Task 75: Look after my 18-month old granddaughter for a weekend

This task seemed indescribably daunting when I came to compile my Sevenat70 list last August. My granddaughter Freya was just 3 months old at the time. As a first-time nanna, I had last handled a new-born 40 years ago when Lucy, the youngest of my three children, made her entry into the world. That's a very long gap in continuity. I'm not going to lie, at that stage it felt like a massive deal to take responsibility for such a precious little bundle, even for the odd hour or two. 21st century parenting do's and don'ts had clearly undergone a seismic shift since my time. And as for the new-fangled state of the art baby equipment Lucy was accruing? I was in complete awe of it all. A weekend in full charge was a huge task to set myself.

Just to give some more context......Lucy is a solo mum and when she first made the brave decision to go it alone in parenthood, we agreed that if she had the massively good fortune to become pregnant through the rollercoaster ride of IVF, she would move in with me and my husband Andrew for six months following the baby's birth, to ensure that she had 24/7 companionship and support on tap in those early days. A year later, on a family trip to Paris, Lucy announced that she was 6 weeks' pregnant. The champagne flowed that night I can tell you! Over the next few months she sold her property in Edinburgh, reached agreement with her employers on working remotely and relocated down South to our house in East Sussex in time for Freya's arrival. Sadly Andrew didn't live long enough to meet his first grandchild, but we're all so grateful that he did at least know he was going to be a grandpa. 

Following Freya's birth, I was on hand to help morning, noon and night. It didn't take long for me to find out that just like riding a bike, I hadn't forgotten my soothing, nappy-changing and bath-time skills. Since Freya was being bottle-fed, I had the joy of being able to watch her guzzle her milk whilst snuggled up in my arms. I learnt to gently bounce her to sleep whilst sitting on a yoga ball in front of Celebrity Traitors. And as singing proved to be a sure-fire way of comforting her whenever she was shrieking at full blast, I could burst into a rendition of Ten Green Bottles or One Man Went to Mow as required, even in public.  

So it was that at the end of October, two months after I compiled my list of Sevenat70 tasks, Lucy bade Freya and me a fond farewell and exited the building for a whole 36 hours, leaving me to manage a relentless regime of 3 hourly feeds, tummy-time sessions and pushing the pram up and down the street like a possessed yoyo.  By then Freya was 5 months old and sleeping 11-12 hour nights, which gave me some vital recovery time, and our weekend together proved to be a fabulous bonding experience. But I can't deny I was pretty wrung out come Sunday evening. Being 70 has its limitations. Because I was so exhausted, I failed to write the planned blog on Task 75. 'Ah well, there's always another time', I thought to myself as my head hit the pillow that night.

I was quite right, there was another time. For starters, since Lucy's return to work six months ago I've become a highly cost-effective alternative to nursery two days a week. Added to which I've continued to provide one-nighter Freya care on a number of occasions, either when Lucy has had special celebrations to attend, or more recently when she's travelled up to Edinburgh overnight for office meetings. Freya care has morphed from feeding, changing and soothing to knocks and tumbles safeguarding, multiplex entertainment services (Grandpa Andrew would have been wonderful at that) and satisfying her gargantuan appetite. 

Last weekend I had my biggest test yet....to look after Freya for a full 48-hour stint whilst Lucy had a well-deserved birthday break with her best friend Emma in the Oxfordshire countryside. The perfect opportunity to finally nail Task 75.  Although what I hadn't factored into this fine plan was that my dippy doodle dog Betty would be undergoing major surgery for a cruciate ligament tear in her left back knee-joint 4 days before Freya's stayover. It quickly became clear I would have to juggle a complex post-op medication regime, the dreaded cone of shame and high levels of doggy neediness alongside the requirements of a very switched on and, ahem, determined toddler.  

Saturday morning dawned and just like 12 months previously, Lucy packed her bags and set off down the street, only this time Freya was able to wave and say 'Bye bye mumMEE'. The day passed by quickly. The sun came out (hurrah) and Uncle J and Auntie Lizzie took Freya to a local playground, where Freya insisted on inspecting every ride before hanging out with her best buddy, whose family was also paying the playground an impromptu visit. Then we repaired to my local for tea. Not a bad life really. Betty was very unimpressed at being left at home alone until Freya handed her a pink snake stuffed full of salmon paste, courtesy of Jonathan and Liz. That cheered her up no end. 

On Sunday morning Freya and I made a beeline for our local Aldi, in response to a promising tip-off from Lucy about a stash of wooden toys for sale in the middle aisle. Good call Lucy. The shelves were indeed piled high with boxes of role-play beautician kits, coffee-makers and sushi sets. Every first world whim catered for. I bought two very wholesome fruit and veg trays and a garden of flowers, which Freya spent the rest of the morning playing with. Result. 

