So here are my pontifications for this week and to surprise you posted on a Thursday with a few photos of my last few weeks.

Jokes aside, my most important reason for returning is that I began to realise how much I missed writing. Like my Substack, all my writing is eclectic, using many different forms, poorly, I admit. My memoir is a work in progress, with my last ditched drafting/editing attempt being undertaken over the next few months with the wonderful ’s boot camp. A novel occupies the space left by the vacating grey cells in my head with elements on paper/Scrivener and pure escapism for me, somewhere to really let go and develop mad cap plots, schemes and anything else that comes to mind. My play, possibly to be resurrected, thanks to lovely comments from you and a place for dark humour. Journaling my place to dump everything rumbling around my head, good bad and otherwise, but not to become obsessed with number if pages. Finally, handwritten letters, although I have problem nobody can decipher my writing after the first paragraph, not even me. I will write 5,000 lines saying: I must practice my handwriting for neatness and legibility.

What I love about Substack is that crosses all my types of writing. It's a place I can be me and write about different subjects, in different ways or just experiment and I am so grateful to you all for reading my musings/ponderings/pontifications. We may all chunter Substack has changed, particularly in the last 12 months, however all things evolve. Many of these changes have been natural evolution since I began my writing journey here nearly 4 years ago. I know my place. I know there is no pressure on me to publish literary masterpieces, excellent journalistic articles or the greatest comic piece ever seen. I know I am not here to make money. I just hope I can occasionally entertain and occasionally inform others. I have decided to ignore Algernon and keep writing at least until my fourth anniversary here in November and possibly beyond in my inimitable, curmudgeonly way. I have no idea what AI makes of my musings or the Substack algorithms.

Where have I been the last month? Trekking the Amazon, sledging in the Artctic I hear you not ask. No, I've been retreating to my darkened hobbit hole with Humphrey, poor chap, like me the heat is not his thing. Mildred sunbathes, then lies in the coolest place she can find and repeats until it's too much, when she retreats upstairs and falls asleep. If I try to keep her in, she complains loudly, barks annoying all the neighbours. I used to love the heat and am surpised how much of a wimp I have become, worse than any wet rag you can imagine. Is this age related????

As I sit here writing rain is drumming on the paths and windows for the first day in over three months we have had any appreciable rain. Although very humid I am not complaining. The trees, plants, birds, animals, our gardens and farmers desperately need it. There has been so much chaos globally due to changing weather patterns, something we must all note, discuss and take action on. I worry for future generations.

I will now leave you in peace and go to plan my next few Subtacks. Although nothing changes and whilst I am unlikely to manage to plan further than the next paragraph, I can at least try.

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Prompt

Think about your calmest moment over the last month:

• Where were you?

  • Describe the place, sights, smells and sounds.

• How did you feel?

Thank you so much for reading this post, my return to Substack. Plus a mahoosive thank you to all of my subscribers for sticking with my eclectic, eccentric rambles down the rabbit warren 🐇, fox 🦊 dens, badger 🦡 sets and otter 🦦 holts. I will now think about where else I can take my travels to give all the animals a rest.

All posts here on Growing Old are free to all. If you have not already, please do subscribe and share with others. It makes an old curmudgeon very happy and inspired to keep writing.

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I know I said I was going to give you all a break from the head rabbit 🐇 and Linney eccentricities but this week has been a bit odd to say the least, therefore here I am recounting my odd week.

Firstly the case of the missing tooth. I never knew eating a Caesar salad could be so dangerous. Bear with me and all will become clear. 35 years ago I bent down to pick my toddler son up, just as his head came up, I always thought toddlers had soft heads, not this one. I felt the sharp pain of a tooth, my left lateral incisor, taking the strain, but after a while it settled down into comfortable minor wobbliness. Yes, number one and only son, I am blame you.

Fast forward thirty odd years, countless dental x rays and dentists saying ‘it’ll have to come out’ with me resisting it's demise at every stage as it's wobbliness slowly progressed over the years. The final hygiene treatment 3 months ago was crunch time, I had to accept the end of said tooth was nigh. The dentist was lovely and tried very hard not to increase the wobbliness but pointed out the plaque between my teeth was the only thing holding it in. Nonetheless he tutted with a new comment ‘it's a choking risk’ to try to get me to get it pulled out. I left realising the enormity of what was being said and knowing the writing was on the cards. I had become very attached to the tooth - no I hadn't named it. Over the coming months I kept catching the tooth on my bottom jaw and had to push it back into place and there was no way I could deny it's wobbliness.

The end occurred last Tuesday when I was out for dinner with a friend. I have decided eating and chatting is clearly dangerous. Happily chewing on an anchovy and grumping about something or other, I suddenly, felt my lower jaw catching the tooth and pushing it right back. I felt like I was 7 years old again using my tongue to get under a wobbly milk tooth. However, I could not push it back with my tongue so gave it a quick yank, and there is was in my hand not in my mouth, to the surprise of my dinner companion. No blood, except a tiny bit

Second dental appointment secured bridge booked in for 3 months. Weighing up the cost of a bridge £365 v an implant £3,500, no brainer for me. Even if, as the dentist pointed out, I lost the bridge occasionally I would need to lose 10 to equal the cost of an implant. At my age not and a quick cost benefit analysis (yes I used to be a massive anorak) bridge booked in and 3 months being called gappy by the culprit. I’ll let him off.

There are benefits to this episode I can eat normally for the first time for ages plus dental bill for injections with tooth extraction avoided, it was painless. So if you ever want to remove a tooth, eat a caesar salad.

Secondly, ‘the case of the missing shirt’. I had been lusting after a shirt in the Sahara sale - my pre retirement go to clothes shop that does wonderful clothes for the podgier amongst us, but is not cheap. Delighted to see the shirt greatly reduced in the sale, I pressed the correct buttond, confirmed the payment on my banking app and forgot about it, until yesterday when the package arrived. I wasn't looking out for the delivery so both dogs were out and barking at the delivery driver. Mildred for a tummy tickle and Humphrey because he couldn't find a ball for the driver to throw for him. As it was not the regular driver who knows them both and gives Millie her tickle and Humphrey his ball, I asked him to leave the package on the wall outside my gate. I looked at the package and thought it was an odd shape for a shirt, but it was only when I tried to lift the package I realised something was very wrong. I can just about lift Humphrey’s 12kg dog food to put it the dog food bin, but I could not shift this package from over the fence. Ok, I know I’m a weakling. I looked at the label, it was definitely addressed to me, but came from Sahara, Bradford. I scratched my head, tried to dig around the grey cells to see if maybe I had ordered something else before realising I needed to open the package. Firstly, a baseball cap dropped out, followed by a violent waft of not very pleasant fish odours, I tentatively opened the flaps to see a large amount of varying fish foods inside. I don't fish nor have any fish in a pond.

I rang DPD, who cut me off, gave up with them and tried the chat with Sahara. A very productive chat with Carly followed, she was incredibly efficient, coped with my sense of humour and within minutes DPD had booked an appointment to collect the fish food and Sahara notified me of my new order. Our exchange ended with the following:

On Thu, Jul 16 2026, at 11:08 AM, Jo Linney wrote: Of course I will [return the shirt if the original arrives]. I just have an image of a large butch fisherman sitting on a river in my shirt…

On Thu, Jul 16 2026, at 11:11 AM, Carly wrote: 😂 I do too now! Thank you again for being so understanding (and funny)

It was a lovely exchange and as you can imagine it in my usual eccentric manner. I do apologise to fishermen but it was the image in my mind.

Thirdly, the case of the missing illness in Bonnie. The perpetrator of my gappiness FaceTimed in a panic on Monday evening, Bonnie had collapsed in a heap on the floor after a very short walk. Even I was worried and rushed over to pick them up, as he made an appointment with the out of hours vet at the Royal Veterinary Hospital (RVS) 20 miles away. Bonnie was still floppy when I arrived and she remained so until we arrived at the RVS. Then Madam couldn't wait to get out of the car, pulling my son towards the hospital as fast as her little legs would carry her, presumably assuming treats would be provided. We were seen very quickly with madam covering the student vet with licks and her bum wiggling with delight. We waited a bit longer in the waiting room to see the qualified vet who prodded every inch of her, poked her with a thermometer and pulled all her limbs. She then pronounced she didn't often see such healthy French Bulldogs, and could not find anything wrong. Bonnie is an ideal weight and normally very fit. She has to be to fly out of windows. We left, tails between our legs and Bonnie miffed because no treats were dispensed. The car was quiet as I drove to our respective homes.

Now to the final part of this post. I have finally discovered here on Substack, hence my photo of a fellow feline at the start of this post. Larry the cat was an account I really enjoyed on twitter, or whatever it's called these days, and one of those I missed when my scruples won over my need for such amusing, and/or informative accounts, a few years ago. Larry is the day from Downing Street who had been in post over countless numbers of Prime Ministers since his move from alley, oops street, cat to the chief resident member of 10, Downing Street staff and he gave me some chuckles during some very dark days. I am extremely impressed by his use of AI, something I have avoided, but as keyboards are not designed for paws & AI can help Larry I will forgive him.

I will now sign off and leave you all in peace as I promised, for a few weeks.

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Prompt - query really - can be anything

How do you keep cool in this heat we've been having in the UK?

Thank you so much for reading my pondering rambling. Plus a mahoosive thank you to all of my subscribers for sticking with my eclectic, eccentric rambles down the rabbit warren 🐇, fox 🦊 dens, badger 🦡 sets and otter 🦦 holts. Although I am taking a break I may well pop up occasionally, like today, and be back properly in September.

All posts here on Growing Old are free to all. If you have not already, please do subscribe and share with others. It makes an old curmudgeon very happy and inspired to keep writing.

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I can never be accused of being predictable with my Substack, this week’s maybe completely off the eclectic eccentricity scale. Even the chief rabbit 🐇 has headed for the darkest part of his warren. However, ‘My play what I wrote’ is at the very bottom of this post as it comes with a trigger warning - it deals with suicide.

For my newer subscribers, the head rabbit 🐇 refers to earlier ramblings when I would burrow down into rabbit warrens, badger sets, fox dens and otter 🦦 holts researching articles, something I still do in occasionally, but have learnt that can be very difficult exercise for someone as disorganised as moi 🤣 and sends me down so many different tunnels, often happily loosing 6 hours. The head rabbit has sort of stayed with me. Eccentric I know.

Back on track. I have decided to take a break over the coming months to think about my Substack and where I am going with, possibly to even store up some posts, unlikely I know. Substack had changed and developed considerably over the last four years. It is now a very crowded, complex and multifaceted space. Iam not complaining that's life. I realise I need to develop and deliver more for my subscribers. There are three options:

a) say goodbye to Substack and take my leave - how pompous that sounds or,

b) change, revamp and do things differently. Although I need to understand my limitations.

c) do nothing, carry on as I am and very probably wither on the vine and bird you all rigid.

I need to decide how to move forwar, unfortunately it is not just a case of turning up and writing each week as I do now, I need to give myself serous brain ache.

I am SO grateful to everyone of you who supports my Substack. I will be back to tell you about the future of Growing Old & Owning The Real World and see you all on the other side, sometime in August.

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Prompt

Think of your ideal day:

1. Who would you see? Maybe someone you don't see that often

2. What would you do? You have unlimited funds

3. Where would you do? You can ask Scottie to beam you up to anywhere (Star Trek reference)

4. What would you eat and where? As before you have unlimited funds and Scottie to beam you up, you can cook or have a chef

The a) Write a paragraph explaining why and b) think of ways to make your dreams come true - all legal of course.

Hopefully this gives you food for thought.

