My radio comes on shortly before my alarm clock beeps into life at 6.15am every weekday morning.I’m getting on a bit now, I have no patience for commercial radio or those stations that cater for a much younger demographic.  With the former’s obsession with soap operas, adverts and more adverts, and the latter not even communicating in my language, I decided long ago that BBC Radio 2 was my station of choice.

I’ve tried Radio 4 with previous girlfriends and really doesn’t suit me, my need for antidepressants, or my political views.  “But some of the documentaries, comedy and drama is brilliant. What about the Archers?”, people plead with me.  True, I’d never have known of Numbers Stations if it hadn’t been for Radio 4 being on in the car during a roadtrip to Norfolk in 2005, nor would I have heard about dodgy African preachers and their Miracle Bebbies.  A lot of my favourite comedy shows were given their broadcast breaks on Radio 4 and I actually enjoyed the Archers for a while until they went all class war and killed off Nigel for being posh.  For the most part though, Radio 4 bores or annoys me and I certainly can’t face the prospect of waking up to Guardian FM every morning with people shouting at those they’re interviewing and just too much seriousness for when I’m trying to get my second eyelid to open.

So Radio 2 it is.  I used to like it when that woman was on first thing and she was still half cut from the night before.  Sarah Kennedy, that was her. Her voice was soothing and smooth and listening to her was like being in a conversation in a time and place that didn’t quite exist: village fetes; drinks by the river; cosy fireside suppers; no riff-raff. She’s long since been booted off air and so now, at 6.15, I’m woken by  Vanessa and her manic ramblings.  They actually speak to real people at 6.20 for some sort of birthday slot.  Real people, actual members of the public, able to string words together before 7am.

But at 6.30 it happens: “This is BBC Radio 2, online, on digital radio and on  88-91 FM” DUFF, DUFF, DUFF, NEWS JINGLE!! “BBC News at 6.30, this is Moira Stewart” kicks off 3 hours of Goundhog Day hell by stumbling over her words as she reads the news headlines before Chris Evans presents exactly the same breakfast show every single day.

6.32 Chris Evans Shouts something then

[Gospel jingle] [“mesdames et monsieurs”] [“It’s the most wonderful time of the day”] [“This is London”] [cockerel sound effect] [Tarzan call]

– play song number 1 & song number 2

6.42 [Thunderbirds theme] Good morning Chris club

– trailer for another radio programme

6.44 [Lion roar theme] Big screen belter

6.47 Talks over traffic woman Lynne Bowels, Lynne talks self-deprecating guff and delivers some travel news

– song

6.52 Sports guy comes on to be shouted over as he tries to deliver sports review for 5 minutes

– song

7am News pips and jingle.  Moira returns to stumble over the news headlines again

7.05 [Gospel jingle pt 2] Chris shouting over it and honking horns

7.06 [Bonanza music] What are you up to today; today’s show dedication

7.07 [Choir sings “Oh what a beautiful morning” chorus] Chris shouting over it

– song [“Good morning, Britain, and welcome to another day here on planet earth”plays over intro]

7.11 [theme] More rambling (usually about Bake Off or Stictly or food or cars or his kids) and overview of the show, which is the same as every other show

And that’s generally when the radio turns itself off, mercifully, but there’s actually a Wikipedia page with this rundown.

Over the past year, I’ve become increasingly irritated with this unchanging format and the host’s increasing volume.  I don’t need to be shouted at any time of the day, least of all when I’m just waking up.  But thinking about it, if they weren’t so annoying, the perfectly timed jingles and features are actually really clever.  Genius even.  All of the show’s regular listeners are conditioned to know what they should be doing by the time a certain feature comes on.   I need to be in the shower by Vassos at 6.50 and certainly no later than Moira at 7.  If it gets to the Hawaiian music and Carol with the weather at 7.15, I’m screwed.  I don’t need to look at a clock, I just need to have the radio on.  So long as I’m out with Rocky by the time Moira’s golden oldies come on at 7.32, I’m in with a shout of getting into work by 8.30.

By the time I get into my car to go to work, I can’t take any more of the Breakfast Show and I generally listen to music through my phone instead.  What’s needed is a national, non-commercial radio show between 6.30 and 9am, that’s not presented by Chris Evans and that plays music that I like. Or failing that, I need to not have to wake up in the mornings so I can shuffle around at my leisure until I fancy putting the radio on for Simon Mayo at teatime.

It’s nearly  October.  Already.  Again.  The days are notably shorter than just a month ago and a chill is in the air.  It is coming: winter.

There are two things that occur at this time of year: one that I can’t do anything about and one that I can’t do anything about.