Freya's latest obsession is looking at board books and Sunday afternoon was no exception. As normal she instructed me to 'sit dow' on the sofa whilst she selected one book from the bookcase. She clambered up onto the sofa, sat at my side, turned the pages in random order and with an authoritative air proceeded to point out cats, dogs, ducks, teddies, butterflies, fish and wheels. Then she slammed the book shut and wriggled off the sofa to go and choose another one. And Repeat. As she went to choose the eleventh book (like I say, she's quite obsessed) my phone pinged and I reached out to check a message. Freya fixed me with a stern look and shook her head vigorously. 'No' she said firmly. That was me told. It's sad to think that one day she may be as wedded to her mobile as the rest of the world.    

Everything was going swimmingly. Teatime arrived. I removed Betty's cone of shame so that she could hoover up her food more efficiently from her bowl. I gave Freya a nice little plate of chicken tikka, which she started to dissect expertly with her spoon. I was bursting with grandmotherly pride. How clever she was! Suddenly I remembered that I hadn't put the cone of shame back on Betty. I whipped round in a trice, only to witness Betty deftly removing the stitches of her operation scar with her teeth. Oh noooo.......Was that £3700 pounds' worth of surgery down the pan? Silly silly Nanna. I bathed the de-stitched scar with salt water, put the cone back around her neck and then crossed my fingers very tightly.

Monday morning dawned rather too early for my liking, at 6.05am to be exact. Freya didn't sound convinced by her decision to wake up either. So I took a leaf out of Lucy's playbook and lay down on the floor next to Freya's cot, pillow under my head for a smidgeon of comfort. I raised my arm towards the cot bars and was instantly rewarded by the feel of a little hand grasping and squeezing mine. There we both stayed in snooze mode, hand in hand, side by side, for half an hour until Freya's stomach started to remind her it was time for breakfast. 

Two hours later I dropped Freya off at her nursery. She stepped across the threshold without a backward glance. Go girl! I headed home to inspect Betty's scar for the fiftieth time. Yup, it had definitely survived the night without gaping open. Phew, crisis averted. I put the kettle on and raised a mug of tea to the successful completion of Task 75. Freya and Betty had both survived unscathed (just) and I was still firing on most of my cylinders. Indeed I found myself feeling a little lost after 48 hours of that very special small girl keeping me on my toes and filling my house with laughter and unconditional love. Lucy arrived back home looking fabulously relaxed and clutching not just one but two beautiful bunches of flowers for me. 'Glad to hear it all went so well Mum' she said, eyes glinting, 'Now that reminds me, I've got Frances's 40th birthday party in London next month......?'      

Task 76: Attend a Silver Swans ballet class

When I was 9 years old, a new dancing school started up in my village. My mother thought this was the perfect opportunity to make me more ladylike. I pictured myself leaping and twirling across the floor in a beautiful pink leotard and dainty white tutu and instantly bought into the idea. Sadly the dancewear turned out to be a very unflattering mustard-yellow shiny satin pinafore dress, worn over black jumper and tights. Not to be deterred, my local friends and I all trooped along to the village hall every Saturday morning to be initiated into the world of ballet. Our teacher, the inimitable Madame Rossell, stood by the piano, chain-smoking and barking out instructions, pointy cane in hand, the spitting image of Julie Waters' character in Billy Elliott (boys allowed in our classes though? As if....) We were taught to plie´, chasse´ and saute´ and to attempt wobbly pirouettes, every exercise accompanied by an unflappable ancient pianist (she was probably at least 40). And in floorwork we learnt a series of dance routines that we would dutifully perform several times a year at local community centres to audiences of very bored small children. I'm third from left in the photo below. I think we're attempting a can-can routine. Not a decent pointed toe between us. 

At the age of 11 I ditched ballet lessons without a backward glance and became briefly obsessed by all things pony and equestrian-related. The fickleness of youth eh.  But I've always retained a great love for ballet as a fabulous visual spectacle and incredibly skilled discipline. Indeed one of my original Sixtyat60 tasks was to attend a performance of Swan Lake (and what a stunning spectacle that was). So when I spotted several years ago that the Royal Academy of Dance had started a pilot scheme called Silver Swans, ballet classes aimed at the more, ahem, mature learner, I was very excited. As Angela Rippon, an ambassador for the project, said, 'Dance keeps you supple, it's an aerobic exercise, it gives you spatial awareness and makes you use your brain'.  Multiple health boxes ticked. What a great idea. A few months later I found out that a Silver Swans class was about to launch in my hometown of Lewes. But by then my priority in life was to provide 24/7 care for Andrew, who was becoming increasingly incapacitated by his Parkinson's dementia symptoms. So I put my Silver Swans aspirations on hold. 

Fast forward two years and there I was compiling the modest list of tasks for my 70th birthday. All of a sudden Silver Swans did a grand jete back into my consciousness. Time to give it a go I thought.  I put my name down for a taster session and kept my fingers crossed that I wouldn't be asked to wear a mustard-yellow satin pinafore dress. I visited a dance wear shop to buy my first pair of ballet shoes in 60 years. The assistant cast an expert eye over my feet. 'Hmm' she said, 'they're very slim....' (I did a little internal preen)....'apart from those two bunions' she added. Ooh, that was me put in my place.