A mahoosive thank you to all of my subscribers for sticking with my eclectic, eccentric rambles down the rabbit warren 🐇, fox 🦊 dens, badger 🦡 sets and otter 🦦 holts, and everyone else who reads my posts

Growing Old is free to all. If you have not already, please do subscribe and share with others. It makes an old curmudgeon very happy and inspired to keep writing. Although apologies as normal service will be resumed sometime in August ❤️

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TRIGGER WARNING:THE FOLLOWING REFERS TO SUICIDE

I started writing this a few years after my mother died. I wanted to try and do a play about suicide which captured the complex relationships, feelings and uncertainties, through my own experience of the Coroners Court. I tried to inject a sense of humour into proceedings using my, divorced, parents as the main characters. They did get on well after about 10 years post divorce in the 1960s. Whilst, my mother was an extremely difficult individual with an evil streak, she was super intelligent with a very quick mind, and tongue. My father was the exact opposite. Calm and kind without a malicious bone in his body. They were both successful lawyers but if very different ways. Father (TOM) was a country conveyancing in an old firm established by his father. Mother (MARGARET) worked as a barrister, as a solicitor big London city firms and in Hong Kong. Names have been changed. She died in 2003

Title: The Final Demise of Margaret Hutchinson

Scene One: The Beginning of the End

The Coroners Court: R two large leather chairs. Between the chairs is a small table with a bottle of gin, a bottle of tonic and two glasses. C facing the audience, there is a court room style ‘bench’ with a large chair behind, a large desk sign says CORONER. RC witness box, L a smaller table with two chairs at an angle to the audience, ULC grandfather clock

MARGARET enters and walks towards the audience.

MARGARET: (talking to herself) So this is it.

MARGARET looks at the Coroner’s bench then the witness box.

MARGARET: This is death. What a strange place to end up. Margaret wanders around the court. A bit like old times, entering the court ready for battle, a slight feeling of fear fluttering in the pit of one’s stomach, waiting for proceedings to start and the judge to decide your clients fate.

TOM enters and walks up behind MARGARET.

TOM: Hello, Margaret. Looking as stylish as ever, death clearly becomes you.

MARGARET jumps, stops pacing and turns to face TOM.

MARGARET: What the hell are you doing here?

TOM: Nice to see you too, a warm welcome as ever. I’m here to support as you await your verdict.

MARGARET: I always knew you were a bit lacking in the upstairs department. This is a coroner’s court. I’m not on trial nor in anyway the accused. You can’t try the dead?

TOM: I may not match up to your superior intellect, but like it or not I’m here to stay.

MARGARET: I really don’t want to spend the day listening to your banal drivel. (pause) Oh dear, I forgot, you’re dead, so you have nothing better to do.

TOM: I’m sure I can think of a million better things to do than spend the day with my deceased ex wife.

MARGARET walks over to TOM and inspects his face very closely

MARGARET: You don’t seem to have aged much in the last fifteen years.

TOM: A complement?

MARGARET: I didn't say you looked any better. Just the same raddled face I remembered.

TOM: One of the few advantages of being dead, not ageing.

TOM walks towards and sits down in one of the leather chairs

TOM: The last time we were in court together was over forty years ago. Our divorce I believe.

MARGARET: What a relief that day was.

TOM: For all of us. Do you ever wonder if things would’ve been different if we’d stayed married? Would you have been happier, wealthier, lived a fuller life? Would you or even both of us still be alive?

MARGARET: I can’t say it keeps me awake at night. Maybe you’d have actually got off your derrière and done something with your life. Rather than sitting by the fire waiting for life to come to you and playing at being a solicitor in sleepy country firm

TOM starts to talk MARGARET has wandered off.

MARGARET: I doubt I’d have been happy. Being married to you was a living nightmare, or should I say hell, buried up to my neck in a rambling, draughty old farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, playing the squire’s wife. Playing Mummy and Daddy to the little brood.

TOM: You loved all the trappings, the parties, the nanny, the trips to London to get your hair done and replenish your wardrobe.

Margaret (interrupting): Being bored ridged the rest of the time.

TOM: I may’ve been boring, but at least I’m not the one waiting for a coroner to pass judgment on whether I killed myself, or not.

MARGARET: No, you didn’t need a coroner; you just boringly snuffed it peacefully in a hospital bed.

TOM: Peaceful is definitely not a word I would use for your death; nor for your life for that matter.

MARGARET: What was wrong with having a bit of a spark now and then?

TOM: That would depend on what you mean by a bit of spark; a light pleasurable tingle or 10,000 volts that addles your brain. You were definitely the latter.

MARGARET: At least I died in style, not just through some boring illness, brought about by rich food, too much alcohol, too little exercise and boredom.

TOM ignores MARGARET and picks up the gin bottle on the table.

TOM: Gin and tonic?

MARGARET: How very civilised. Comfortable chairs and a stiff drink for, as you put it, the accused. Times have changed. I am sure this is not available to your average victim.

TOM: How would you know? You haven’t died before.

MARGARET: True

TOM pours a gin and tonic into each glass.

TOM: No ice or lemon I’m afraid.

MARGARET: Clearly standards aren’t what they should be here. I’ll complain to management.

TOM: If you can work out who they are.

MARGARET wanders back to the coroners bench, picks up a book & flicks through the pages

MARGARET: Coroner’s Court Law and Practice, the coroner’s bible. Why have it on the desk, surely they employ people who know their law? This is the City of London Coroner’s Court after all.

MARGARET puts the book down and wanders over to the witness box, she gets into the witness box.

MARGARET: I, Margaret Hutchinson, swear by almighty God I shall tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

TOM: Do you think people who take their own life are covered by an oath to God?

MARGARET: Who knows? I’m aethiest anyway

TOM: It doesn’t really matter, the deceased, whether victim, or as in your case accused, can’t enter the witness box. Well not yet anyway, you never know what may happen in the future.

MARGARET: I do wish you would stop referring to me as the accused.

TOM: For centuries it was legally wrong to take a life, even your own. It was not until the 1961 Suicide Act 1961, pushed through by Sir Charles Fletcher-Cooke, that is was no longer a criminal offence to attempt to take your own life.

MARGARET: Stop showing off. It's all a matter of opinion now. People have the right to decide their own ending.

TOM: Whilst, I don’t agree with that stance many still feel attempting to take your own life is criminal. Thank God we’re not here to debate the morality of suicide, just to get a coroner’s verdict on cause of death.

MARGARET wanders over to the clock

MARGARET: Talking of which, it’s nearly eleven o’clock. All this waiting around is ridiculous, I thought that was it, when my last breath left my lungs, all over, no more recriminations, just blackness, nothingness. I’d reached the light at the end of the tunnel. Yet here I am.

TOM: All in good time. Do come and sit down, and stop fiddling with things.

MARGARET: What’s your problem? Nobody can see or hear me. (PAUSE) Can they?

TOM: No, lucky buggers.

MARGARET goes and sits next to TOM. She takes a large slurp of gin and tonic

MARGARET: I see you haven’t lost your touch; you can still pour a decent G and T, ice or no ice.

TOM: What another complement? Now be a good girl and behave yourself.

MARGARET: Don’t be so patronising, I’ll behave how I like.

TOM: there was a little girl who had a little curl right in the middle of her forehead. Sshhh let the fun begin, I can hear the coroner coming down the corridor.

THE CORONER enters right carrying some files and walks over to the ‘bench’, sits down and places the files in front of him. MARGARET watches The Coroner enter.

MARGARET: What makes you think that’s the coroner?

TOM: Who do you think he is?

MARGARET: The clerk.

TOM: In that suit? Clerk’s wages would need to have improved considerably to afford designer suits.

MARGARET sneers at TOM

MARGARET: Let the scrutiny begin. Did she jump, was she pushed or was it accidental?

TOM: Do you actually know the answer, Margaret?

MARGARET: It is for me to know, the coroner to decide, and you Tom, to await the verdict.

TOM: Are you going to be like this all the way through?

MARGARET: Maybe, maybe not

TOM: Its a great shame the coroner cannot see or hear you. It might aid his verdict.

THE CORONER organises the files at the top of the desk and switches on the laptop computer. MARGARET watches intently.

MARGARET: Coroners are like police officers, they look like they have just got out of nappies.

TOM: You mean you’re old, (pause) and very dead of course.

MARGARET sneers at TOM

MARGARET: I do hope she knows what she’s doing.

TOM: Isn’t she one good enough for you then? What did you expect? Lord Chief Justice Scarman presiding, perhaps?

MARGARET: Don’t be so stupid, Tom, Scarman died years ago. But I’d have thought…

MARGARET stops in mid sentence. TOM picks up his glass and raises it to MARGARET

TOM: Yes, I agree, I maybe stupid, but I know you so well. Now shut up and listen

MARGARET sneers at TOM. KATIE - their daughter, enters carrying a handbag and some papers………

Is it just me or is this world becoming more fragmented? Are we losing the ability to communicate meaningfully? Is AI in danger of dulling our brains? Does it really matter? Oh dear, lots of thoughts running around the old curmudgeon's brain. I could go two ways with this post. Just leave it at the thoughts according to Linney or go down the rabbit 🐇 warren, turf out the head rabbit, dig around for reasearch and write a full blown article. There is a third option - a combination of the two.

As I write this post AI is, annoyingly, following my every tap of the keyboard and correcting my spelling, and who knows what else - that was a joke before you think conspiracy theories are weedling their way into my brain. Nonetheless, it is becoming increasingly clear that AI has completely left Pandora’s box and is rampaging around us. There are many benefits of AI - medical & general scientific advances and the ability to help those with communications issues engage in the wider communities are just but a few. However, for me, there are major concerns.

I thought I would start with option three a combination of the thoughts of Linney and diving down the rabbit hole to look at Heidegger’s Dasein. I started, but immediately realised the combination of my rusty philosophy and a week of excessive heat has completely fried my brain and the rummaging would take a lot longer than I have this morning. I will investigate and rummage further over the coming weeks.

Therefore, my only option is number one, concentrating on the thoughts according to Linney, which are flawed, random, eclectic and anything else you care to mention. I will start with AI, communication and how we all matter. AI is now impacting on most areas of ours lives in one way or another. I am going to test the most obvious contact with AI - google.

Before starting I checked to see if there was anyway google was assuming my age. I asked a question about my parents being horrible because they would let me out past 9 pm, google’s response clearly assumed I was a teenager, not an old curmudgeon testing them. You’ll have to read on now to understand what I am wittering on about.

You can now ask virtually google any question and an answer provided almost immediately. As an experiment I asked ‘how am I feeling today’the first lines of the response are:

Since I am an AI, I don’t have feelings of my own, but I’m ready to help you navigate yours!

Navigating your emotions can sometimes be tricky. To figure out how you’re feeling right now, you might want to try a quick mindful check.

Highlights google’s own formatting, presumably to make the point clear.

The second time I got this response:

As an AI, I don’t have feelings, emotions, or a body of my own to experience the day! I’m ready to assist, whether you need to process your own emotions or need help with a project.

Because identifying emotions can be tricky, doing a quick mental check-in is a great way to understand your current headspace.

To help me give you the best support today, how are things going for you?

Could you tell me:

• What emotions are you experiencing (e.g., happy, stressed, tired, or curious)?

• Are you looking to vent, or do you want to brainstorm a solution to a specific problem?

Let me know so I can tailor how I help you today.

The first time I asked the question a list of UK support organisations such as Samaritan's 116 123, were provided - I am in the UK. Nothing in google’s second answer.

My second question I asked was ‘how are you feeling today google?’ The response:

I’m doing great, thank you for asking! As an AI, I don’t experience feelings, but I’m fully charged and ready to help you with whatever you need today.

What does this experiment show? You may feel not a lot, however, for me it is worrying. Is there are danger that people living alone, without access to support - family/friends or professional may turn to AI to gain answers to their concerns - minor, major & traumatic?

