Feeding grumpy grannies and others Christmas stuff

It was the Christmas Lunch recently - organised by myself and A ANOTHER for the residents of the local sheltered housing unit. The first disaster happened 2 days before the party - the pub where we had Christmas-lunched for the last 2 years said they had 'double-booked' and we wouldn't be able to come on the date agreed; they could offer us a date closer to Christmas. No doubt they had a better offer - local office workers drink far more than a bunch of elderly ladies. We were very annoyed and have every intention of giving them as much bad publicity as we can - some of us have local influence and there is nothing like word of mouth (and a few of us have large ones) for passing on such things.

As luck would have it, my co-organiser conned another pub into receiving our gang of grannies and all seemed well. We were (supposedly) tucked away in a corner of the pub on a raised platform. It meant we had to squeeze past dart-players, but they were very amenable to moving and gave up playing with pretty good grace in the end. Nothing like making your presence felt!

The lunch was great, but I don't think we will be invited to return. My co-worker, not known for her diplomacy, had already annoyed the bar staff by the time I arrived, to say nothing of some of the early arrivals.

It took some time ferrying people into taxis and unloading them at the other end. I had carefully written out a table plan, but everybody sat where they liked; indeed some of them flatly refused to move once they had sat down. Shepherding recalcitrant sheep is definitely not my forte.

I have put on a bit of weight lately and wore a dress I haven't worn for some time - it was a bit tight, but not too short, so I thought it would be fine. My partner assured me that 'my bum did not look big in it' (I would have killed him had he said it did), but one very frank old lady told me it did - she's 92, so I suppose she would know!

There were other volunteers helping serve the drinks and they had been provided with all kinds of headgear - antlers and Santa hats to name just 2. One of the male volunteers really got into his part as Father Christmas ho-ho-ho-ing all over the place; his act slightly spoilt by his trousers slipping down. (Good thing it wasn't children he was giving presents too).

The saddest part, for me, was the old lady who said she didn't want to go home as she would just be up in her flat on her own! I am sure there are several elderly people either with no relatives or none living close to them who will spend Christmas alone.

Of course, there are those 'elderly' parents/grandparents etc. who are invited annually to their children/grandchildren and don't have any desire to go. They find the grandchildren noisy and the layout of the bathroom difficult etc. etc. If only people were honest and told one another what they really want to do - it is quite possible that the children/grandchildren dread having the parents every bit as much as they dread going there.

I have the best of both worlds this year - I will be spending Christmas Day with my lovely man at home, where we shall lay about a lot, eating, watching films and generally being very slatternly. He is the cook in our house so 'Heaven' I shall sit about while he stands over a hot stove. We are not eating turkey! We are having Beef Wellington on Christmas Day, lobster (from Iceland - the shop, I mean, not the country) on Boxing Day when a friend is coming over and there will be more eating, drinking and socialising.

Then I am spending time with my family - sisters, brother, niece and their families altogether in a place not far from Manchester. The worst of Christmas will be over by then - the turkey and the clearing up (my sister is fanatical about tidying up, often on Boxing Day - hoovering around the rest of the family). I expect we will be on sausage and mash as an antidote to all that rich food. My partner, who still thinks 'up north' consists of clogs, hats and greyhound racing, is not coming with me, so there will be none of that concern as to whether he is enjoying himself listening to my relatives who are a noisy lot at the best of times. Actually, there will be a greyhound in the equation - a pet of one of the family. My man - he who must not be obeyed - will be looking after our completely crazy cat.

Christmas Chaos and Families

The idiotic line in the pop song that includes the words 'I wish it could be Christmas every day ...' - fills me with despair - Christmas - every day; I think it should be once every four years. Don't get me wrong, I am not Scrooge with his 'Bah! Humbug!' but I do find the way Christmas starts ever earlier each year infuriating. I first spotted Christmas cards in the shops in August this year. If I bought Christmas cards that early I wouldn't remember where I had put them and would have to buy them again nearer the time. They would probably turn up in a bag or box in the loft long after I move out or shuffle off my mortal coil and people will mutter about what a strange person I was to hoard such a load of rubbish.