The Silver Swans classes are held at a church and community centre called St John sub Castro, which is tucked away in a peaceful residential area of Lewes. I arrived bright and early for my taster session and waited in the cafe area, feeling rather daunted. The main hall was partitioned off, but looking upwards I could see an organ, a vaulted ceiling and stained glass windows, and I could hear a pre-schoolers' ballet class in progress. The sounds of a tinkling piano gave me a flashback to 60 years ago. The class ended and chaos briefly reigned as a tsunami of little ones and their parents exited the building. And then came the turn of the Silver Swans to take to the floor.

My fellow Swans turned out to be a super friendly group (that's Lewes for you). There were 10 of us in attendance, all different shapes and sizes, a small number wearing very elegant black ballet skirts but most in leggings and tee-shirts. They smiled encouragingly at me as we all sat around putting on our ballet shoes, and quickly started to introduce themselves. It transpired that most of them had been attending the class since its launch. They were largely of post-retirement age, and indeed several were over 80. One of the more senior attendees told me that she trained at the Royal Ballet School in her youth. She leaned towards me with a twinkle in her eye. 'I once brushed thighs with Rudolf Nureyev' she whispered. I was in awe. What a standout story. Here she is on the left, resplendent in leg warmers, still showing beautiful body alignment. 

The two mobile barres were brought out and everyone made a beeline for their places. Our teacher, Nisa was warm and welcoming. 'Just do what you can Vivien' she said. She pressed keys on her mobile and hey presto there was the piano, courtesy of Spotify, literally at her fingertips. No old biddy tickling the ivories (so last century). And no pointy cane or chain smoking either.

Oh my goodness, but what a subtly intense workout it turned out to be though. My limbs were stretched in ways that I had completely lost touch with. And my brain became bamboozled by the unrelenting requirement to copy Nisa's effortless and graceful movements. Whilst I was able to remember the five foot and arm positions from my classes in childhood, I really struggled to coordinate the different parts of my body. Angela Rippon was spot on when she said ballet made you use your brain. The rest of the class were clearly well used to the exercises and kept up the pace with impressive sangfroid. We moved onto floorwork, and began to rehearse a routine that the class had been practicing for a few weeks. Even more flailing around on my part it has to be said. But there was a lot of laughter and camaraderie, with no one taking themselves too seriously. I loved the whole vibe and duly left the class a newly fledged Silver Swan. My mother would have been delighted, a ladylike daughter in the offing at last.

I attended classes for the next few weeks and slowly began to find my feet at the barre. The tension began to build as a public performance of our floorwork routine at a local village day drew ever closer. But then sadly life got in the way. I was struck down by a virulent stomach infection, which took me all summer and two courses of strong antibiotics to recover from, and I had to bow out of classes for the foreseeable future.

I'm glad to say I'm feeling much better and may well return to Silver Swans next Spring if my grandparenting duties allow for it. I certainly won't be tempted by horse-riding instead. For now I'll bide my time quietly in the wings and continue to feast my eyes on the professionals at work. Quick tip guys.....if Matthew Bourne's Car Man is on tour near you, get a ticket if you can. Lust, greed, betrayal and revenge - it's a sensation! 

Task 72: Do an open-air swimming session in Isle of Skye

I've never been a keen swimmer. As a seven year old I was signed up for classes with the aptly named Miss Haddock, who somehow managed to coax me through my 5 and 10 metre badges. But I never really learnt to feel the love for swimming. In my view the water was too cold, too chorinated/salty and just too, well, wet. During my teens I dreaded swimming lessons at school, what with the indignity of communal changing rooms and the disastrous effect of pool chemicals on my frizz-inclined locks. And in my early 20s the only time I'd ever venture near the sea or a pool was on holidays abroad where there were plenty of sunbeds and the temperature was at least 25 degrees. 

However it turns out opposites really do attract. I married someone who adored everything about watersports. My husband Andrew couldn't wait to introduce our three children to the joys of swimming. On family holidays his sea-monster antics in villa pools across Europe were the stuff of legend. His favourite trick was to do a massive bellyflop into the water as close as possible to wherever I was sunbathing (how did we stay married for 47 years?) And he dined out many a time on the story of being given a final warning by a lifeguard in Uckfield Leisure Centre for his over-exuberant behaviour in the pool, then aged 46. Even as his health became limited by Parkinsons Disease, he still managed to swim a fine front crawl to help his muscle tone and coordination, and was quick to broadcast to all how many lengths he'd clocked up.

Some months after Andrew exited life, my family and I were discussing our forthcoming trip to the Isle of Skye to celebrate my 70th birthday. It didn't take long for the conversation to turn to the thorny topic of finding challenges for me to tackle. The pasta-making task described in a previous post (see Task 71) had already been flagged up for action. My daughter-in-law Liz, an enthusiastic open-air swimmer, came up with a new suggestion. 'I think you should have a dip in the sea' she proposed. 'It'll be pretty warm in September' she added blithely, 'Probably at least 12 degrees'. Needless to say I shuddered in horror at the very idea and was about to decline gracefully....but then I thought of Andrew's life-affirming attitude towards water pursuits. I took a deep breath. 'I'll do it' I said, 'but only if I can have a sauna first'. A rather fine survival strategy thought up on the hoof, if I may say so. 