I thought I would dig a bit further and told google ‘I hate my family’. Not an uncommon occurrence during the teen years. The opening paragraph was:

Feeling this way can be incredibly heavy, but it is valid. Many people experience strong negative emotions toward relatives due to toxic dynamics, past trauma, or conflicting values. You are not a bad person for recognizing and accepting these feelings without judgment

Heavy stuff to respond with after just those four words. The response followed on with quite a detailed answer about setting boundaries, acknowledging emotions etc and at the bottom a further question.

Could you tell me a little more about what’s going on? For instance:

• Are you dealing with constant arguments, feeling misunderstood, or something more serious like abuse or neglect?

• Do you live with them or have your own place?

This will help me give you more specific advice on managing the situation or planning to move out.

That response worried me for all kinds of reasons, mainly the number of assumptions, or lack of, how old am I? Old enough to deal with these answers, for example planning to move out. Something teenagers may well be encouraged to do, placing themselves in dangerous situations. Plus the question was not open, presumably to reduce the number of words and detail in responses. At the bottom there was a box to give more detail. I added: I hate my mum she never speaks to me. The response:

It is incredibly painful to feel ignored by your own mother. Being given the silent treatment or dealing with a parent who completely shuts down is a form of emotional neglect, and it is completely natural that you feel angry and hurt.

Google then goes onto to give some quite detailed ‘advice’ before finally asking some key questions such as:

Approximately how old are you (e.g., a teenager in school, or an adult looking to move out)?

Ok I'll agree this is a very random unscientific experiment, but for very worrying. Is there a danger that people become reliant on AI for friendship, ‘sage’ advice.

Sun X, Wang Y, McDaniel BT, have written an article AI companions and adolescent social relationships: Benefits, risks, and bidirectional influences. They conclude:

The rapid advancement of AI technologies has thrust AI-Cs into adolescents’ daily lives, creating tools that have strong appeal to adolescents but whose potential benefits and risks are not well understood. Rather than simply categorizing these technologies as uniformly beneficial or harmful, we have discussed them by considering competing theoretical frameworks, highlighting a complex interplay between AI-C use and adolescents’ social relationships. Researchers need to act rapidly to generate timely evidence with rigorous, youth-centered methods to inform policy and practice. By investigating these influences proactively rather than reactively, researchers and practitioners can help ensure that AI-Cs enhance rather than diminish the social interactions through which adolescents develop their relationship competence and well-being.

I would argue that further research needs to be urgently undertake to extend investigations into the use of AI across society as a whole in relation to mental health services and a potential reliance on AI. Google does respond to the statement ‘I don’t want to be here anymore.’ with Samaritans at the top followed by links to support agencies - although some ‘sponsered’.

Going down the rabbit 🐇 hole as usual, has completely sent me off track. However it has got me thinking seriously about whether we are in danger of replacing human verbal communication with keypads, is it correct to say ‘chat lines’ is the way it is, please don't think I am proposing doing away with chat lines. But dealing with humans, even on a chat line is important rather than AI.

No AI could cope with my quirky sense of humour when answering questions on how to deal with Humphrey’s over exuberant jumping up - a story for another day.

I don't have the answers but I do know it is something that can affects us all both positively and negatively.

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Prompt - a little experiment -

Ask google a question about emotions, if possible follow the responses through with fake scenarios:

How did the AI response make feel? And why?

Thank you so much for reading my pondering rambling. Plus a mahoosive thank you to all of my subscribers for sticking with my eclectic, eccentric rambles down the rabbit warren 🐇, fox 🦊 dens, badger 🦡 sets and otter 🦦 holts.

All posts here on Growing Old are free to all. If you have not already, please do subscribe and share with others. It makes an old curmudgeon very happy and inspired to keep writing.

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My brain is frazzled, fried, over heated - you get the gist, it's a tad hot - and for once I feel I can geniunely mutter about the heat. It is very hot here, 29 degrees at 10 am and this country is not geared up for it. I'm not going to go on, just accept life is cancelled for the next few days and get on with it, or to put it more honestly, get on with nothing except some Linney eclectic and eccentric musings.

My garden is a haven of peace and quiet in normal circumstances that is until Open Gardens as I recounted last week and last Saturday over 100 from a concert at the church picnicking in our garden - see photos above. One minute it was all peaceful, the next minute the swarm appeared up the steps, an hour later the swarm left. However much I tried, I could not find any rubbish at all, nothing. Not even a speck of paper and much to the disgust of Mildred not even a crumb to hoover up. The devil in me thought of letting her lose to rampage amongst the picnickers, but neither her kidneys nor the extremely friendly and well behaved picnic crowd could have coped with resulting carnage. Humphrey’s ghost like figure watched on from the bedroom, he’s not a crowd type dog and finds it all too much.

It is definitely too hot for my brain I have just had to delete a whole section because it was too similar to last week, d’oh.

A couple of Substacky things. I was disappointed to read ’s note on the reaction she had received to her invite to go the Substack Fete. It is writers like Louise who should be celebrated they have worked so hard to build up their communities on Substack without the benefit of celebrity. What is wrong people? Yes, I would have loved to be invited, but seeing people like Louise there gave me a good feeling. Yes Substack cares about making money, encouraging high profile people, journalists, writers etc onto the platform, that's where they make their money and events like the fete are aimed at the publicity. I repeat I for one was so, pleased to see Louise, and others there. Thank you you deserved to be there. Please all you moaners don't turn Substack into an unfriendly environment.

The second Substack thing is I found her here and bought her book. I loved it, it became my month, a morning wake up read, definitely recommend it. I would love to read BM’s musings if she ever comes here - if you want to know who BM is you’ll need to read the book Receipts From The Bookshop, no Katie Clapham doesn't know I've plugged her book.

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Prompt

How do you keep cool in very hot weather?

Can you think of a thought that would cool you down?

If you can list three thoughts, places or activities and what made you think of them

Thank you so much for reading my pondering rambling. Plus a mahoosive thank you to all of my subscribers for sticking with my eclectic, eccentric rambles down the rabbit warren 🐇, fox 🦊 dens, badger 🦡 sets and otter 🦦 holts.

All posts here on Growing Old are free to all. If you have not already, please do subscribe and share with others. It makes an old curmudgeon very happy and inspired to keep writing.

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When your life is turned upside down and becomes completely different from anything you ever imagined and/or planned it takes time to adjust, for the haze to lift and acceptance of your new existence to settle in. I now sit outside and look into the world of couples, happy families, and planned retirements. Before you all sigh and run for the hills, or down the nearest rabbit warren with the head rabbit 🐇, this is not a woe is me post. Hopefully, I can help others by saying it is ok to sit on the outside, not change yourself to fit in, find your own way through and be yourself - an old curmudgeon like me - nah not really. Acceptance is the key.

What do I mean? Are you sitting comfortably? Jackanory time - I could go down the badger 🦡 set and explain the question and jackanory reference I put a link instead. However, I can’t resist a diversion to 1970 when I was lucky enough, with my mate, to watch Spike Milligan record Jackanory from the directors, or whatever box. He was reading 'Uncle and his Detective’, illustrated by Quentin Blake. I remember the end credits were going backwards, which being brash 12 year olds we pointed out. They were not corrected before airing.

Back on track. What made me think about sitting on the outside? This weekend we had our open gardens in the village. It went very well and we had over 500 visitors, excluding four legged and babes in arms, in our communal gardens, pictures above to show they are not formal gardens. Talking to all the visitors is great because you meet so many different people. The morning age profile is high even higher than my age, but during the day you get all sorts. I had a lovely 10 minutes with the most beautiful baby boy laughing and smiling at me so his parents could take his brothers to find the treasure (a photo of Elsa from Frozen). There was a very casual chic, lovely, American lady who chatted about moving into the area and learning about gardening. Local families who come to be nosey, I'm not complaining they are always amazed by the amount of garden and it's lovely to see them. Countless people asking what’s the criteria for living here. ‘Show us the colour of your money’ is always my response. It just happens that at the moment we are all older, except for Mildred & Humphrey. One couple have been here over 40 years and there son grew up here. I often think what a shame it is that there is no longer children here, although the old curmudgeon may chip in it would ruin my peace & quiet.

Back on track, after the gardens closed and Humphrey did his sweep of the grounds to make sure everyone had left, we met with others in the church. I always feel like I am going to be struck down on the rare occasion I enter - heathen that I am. I got my very nice dinner and sat with neighbours, all are still couples and live further along the High Street. As we sat chatting I realised how different it is being a widow at my age. Social conversation centre around holidays with family, family news, dinners they have had and similar. When the conversation turned to previous lives, work, COVID & lockdown, I realised I was very much on the outside. However, for the first time I felt very comfortable in my position. I didn't have to explain what I did for a living, nor ruin the conversation with my experiences of lockdown on my own. I also realised John still a live presence in my life, the conversation would feel different in reality he’d be back at home watching the football, nonetheless it would feel different. Everyone was really nice, the issue is inside me.

As I wandered home, I initially felt glum. Then I pondered for a while and realised it was being one of a couple that was different. I would have told him all about it when I got home, no doubt interuppting his football. Now at least Mildred listens, doesn't make grumpy old men comments before pottering off to sit in the sunshine.

I miss John and Sarah desparetly and that will never change. What don't miss anymore is my previous life, and what might have been. A difficult concept to explain, so I won't try. My life now, is completely and utterly different from what it was and what we had planned for our retirement. Whilst I can't say that's ok, I can say I have accepted my lot and can sit in my home with the company of my dogs, meet my old and new friends who know my history and embrace it. My life is busy, I do different things, I have done many new things, there are things, such as holidays, that in the past and I am really ok with that. I don't feel the need to fit in anymore nor become part of a group. I am contented sitting on the sidelines looking in.

Certain things cheer me up however I feel. I saw my first Jersey tiger moth of the summer yesterday, it really lifted my spirits, each year I wonder of they will be back. I saw a lesser spotted woodpecker in the garden, they have been absent for a couple of years. The green woodpecker was very vocal until recently, he obviously found a mate. As generally, there has been a decrease in some birds - house sparrows, starlings, no nut hatch for a couple of years - it is great to know some have returned. The muntjac are also back, chomping happily in their favourite garden plants, although they've always left before I get up.

I will wind up my musings for now and leave you all in peace.

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Prompt

We have all had times when we feel on the outside. Think of two situations where you have felt outside the group. Write a paragraph on each of the following

1. How did it feel?

2. How can you reframe any uncomfortable feelings into positive ones?

Thank you so much for reading my pondering rambling. Plus a mahoosive thank you to all of my subscribers for sticking with my eclectic, eccentric rambles down the rabbit warren 🐇, fox 🦊 dens, badger 🦡 sets and otter 🦦 holts.

All posts here on Growing Old are free to all. If you have not already, please do subscribe and share with others. It makes an old curmudgeon very happy and inspired to keep writing.

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Over the last few years I’ve realised there are many things I no longer give a sh&t about that would have sent me into apoplexy before, things that really don’t matter. Why this post? An exchange with this morning about her weekend post on interviewing Elizabeth Day, unprepared. Definitely worth reading. She started my Monday morning with a sense of well being, nostalgia and a massive dose of laugh out loud moments. I could say exceedingly smugly ‘that was me 10 years ago’. I always left everything until the last moment, presentations, pitches, reports, preparing for major meetings and so the list goes on and on, procrastination was branded on my forehead. Like this morning’s post, I was debating what to write at 10.30. Thank you for the inspiration and helping me to realise I no longer care that I procrastinate, it's just me.

I cannot say it is entirely true that I don't give a whatever for everything. I will list the things I don’t give a whatever about further on and the things I do and why. Before I do that I’ll explain a little more about how I’ve come to this point.