I can't bear the cacophony of Christmas piped music that is played in shops from about October - how the shop assistants haven't beaten the speakers to a pulp is beyond me. After five minutes of 'Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer' and other nauseating nonsense, I want to murder a muppet, torpedo a teddy or strangle a Cindy doll or all three!

I also find the curious behaviour of families just before Christmas odd - the frantic stocking up of food and drink. Watch a family, or even just a couple, fill their supermarket trollies with enough for a long siege, despite the shops only being closed for three days at the most.

Then there's the 'it's for the children' brigade - have you ever noticed that the small child with an overwhelming array of dazzling presents will play happily with one of the boxes said presents arrived in, rather negating the need for expenditure on treasures for his or her edification. It is a salutary lesson remembering that in some parts of the world children barely get enough to eat, let alone receive gifts.

Families who see each other rarely (and there is a reason for that - they can't bear to be in the same room together) somehow feel duty bound to pretend filial affection, sit around a table together, eat too much, drink too much and then wonder why hostility becomes festering animosity. This is not helped by the fact that the weather is usually dull, there are no shops open and nothing to do for three days. No wonder there are so many families at the sales after Christmas - they don't want to buy anything, just get away from Aunty Chris or Uncle Brian. It is not quite so bad when there are children - at least half a day can be spent playing with their toys under the axiom of 'checking it is working properly'. (Just before Christmas a trip to Hamleys is quite an eye-opener - the place is packed out with fathers playing with train sets - not a child in sight!)

I love my own family dearly, but more than a couple of days together and we revert to childhood patterns of behaviour and bicker about the most ridiculous things. One year I had an argument with my sister about how old our brother is - neither of us would back down (I found out later she was right - she usually is! Grrrgh!!!) I usually become stony-faced and stubborn, refusing to do much in the way of housework and retreating into reading.

Staying with in-laws can be fraught with danger too. One tiny criticism of my mother-in-law's 'perfect' son and there used to be a threatening silence which could last for 24 hours. This, you would think, might be a relief from the relentless Christmas cheer, but a chilly absence of words and passive-aggressive behaviour can be very disturbing. One year I brought several books to to get me through the boredom of the holiday and proceeded to read throughout the usual rubbish TV - Eastenders depressive dive into some crisis or another and repeats of Fools and Horses, Mary Poppins and the Great Escape. Escaping into my choice of fantasy turned out to be a mistake - I was considered rude not contributing to the collective couch potato watch. I protested to my then husband that I thought it rude to force me to watch crap TV for hours on end - now that could be called relative-abuse!

One year, in desperation, I insisted we play party games. Under protest, this was attempted and it was certainly the most fun any of us had had in several Christmases (we don't get out much!). Watching my pompous father-in-law pushing a matchbox along the carpet in competition with a mad aunt was hysterical. The version of Call my Bluff was a great success - my mother-in-law won consistently, presumably because she was the most convincing liar.

How not to chair a meeting!

I am chair of a local resident's committee and it was the AGM recently, met with trepidation by myself and our treasurer. As all 14 out of a possible 30 arrived, on zimmer frames, mobility scooters and in wheelchairs, I had to admire their grit. We started 15 minutes late - everybody needed to be settled, with much creaking of bones then bribed with a drink to ensure they stayed more than 5 minutes. So it was out with the Buck's Fizz and the sherry (with lemonade - well, the sherry, anyway). If you need to get drunk quickly sherry and lemonade goes straight to your head and the thought of trying to get a drunk posse of the elderly home on their various modes of transport was a bit of worry. The treasurer reminded them to drink with care as 'we don't want to wheel anyone home in a wheelbarrow'. Luckily, they all live within spitting distance of the venue.

The meeting began with difficulty - a get-together presents a good time to exchange views and gossip. The next task was making sure everybody had their papers and understood what was what - agenda, minutes of last AGM, yearly accounts and Chair's report, written by yours truly. I took the minutes as well. Not because none of them are compus mentis, but because eyesight, hearing and arthritis prevents them from managing paperwork.