Lucy did her research on saunas by the sea in Skye and sourced a very promising Scandi-influenced outfit near Portree called Staffin Sea Sauna. Its website extolled the virtues of combining the healing effects of a wood-fired sauna with the rejuvenating power of cold water therapy. 'Plunge, dook, dip or swim in the clear, sheltered water just a stone's throw from the sauna's door' it enthused. Lucy duly booked an hour-long slot for Liz, herself and me. The die was cast.

And so it was that in mid-September, I checked into Staffin Sea Sauna. Uncles Michael and Jonathan repaired to a nearby cafe with baby Freya. My trusty support team, Liz and Lucy, were at my side to make sure I didn't do a runner. The weather was, er, changeable. The sky was heavy with clouds, the outside temperature was a mere 14 degrees and a stiff breeze was whipping up the waves. Not surprisingly I was feeling more than a little apprehensive. I wasn't sure that I'd go ahead and do any plunging, dooking or dipping. But the sauna? Yay, bring it on guys.

The sauna was steamy and hot with stunning views across Staffin Bay. I felt totally protected from the elements. Perfect. Well done me. I was ready to spend my entire hour luxuriating in the warmth. Until, that is, the air began to heat up big-time. All of a sudden the thought of having a dip in the sea seemed rather attractive. And a few further hot and super sweaty minutes later I couldn't wait to throw open the sauna door and make a beeline for those lovely cooling waters. Within seconds I was marching purposefully down the slippery slipway, my support team right behind me filming my every move (an unnerving experience it has to be said). 

The waves were lapping choppily around the base of the slipway as I reached the water's edge. The air was already chilling my sauna-sizzled limbs. The sea looked grey, icy and very uninviting. I reached out for Liz's hand and instantly felt her reassuring grip. With Liz at my side I stepped into the shallows and began to ease myself slowly into the 12 degree waters. Once waist-deep I found it quite difficult to catch my breath. I mean, let's face it, 12 degrees is COLD. 'Just keep breathing as slowly and deeply as you can' Liz told me. The tone of her voice was calm and soothing, and my breathing rate settled a little. I immersed my chest....then my shoulders.....and then eek......I lost my foothold on the slimy slipway and briefly disappeared under the water completely. That move was well outside my comfort zone I can tell you. But I doggy-paddled like crazy and after a few nano-seconds my feet made contact with solid ground again. Phew. Liz and I emerged from the waves together and waved our arms in the air. Hurrah! The task was complete, I was still alive and Lucy had recorded every moment of my modestly epic achievement.   

I 

As Liz and I walked back up the slipway, I made a big discovery. The outside air felt warm to my skin. Who knew? No shivering, chattering of teeth or sense of having undergone some trauma. I felt refreshed, exhilarated and positively alive. Apparently this sensation is called the 'post-swim glow' and I can definitely recommend it. Indeed I liked the experience so much that after another few minutes in the sauna I had another quick dip, this time with Lucy (well done for taking the plunge Lucy!) I like to think Andrew was watching our antics from some celestial pool bar and raised a glass to my success. Maybe he even did a little belly-flop too. Always in my thoughts H.

 

POSTSCRIPT
I cannot lie, I've delayed publishing this post for months. I was quite convinced that after having such a positive open-air swimming session, I'd want to repeat the process locally. I had it in mind to visit our open-air pool in Lewes, the renowned Pells Pool, during the summer and then boast in this blog about being a late-life convert to the virtues of swimming in the elements. But here we are at the tail-end of the hottest summer on record in the UK, and not once have I donned my costume. Maybe it was just a once-off task after all? But if so, at least now I have better insight into what prompts people to swim in open-air waters at all times of the year and in any weather conditions. Liz and open-air swimmers of the world - I salute you all. And never say never......

   

Task 71: Cook a lasagne using Mamma Hunot's home-made pasta

Before launching into the nitty gritty of my pasta-making task, I think perhaps I should first set the scene for you. After all, there may well be many people who make fresh pasta dough several times a week without a second thought. So where's the challenge in Task 71?

Over the last five years, my family and I have taken to celebrating Christmas in other countries, usually warmer ones. It's an arrangement that has suited us all perfectly. Just one small fly in the ointment - the need to buy presents that can be fitted into budget airline luggage. I was under the impression that all six family members were pretty adept at doing that. Until Christmas 2022, that is, when Jonathan had the inspired but ultimately flawed idea of giving me a pasta machine. Inspired, because my USP is producing family-size lasagnes. But flawed, because it weighed an absolute ton. After the big reveal on Christmas Day, I reluctantly had to hand back the pasta machine to Jonathan for transport back to the UK, on account of his more generous baggage allowance. It then languished in his garage for many weeks before finally arriving at my house. 'Looking forward to your lasagne with home made pasta Mum' said Jonathan, a greedy gleam in his eye. 'Looking forward to making it' I said gamely, whilst surreptitiously consigning the machine to the dark recesses of a cupboard. 