Over my 67 years I have survived a lot, not as much as many, and more than some including - suicides - my own attempt aged 15 & my ‘difficult’ mother’s coercive use of attempting to take her life to bring us to heel and having to identify her body when she finally took her life. Our first home being gutted by fire - on the plus side as both John & I were hopeless at DIY, we got the flat redecorated, We experienced burglaries a plenty from the full blown smash the house up - my brother told the police he couldn't say whether they'd been in my room, to the bloke who tried to steal my mither’s car then threw keys at her. A stroke - I was very lucky I had few long term effects, just don't walk on my right side if on a pavement, unless on the safe side, I have a tendency to veer off to the right. If I ever get my memoir published it’ll all be in there.

My work was stressful. As many of you know working for yourself is not the easy option, believe me, you are a Jack of all trades. Plus as the world’s number one procrastinator, everything was last minute. The up side is that I always stayed true to myself - if I didn't get paid, the kids managed without their gruel for dinner and just manage on dried bread - it never happened and I was lucky, John had a good job. The downside was wrapping presents on Christmas Eve, at 4pm, whilst on the phone to people who would not wait until the day as their problem was catastrophic - no it wasn't and it have waited until after Boxing Day. On a more serious note all the stress, driving etc resulted in a stroke. I was very lucky, as I mentioned above and another story for my memoir.

Do I regret my procrastination? No, that was how I worked and how I still am. What I regret is all the lost energy on the procrastination guilt. My brain is just like the head rabbit’s 🐇 warren, a jumble of corridors, carrot tops and other things. I need to sort through all the rubbish in my head before coming to a conclusion and putting pen to paper or fingers to keyboard. I am sure that makes no sense, but I know what I mean.

After John, my husband, and Sarah, my daughter, died, just before and during lockdown respectively, life really changed, I lost my rocks, identify, business and me. Now I am beginning to surface after accommodating my grief I realise I don't give a shit about many more things than I did before.

1. What people think of me. There are many people that really matter to me, but for others you can take me or leave me. I'm not going to change. I'm not going to agree with you and may even openly disagree with you, not aggressively, but I have a right to my own opinions. I will challenge bigots. Now I make my point and walk away. What's the point in getting stressed.

2. I don't care what I look like. I don't have full length mirrors in my house, only a vanity Spurs mirror in the bathroom, which was John’s. I don't wear mini skirts, boob tubes or hot pants - even I'm shuddering at the thought. I like nice clothes that make me feel good but wear my dog walking clothes far more often than I used to.

3. I don't care that I procrastinate - it's a hobby…….ok the little twinge of guilt still pinches but not as often. Mainly when Algernon comes calling.

4. If I don't enjoy doing something I don't have to do it.

5. If someone is offended because I say no, unless they come up with an exceedingly good reason, that's my choice, I won't do it, life is too short.

6. I don't care if I lose Substack subscribers. Ok, my nose has stretched just a little bit and I can now pick up the dogs leads off the floor with while still standing.

What do I care about? My values are still the same.

1. I believe we should respect each other and I will respect others, unless they prove they don't deserve my respect. Be it politicians, people in the public eye, neighbours and others.

2. I was seething about the misogynistic and lewd comments made by Robert Kenyon, the candidate for Reform in the Makerfield by-election here in the UK, about Carol Vorderman, a broadcaster, who very reasonably and persistently asked for an apology. His and Reform’s excuse for not apologising and legitimising these comments: ‘it’s just locker room banter or things you can hear on a building site everyday.’ I am horrified that we have, an allegedly, serious political party that can dimiss this sort of abuse as normal. I won't continue, there is so much more ranting I could do. If you want to know more check out Carol Voderman’s Instagram account. She has chosen to face the issue head on and use her position to fight for all women. Thank you Carol.

3. I believe we should all respect children, whoever they maybe and help to ensure they can grow up safe, secure and as healthy & happy as possible. No I am not naive I know I cannot do that for every child, however I can do my bit.

I won't carry on with my lists but hope you get my point. A combination of growing old, grief and Homer Simpson d’oh moments means I can now prioritise what I do give a shit and do not give a shit about, big issues, little issues and the d’oh moments.

I am not preaching, and during certain times in our lives, which vary for everyone, things will matter more or less. I do remember putting on my makeup, ironing my shirts and other bits, wanting the latest fashion, matching unchipped plates and crokery, the latest gadgets and in some ways I miss those days. I am still me just a little less stressed about certain things. Looking back, I may have ironed the shirts but by the time I got to the meeting they were crumpled and I had to keep my jacket on because I had spilt my coffee while on the train, all over the said shirt. Now I miss out the ironing because I just don't care, and take my jacket off even if there is a coffee stain. People can take me or leave me.

Prompt

• Think of three things in your life that matter now but may not in the future.

  • In one sentence explain the difference

• Think of something that doesn't matter now but may in the future

  • In one sentence explain the differences

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Thank you so much for reading my pondering rambling. Plus a mahoosive thank you to all of my subscribers for sticking with my eclectic, eccentric rambles down the rabbit warren 🐇, fox 🦊 dens, badger 🦡 sets and otter 🦦 holts.

All posts here on Growing Old are free to all. If you have not already, please do subscribe and share with others. It makes an old curmudgeon very happy and inspired to keep writing.

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Good morning everyone, I’m back. I genuinely hadn't realised it's been a month since I've written my Substack. Where does time, life and bits go. I have no idea. I have been a lurker, enjoying my regular Substacks and checking out notes. I came across a new one to me. , The Daily Rewire and a lot of what she wrote in Apparently we were all tired of self improvement that struck a chord.

Yes, I do some self improvement and learn a great deal from many wise people on Substack. However, after 67 years I've realised you can't improve on perfection. The head rabbit 🐇 has just popped his head up in absolute incredulity, fallen off whatever he was standing and disappeared again he was laughing so much. I will amend that statement. After 67 years what's the point, the damage is irreparable. Please before you all shout at me ‘you're never too old’, both those statements are tongue in cheek. I have got here - 67 I have changed, I am a writer - of sorts. Thank you you got me writing again this sunny, and ridiculously hot Monday morning. Don't forget I'm a moaning Minnie from the UK, the weather is never right. In my defence last week I put the heater on in the evening it was so cold and we had frosts.

Where have I been? You won't be thinking. It's been a good few weeks, with the odd down days. I had a fabulous few days last week with a lovely friend. Humphrey, mainly & Mildred partly, by winding him up, totally disgraced themselves. We had already agreed that the dogs would be too much and made alternative overnight arrangements, but she was not prepared for, as she put it, the pony that is Humphrey jumping up with ball 🎾. He is big and exceedingly bouncy, and unfortunately not used to people coming into my hobbit home. Therefore we spent the few days out and about the Hertfordshire countryside, good food, great company. Whilst I felt guilty about not being able to provide bed & breakfast, it did work out very well..…..I hope.

On one day we visited my son. Easy you would think, they only live 6 miles away. Doing my usual old age Lewis Hamilton round the country lanes we come to a junction, I am about to turn right when I spy the dreaded Road Closed ⛔ sign with no detail. The trailer in front of me indicated left and stopped mid turn - another Road Closed ⛔, this time with barriers. The driver got out scratched his head when a traffic person appeared, they also looked puzzled. I risked it and turned right, thinking they can't cut off the village completely. To cut a long story short at every junction there were road closed signs with no proper indication of where, why or alternative routes. Luckily I know the roads like the back of my hand. Nonetheless, it took 40 minutes to do a 10 minute journey, along roads I may know, but they’re so narrow, if you come across a sheep that doesn't, you're in trouble. I later found out the diversion was 14 miles and with all the other diversions likely to be pot luck if you manage to find the right route.

My friend met Bonnie, see above, now happily living in her new home, a local pub run by my son’s girlfriend. She maybe smaller than my two but is as much of a character. A few weeks ago new signs anonymously appeared outside the pub - see above. Bonnie decided she needed to say hello to a customer and his dog. Problem, she was upstairs looking out of the window and they were outside in the high street. Clearly, not a problem for Bonnie, she opened the window and jumped. The only damage was a slight cut on her chin, a dog with 120 lives. Now all windows have to be closed, locked, alarmed, steel bars fitted and wire mesh stretched across them. Bonnie will need to find a new activity, or they need to buy her a parachute. My son when he left for pastures new was convinced he could find a Bonnie proof kitchen bin. I had my doubts, the result can be seen above. I doubt even a modern safe would deter Bonnie from a prized morsel of food.

Another day, we went to the Henry Moore Studios & Gardens. The grounds are stunning and if you visit with children plenty of room for them, and you, to let off steam, with studios and barns dotted around. The Aisled Barn houses stunning, and vast, tapestries of Henry Moore’s work. The sculptures outside change every year as many are loaned out. One of my favourite’s, the scissor handles, was missing because of an exhibition at Kew Gardens quote: for what is the largest ever presentation of outdoor artworks by Moore. We took the tour round Hoglands, Moore’s family home - a fascinating insight into Moore and for me very nostalgic. Would you leave a Rodin sculpture, even if small, on your coffee table? I definitely recommend a visit, finished off with lunch at the recently reopened Hoops.

Later that evening we went to see Lenny Henry in Hertford at the local theatre. He was fantastic and at 67, the same age as me, I know you already know that, but I could relate to a lot of his stories/jokes and remembered Tiswas and all the characters from his shows.

I'll stop boring you now and put my feet in a bucket of iced water.

Prompt:

Find a photo of your favourite painting, sculpture or other art work. Really look at it for a couple of minutes:

In a paragraph describe how this art work makes you feel?

Leave a comment

Thank you so much for reading my pondering and a mahoosive thank you to all of my subscribers for sticking with my eclectic, eccentric rambles down the rabbit warren 🐇, fox 🦊 dens, badger 🦡 sets and otter 🦦 holts.

All posts here on Growing Old are free to all. If you have not already, please do subscribe and share with others. It makes an old curmudgeon very happy and inspired to keep writing.

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A couple of weeks ago, I took ownership of my new Mini, a proper little 5 door Mini Cooper leaving my Mini Countryman behind. The Countryman was not entirely a proper Mini, they are big, and getting bigger every year to satisfy the need for big cars. For a shorty like me, with no legs, the clambering in is not elegant.

Why do I love a car? Last week I travelled to Stamford up the A1 to meet a friend for a lovely, long overdue, catch up lunch at a nostalgic tea rooms. After 25 years of travelling to all four corners of the UK for work, the A1 is a well travelled route for me. Although at times stressful, I had forgotten how much I enjoyed driving, particularly when the sun is shining and traffic is relatively light. The trip had the added bonus of providing my new Mini a really good test, and it passed with flying colours. I felt like the old me, or even a much younger me, for those few hours, not just the lost, old curmudgeon trying to reinvent herself.

I never for one minute regretted my emergency, impulse buy Countryman. After John died, I was left with a dilemma. I signed his beautiful Saab convertible into my name during the last couple of weeks of his life, leaving it as long as possible to do the dirty dead. I knew it had to be done, or we would be a car short. If the owner of a car dies, the car cannot be used until probate and/or change of ownership granted and my son needed my Golf to get around and get to work. I hated pressing the buttons on the DVLA website and told John, at every stage, what I was doing with his pride and joy.

The Saab was fine for a couple of weeks, then started making very ominous loud noises. Knowing the repairs would cost more than the Saab was worth, I needed a replacement. I happened to be passing a mini garage, got a good deal on both the Countryman and trade in value for the Saab, job done.

Our beautiful old Labrador, Ledley, died a couple of weeks after I got the new car. Two weeks later, Mildred entered our lives in my new Countryman, with the help of my daughter, Sarah. Big decision: did I let her drive the new car or cuddle the new puppy? She wanted the former, I opted for the latter. Mildred loved Sarah from that point onwards. Over the next few months, I made plans to bundle her, Mildred, not Sarah, into the car and travel around the country. Plan thwarted when Mildred was diagnosed with kidney dysplasia a few months later and given 12 - 18 months to live. Enter Humphrey, again with Sarah; this time, her husband came too. As Humphrey was born in Derbyshire, we stayed a couple of nights: Sarah and Kev in a romantic spa hotel for Valentine’s Day, courtesy of a very grateful mother/mother-in-law and me in a cottage with stunning views.

