Sunday in the park

For the first time in years I've spent Sunday afternoon in the park with a band playing (albeit a rock group), sunshine, cake and a lively family picnic.
We're a bit rowdy when we're enjoying ourselves but not too much so.
As an adjunct the birthday event was enhanced by a fun fair that happened to be there at the same time.
A beautiful day but the ground was still soggy from a week of heavy rain.

I suppose we were a microcosm of the average contemporary social grouping.
The Birthday Girl has two divorced and single grannies, multi ethnic cousins, a grandpa who came alone (as his second wife doesn't gel with the rest of the family), and her parents friends who run the gamut from goth to theological academic,with fantasy role players in between.
Rather like a dinosaur I sat in the middle of it all, because I can't get down onto the grass, and let it all swirl round me. I did have the last laugh though as my bottom stayed dry while everyone else's got damp.The men compared the wet patches on the knees of their jeans and pretended they didn't care.

Two oriental children wandered into the middle of it all, drawn by the hubbub and possibilities of cake and chased the bubbles we all blew en masse at the end of Pass-the-Parcel, music provided by my eldest grandson testing his vocal range and singing acapella. It also meant he could manipulate the stopping,starting, so that each child got a present and Princess Mir the piece de resistance by ripping off the last layers.
Even the paparazzi were in attendance in the form of eldest son and daughter's friend, who vied for camera angles and then compered lenses and equipment spec.

The end of the party was signalled by the wailing of overtired children,starting to feel a little queasy from several rides on the merry-go-round mixed with fairy cake, so the cleanup commenced and we left the sward pristine, proving we might be a little unruly but we are also responsible.
It was one of those rare occasions when things go to plan,are unwittingly enhanced, with no one feeling the need to be diva-like or indulge in tantrums, when it requires no effort to be relaxed and sociable and even going home feels right.

Where do words go?

Where do words go?
One moment they're spilling out,
Vehement, energetic, diarrhoea.
Today?
The synapses are silent, producing bugger all.
Thoughts, ideas, higgledy piggledy,
Aborted unformed, lying dormant,
Refusing even to peek out of their spiral shells.
Tyrants!
You know I want to
Create, express ideas,
However frenetic and
You stay away,
You refuse to behave.
I am supposed to be in charge of You
Not the other way round.

(photo by Alan Taylor-Shearer)

Moving

Each box filled,
And still more to follow,
Hardly seem to make a dint.
I shall get to the point
Where I dump stuff out of
Sheer exhaustion, exasperation.

Winding down

I really don't want to go into work.
I am detaching myself,mentally,emotionally,physically and counting the days.
The "Goodbyes" are starting to be said,with the realisation that this au revoir really will be goodbye for a lot of the people I'm attached to.
There's more than a racing cert they won't be here, or anywhere else, when I pay a return visit.

My daughter asked if I was having a "leaving do" - what an appalling thought?
Me tottering my way along West Street or High Street?
Too too sickening to contemplate.
None of the bright young things would want to settle in one place or have a civilised meal - and anyway, everywhere glitzy would be raucous and I wouldn't hear a word so what is the point?

I dread having to tell the neighbours,especially as one of them is already depressed and will be
hyperanxious about the future.
I can't face fuss.

Final reckonings

Shredding Dad's last papers was chastening.
He logged the frustrating delays as he tried to claim his War Pension.
The elusive Miss Mitchell who was always out when he called.
The secret donations to The Gurkhas.
The record of his time in Burma and its long term consequences.
The tabulating of all his payments to local and national authorities
Finally pulped as he would have wanted.
Privacy preserved.

As time draws on....

Great bald patches of space are appearing throughout my home.
"How much stuff?" says Didi.
I dread the unpacking and the groans of despair from the boys at the threat of
there being cerebral matter in their orbits.
Books pose a challenge of self-discipline, of constraint.

Today reduced me to palpitations and tremors- to facing the reality of cancelling
accounts and informing others of my change of address.
I want it all done without my having to do it.
By the time I'd rushed to get ready for work the gibbering was palpable-the
fluttering in the base of the throat, stuttering pulse, sense of losing control,
stupid mistakes, butter fingers, everything ending up on the dog shelf,
(just when bending is excruciating and agonising)
first fear of making mistakes in crucial areas.

This is not the first time I've moved and I've organised them before without
this mess of anxiety and exhaustion.
My underlying fear is that there is a physical cause that I or the doctor are missing.
I don't want to confront that either so I'm doing what I reprove in others-deliberate
ignorance as a safer bet than the truth.

Coward,coward, coward.
Don't try to cover it by saying you want to spare loved ones the anxiety,the heartache, because
they have enough troubles of their own....
Yada,yada,yada..........

Sunday Afternoon

This afternoon I had the stuffing knocked out of me.
A service user being moved.
The announcement made without preamble,
No rhyme or reason
Just vague hints, amorphous reasons
And a refusal to elucidate,
Insidious, pernicious inferences.

The mind obsesses over real and supposed
Details,events,scenarios
Trying to determine what,where,when,how
From ghostly implications.

What are we doing wrong?
Why the succession of problems, obstacles, impedimenta
Unless, Someone somewhere is trying to
Remind us of our prime directive and
The loss of spiritual heart and commitment.