After that, it was all systems go - well, sort of ... tenants got sidetracked by various subjects, ran down rabbitholes with them and it was with great difficulty and as much tact as I could muster, that I engineered a return to the point! And still there was an underlying mummer from a lady who becomes strategically deaf - she can always hear the offer of a drink or that she has won a prize in a raffle, but otherwise - well, picture the scene. There were times when I wanted to get up and hit her over the head with her walking stick, but couldn't of course - elder abuse I think that is called.

Then there was the sweet old lady who just wants company - she is confined to her flat because of her physical and mental health, but dearly loves to join in and although confused, tries to help with clearing and washing up. At the end of the afternoon, she wanted to 'come home with you' because, as she said, 'I'm only up there on my own!' Quite true and sad - pity volunteers have to jump through so many hoops before being allowed to volunteer to befriend the elderly. Of course there are those who prey on the vulnerable, but they could be easily watched. It is sad when the kindly and loving have to suffer for the sins of the minority.

Anyway, all in all, it was an event to be remembered and the committee members (all over 70, and some over 80) have a lot to be proud of. After 5 years of fighting with the local authorities the committee have managed to obtain secure gates and safer pavements/roads around the site. This has involved a considerable amount of work and attendance at meetings, made more difficult by having to deal with two different councils. When the gates were almost turned down because of planning permission I believe there would have been a riot, but the council climbed down very quickly after intervention from local councillors and one MP. Perhaps the prospect of grappling grannies to the ground or being run down by a disability scooter or zimmer frame helped.

At the end, our treasurer, a wheelchair-abled (she is certainly not wheelchair-bound) lady with lots of bottle, cut glass accent and amazingly colourful language, said that she hoped the group would go on from strength to strength and continue to 'grow old disgracefully!' I said they could 'wear purple and spit' at their age and hope to become as active and forthright as they are when I hit their age.

He who must not obeyed and other relationships

I was thinking about toy boys the other day and the number of celebrities who swear by them. No chance! Well, for a start, I am well past my sell by date, have little money, very little style or particularly spectacular looks or figure. Anyway, I think toy boys are over-rated! 'He who must be obeyed' is older than I by 9 years and there is a lot to be said for that. Firstly, he cannot run fast enough to catch younger women and secondly, he is short-sighted so doesn't notice my wrinkles.

We are both as honest as possible in our dealings with one another - sometimes he can be too honest. In my previous relationship I was much less honest and it fell apart ... Of course, my man complains that I am obviously not as compliant as I was with my husband and I tell him that I have learnt my lesson and he has to live with the consequences! One day we will get married, but I do need a divorce first and it costs! Besides, as I said to 'he who must not be obeyed' what makes him think I want to become one of his mad family; I have a crazy enough one of my own.

Other relationships - well, I have two sisters, both very loveable, if bossy. I envy them both for knowing what they wanted career-wise from young. Me - I still don't know what I want to do! Sometimes wonder why you are expected to know what you want to do once you have left school. By the time I am pensionable age, perhaps I will know!

I have lots of acquaintances and a few good friends. One in particular is a very tough lady and I have to fight to be on an equal level with her. She swears like a trooper and is straightforward in most of her dealings, but I have noticed some manipulative behaviour. She will say, 'would you do me a favour' which immediately makes me feel put on the spot. One day I will get up the courage to say that I would prefer she just say 'please could/would you ..'

The Chaos Theory of Housework

I remain a bit of a stranger to housework - don't know the last time I used the iron and the ironing board is at the back of a very cluttered cupboard. Our flat is littered with books I am reading, about to read, have taken off the shelves and not returned (my excuse is that I have to use steps to put them away); in the sitting room the computer desk is covered in bits of paper, pens, magazines and mail, some open, some not.

In the corner of the room are two tool boxes and by the radiator several bits of computer, which my partner is, allegedly, using to improve the computer. I have yet to see an improvement, but it keeps him happy. I fall over the toolboxes often, reminding me that I should look down more, given our propensity for not putting stuff away. We have an overflowing filing tray and 'to do' basket - to do means, loosely, will be done some time within the next two or three months, except when I have an appointment and have to plough through it all to find the relevant paperwork required. We are so disorganised we sometimes end up buying something again because we can't find the original and then end up with three of something. Very wasteful!