Fast forward to Christmas Day 2024. The pasta machine had been gathering dust in the cupboard for two years. Not that I hadn't continued to make lasagnes during that time mind you. Just not home-made pasta lasagnes. Then I opened my Christmas present from sharp-thinking Lucy - and what do you know, she'd bought me a voucher for a pasta-making course in Brighton. I was well and truly skewered. 'You've got until next Christmas to produce that lasagne Mum' I was told in no uncertain terms.

In March Lucy and I presented ourselves at Brighton Cookery School, sleeves rolled-up, ready for some pasta action. We were assigned to a work station, which was carefully laid out with knives, rolling pins and ingredients. But where were the pasta machines? 'We don't use them on this beginners' course' said our teacher, Victor, gesturing vaguely towards a shelf where a dozen machines just like mine were stacked up like the leaning tower of Pisa. I can't lie, this news hit us hard. But that aside, we did learn how to make pasta dough from scratch, to cut strips of tagliatelle lovingly by hand and to shape and stuff ravioli. So a very fine start to my pasta-making task.

Then in September, the family headed up to the Isle of Skye for a week's holiday to celebrate my 70th birthday. This gave me the perfect opportunity to get stuck into some serious pasta-making, with no room for avoidance. The pasta machine was lovingly dusted down, shoe-horned into the boot of Jonathan and Liz's SUV and duly made its grand entrance at our Airbnb in the beautiful harbour community of Uig two days later.

The following Monday morning, on the dot of 9.30am, sous chef Michael and I rendezvoused in the sizeable kitchen. The pasta machine was clamped onto the work surface, special pasta flour and eggs were on standby, a pasta recipe was sourced courtesy of Jamie Oliver, and the task began. The initial process of blending flour and eggs into a kneed-able lump was a very messy one. But gradually the dough began to look more like, well, dough. Once our biceps could take it no longer - Jamie Oliver says after a few minutes it's easy to see why your average Italian grandmother has arms like Frank Bruno - we put it into the fridge to rest, after which the serious business of flattening the dough in the pasta machine began. 

We divided the dough into four separate lumps and rolled each lump through the pasta machine no less than 16 to 17 times (yes, you read that right, 16 to 17 times), in accordance with Jamie's instructions, working through each of the settings from widest to narrowest. Not meaning to boast or anything but by the final roll, the pasta strips looked amazing - very smooth, elastic and super silky. We were pretty chuffed I can tell you. Pasta squisita!

Michael cut each of the strips meticulously into evenly-sized lasagne rectangles. Then it was over to me to create bolognese and bechamel sauces ready for the lasagne assembly line. No guesses for what was on the menu for supper that evening. Here's the finished dish, which I'm glad to say was given a large thumbs up by the family. And with Task 71 in the bag, the pasta machine was duly squeezed back into the SUV for transportation back to Sussex. 

I can't believe what a satisfying activity pasta-making turned out to be - and a very sociable one too thanks to top-notch assistant Michael aiding and abetting me at every stage. Ravioli and tagliatelle-making are definitely up my sleeve next. Once the pasta machine is re-rescued from Jonathan's garage that is......

Seven at 70.....

This blog was always intended to be a 12-month account of my quest to complete the Sixtyat60 Challenge. However as the years have passed - and much to my surprise - a steady stream of people have continued to visit my site. From time to time I've felt a wave of guilt about my failure to produce any new posts for potential readers. After all, there's nothing more disappointing than a well out of date blog. During the pandemic a potent mix of fear and boredom did nudge me into posting a one-off super-long account of lockdown life, but that was over five years ago. Finally though, I feel I have a decent reason for reviving the blog. Ten years on from my first Sixtyat60 post, I've just celebrated my 70th birthday. Time to sit at my laptop once again for some gentle blogging action. 

Some updating context first. I have to be honest, it's been a rollercoaster few years. If you've read my sixtyat60 blog in the past, you'll know that my husband Andrew featured heavily in my posts. He supported my Sixtyat60 Challenge with gusto from start to finish and indeed took part in many of the tasks. He celebrated my successes, helped me deal with the setbacks, and read every single post before I published it (a very important ritual even if I didn't always follow through with his feedback!) Not long after I wrapped up the Challenge, he was diagnosed with Parkinson's Disease, a tough illness to deal with, but one that he refused to be defined by. He carried on his work as a computer software developer. He continued to play a decent round of golf. And he climbed to the summit of Kilimanjaro with our older son Michael, a lifetime achievement that quite rightly he was very chuffed about. 

Then four years ago Andrew started to show signs of dementia alongside his Parkinson's symptoms and life become an uphill struggle. We decided to relocate from our house in the Wealden countryside to the lovely town of Lewes, where there were shops and services at our fingertips. With the amazing support of family, friends, neighbours and healthcare professionals, we carved out a more relaxed way of life for ourselves. Well I say 'more relaxed', but that didn't stop Andrew walking 5k round the base of Arthur's Seat in Edinburgh to raise funds for Alzheimer's Research UK in August 2023. He never stopped loving a challenge and we all loved him for it.