I never got to travel around the UK in my Countryman. Mildred is now 7 and a real character, but I’m not sure travelling with a dog who needs to pee every 3 hours is a good idea. Additionally, 2 mad big black Labradors would be a bit much for: a) me on long journeys, and b) for anyone else having the misfortune to provide us with shelter.

My first introduction to Minis happened a week after passing my test, aged 29. Living in London, I had never needed to learn to drive until we moved to Hertfordshire. I borrowed my sister-in-law’s apple green Mini to drive to Hemel Hempstead. Where I was faced with the town’s notorious magic roundabout, built in 1973 - so called because people were convinced the designers had taken magic mushrooms 🍄 before coming up with such a ludicrous idea - 1 BIG roundabout with 6 mini roundabouts around it. You are faced with traffic coming at you from all directions. Coming down the hill on the St Albans Road, I considered closing my eyes, putting my foot to the floor and driving straight over the middle of the big roundabout to get to the other side and the safety of the A414, now the A4146. Even in my state of panic it was not the greatest plan and I decided on plan B: to exit every mini roundabout at its first exit, turn round and repeat until I achieved my goal. The YouTube video shows the correct way.

Back on subject, ‘Why give up my Countyman?’ The head rabbit 🐇 grilled me before I did the dirty deed. ‘You have many memories associated with that car,’ pulling me back from my usual default of impulsive decisions. As well as buying a new car & a new dog 3 months after John died, I put an offer in a new house and sold the old one. Those decisions were absolutely for the right reasons, but against all advice on making decisions during the early stages of grief.

Back to the present day, and my reasons for the new Mini:

1. The main reason was a strange orange warning light on the Countryman that flashed a couple of times, something to do with the drive train. I checked: it could have been simple or very serious if the warning turned red. When I drove to Stamford in my new Mini, I realised how much the problem had stopped me from going anywhere. An air of suspicion that I may end up on the side of a road waiting for the AA was always in the back of your mind. I cancelled a couple of things involving the M25. I had a similar trust problem with a new convertible Astra years ago. After a series of issues, including the driver’s side window suddenly disappearing down into the driver’s door and losing power in the outside lane on the A1 at 70 mph, I traded it in for the Golf. Vauxhall ceased that convertible model soon after. Trust in a car was and still is important for me.

2. I’m shrinking, and the Countryman is getting bigger by the day. Although I have discovered one height issue with my new Mini. The hatchback door is higher than on the Countryman, and I can only close it if I stand by the side of the car.

3. My travelling around the country with the dogs is not going to happen. I can safely and comfortably fit both dogs in the new Mini. Humphrey won’t go in the boot and goes on the back seat, and it’s easier for Mildred to get into the lower boot. I rarely, if ever, have them both in at once.

4. I am unlikely to increase my mileage. When working, my annual mileage was between 25,000 & 30,000 miles; now it’s under 8,000. I don’t need a big car for regular motorway journeys anymore.

5. Since I twisted it a few years ago, my left knee is dodgy. All my arguments for not having an automatic are outweighed by the need to be sensible and without pain/discomfort in slow moving traffic. I haven’t stalled nor needed to superglue my left foot to the floor, yet………

6. I needed to be dragged into the 21st Century and not hang onto the deluded belief that manuals give you more control. After a couple of weeks, I’m a convert to automatics.

7. I love the new car smell. Not the greatest reason I know

I will admit getting used to the everything being done automatically takes time. I have resisted the temptation to switch off all the new fangled ideas until I understand them completely, or fathom out how to manually perform the task, such as full beam on the headlights, temperature control, and changing the petrol gauge when I fill the tank - I like to know how many miles I get for each tankful. For the first time ever, I have become well acquainted with the owner’s manual.

You may ask, why have I not gone for an electric car? I have no charging point, and installing one would cost the same as my Mini, for a number of reasons. Until the cost of public chargers comes down, it’s too expensive. A big problem with rolling out electric cars is access to affordable charging points in areas where installing household charging points is difficult. Another debate for another day.

Leave a comment

Prompt

What is your favourite way of travelling?

• Think of the 3 best places you would go, for fun, for peace and quiet and for the views.

Thank you so much for reading my pondering and a mahoosive thank you to all of my subscribers for sticking with my eclectic, eccentric rambles down the rabbit warren 🐇, fox 🦊 dens, badger 🦡 sets and otter 🦦 holts.

All posts here on Growing Old are free to all. If you have not already, please do subscribe and share with others. It makes an old curmudgeon very happy and inspired to keep writing.

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I am going to be open and admit I was wrong. I want apologise to . I implied in my last post that too many celebrities’ publisists were starting to use Substack to promote already mega stars at the expense of smaller, and newer Subtsacks. does appear to get the point of Substack being a welcoming and safe space and not just a publiscist’s money earner. He posted a very personal note yesterday on food memories from his son’s rugby pitch while watching a match. I remember those pitches long before they were surrounded by houses and the head rabbit 🐇 had free reign, unless chased down his warren by our scottie dog, who had escaped from our garden down the road. I have now subscribed to and hope he will accept my apology for the number of plugs I've given him in my opening paragraph…ok I know he won't see it.

Onto more serious stuff. I want to explain what I mean by Substack being a welcoming and safe space. There are great writers, journalists, thinkers and many others who frequent Substack sharing a lot of their experiences and insights, and I include celebrities of all kinds, it is a natural progression on a successful social media platform. I often disagree with the views written in some posts, some posts make few uncomfortable, and some posts are the complete opposite of my own opinions. Those posts are important because they challenge and make me think. However, those posts do not overstep a line, for example by inciting violence against others.

Over the last couple of weeks, there has been growing concern about the Substack bestsellers list and about one name in particular banned from other social media platforms. Whilst he has been on Substack for a while, he only recently turned on paid subscriptions, (the statistic used to identify bestsellers) and gained a high profile.

The Daily Telegraph reported on 17th April 2026 that he could make up to £198,000 per month with the words: ‘AT could be on his way to making mid-six figures on Substack and the newsletter platform’s literary luvvies are up in arms’. I am surprised by the words an allegedly respected newspaper uses to open a serious article. I am not going to go into full rant, however, this is no joke. Freedom of speech is important but how should we respond when that freedom is being used to purposely cause harm to -rabbit warren check- 49.4% of the global population women, by inciting young men into believing that women ask to be abused and are worthless. A number of wonderful substackers have written very eloquently on this subject Claire Venus, and others and arguing we need to empower the best of Substack.

I have blocked and reported the individual and therefore cannot report him anymore, because I will no longer be able to see his posts. I hope others who have power, in other words, large paid subscriber lists or the potential to have large paid subscriber lists report and block, money talks.

If we are honest it was inenvtiable that Substack users would face these dilemmas. I, personally, hope these Substacks can be banished into the dark depths. I can deal with the ‘Hi beautiful, I love your writing’ or those looking for a relationship, because they think I am a sad washed up old woman who is desperate to hear from them - immediate block. What I find hard is feeling that I maybe unsafe writing certain things because of trolls etc. That's when I would leave Substack, hopefully we are far from reaching that point.

I subscribed to not just for a penance, or because I enjoyed my trip down memory rugby pitches, but to push him up the bestseller list to drown out others who are in danger of turning Substack on its head. Then I realised, unless turns on paid subscriptions, regardless of the number of subscribers he gains, he will not appear on the bestseller list. Unless, 💡 moment, he turns them on and gives complimentary subscriptions. Not sure that would work a) impossible to implement with large numbers and b) not sure complimentary subscribers count.

I am sorry this is a serious post this week and one if I am honest I knew I would be writing at some stage. It is not a case of every good thing comes to an end, but every good thing has stormy times. I am hoping this is the last post I will have to write on this or similar subjects. I suspect not. I do not want to feel that Substack is no longer a place for me and I have to pack up my bags, descend into the rabbit warren and bolt the door. I am so grateful that I personally have built up a lovely community of subscribers over my 3 1/2 years here. I hope that I help foster the welcoming safe atmosphere in my eclectic, eccentric and curmudgeonly way. I recognise, before I sound too much like John Boy Walton saying goodbye to all his family at the end of the programme, Substack must be a place for writers from all walks of life, uncomfortable discussions and opposing views of all kinds, but not those that incite violence and deep rooted hatred for others.

This is a complex and multifaceted issue, that cannot be covered in a short Substack post. I hope at least, I have got you thinking for a few minutes, but not too long, we must get back to the real point of Substack to encourage writing and thought in a safe space.

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Prompt - a woo woo one to please the Daily Telegraph and prove I am a luvvy - if not a literary one 😂

Find a time to stand outside for a couple of minutes, close your eyes, breathe in through your nose for 4 out through your mouth for 6 three times. Stand still and listen, smell and feel. When you've had enough list everything you heard, smelt and felt.

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Thank you so much for reading my pondering and a mahoosive thank you to all of my subscribers for sticking with my eclectic, eccentric rambles down the rabbit warren 🐇, fox 🦊 dens, badger 🦡 sets and otter 🦦 holts.

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I have asked myself this question for ever and a day. I may be an old eccentric curmudgeon, but I still ask myself that same thing. Why? Because I am not sure I have ever grown up, and I always seemed to end up doing things rather than planning. Now my only responsibilities are two mad black labradors, the question seems as relevant as ever. Many people have a vocation, to be a doctor, a writer, an accountant, a full time parent and achieve their dreams. Having left school by mutual agreement aged 15 I could not follow my dream of being a criminal pathologist or cancer researcher - another story for another day. I have recently been thinking even more about what I want to do when I grow up aged 67, or in reality what do I want to do with the time I have left, lets be honest I don't have the time to retrain as a pathologist. Then why ask the question? For a number of reasons.

Firstly, and most importantly, Easter Saturday marked five years since my beautiful daughter, Sarah died. During the week leading up to the day, I felt my body physically reacting to my grief, the chest pains/aches, tiredness and irritability, as I did after she died and her father, my soul mate John, died 2 years previously. All the feelings dispersed on Easter Sunday. I know I am accommodating the massive holes Sarah and John left but also know I need to pull myself up, stop catastrophising and finding some joy in life.

I think about Sarah and John every day and wonder what they would think of me now and what advice they would give me. Looking back over the years since they died I often ask myself where have the years gone and what have I done with all that time. I start beating myself up for not having achieved anything. Nothing to do with Algernon - my inner critic from my last post, it is my response to guilt. I feel guilty I am still alive when they had so much more to offer and I desperately want them here. Yet, I know that is not possible and I need to start telling, or more importantly, convincing myself:

a) Nobody but me blames me for being here and relatively normal - ok the tic and muttering in dog language gives the full truth away.

b) I have done things, even if sometimes it is a simple as getting up in the morning.

c) John & Sarah would never want me to feel guilty and would want me to live the best life I can, as I would them.

d) I need to look after me/myself mentally and physically, convince myself I'm ok, not a total dolt and develop a little pride in the things I have achieved. Thoughts and beliefs totally against my nature, for all kinds of reasons.

Starter for Ten What have I done with my time over the last 7 years, since John died? Please skip this it is boring and for me as much as anything:

In the first year I moved house, lost one dog and gained two, bought a new car. In the second year I went through lockdown alone, started a Masters degree in Existential and Humanist Pastoral Care and gained loads of headaches. After Sarah died I gained my post grad certificate, having, understandably been unable to complete the full degree. Throughout those years I started painting with pastels, something I love doing and going alone to residential courses with total strangers. Started attending a weekly art group and as a result did life drawing classes, no not as the model, and been pleased with some of my drawings. I finally made a trip to London on my own and felt normal again and visited close friends in London. I almost, live contentedly alone in my chaos - no that's not being hard, being kind to myself also means being honest. There are still days of total abjectivity. I recognise there always will be such periods and I know they pass.