I try not to worry about the consistent state of chaos and remind myself of the axiom which I ascribe to of 'only dull women have tidy kitchens' but sometimes wonder if my partner would enjoy a bit of a dullard for the price of a clean home. I have suggested he try living with my oldest sister whose home is always tidy and he looks alarmed at the prospect, so maybe there is something to not being too fussy!

When I am very bored perhaps I shall do the housework, but I doubt that. As soon as I have nothing to do, I find something I like doing and that's that. Interestingly, I clean for a neighbour - his place is cleaner than mine before I start the cleaning! I can manage to do it because it is so tidy and I am getting paid. My partner suggested paying me, but since what's his is mine, there is no point.

Enough of housework except to reiterate, 'only very dull women have tidy kitchens'.

And didn't Quentin Crisp say,'the dust doesn't get any thicker after three years'?

Exercise & the cat who 'walks alone'

I started at a gym recently - knowing that exercise is especially good for combating depression. Trouble is, having been size 8 to 10 most of my life, I have never really bothered with exercise, but change of life, medication and doing very little when depressed has left me overweight and flabby. Anyway, I joined a local gym and have so far been to 3 classes called LBT (legs, bums and tums) - yes I thought T stood for that as well! There were two different teachers and one of them was a sadist! At one point he let us all punch into a punchbag that he held up in front of us - I was obviously looking very fierce as he said 'not my face!' As if ... By the end of each class I was absolutely exhausted, but so were many of the group, most of whom looked younger than I. Of course I look red-faced and sweaty within minutes - why is it some women still look good after strenuous exercise - are they real? Some of them don't appear to sweat at all and wear attractive outfits which don't look marked in any way. My costume is a pair of shorts and t-shirt (gone are the days when I could get away with bike shorts).

The gym bit of exercise is far less interesting. I find all those toned bodies and tans intimidating and make sure I use the machines furthest away from them, preferably ones where there are no mirrors - seeing myself sweat is not one of my favourite pastimes. There are far more men than women there and they often look to me as if they are showing off with weights etc. I find the treadmill the most boring of all the machines and looking at all those clones running/walking/earphones on/bored expression on face is enough to put me off. However, I have paid for the month and am determined to stick it out. Strange that I, who always thought myself the least competitive of people, should find myself competing when on the rowing machine and anyone comes and uses the one next to me. (There are only two, so there is no choice but to go on if someone else sits down next to you). Of course, even if I can keep up with anyone, I am surely on a lesser strength pull, but who's to know that?

The biggest challenge in using the gym is mastering the machinery. This is difficult since I have never been much good at technical stuff. I had a session with an instructor, told him what I hoped to achieve (inch loss rather than weight loss) and a moderate level of fitness - I don't intend to run any marathons! He showed me a series of stretching and exercising machines that felt like torture. I couldn't manage one called the Fly at all and he has suggested I lie on one of those big balls and lift two .75 kg weights. Now that is what I call elegant! One of the machines for abductions is even sexier - sitting with legs akimbo and stretching out and back. However, I think I probably look funniest doing the pulling exercise - I can barely reach the pulley and must then struggle into a very uncomfortable sitting position and pull the thing up and down.

The exercise machines I use in my programme otherwise are: the treadmill (boring), the bicycle (at least I can see I have cycled a certain distance, even if my pace is so slow that sometimes it thinks I have paused!) The rowing machine feels like it is doing me good, if only because I can feel my tummy muscles working. I use that to warm down.

Now I am boring myself about exercise, so will turn to my cat's behaviour. He is a lovely black male with a mind of his own (certainly the best-looking male in the house). He barely acknowledges us, occasionally honouring us with his presence in the middle of the bed and permitting us to stroke him for a while. He enjoys walking over everything, including keyboards, mobile phones, remote controls and any work surfaces, even those cluttered with debris (which is most of them - we are not the tidiest people on the block). He likes peering out of the window and has managed to get out on a very narrow window-sill on 2 occasions so far. A pitiful crying alerted us to his plight at about 3 in the morning! He is an elegant and beautiful creature and gives us endless pleasure - we don't get out much! We hope to get some kind of ladder erected for him to get into the communal back garden as we are on the second floor with no access to it.