However Andrew's health continued to deteriorate, and very sadly he died in February this year, just two weeks after being moved to a local nursing home for respite care. My family and I were glad for him that he made his exit relatively swiftly with dignity intact. And he definitely knew that he was due to become a grandpa for the first time, even if he didn't live long enough to meet his little granddaughter.

So here I am now, seven months bereaved and four months a new nanna, doing my best to navigate the emotional currents of these two opposing life forces. Since I've just hit 70, I've decided to set myself a very modest list of 7 tasks to complete (you didn't really think I'd take on 70 did you dear reader?) as a means of easing my way forward in life. And it's my plan to write a post for each of the tasks, just as I did ten years ago. 

Here, in no particular order, are the seven tasks:

1.  Make a lasagne from scratch using the untouched pasta machine given to me 3 years ago by younger son Jonathan

2.  Do open-air swimming sessions in Isle of Skye and in my hometown of Lewes

3. Babysit granddaughter Freya for a weekend

4. Locate the house in Hof Bei Salzburg, Austria where I worked as an au pair aged 18

5. Go to the cinema by myself

6. Attend a ballet class for silver swans

7. Have a bench installed on the Ashdown Forest, East Sussex in memory of Andrew.

I already sense a growing sense of purpose as I cast my eye over the list. The blog on Task 1 will follow very soon, promise!

Lockdown life: The joy of small things

Over a year has gone by since I last published a sixtyat60 post. And in truth I didn't really expect to be writing another entry, mainly because I didn't envisage a situation or experience that would nudge me back into action. Until now that is. 

Pandemic, self-isolation, social distancing, personal protective equipment. Words that had little meaning to most of us in January 2019 when I last blogged. But words that have now become everyday terminology and a whole new way of living. As lockdown life stretches ahead of us with no end yet in sight, I find myself revisiting tried and tested ways to fill my time and give my wellbeing a bit of a whoosh. So here I am once again in blog mode. And rather than have a little rant about the unavailability of supermarket delivery slots, lack of PPE for frontline staff and people flouting the quarantine, I'm going to focus attention on some small things of joy that are helping me to stay sane on a day to day basis. Well, sane-ish anyway.  

1. Set up an animal hospital
You may have come across animal hospitals and rescue centres before, but have you ever encountered one that treats Christmas elves and hamburgers too? Thought not. Day 8 of the lockdown and my fingers were getting restless. And then my eye alighted on a small pile of torn and discarded doggy soft toys lying forlornly on the worktop in the utility room.  

Why this cluster of distressing injuries? I'm not going to name names but I will just say that we acquired a very bouncy golden doodle puppy a year ago.  More about her below. Of the trio of maimed toys, the hamburger has an especially strong emotional pull in this household, as Lucy bought it for our much loved loopy labrador Alfie not long before his demise two years ago. It disappeared, seemingly for ever, into the far reaches of the garden, only to re-emerge, Lazarus-like, in doodle puppy's mouth a few weeks after her arrival. Like I say, it's a bit special.   



Back to the present. These toys clearly needed help and fast (ok technically they'd been lying in a heap completely ignored for at least 3 months but never mind that). I sourced myself a needle, thread and and old raspberry-red tee-shirt and scrubbed up. An hour later, my surgical work was complete. Three revived toys lay propped up in recovery with lovingly inserted rasberry-red patches. I like to think Alfie would approve of Hamburger's heart-shaped one. Definitely a small thing of joy.

However I'm not going to lie, a mere two days on from their life-saving ops, two of the toys took another mauling from the same doodly assailant. So it looks as though I'm going to have a regular stream of patients to keep my hands occupied over the next few weeks of social isolation.  Elf's injuries look especially traumatic. Although as Lucy says, he's managing to keep a smile on his face, a lesson to us all in resilience. 




2. Compulsive cake-making 
I'll admit it, I'm a bit of a feeder. Andrew was a skinny 10-stoner when we first married. That didn't last long. And when family or friends pay us a visit, I always produce six times as much food as we need (seriously, ask anyone!) This compulsion used to bother me until one day a friend explained to me that it's because I'm half Welsh. Ah yes, those groaning tables piled high with laverbread, bara brith and Welsh rarebit whenever we visited my relatives in Aberystyth during my childhood. It all makes perfect sense. So much so that that these days I make no apology for my behaviour and openly embrace my cultural roots. In lockdown life, this is resulting in multiple cakey traybakes and a surge of happiness every time we open the cupboard or fridge door. Which, let's face it, matters a lot at a time like this. 

From a distance the family circles like a flock of virtual vultures as I send them photos of my latest bakeoff indulgence.  When I posted a photo of my renowned chocolate brandy biscuit cake a few days ago, Jonathan and Liz could bear it no longer and made a fine-looking  one themselves, which gave me a huge glow of maternal pride. Perhaps that quarter Welshness is kicking in Jonathan? Although I have to be honest, their idea of a 'piece' of chocolate biscuit cake seems slightly at odds with ours. 