I must make myself say I am proud of many of those achievements. The worst part is that I cannot tell John & Sarah about them. That matters, they were both honest and told me if I was being an idiot or when I did well. Being proud was/is a mutual feeling. I desperately miss hearing and being proud of their new achievements, big, small and in between. One day I may write a post on pride, as with other negative emotions such as jealously, anger, sadness, each has their place in our lives, as long as we own them and never allow them to take control. None of us are perfect.

I have become a writer, done countless great creative writing courses that inspired and terrified me in equal measures. I have been on Substack for over 3 1/2 years and posted regularly boring people. I have written a third/fourth draft of my memoir. As I endlessly drone on about, I am building up my courage to submit a proposal to an agent. My grammar has improved.

One of the most difficult things of living alone after significant losses is motivation. The big things like doing a Masters or writing a book are easier than the little things - clearing up the torn up tin foil all over the floor courtesy of Mildred and all the dog hair everywhere….why can't they do it themselves? Making myself go out every day, not to open the bottle of wine, clearing out the cupboards, changing the WiFi provider. The last I finally attempted this week but as usual not as straight forward as it should be. Because my building is listed they want to gain building consent to drill the small hole required, although I think I found an existing hole in the right place. Nonetheless it may mean I lose the new subscriber deal because getting any consent takes weeks and maybe out of contract with my present provider.

Substack has been one thing I am proud of, yes boring you all with my wittering. I am so grateful for my wonderful loyal subscribers who have supported me over the years. However, the platform has changed a great deal during the last couple of years. It is much more crowded with many more well known writers and celebrities competing for our attention. Jamie Oliver has suddenly popped up, why?

As an official grumpy old curmudgeon I could just mutter, complain, grump and disappear under the weight of ‘new’ celebrity Substackers. But I am a realist, and publicists, yes, I am a cynic, can see the massive opportunities Substack provides for broadening opportunities to reach even bigger audiences. I feel very sad and worry those new to Substack will not be heard in an increasingly crowded and noisy environment or will not, as I did, dip a toe in the water and feel the warm glow. One of the massive benefits of Substack is giving space for new writers to flex their muscles, flourish, grow into thriving spaces and for some businesses. The threat of AI and posts written by ‘staff’ rather than the individual has the potential to change and threaten Substack’s creative, warm, threatening (is that a word), welcome to new writers of all ages.

How do you think about Substack can keep its uniqueness?

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Reading this post back. It is self indulgent - apologies but I hope it may resonate with others and make them think: ‘I am not alone. It is ok not be ok.’ It is eclectic - nothing new there then. It is rambling - I've been talking to the chief rabbit 🐇 too much and why use one word when I can use ten.

No, I haven't come up with an answer to my question. I have no idea what I want to be. Maybe a published memoirist. Maybe an artist with her own exhibition. Maybe a dog owner with 2 perfectly behaved labradors who look lovingly at me when I tell them to stop barking, like the Hounds of The Baskerville, at the dog passing across the road. Even 67 year olds should dream about what they want to be when they grow up. We should all have dreams regardless of our age. Although, the question may need to be - what do I want be when I grow down? I am definitely shrinking as I grow old. See Why do I shrink in height as I age? apprently it starts at 40, definitely another article.

Prompt - totally off the wall:

Find five jokes, or short skits on YouTube, or thoughts that make you laugh, pick your favourite and make someone else laugh.

Challenge: Try to find at least one everyday and share it with at least one person and share a laugh.

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Thank you so much for reading my rambling twaddle and mahoosive thank you to all of my subscribers for sticking with my eclectic, eccentric rambles down the rabbit warren 🐇, fox 🦊 dens, badger 🦡 sets and otter 🦦 holts. Particularly this one, I was about to write a goodbye post today, but when I started writing realised how much I would miss my attempts at ramblings.

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You may have noticed, as an old curmudgeonly woman living alone I ponder a lot. This week it's about how to get the Gremlins out of my head, to climb out my rut and not become like Sisyphus. My ruts are grey misty places where all I do is wallow in being a failure. I procrastinate and grumble endlessly, until Mildred and Humphrey disappear upstairs, tails between their legs, bored witless - you get the picture. My Substack suffers, and Algernon AKA my inner critic forces me to sit in the corner with my dunces hat on the recently vacated dog’s bed because he’s convinced me I cannot do anything.

We are often told to write letters to those who have done us harm and are no longer here or letters of love to ourselves. I am not sure that works with Algernon. I want to be more proactive in my approach to him, after all in reality I am writing a letter to myself.

Lightbulb 💡moment - rather than writing to Algernon I’ll interview him forcing myself to answer him back, point by point. Now I realise this post could bomb 💣 spectacularly or, as I hope it will, it may resonate with others. So here goes:

Good morning Algernon how are you doing?

Who wants to know? I don't talk to fools.

I apologise but you do realise I'm not going anywhere, you are part of me so you may as well play along with me.

Please could you tell me about me and my writing abilities?

See I told you, you were a fool. I'm your inner critic - I'm here to tell you're a useless idiot who believes she can do things she is totally incapable of doing, like trying to write, training the dogs and as for your housework where do I start. You never finish anything and you always give up. I've got lists as long as both my arms. There's not a lot else to say about you. You’re a lost cause.

Ok Algernon you maybe right, but I want to keep this manageable and concentrate on one thing, my writing, rather than your usual lets go for everything routine.

Please could you explain why you think, or as you put it, you know, I cannot write?

Why do you think? You're useless at writing. Where do I start? I know, you couldn't even produce key reports for work. Remember that time you presented your final report to councillors. Rather than reading the content they spent 45 minutes complaining about your grammar. They weren't interested in discussing your findings. You looked a complete fool. This also highlights how bad you were are at your job.

Ok you’re right Algernon. Hang on a minute no you're not. I know there were some errors but not many, I proofread it 3 times. The reason they picked at my grammar and didn't discuss the content, because they didn't want to acknowledge what I had uncovered about their services.

In terms of my professional writing I wrote everyday: including a chapter of a book on charging for residential care, training packs, policy documents for government, guidance for the DWP which was used for years, contract pitches. I ran my own consultancy business for over twenty years, if I was so rubbish why did people keep employing me.

What do you think of that?

You stupid woman that's annorak stuff and nothing to do with real writing. You were hopeless at your job, you know you were, you always said you felt an imposter riding on other people’s coat tails. Stop kidding yourself woman.

But everybody goes through periods of imposter syndrome. Ok, deep down I know you’re right. I never did anything with my life and yes, lived off other people’s coat tails…..hang not always. I set up a playscheme in Nottingham in the 70s that's still running today, I was a welfare rights workers for 15 years and a welfare policy adviser for over 25 years. One day I will sit down and list the things I have achieved in my working life.

Pah, anyone could have done those things, you never did anything properly. At 67 the list should be pages not the back of an envelope like yours.

I know I did things properly, ok not everything, but I always tried my best. Stop trying to push me back into wallowing and move on Algernon, back to writing. You didn’t fully answer my first question.

Why can't I write?

It's a fact you can’t. Your grammar, as I have already told you, is atrocious. You have no original ideas. You've been working on that ridiculous memoir of yours for over two years and it's still garbled rubbish. You have a ridiculous idea for a rubbish novel. You don't have a creative bone in your body, you're too old, too much like a dinosaur. Is that enough?

I accept my grammar is not good, it never has been and got worse after my stroke, which happened 6 months before I delivered that report. However, if you don't mind me saying Algernon, who is writing the words in your mouth, your grammar must be rubbish too.

My memoir maybe ridiculous in your eyes and I know it will never get published, but John and Sarah’s stories are important to tell, which includes telling mine and Mother’s stories. I need to do it the best way I can and that takes time. The publishing world is extremely competitive if I don't get any bites, it's not because it's bad. If John and Sarah were here they would tell me to go for it.

As for being old it has given me a wealth of ideas, knowledge and experiences to draw on. The characters in my novel, Maud, Kate & Tricia each have a different aspect of me in them. I love writing about them, I've just listened to you too much and come to a halt. Most importantly I love writing, most of the time.

Moving on. What about my Substack?

Your Substack, where do I start? You pick it up, drop it, then pick it up again, fiddle around, you even thought you could use your crap paintings to illustrate it. Your subscribers need their heads examining. Why on earth do you think they read your rubbish? I'll tell you why because they feel sorry for you.

Ok Algernon, let’s cover the point you make about my subscribers first, they are amazing I am honoured that they have chosen to have my ramblings down the rabbit 🐇 warren land in their inboxes or read my ramblings on Substack. They inspire me and I learnt so much from them all. I love painting and use them sparingly on here.

As for dropping and picking it up. I know when I need a break. Sometimes I do write something and then delete it because your not happy with it and at times you’re right, I need to tear it up. Sometimes you have burrowed so far into my brain it hurts, and I'm so tired fighting you I crawl under a metaphorical writing duvet and stay there. The phase I am in at the moment. However, I will not delete this post. Even if you think it is…..

… rubbish, yes it's the worst bit of drivel ever written.

Shut up I haven't finished. I started my Substack nearly 3 1/2 years ago when it was a different space with fewer writers. Hands up I know I cannot compete with the newer, more experienced, innovative Substackers, writers, journalists and experts, but that’s ok. I promised myself I would stop or take a breaks when I started worrying about what to write to the point of lying awake at night. However, at the moment I will continue to write my Substack my way, even if occasionally I miss a week or two. I am proud of what I have achieved here.

You're more delusional than I thou….

Shut up Algernon or I'll delete all of this post and your voice won’t be heard.

What would a fat ugly blob like you know? Before you argue you know it's true, your are gross, you say it yourself often enough. If not why don't you have any mirrors in your house?

For once I've hit a nerve, so you’ve hit me below the belt, if I could fit one on. You’ve must have been listening to Mother, she’s the reason I don't like mirrors. However as I grow older I realise it really doesn't matter, I don't have to look at myself. Yes I am very overweight and it is not good for my health, but this winter was not good for me. I will get over Easter and lose weight again. I know I can do it I list over 1 1/2 stone last summer. I can do it. I will get healthier. I can make myself presentable without a mirror.

I am not going to be sidetracked. We’re here to discuss my writing not other aspects of my life.

We’ll see you’ll always be..….

Thank you Algernon, we’ll stop there, but thank you for your very helpful insights and whether you like it or not I am going to continue my writing, my way.

Clearly I’m not doing my job right if you found them useful! You should pack up your laptop, iPad and fountain pen and head for that duvet to hide under and leave me alone.

I'm afraid whether you like it or not you are an important part of my life. Not everything you say is wrong, and your voice helps me consider important aspects of my life such as losing weight, getting healthier, questioning decisions and keeping me realistic.

You keep me grounded as long as I keep you at arm’s length and stay rational about your comments. For example, I know my memoir is unlikely to get published, I'm ok with that and will keep on trying. My Substack will never be in the charts, but that’s ok, I have loyal, kind and wonderful subscribers. I’ll stop completely when I dread writing my Substack and/or become obsessive about the data.

If you say so, you stupid old woman. However, there is so much more I could say.

I know there is much more. I will finish by saying, I may at times be stupid, but as I grow older I begin to realise it really doesn't matter. Sometimes it is good to admit you don't know the answer. I always said when I was training, never feel stupid when asking questions. However simple they may appear to be, sometimes I didn't know the answer, even as the trainer. Before you tell me I'm stupid Algernon, I would always rather be honest than give people bull shit.

