Age is Just a Number

Before I continue with my account of the Tour of Britain, I must first return to what can only be described as The Worst Jet Lag Ever. Fact. Rather than getting better, sleep seems to be alluding my deprived body more each night. Last night, our third back, I managed only sporadic sleep from 10.30 until 12, finally falling asleep at around 5, only to wake at 6. If this goes on for much longer I will need a crane to lift the bags from under my eyes and I will be in danger of setting the kitchen on fire. If anyone out there knows of a good way to get over jet lag, please, I am begging you, leave a comment at the bottom of this blog and tell me before I go insane!!


Anyway, crazy person rant over, I shall continue where I left off, feeling warm and content at The Grandparents’ cosy Oxfordshire house:

The arrival of The Mother the following day merely increased the warm feeling of belonging, of familiarity and history and shared memories that is missing when you’re away for a long period of time. We spent a wonderful few days walking around the village and through the surrounding fields, sitting out in the garden, eating in country pubs and visiting National Trust houses. As well as guiding at the world-renowned Ashmolean Museum in Oxford, Granny has guided for thirty years at a National Trust property a mere twenty minutes from their house, a splendid Renaissance-style château designed for the Rothschilds in the 1800s called Waddesdon Manor. We used to go often as children, mainly to play in the vast grounds, and more recently, since returning to England ten years ago, I would go in December to see the house dressed for Christmas. I hadn’t been in the summer, when more rooms are open and the house is without its Christmas decorations, for years so The Mother and I decided to get some use out of our National Trust cards and pay it a visit. We were wandering over to the main entrance when a tall, stocky woman in her seventies came towards us. She was like every other elderly woman here, handbag placed in the crook of her arm, wearing pearls, a silk blouse tucked into a tea-length skirt, stockings, sensible shoes, a hint of lipstick and... stubble?? A cross-dressing elderly man at a National Trust property? How scandalous! Trying to keep the shock from our faces until we had passed the transvestite OAP, we turned to each other open-mouthed and wide-eyed, before bursting into a fit of giggles. What made it particularly strange was that he hadn’t bothered to shave or attempt to do anything with his close-cropped, thinning hair. The house and its collections were spectacular, the gardens beautiful, but that cross-dressing old man really made the day memorable!

As we turned into the lane on which The Grandparents live, the smell of burning assailed our nostrils but it wasn’t until we drove up to Stranger’s Drift to find ourselves immersed in a cloud of thick smoke that we realised just where that smell was emanating from. Do not worry, dear reader, the smoke was not pouring from the house but from the far corner of the garden, where Grandad was burning the forest he had chopped down a few days earlier. I had seen it heaped up in the corner the day before and he had told me that he had been up a ladder chopping down the tops of trees and bushes that needed taming. Now, take a moment to consider this. He is in his mid-eighties. He was armed with a saw. He was perched precariously on top of a ladder hacking down a virtual forest. Don’t get me wrong, it’s great that he feels he still can do these things, that he hasn’t just given up on life, seeing out his days slumped in a chair staring into space. However, I’m really not sure that he should be on top of ladders armed with dangerous tools doing the job of some young, fit gardener. Granny is no different. She tends to a large garden without help and can often be found hunched over her beds, pruning, picking, weeding and watering. The Mother and I were at one stage watching Grandad chopping things down while Granny was weeding the vegetable patch. Yes, we were sitting on the swing seat watching our elderly parents and grandparents work away in the garden. I did feel a slight twinge of guilt but they enjoy it, honestly! I suppose, at my age, I am lucky to still have grandparents at all, let alone such sprightly ones (my other set of grandparents are just as active – this definitely bodes well for my dotage!). Their minds are just as active, kept fit by daily crosswords, religious viewing of Countdown, heated conversations, and reading book after book after book. Never challenge them to a game of anything that involves using your mind – they will undoubtedly win!