Carrot and banana cake, Dorset apple cake, rasberry and lime-infused cake, cocoa-based brownies..... compulsive cake-making is definitely proving to be a standout joy of small things in this household right now. Although at this rate by the end of lockdown Andrew and I are very unlikely to be small things. 

      

3. Desktop travel
Back in January, the year ahead looked to be quite a busy one on the travel front for us. With the coronavirus crisis only just beginning to extend its tentacles beyond China, Andrew and I were on our way to covid-free Costa Rica for our first planned trip of 2020. At the back of a minibus taking us from Arenal National Park to Rio Negro (a 2-hour drive), we found ourselves sitting next to Colin, a friendly 75 year old celebrating his 50th wedding anniversary. Colin explained that he was 'self-isolating' himself (the first time we'd heard that term) because he had a persistent cough and wanted to keep away from his wife and friends at the front at the bus. 'Cheers Colin, feel free to pass it on to us instead' I muttered to myself. But that was the only moment on our 12-day holiday that we found ourselves slightly rattled by someone showing corona-like symptoms. And in truth I did feel very sorry for poor Colin. 

How quickly the world has changed. Just six weeks later, self-isolation has become a way of life, and travel is off the menu. On our forthcoming holiday agenda was an eagerly anticipated visit to Ischia in the Bay of Naples to celebrate the wedding of my friend Linda's son Alistair....and a week's holiday in the Greek Islands....and a road trip to the North of England for a reunion with my cousins and to celebrate another wedding....and a weekend in Edinburgh to see Lucy's new home. All cancelled or postponed for the foreseeable future. 

But Andrew and I did at least get to go to beautiful Costa Rica.  And since it's likely to be our only holiday destination in 2020, it does seem important to milk every last drop of it.  So last week I downloaded the many photos I had taken on our Costa Rican travels, whittled them down to a final fifty and uploaded them into a shiny paged photobook courtesy of Snapfish. Now we can revisit our Costa Rican memories at the drop of a hat. So satisfying. Joy on many levels. Just in case my mention of Costa Rica has piqued your interest, here are a few (only a few, promise) of my favourite pics from the photobook..... 

Top pic award goes to a sloth of course. Sloths are solitary animals and like to hang out at the very top of super tall trees, so our sightings of them were almost invariably limited to non-specific balls of fur curled up on branches 30-50 ft above us.  However this one was very close to the ground, perhaps because she'd just descended to take her weekly comfort break (yes, they really only pee/poop once a week). And total joyfest, she had a baby sloth at her side. 

Our successful sloth-spotting took place around Arenal National Park at the beginning of our trip. We then travelled to Monteverde Cloud Forest where the climate was cool and, er, cloudy, and very lushly green. Spot the friendly tarantula....

Our final stop was Nosara on the Pacific Ocean. En route, our driver took it upon himself to make two stops, firstly to show us a flock of macaws screeching in the palm trees above the cafe where we were having a coffee and secondly, to give us the chance to get up close and personal to a gang of iguanas lurking in the ramshackle back garden of, somewhat randomly, a small town police station.   

In Nosara the temperature soared up into the mid-30s. Our hotel looked out over an endless white-sanded deserted coastline, and we woke to the sounds of howler monkeys in the treetops.  

Happy memories indeed. Nothing like a spot of desktop travel to soothe the soul and forget the v-word for a while.

4. Testing technology
I suppose this one's a bit of a cliche now. Two plus weeks into lockdown and everyone's at it. Trying out new technology that is.  I've always remained resistant to such platforms as facetime and video conferencing, mainly because I have an aversion to looking at myself whilst I'm prattling on. I'm not a complete Luddite, in that I do use whatsapp, with a bit of google chat and messenger thrown in, but otherwise I'm perfectly content emailing (don't mock me guys, it has its place) and texting, and I frequently default to that dinosaur of communication, the landline telephone. But after being denied the opportunity to chat to family and friends face to face for days on end, the yearning to be able to see them was becoming quite acute. 

I decided it was time to challenge my negative attitude towards the videocall experience.  A few days ago, with teeth tightly gritted, I downloaded zoom, google hangout and houseparty apps onto my ipad and prepared myself to join meetings.  And oh my goodness, what rewards I've reaped. It's been so exciting to be able to see my whole family together on one screen, even if, in my case, it isn't always possible to hear what they're saying. It's a definitely a thing of joy, and by no means a small one.  In a moment of utter abandonment, I've now booked myself a live Pilates class on Zoom next week, and I've agreed to have a one to one flute lesson on houseparty. So even at my senior stage in life, I've proved to myself that I can successfully challenge old habits....

5. Delights of a doodle dog 
I've already alluded to this member of our household in Item 1. She burst onto the scene like a crazy little tsunami of fluffiness in March 2019 to be a companion to our wheaten terrier Mabel, a middle-aged hound of more, shall we say, sedate temperament. We named the fluffy tsunami Betty. She's the puppy on the right in the pic below, being held by the breeder (can you imagine trying to choose between the two of them? Anguish of epic proportions). 