Now Algernon get back into the corner and don't complain about the dog bed being dirty, it's clean enough for Mildred and Humphrey.

Thank you for reading this week’s post, which may well have been twaddle. However, for me interviewing Algernon occasionally is a good thing when I concentrate on one thing. I know myself well enough to know if I am in the rut I allow Algernon to move onto other parts of my life to force myself back into the bit. Forcing myself to concentrate on one thing helped me focus and force myself to answer those criticisms rationally and more importantly honestly.

This is my last Algernon interview to be published for a number of reasons. I don’t want to bore you or sound self obsessed. Some things are too personal and painful to publish and I am unlikely to be honest with myself if I was going to publish my real thoughts. However, when I next interview him I will tackle one those painful subjects, and really make myself argue my case, as I did for others all those years ago in social security tribunals.

Sometimes we need to force ourselves to argue with ourselves. I found that by interviewing and distancing myself from my inner critic, I became more objective. I set myself two rules. First, argue until I feel better about the issue or at the very least I understand the problem. Second make sure I have nice things planned afterwards - like my new mini when it arrives and I can drive without watching the warnings in fear of being stranded somewhere and waiting hours for the AA to arrive.

Ok, Algernon that may all sound like gobblydegook to you. I know what I mean and hope those reading this do as well and it is of some use to somebody.

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Prompts

Name your inner critic if possible. Take one, possibly small for your first go, aspect of your life you feel unsure of or are avoiding because you think/know you will fail e.g. drawing, dancing, applying for that job you’ve always wanted and interview your inner critic.

List 10 things you are proud of achieving, anything however small or BIG: could be getting the kids, or in my case the dog, to do what they were told - clearing out that cupboard you’ve been avoiding for months - getting a new job - the number of exams you past forty years ago - running a marathon - walking 500 yards - getting on a bus to go somewhere - unblocking the sink on your own……….

Thank you so much for reading my post and mahoosive thank you to all of my subscribers for sticking with my eclectic, eccentric rambles down the rabbit warren 🐇, fox 🦊 dens, badger 🦡 sets and otter 🦦 holts.

All posts here on Growing Old are free to all. If you are not already please do subscribe and share with others. It makes an old curmudgeon very happy and gives Algernon the grumps.

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Wish I could have found a snappier title. But it is a conundrum I often consider. I know I have changed, before you all shout, after 7 years of widowhood. Do people treat me differently than before, yes they do. Ok I've answered my own question. A very big BUT is needed as the answer is far more complex. Firstly, widowhood is like motherhood, we are all different, no one size fits all and our life experiences vary so much. Secondly, my circumstances have changed - I am retired, I live somewhere different, I do different things and our daughter died. All things that change people’s perception of me.

I am writing this as a retired older widow, female, not a married woman and part of a couple for over 40 years. I make no distinction between married and - in the words of Louisa Young see below - ‘unmarried widows, just as bereft as their on-paper sisters.’

Another key point: I am writing this article from my own priveleged perspective, with an added sprinkling of research. I am privileged, not to be a widow but to be a widow living in a society where I have the opportunity to consider the finer points of widowhood whilst the perceptions of Widowhood maybe changing across the globe for many their reality could not be further from mine. An article produced by the UN in December 2001 Widowhood: invisible women, secluded or excluded highlights the circumstances for widows in different societies during the 1990s, it makes for grim but important reading. A paper published in 2025 considering the plight of widows in India Precarious Lives of Older Widows in India and Legal Provisions and the Global Fund For Women highlight that widows in low to middle income countries face:

Lack of Access to Rights

• 76% of widows joining Global Fund For Widows have had their assets seized

• In over 100 countries, laws and customs allow widows to be stripped of property, land and housing.

• Legal protections, where they exist, are rarely enforced

Stolen Livelihoods

• Widows are left without means to survive

• Gender norms limit widows’ employment opportunities.

Social Barriers

• Widows face stigma, blame and social isolation.

• Physical and emotional abuse in the guise of tradition.

• Diminished social status and identity.

Before I go down my ramble I felt I needed to ensure that the voices and problems of all widows are in this article. I will throw a couple more statistics in from the Guardian article Merry Widows How Attitudes To Bereaved Women Have Changed written by Louisa Young

There are more than 3 million widows in the UK; 258 million worldwide. Officially. Including all those unmarried widows, just as bereft as their on-paper sisters, there are exponentially more.

The article is written in a light hearted way but manages to highlight some of the issues we face. For example, some widows, not me by any stretch of the imagination, no legs old and overweight, can be seen as a threat to others relationships…why?….how many marriages collapse because of relationships between spouses/best friends partners. Why on earth are you more of a threat because you're a widow? An issue it raises is ‘curing’ widowhood - matching you with the most eligible alternative regardless. I did have one ‘you’ll get on with xxxxx really well, you have so much in common.’ Firstly the person suggesting it hardly knew me and secondly as I have often said on here I am happy in my own company and nobody would live with me and the dogs.

There are other aspects to widowhood, changing relationships with others reminding me of Satre’s The Gaze of The Other. I thought of explaining it more detail but the rabbit 🐇 warren journeys required would take me far too long and down many other holes. However, our perception of the gaze of others is important, suddenly you are one half of a couple never to become hole again. This point is highlighted by Regina Kenen who undertook a study Uncoupled: American Widows in Times of Uncertainty and Ambiguous Norms that:

… grew out of my concern with the plight of widows in American society today combined with the anger and distress at the way I was treated by my husband’s colleagues after his death. I had participated in his professional and social academic life for more than 30 years, but I ceased to exist after his Commemoration of Life Ceremony planned by his department and me. This abandonment hurt deeply as I thought that I was an integral part of his professional community and I found this upsetting and demoralizing.

In her last sentence she concludes:

Long-accepted norms such as the legacy of “twosomes” as an ideal remain particularly hurtful. A new, universal norm that equally values being single as well as partnered would go a long way in alleviating chronic uncertainty.

All friendships change over time, come and go, which gets me thinking are we more aware to these changes as widows?

I moved into a village where nobody knew me, or John my husband, but knew I was a widow and old. Ripe for the monthly lunch club as a punter. As a widow you are more likely to be seen as a punter than as a helper, yet some of the helpers are far older than the punters but they have partners. That is not to say I haven’t developed good friendships in the village and surrounds, I have for which I am very grateful and lucky. However, as a widow it tends to be daytime activities, evenings are more couple orientated. Another question: is it just me? I'll answer that one, yes, I do find myself feeling like a dumpy gooseberry. It is not grief - woe is me or believing that people feel sorry for because I'm a lonely widow. It is my feeling that in couples company I am an outsider, possibly a spare part. I partly agree with Grief in Common when they highlight 1 of the 5 things only widows can understand is: It’s a couples world and socializing after the loss of a spouse is never the same. It is not a negative I don't have to drive in the dark, I can be me, I can be an old curmudgeon with her dogs in the evening. I am now more able to say no and do the things I enjoy doing such as going to the theatre alone.

The reasons for friendships changing through widowhood will vary for all of us and are complex. I have spoken to others whose friends told them to pull themselves together after a few months, people they had been ‘close’ to for years. Others whose friends just disappeared. I was luckly in both fronts my friends did neither.

Another aspect of widowhood, and grief generally, is perceptions of time. The period of intense, absolute, devastation seems to last forever yet the time distance between when the person died seems to pass swiftly, suddenly I am 7 years. It has also been shown that perceptions of the length of time left can shift and result in certain changes in decision making see “Time without you”: Transition to widowhood and its impact on time perspective and attitudes toward the future. An article for another time lots to grapple with their.

Another aspect is the differing gender experiences another article for a later date. The experience of grief and devastation is no difference but the afterwards can vary, but nothing is simple.

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Prompt

Do you have days when time whizzes past and you wish you could stop the hands on the clock for 30 minutes?

Do you have days when time seems to stop?

What are the differences between the days in three sentences

Thank you so much for reading my post and all of my subscribers to my eclectic, eccentric rambles down the rabbit warren 🐇, fox 🦊 dens, badger 🦡 sets and otter 🦦 holts. All posts on Growing Old are free to all.

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For once, I am not going to apologise for my tardiness with my Substack being late yet again. Nor I am going to apologise for having given my MPs a break. No not the countless letters I write to Chris Hinchcliff MP my, dare I say, brilliant local parliamentary representarive, about the state of the head rabbit’s 🐇 front garden and rambunctious parties, but my morning pages. Instead I have been reading with my morning cup of tea in bed to break up my routine, almost taking a holiday.

First, The Correspondent by Virginia Evans and second, The Barbeque at No.9 by . I loved and recommend both. But The Barbeque at No.9 dragged me out of my writing rut. I won't give the story away, only to say it’s set on the day of Live Aid - 13th July 1985, is beautifully written, with suspense and humour, bringing back the atmosphere of the day with many twists and turns making you want to read on, yet not wanting to finish the book. The story brought back memories of happier times when Sarah, my daughter, was 5 years old in our first home in London. John and I were young parents and often had impromptu barbeques in the back garden.

Writing memoir is not easy. Hands up, I was beginning to throw in the towel. I may have written the words, but they need tidying up, moving around, major editing and ensuring I written them within a clean and logical structure. Something clicked, whilst reading first thing in the morning. I remembered good happy times when Sarah and John were alive. I can't put all of them in the book, like that day nearly 21 years ago, but I can remember them as I write.

On the 13th July 1985 we left home early bundling Sarah and her mate into the car and headed towards Whipsnade Zoo. I remember watching them running around the wide expanses of grass in complete safety demanding to see the elephants, the lions, the bears or the chimpanzees, then realising they were tired and hungry and wanted to go home. We bundled them back into in the car. On the journey home there was silence from the back seat as they fell asleep, only waking with renewed energy when we arrived home. We had one of our impromptu barbeques that evening too.

I want to finish telling Sarah and John’s stories alongside my own. Even if I know I am unlikely to get my tome published I want to leave something that does those stories justice. I returned to my new writing station, opened up my computer and started again on Surviving The Curse of Mother with fresh eyes. Well not quite fresh with my developing cataract - growing old can be a pain, literally and metaphorically. Watch this space for progress.

I will return to morning pages, they are a useful tool helping me dump my overnight stupid over inflated bad thoughts out of my head and onto the page. I can even give my inner critic Algernon a kick up the arse along the way and get my positive creative thoughts going. But my MPs had become a burden. I began to admonish myself. ‘Naughty Linney you haven't written your MPs this morning.’ or ‘you only wrote one page.’ Algernon was taking over my MPs, I couldn't kick him hard enough. I know part of my problem has been the dank, grey weather over here in the UK. No, I'm not entering the usual British weather rant. Ok, a tiny one, life begins to take on a greyness all of its own.

Yesterday we were treated to a whole day of Spring, even before Spring has officially sprung. My spirits lifted as I sat outside a garden centre drinking my latte with a friend. I am never sure whether Spring or Autumn are my favourite seasons, during both, the colours come alive. Today Spring is my favourite. Yesterday I saw 6 yellow butterflies flitting around the garden and three massive bumble bees buzzing in the flowers to replenish their supplies of nectar. Three bluebells are starting to flower alongside the snowdrops, hellebors, daffodils and primroses - very strange. Let's hope we don't get any more frosts.

I took the photos above yesterday in the garden as promised for in Eastern Canada. Spot the Humphrey and or tennis ball in some of them. I am convinced the tennis 🎾 balls have seeded and multiplied in our garden.

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Prompt

Can you remember Live Aid day on 13th July 1985? If not think of another day when everyone across Countries got ‘together.’

What were you doing and how did you feel in those days?

If they are good write then down for posterity.

If the memories are not good, try to replace those memories with one, however small, golden nugget of a memory and write a few words on the golden nugget.