The first is the manifestation of huge house spiders, the males emerging from wherever the hell they’ve been growing into hand-sized monsters, running about the place, fuelled by testosterone and the desire to mate.  I don’t know what they mate with, some of them are big enough to give my dog a run for his money.  But they appear, just there on the wall near the junction with the ceiling.  You keep a wary eye on them as they shuffle along, just knowing that any second, their defiance of gravity and all other natural forces will fail. And then they’re gone.  But where to?

Having been fearful of the  eight-legged beasties since childhood, I now tolerate them so long as: a) I can see them; b) they’re not directly above me; or c) they’re not running across the floor within three metres of me.  When scenario a) no longer applies, I just know that b) or c) are imminent and that c) requires me to spring into action and dispatch the invader with much stamping and screaming before the dog has a go and throws up as soon as his tongue makes contact.

I can’t bear the thought of touching one or having one on me.  (That’s what she said).  My morning routine now includes a full shakedown of my dressing gown and all towels after a nasty incident when one crawled up the back of my bathrobe on onto my shoulder after I’d taken a shower.  Having just about avoided the need to have another shower, I vowed not to be caught out that way again.  The nasty fucking bastard.

All I can be thankful for is the kindness of evolution for not bringing us flying spiders.  Give it a few million years though, mark my words.

In addition to my spider problem, a slightly more serious issue seems to affect me as summer draws to a close and the dark months approach: agoraphobia.  I hate leaving the house, for anything.  Even going to the car or the bin fills me with dread in case a neighbour is out and about and I have to acknowledge them or, dread of dreads, interact with them verbally.  I get to the stage where I listen out for signs of life before opening my gate, then shuffle back to the safety of my spider-infested dwelling before anybody has the chance to show themselves.

Work is a whole different horror, having to interact with colleagues, or shuffle along crowded pavements behind hoards of smartphone, huge bag and umbrella-addicted students who have little in the way of social awareness and a remarkable inability to operate a revolving door… or their limbs to climb a single flight of stairs.

My neighbours are perfectly nice people, I’d rather just not have any.  I’m incredibly fortunate in that my colleagues are capable, engaging, witty, friendly, really good folks.  Students are just students: young people from all over the world experiencing the excitement (and untold terrors) of their first weeks of the new term, of their new lives, and their new friends… who they simply must walk with five-abreast along a narrow pavement while gouging the eyes of innocent passers by with their umbrellas, or failing that, knocking them into the path of an oncoming bus with their massive shoulder bags.

No matter how much I rationalise though, winter Tina will never like people and winter Tina will do as much as possible to avoid unnecessary interaction with all but her closest friends and family.  This is pretty much the same as spring, summer and autumn Tina.  Tina is a misanthrope.  Tina has the t-shirt.

I have this desire to live in a humble abode, at least a mile from my nearest neighbour, away from any main roads, with 200MB broadband and 4g mobile, and a good pub/restaurant within walking distance.  I’d have a fifteen foot wall around my property and a tannoy to alert any ne’erdowells to gerroffmyfuckinland!

I don’t often remember my dreams but when I do, I’m always struck by how odd they are.  Sometimes too vivid, too real to be dreamlike, my waking state takes time to adjust to how life really is.  Sometimes, they’re just so ridiculous that my brain immediately dismisses what the neural sprites had been up to while my conscious had been at rest.  Of course, rest for me means seven to eight hours of sleep that’s frequently broken by pain from my ankle injury and/or a full bladder that I don’t seem to be able to siphon off sufficiently before sleepytime.

Anyway, last night, Mum was there.  She was upset because I think she knew she was dead and we had to take her to her funeral to say goodbye.  And then I put my coat somewhere but couldn’t find it when it was time to leave, so I spent an age looking for it instead of going to the funeral and by the time I got there, they’d started and finished without me.  The bloody cheek; I had a moving eulogy to deliver and everything!

So after that, and quite logically, I was driving along through an agricultural area at night time and I was picking off massive heads of garlic and courgettes and things as I drove through the fields back to my student digs, which weren’t anywhere I’d actually ever lived and there were no housemates.  But then it was my flat in Sheffield, only it wasn’t.

I had such a banging headache when I woke.  And a full bladder, despite getting up three times in the night to go to the loo.

Mum.  I miss her terribly.  We all do, especially Dad. Her ashes have been dispersed into the seas and I’d like to think that, had she known our plans and actions for that final committal, she’d have approved.  The family went together to Porth Dinllaen on the North Wales coast.  We’d spent many happy holidays in that location when us kids were young and it was one of Mum’s favourite places.  Walking together through the clifftop golf course, our descent to the beach near the Ty Coch and holiday cottages, to the shore where the waves of the high tide gently lapped the sand.  I wandered off a little, contemplating the scene, reminiscing on happier occasions as the late morning sun warmed my face.  It was time.

