Leaning to curtsey (something I would never ever do!)
A Getty photo of debutantes at Queen Charlotte's Ball in the 1950's
I am sorry I have been absent without leave again. Plenty of excuses though I guess a sick note will suffice. Only twenty-two days till my operation and hopefully then I will recover quickly and get my energy back. If I was a private patient I would have been done and dusted months ago (don't get me started).
It is very cold today here in Wales, the sun is shining and the air is very dry but I have never felt so cold a wind.
I have more energy today but I am trying not to overdo things because that has always been my downfall, using up all my energy just because it is there. I have never learned to pace myself but I think it is my ruler Aries who is to blame.
The countryside looks very beautiful, there is snow on the hilltops; I wish I had taken my camera out in the field when I took the dogs for our wee constitutional this morning so I could show you the views. I have a dental appointment this afternoon and that is a fairly long drive so I won't be able to take photos later.
I watched a very interesting programme about debutantes on BBC4 (or maybe BBC2?) the other night. Not that I approve of such goings on and the photos above make me cringe and might get me started again (please don't get me started because bitterness is so bad for one's gall-bladder don't you know!). There were a lot of oldish ladies of privilege on the programme talking about their younger days. One said she was nervous in her youth but used whisky to calm her and she said the whisky bottle became her friend. That one line stuck in my head and from it a poem grew. Nothing to do with debs. though I suppose it could be and a story about aged debs. could even develop from there. Anyway here is my effort, not great I know but I am a little brain dead of late (hence the lack of blog postings, writers' block has been my companion).
A friend sent me an email recently and the subject matter has also inspired a poem in my head, it is still lurking there but I will post it as soon as it looks something like a poem.
Where have you found inspiration lately? What gets you going and how do ideas for poems and stories come to you?
I must go, my cooker is calling frantically.
Before I forget, here is the poem.
Perhaps she could cope in age with company;
but the whisky bottle has become her
only friend. Medicinal in the morning,
it brings both peace and strength, it moves the blood,
warms her weakened heart, reinstalls again
her long lost confidence in daily life.
Nightly it helps to soothe her off to sleep,
a passage to euphoria in dreams.
Glasses, when she can find them, help her see,
tight behind one ear her hearing aid sits,
it cannot be discreet , its sounds betray.
Her fading memory wanes and waxes at its will,
notebook always close, her only aide-memoire.
Her walking stick and frame are always there,
a plethora of pills to keep her well,
the side effects ignored as best she can.
Euthanasia is often on her mind
when pain’s so bad she wants to fade away
and loneliness is more than she can bear.