Now it's fair to say Betty has had her moments since making her home with us. Like the time she decided to throw herself into our super muddy pond 30 minutes after having her first very expensive shampoo and set at the local pooch pampering parlour.

And then there was the time when I discovered that she'd stolen and wolfed down 6 months-worth of worming/flea treatment tablets four hours before Andrew and I were due to catch a flight to Madrid (one large vet bill later she was fine, and somehow we made it to Gatwick in time). And then the multiple times she's taken it upon herself to forensically dissect new and/or expensive walking shoes of mine. And so on. You get the picture. A high-maintenance girlie our Bets. But that said, she's also the most exuberant, carefree, happy, entertaining, lovable character, and right now, she's the perfect foil to the never-ending flow of distressing and scary news items we encounter on a daily basis. Low testing rates, oxygen supplies running out, stricken prime minister? Betty doesn't give a toss. Give her a squirrel to chase or a lap to drape herself over and she's like a pig in clover. Yes indeed, the sheer joy of fluffy doodly things in the midst of a pandemic.

NB In case Mabel sees this, I should just emphasise that we love her devotedly too, and admire her uber-chilled 'we're all doomed, whatevs' attitude. 

NNB And of course we also love Jonathan and Liz's dog Bobby to bits. He's the most supercool urbane Italian greyhound in the whole of South London. He has his own Instagram account, obvs, 757 followers and counting.

6. Lend an ear and do a handclap
There have been umpteen moments over the last few weeks when I've felt a sense of helplessness about the situation unfolding around us. Yes, Andrew and I have been doing our bit to protect the NHS and save lives by following all the government guidelines as instructed. But I did wish I could do something more proactive and useful. So when the NHS Volunteers Scheme was launched, I signed up to it in a flash. I couldn't put myself forward for running errands and ferrying services, as Andrew falls into the, ahem, older age bracket, and also has an underlying health condition of Parkinsons Disease. But the 'check and chat' role, to be carried out from the safety of one's home, sounded right up my street. I registered my interest, along with squillions of other people, and a week later, following a DBS check, I received an email from the Royal Voluntary Service to say I was now officially a member of the NHS Volunteer army. Woohoo!

I read the 14-page 'Getting Started' guide. Then I downloaded the GoodSAM Responder app onto my phone and familiarised myself with it as suggested. The app has been adapted from one used to alert off-duty medical professionals to cardiac arrests. On the plus side, it's a 100% tried and tested system.  On the minus side, it's a little strange to see ' I have a defibrillator on me' on the menu (although the toggle has been deactivated of course), and to discover that a siren sound is used to alert volunteers that they've been assigned a task.  My main concern at the moment is that when the siren goes off, the shock of hearing it will give me a heart attack. I think that's what you'd call a paradox. Anyway, I've been on duty now for a full week, and guess what, the siren hasn't gone off once. I've been told that's because the Responder programme has gone for a soft launch of 1000 referrals. And since, according to the Sunday papers, the Duchess of Cornwall has already spoken to two of them, that leaves 998 cases for the other 749,499 volunteers. Somehow I don't think my ears are going to be over-bent for the time being.

Whilst I wait patiently for Responder to alert me to my first task, Andrew and I are throwing ourselves into the Thursday 8pm clap for care workers. I'll be honest, the first week I was a little ambivalent about the idea, as it seemed to me that hospital and care home staff would benefit more from being given protective masks and gowns than a round of applause, however well intended. But I've now found several ways of making donations, one to a local NHS trust charity to provide staff with cups of tea/care boxes, another to a crowdfunding initiative to buy protective personal equipment for NHS staff on a national basis, and to top it all, a really special and very touching fundraising effort by a 99 year old army veteran, Captain Tom Moore, who's doing 100 laps of his garden with a walking frame to raise money for NHS Charities Together (to date he's raised an astonishing 14 million pounds).  So I'm now feeling much more fully invested in the Thursday evening ritual. As a celebration of care workers' commitment, dedication and bravery, it's a thing of joy indeed. 

So there you have it, half a dozen ways that are helping me to navigate the unchartered waters of the pandemic with relative aplomb.  As I've been writing this post, it's surprising how many more little joys are popping into my head.  The wonders of weeding. The beauty of bird-watching. The acquisition of previously unattainable items (toilet paper - hurrah! A tin of tomatoes - yay!!) And the excitement of watching grey roots emerge (only kidding, I miss my hairdresser almost as much as my children).  Wow, there might even be enough material there to bore you with a follow-up post if the lockdown goes on much longer. 

Finally, and most importantly, Andrew and I want to say a huge hello to our friend Bill who has been hospitalised with Covid-19 over the last 10 days. We hear that he's on the mend (even taking part in quizzes now!), which is fantastic news. We're sending our warmest wishes to him and his family.

And to anyone and everyone reading this post......