I turned to find Dad had already emptied most of the contents of the urn into the water. For fuck’s sake!  I’d driven him all the way there and he couldn’t wait for a bloody minute while I gathered my thoughts and took in the moment.  But it was serene, those few minutes, as the grainy remnants of Mum’s body were picked up by the sea and carried off on an eternal journey around the world’s oceans.

As we turned away and made our way to the pub for a shandy, I had time for one final thought: I bet no fucker does this for me.

I’ve been on holiday this week.  Not holiday as away by the seaside or on a glamorous city break somewhere, just off work.  They call it annual leave these days, which kind of makes it sound as if you should still be kind of, in some way, tied to your workplace.  I had no qualms in rejecting a telephone call from an academic to my mobile yesterday; I refuse to listen to the answerphone message they left me.  For I am on holiday.

It’s been quite nice, doing nothing.  There was the bank holiday on Monday and this coincided with my birthday.  Celebrating birthdays is something that seems a little silly for somebody of my age, but celebrate I did with friends, a bit of booze and a nice meal at the local Italian.  With the help of Timehop, I was reminded of previous birthdays that I’d shared snippets from on various social media platforms.  Those from the past four years had actually been surprisingly delightful, spent with people whose company I value more than anybody’s: 2012 and the pissed up shenanigans in Keswick with David and Carly; 2013 and the pissed up shenanigans in Manchester with Jo; 2014 and more civilised meal with my family and the Canadians who were over for a visit; 2015 and the return from Ireland with a broken ankle, again spent partly with Canadians and my friend the dishcloth botherer.

All these events, and others in between, have served to remind me that I’m actually very privileged to have such good people around.  Good people whom I might not have got to know if my life hadn’t fallen apart ever so slightly five years ago.  But Timehop also reminds me that, before my life fell apart ever so slightly, I was blissfully happy, so much so that I was ignorant to the fact that I was in a relationship with somebody who was a devious, controlling, backstabbing liar.  Despite all these things, I’m still not sure whether I’d sacrifice those friendships and those who’ve cared for me over the past four years for the sake of being controlled again by a devious, backstabbing liar.  None of it really matters since since I’m never going to be in the position to choose.  Besides, I’m quite happy sharing drunken weekends and inane texts with a dishcloth botherer, visits to Huddersfield to see the Salford exile, not to mention broken ankles with Canadians.

Today has fallen victim to my ennui.  I’ve been feeling remarkably down in the dumps for some reason.  Maybe it’s the because the summer is over, maybe it’s because we’re off to scatter Mum’s ashes this weekend, maybe it’s because my pharmacy has changed supplier for my antidepressants and I’m now on white tablets and not blue ones.  What are these people thinking of?  I can imagine the meeting: “We’re changing from blue Sertraline to white ones.  I’m sure people with depression who think we’re giving them placebos anyway won’t mind one bit.  We already fuck them up by starting the week on a Sunday and not a Monday.”

Placebo or not, I’d better go and take my tablet.  I have to spend time with my sister this weekend and I’m already getting stabby at the thought.

I wake each morning, prodded in my brain stem by the incessant beeping of a loathsome alarm clock.  It starts off gently enough, then rises to a rapid crescendo of electronic panic, each piercing note jabbing my dulled synapses into a conscious state of irritation, my physical self waking one ache at a time.  My eyelids are often the only things that don’t hurt in the morning as they open reluctantly following sleep that’s been disturbed by pain in my foot and ankle, knee, hip, back – even my ears if I happen to have been sleeping with one of them folded over.  As I eventually sit on the edge of the bed and prepare for my feet to hit the ground and my legs to take my weight, I brace myself in trepidation of which joint, bone or muscle group is going to give way first.

It’s my own fault for allowing myself to reach middle age in such poor physical condition.  The solution to my aches and pains is fairly simple: lose weight; stop smoking; cut down on the booze; stop eating crap; get more exercise.  As for many things in my life though, my own well-being is victim to “can’t be arsed” and I really do need to give myself a kick up the bum with an open-toed sandal or I’ll be reaching fifty in worse nick than somebody twenty years my senior.

Exercise is difficult though when, nine months on, you still haven’t recovered from breaking your ankle in an Irish bog. The resulting lopsided walk transfers stresses and strains to all your other joints and they too click and creak and groan at the slightest effort.   Of course, getting older doesn’t just manifest itself in aches and pains,or no, there’s also the sneezing Russian roulette, whereby I never know whether I’m going to put my back out, pee myself or trump.  My eyesight has also tipped over into varifocal hell, so I’m anticipating spending two weeks falling over and throwing up when I get my new specs in a week or so.

I blame women of course.  When I was single in my mid-thirties, I’d reached peak fitness, was teetotal, didn’t smoke, went to the gym three or four times a week.  I had muscles, I could even run.  Being in a relationship is bad for a person.  Contentment leads to growing waistlines, then the depression of being dumped results in the pursuit all sorts of other self-destruction activities.  Then you find yourself, nearly 46, fat, crippled and half blind, but still single.