Introduction

I was diagnosed bipolar a few years ago; hence the title of my blog - sounds better than manic depression I think; sexier and more interesting somehow. Bi (double-faceted) and polar (think bear or ice cap). Manic depressive sounds - well, mad!

Don't know how often I will post blogs - that will, of course, depend on my state - waving or drowning! At present I am in a rising state having come out of a downer. Now I have to be careful that I don't get too high and prepare to change my medication accordingly. Depressions (drownings) are so bad sometimes that I can barely get out of bed, wash, eat or enjoy life at all. I cut myself off from social contact, don't want to speak on the phone and don't want to open my mail. In fact it feels as if I am wading through mud just prior to sinking and drowning. If it wasn't for my lovely man I would probably starve or dehydrate. When I become Waving Wendy I don't want to remember Drowning Doris and sometimes can hardly credit ever feeling that way. My memory is selective to help me cope I suppose.

My mood changes have caused some terrible things to happen - separation from husband, bankruptcy, loss of work and friends - luckily I have a few very good ones who just wait until I have come back - one of my friends calls and says she thought I must have dropped off the edge of the world again. An apposite and perceptive comment.

I think I must have been bipolar from my teens, but it was just assumed to be normal adolescent angst. I had times when I completely isolated myself (difficult in a family like mine) but I was almost always able to shut myself off from the world, my drug of choice being reading. I read everything and anything. In fact, at about 16, my father told me I must limit my reading to two books a week after a bout of sleepwalking.

In a high state I was sometimes out of control - luckily my parents didn't know some of the dangerous stunts I pulled, although they were aware of my odd behaviour at times and just allowed it to go on as long as it didn't impinge on family life too much. Frankly, our family are quite eccentric anyway and rather proud of it.

Because I am having a great deal of treatment now and am trying hard to manage my illness I have decided to look back and consider the pattern of my behaviour over the years. Many of the incidents are funny, some sad, but I hope to be more waving than drowning in the future. Over the last 18 months I have been waving for about 13, but the drowning was serious in August; hence the treatment regime I am no now.

It was rather amusing how my diagnosis was reached, now I think about it. My partner and I had been offered family therapy to help manage my depression which had become worse as the years went by. It was a new sort of treatment - a therapist talked to us while a gang of three watched a video link in another room. At the end of the session they would come into the room, sit to one side and discuss their opinions about us. We were not expected to comment ourselves, just observe. They then left the room and we talked briefly to the therapist about our feelings on what they said. For the first six months or so we talked about management of my depression and my partner's difficulties coping with the really deep pits I fell into (for the purposes of anonymity I shall call him Jack). Some of the time it was difficult to make myself get on the bus to make the appointments and there were times when I did little but cry, but then one memorable day we reached our little room for therapy and I was feeling really good. Jack was very concerned about my excitable behaviour, but I didn't think there was anything wrong with it - I was just glad to be out of the doldrums. I suppose I was talking too much, waving my arms about and generally euphoric. Then I noticed our therapist - she had a very expressive face and she looked scared! That stopped me in my tracks and one of the gang of three came in and said she felt there was 'something more going on' and she felt I needed to see a psychiatrist. I was so shocked by the intervention and the therapist's look that I agreed. The psychiatrist I saw told me the diagnosis was bipolar and that the antidepressants I had been taking on and off for several years could have exacerbated my condition. I was a bit annoyed about that, but he pointed out that I probably had never seen a doctor when feeling good so that it wasn't surprising that I had been misdiagnosed as being depressed.

Enough! I hope that will be the last time I refer to the boring bit about bipolar - the drugs, the therapy etc. This blog is going to be more about the weird and wonderful things in my life and how much I want to be waving not drowning.