighed down with Gucci, Chanel & other designer labelled shopping bags. I hovered above them out of sight as they both tottered along the pavements in heels so precipitous that any Health & Safety officer worth their salt would immediately call for back up and have them restrained for their potential to cause self-injury. 

I eventually landed in a quiet spot and unobtrusively observed the two of them, trying to work out who the celebrity client was beneath the large sunglasses who needed to shop before the end of the World. Eventually I clicked, it was Gemma Collins, a C lister from a show called The Only Way is Essex. After much head shaking & tutting to myself and chalking it all up to a Leopard not changing its spots I flew off into the skies of London at which point I woke up.

I pondered on the meaning of the dream, as after all all dreams are supposed to mean something as I stumbled to the bathroom for my morning ablutions. As I look in the mirror I can’t bear the idea of yet another bad hair day & so decide to sport a wooly hat for the duration –  I then need neither brush my hair or damp down the errant locks with hair product. Result.

Next on the agenda after lumbering down two flights of stairs towards the coffee pot is my laundry situation. Now presently ensconced in a house of four twenty somethings means that I am far to slow to the washing machine, they all get in front of me & I have no clean clothes whatsoever and am down to wearing shorts more suited to a Goan beach than to a chilly winters day in London. I decide on a witty WhatsApp message to the house pleading for wash tub time:-

This gets plenty of traffic and within a short space of time my laundry is spinning around. 

The day is looking up. 

Life is though always a tale of ups and downs, shortly afterwards my son is on a call, the person on the other end is saying they are close by and maybe they might pop round for a cup of tea? 

Who is it I wonder? Mums coming round for a cup of tea he says. Great say I.

We’ve seen each other just a few times in the last half -dozen years, so this should be interesting.

She duly arrives and sits on a chair outside the door, for the next hour or more, following the necessary social distancing proscriptions. The first thing my Big Ex. Says to me is you look like Papa Smurf. That’s a clear goal, 1-0 to the Big Ex.

The Smurf quip it has to be said is very funny and there is a round of laughter in which I join. I then explain I’m just covering up a bad hair day. Then go on to say it’s been months since I’ve been to a barbers. You manage though I said, gesturing towards her hair which is a picture of coiffured locks. You were were never one to spend a lot of time going to the hairdressers back in the day I mention (Big Ex. did most of her haircare herself I recall). Most women need the hairdressers & parlours to be open I add.

Yes she says, you have no idea how cheap I was. Quick as a flash and unable to resist I pipe up. Not at all, I always thought you were very cheap. 1-1 Papa Smurf scores a belter given away by sloppy play.

 As ever Big Ex. is full of advice on my Arthritis, she mentions a friend of hers, not short of a bob or two, who went private for stem cell therapy for some ailment or other. Maybe I could do the same stem cell therapy for my arthritis? I thank her for the sage advice but as my bank balance is negligible I may hold off on that ’til my lottery ticket comes up.

Big Ex. Eventually slopes off into the afternoon and I reflect on the simplicity of life as a singleton, it’s really rather relaxing. 

Later  I’ve logged on to the NHS website and booked myself a Covid vaccination, my age group has come up for the jab. To be honest with you the idea of being a little bit more potentially susceptible to Covid has been niggling away and with enough health issues to deal with getting the jab will be a relief and one less thing to worry about. 

Tonight is the Meghan & Oprah doc & I am really looking forward to feeling outraged by the whole thing. I hope by its end to feel more able than ever to tout the value of Republicanism and for an end to the Royal Family. 

Better go now. Papa Smurf signing off. 

*I should say when I describe her as Big I am not referring to her size, but as a descriptor for the lengthiness of the relationship), this in no way makes the Big Ex. More important or valued than any of my other Exes, on the off-chance that one of this bevvy of select beauties may read this I think it’s important to make the fact abundantly clear.