It’s not too late to turn things around before I give in to diabetes and the menopause though.  I think it’s time I made an effort to take care of myself properly.  Like any grown up would.

Everybody needs good neighbours

Of course, anybody with half a brain would want no neighbours at all, but without having the resources for living off-grid in the middle of a wood, I’m stuck with having to smile at people on my terrace, or trying to make conversation with them while my stupid fucking dog is barking his head off at them.  I have a new one though! My neighbours of seven years sold up and moved out this week and Mr P has now moved in.  I haven’t met him yet, but I can hear bumping in there as I type.  Do I need to make a good impression?  Should I be friendly?  Or should I just carry on and do my usual thing of avoiding leaving the house until the coast is clear?  I might do a little test to see if Mr P is a fan of the B52s.

Mum died on the 23rd of May. Here’s a little something I wrote to say at her funeral today.

Connie… Mum… Nana… Auntie Con… was a highly intelligent, funny, capable, assertive and strong woman; a true matriarch. And my word she was a stunner! Her commitment to looking after her own family and then the pursuit of a career in nursing meant it was a little later on in life before she was snapped up, but when that handsome bagnino approached her on the beach in Rimini and offered her some sun cream, and when he came back on the following days of her holiday and eventually got her to agree to go dancing, her days as a single woman were over. What followed were 52 years of dedication, adoration, a bit of bickering… a lot of bickering actually, that cemented Mum and Dad’s beautiful marriage. I’ll always remember Dad carrying Mum’s handbag upstairs every night as they retired to bed, it really was the sweetest thing.

Her many joys in life included reading, music, dancing, history, cooking, the sea (she loved the sea) and talking. When she was bluelighted to hospital ten years ago because her heart rate was through the floor, the ambulance crew remarked how they’d never known somebody who should be unconscious talk so much. When she, Dad and their friends Ivan and Sue were together, the combination of Mum’s chattering, my Dad’s strong accent and the reluctance of all of them to wear their hearing aids led to a rather shouty game of Chinese whispers in which, by some miracle, everybody eventually knew what was going on once the laughter had subsided. Oh the laughter.

Mum also loved football and she’d take any opportunity to watch her beloved Liverpool when their matches were televised, even to the point of watching their characteristically dismal performance in the recent Europa Cup Final from her hospital bed. In all the years of watching though, I still had to explain the offside and away goals rules to her.

She was a worrier though. Sometimes she’d worry about the daftest things: whether her hair was straight before answering the front door (or the phone); that she’d accidentally left her pinnie on when she’d nipped out to see a neighbour; that her lasagne was never up to scratch (it always was, without fail). When her concerns got the better of her, she’d utter those immortal words “What a life!”

You see, she had standards and a strong moral compass, which along with those from our Dad, were passed onto us lot, along with a keen sense of wrath should anybody sleight us. Her death stare left you feeling as if your soul had been ripped out through your backside. Always above herself, it was us who she worried about most of all – sometimes with good cause but most of the time with no reason at all. She worried because she cared, she cared so much for all of us and had so much love to give: to our dad who she absolutely adored; Alan… well, Alan – fiercely loyal number one son who will do anything for anybody; our amazing sister Anna and whatever life was throwing at her; me – although I obviously never gave her much cause for concern apart from her thinking I was a bit simple until I was about 35; and her beautiful, clever, funny granddaughter, Little Con. Add to the mix our cousins, other relatives and friends, and the eight cats that were the family’s companions over the years, not to mention my delinquent dog, we gave her plenty to worry about.

People meant so much to her and she to so many people. News of her death was met with such kind comments from those who we’d grown up with at school and others who had met her more recently. She left an indelible mark on so many.

Her beautiful heart seemed to beat for all of us; when ours got broken and our lives seemed to be over, her love was the emotional CPR we needed to pick ourselves up and learn to live again. It’s devastating for us all that her heart only had three billion heartbeats in it; a wonderful woman with so much love to give deserved at least another billion, especially since she’d shared so many of hers with so many others. We are privileged though to have her heart beating inside ours and, because of this, she will live on forever.

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2014 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

A San Francisco cable car holds 60 people. This blog was viewed about 2,500 times in 2014. If it were a cable car, it would take about 42 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.

Hey,

This is just a quick test to see whether I can publish a post via e-mail. You see, I’ve spent pretty much all morning fucking around with my blog’s domain and sharing settings that I figured I might as well go the whole hog and do this as well.

I’ve learnt a new term: twitter cards. I’ve also learnt that twitter cards don’t work when you add a non-Wordpress domain. Bastards.

Anyway. Let’s see if this works.