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My bones are definitely creaking more than they were 20 years ago in places I never knew existed. However, this morning when I took Humphrey into the garden, my spirits were lifted by the bright sunshine, by the above, and I felt one less creak. What is it about the weather and the time of year that impacts us so much? For me, this has included my writing mojo. It seems that Algernon, my inner critic, loves and feeds off the dank, yuck weather, sapping all confidence from my creative, creaking bones. I know I could go down the rabbit 🐇 hole and search out all the research on shorter days, lack of sunlight, reduced socialising, etc., but the head rabbit has put up the sandbags and serious flood defences, and I have no chance of accessing the library.

As I sit here writing this post, the sun has decided an hour’s work was enough, disappeared, and the rain has returned. Here in the UK, the weather has been unpredictable in temperatures, but not in dankness and greyness. The ground is sodden, the rivers swollen, and the mud plentiful.

I will not be beaten by the sun going on strike yet again and taking away my good mood. Putting my coat on to take Humphrey out this morning, it was a pleasure not to be accompanied by the usual thoughts of getting wet, cold and covered in mud. The one thing you can guarantee in this house is that Humphrey wakes up full of the new day, bouncing like a rubber ball. Mildred literally growls and can even snarl when told its time to get up. She is the most vocal dog I know, using her barks, growls and paws to let you know what mood she’s in. She will snarl then get up, shake and is happy again. My mood in the morning is halfway between the two.

Standing at the top of the garden as Humphrey charged around after his ball, I soaked in the brief spring atmosphere and actually smiled. I listened for the birds, then realised they were not singing. Two red kites were swirling overhead, hunting for whatever smaller bird may be stupid enough to put its head above the branch to become prey. Red kites are relatively new in our area in the great scheme of things, only since 2009-ish. However, they have steadily increased in numbers, and a couple of pairs breed nearby. When others pass through, or a field is ploughed, you can see up to 20 overhead, a stunning sight.

Failing to see or hear any birds, I looked around at the daffodils standing proud, their buds waiting for the first warmth as they have for the last couple of weeks. We have Narcissus, snowdrops, and primroses flowering at the same time. Whilst I realise this is possible, the numbers seem out of kilter.

My writing station inside the house has moved and now looks out over the garden from my spare room/my son’s room. I will be able to see the changing weather as we move towards Spring. I am hoping my new writing station will give me the kick up the a#&£e I need to get me writing again. Watch out, Algernon, I’m coming after you to kick you back into the corner.

I will stop my waffling now, leave you in peace and take Humphrey out in the rain and mud.

Prompts

Think of two positives to winter? Write on paragraph on each one

What is the worst part of winter? Why and can you turn it into a positive?

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Some of you maybe surprised to know I understand and embrace the benefits of smartphones considering the title of this post. Why do I think people come to that conclusion? Because I am old.

What a couple of judgemental sentences I have just written. However age even now, is seen as a barrier to accepting and embracing new technologies. As usual I am writing this post under the academic rules of Linney and the head rabbit 🐇 (last mention of rabbits) namely based on my observations and experiences. I have done exceedingly light touch burrow down into academic research but glad I did as A 2022 study Elderly Forgotten? Digital Exclusion in the Information Age and the Rising Grey Digital Divide by Farooq Mubarak and Reima Suomi Concluded:

Results indicate a rising problem of ageing, mainly in developed countries. Grey digital divide constitutes a major challenge for elderly to participate and bene t from the digital revolution. Elderly face problems for basic tasks such as booking tickets or renewing bus cards to claiming old-age bene ts because most of the systems are digitized. Another challenge is the social exclusion faced by elderly because they cannot connect with peers through digital networks due to lack of digital skills. This situation is also observed in developing countries, although in developing countries elderly get immediate help from family members due to the family system of joint living

This study blew a smidgeon of the ranting wind out of my sails. I was going to rant age is not an issue, having evaluated a study 15 years ago which concluded that the grey digital divide would not be an issue over the next few years. I realise there are no straightforward reasons. It is a complex and multifaceted issue, and not just about a fear of technology or lack of knowledge. Loss of sight and stiffness in fingers due to arthritis can be a major problem when trying to negotiate apps on smartphones for banking, booking tickets etc and it can be hard to admit you are struggling. We have it drilled into our psyche never to reveal password, pin numbers etc to others. Both these points can prove a major barrier if your travel card needs renewing or you want to book tickets to the theatre, or need to check your bank balance because you suspect a scam and other activities enabling people to socialise and remain art of our society, something essential to reduce social isolation amongst older people or to stay safe.

The positive side is things like WhatsApp, Zoom and messaging keep us connected with others, including sharing photos. You can video call from anywhere, data and wifi connections allowing. Obvious I know nonetheless if you are housebound for any reason temporary or more permanent, can be a lifeline. Clearly there are many other benefits, getting easy up to date access to the news - if maybe that’s a negative, the weather, travel, emails, take photos, oh yes and being able to dial a number and speak to someone.

If you are old some people judge you as technologically deficient. If you say something is wrong with a smartphone, app or similar, their tone changes to that patronising ‘Dont worry dear, I’ll help youk at worst you see a rolling of the eyes. This old curmudgeon’s hackles immediately rise, but mange not to reply. ‘No, the f&+’8;g app is not working.’ I do a smug feeling to creep across me and a rolling of my eyes when proved right and come up with a workaround myself.

Smartphones are useful and necessary tools aiding our everyday life. They have changed the way we live. Banks are a thing of the past, I genuinely do not know where my nearest branch resides. Tick for me no more waiting in queues to bank a cheque. Online shopping on my smartphone saves me a fortune no more impulse buying. In India if you are missing tomatoes for the recipe you are already cooking you can order and be chopping them up within twenty minutes. I do believe Covid and lockdown increased the speed of change, maybe wrong, me never. A lot of the technology has been around for years but just kept in the back pockets of companies, to allow phased implementation and for us to have to change phones more often.

Here in the UK legislation is trundling through Parliament to ban smartphones use for pupils in schools. I am in favour of this ban, I worry about young people losing the ability to concentrate if they are continually thinking about their smartphones, as a start. There is also discussion of banning under 16s from social media. Thus I am not convinced by, firstly how do you enforce it effectively particularly for the 10 -15 yr old age group who a more than able to find loopholes. You may argue why start at 10, because they are bright and savvy too. Secondly, will this give social media companies a reason for lighter enforcement because ‘children and younger people won’t see the content.’

Before finishing I will briefly return to my last post and the ability to track others on mobile phones and put my pennyworth forward. This is an area that shows the good and bad sides of smartphones. I made a bold and simplistic statement. Tracking good for children and bad for adults. I do and do not agree with that statement. Firstly, yes I can understand a parent’s wish to know where exactly their children are at any given time, my conundrums is firstly - when 24 hours a day, at school, after-school, at home, on holiday the list is endless.

Secondly, until what age and could we become too reliant on tracking negating the need for children to take the responsibility to inform parents and others where they are? Should we be tracking teenagers? Or is it so common it's not an issue for 15 tonve tracked by their parents/carers. Children are technologically savvy now than ever before. Smartphones are better for tracking than air tags or similar equipment. Smartphones are superglued to their owner’s bodies/hands, air tags can be placed in other people’s pockets leaving the tracker under the misapprehension that the tracked are in a their French lesson, when in fact they have ducked down through the tennis courts and off to the pub on Archway Road, possibly even The Archway Tavern pictured above or more likely The Angel in Highgate Village - moi never.

Tracking adults can have its benefits for those maybe confused and easily get lost. However the downside is tracking, for example, adult children can become obsessive, not a problem with my son, he’d never talk to me again if I tracked him. I have a neighbour who continually checks her phone to see where her children and a grandchild are all day every day. If they are not in their right place she panics thinking the worst has happened getting incredibly anxious at least every couple of weeks. Yet they will not ring to find out why the individual is not in the right place. There are times however much you say ‘don't track them’ or try to come up a reasonable answer, they still get really stressed and anxious, until they havebfiund out the answer, which may not be until the following day or longer.

There are more sinister forms of tracking for both adults and children, in cases of domestic abuse and potentially others who may have sinister reasons for tracking individuals. Another serious debate for another time.

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Prompt

I love my smartphone because [think of the top 3 reasons]

I don’t like my smartphone because [think of the top 3 reasons]

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Ok this week I am exceedingly late to the pass with a short post with no prompts as it is full of questions for you.

Delving into the BBC News website this morning I came across two very different articles on mobile phones, both highlighting, amongst other things, the ability to track people. Maybe if I had the tracking switched on my phone, someone could have seen I was being held hostage by the head rabbit 🐇 down his warren. Now that would be a better excuse than the dog ate my Substack post for being so late.

One reason for this being so short is that I am making no comment about the rights and wrongs of tracking. You real not be surprised to learn I have my own views. However, I would like to hear the views of others and if possible promote some discussion. If I can I will set up my chat 🤔.

Unsubstantiated comment for thought warning. It is good to track children and bad to track adults.

The first article I read - Parents want to ban smartphones in schools, but there’s one reason they’re worried, highlights the concern of parents that a ban on smart phones may result in them being unable to track their children.

1. At what age is the ability to track children on smartphones important? Leaving aside the ability to use other tracking devices.

2. What are the potential issues of tracking children & young people?

3. At what age does the cross over between good and bad tracking occur?

4. Is it ok to track adult children and grandchildren and are there potential problems, for the tracker or the tracked?

5. Are there any benefits in tracking adults?

The second article - I mocked the Saudi leader on YouTube - then my phone was hacked and I was beaten up in London highlights the extreme of a hacked phone being used to track, monitor and intimidate an individual by a state. I know it's an extreme but adds a further dimension in the discussion. I am not proposing any questions in response to this article. However, it sends a chill through my body for a number of reasons. This has nothing to do with conspiracy theories, just the ability of others, not just States, to hack our phones.

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This is a difficult post to write but I feel it is important to highlight the complexities of suicide. I am not an expert from a theoretical perspetive, however I can speak from the heart and the head with experience. Firstly, as a 15 year old standing in front of a bathroom mirror weighing up the pros and cons of life over death. Secondly, as a daughter standing on Mare Street, London being told her mother has taken her own life after a number of previous attempts. Lastly, as a young woman in her first ‘proper’ job working in a psychiatric unit dealing with patients finances, benefits and valuables. Although, those stories belong to others and are not mine to tell. During those years I knew a number of patients who took their own lives from diverse backgrounds, ages and reasons, gaining a greater insight. I saw each of them as an individual each with their own story and demons.

I don't have any answers nor do I have any profound academic conclusions to make. One thing I do know is the question ‘are you ok?’ can be vital. Until 1961 suicide was a criminal offence. An Anglican priest Chad Varah founded The Samaritans, to provide a non judgemental, confidential, listening ear from a room in his church, St Stephen Walbrook, London. He was the first person to give those who thought of ending their lives a safe place to say ‘no I am not ok’. The Samaritans in 2024 received 3.3million calls and has around 23,000 volunteers supporting the organisations.

My personal experiences are from two exceedingly different perspectives and writing a Substack cannot give you detailed explanations but hopefully help you think. The first my own attempt is relatively straightforward, my mother’s more complex. I am sure some of you will find my responses shocking. In my defence I am writing this from my personal viewpoint and not that of an objective observer.

As the 15 year old I believed my decision making was sound and logical, it was not a cry for help. I genuinely concluded those around me would be better off without me around. Obviously a lot of history and emotions sits behind that statement. I was extreme lucky and had an incredible psychiatrist/psychotherapist - an unusual combination at the time - who saw me as a human being not as a troubled, bad, attention seeking 15 year old. He gave me validation that my thoughts had deep seated roots. I will always be grateful to Dr Wolff, he literally saved my life. Even in my darkest times I know I will not stand in front of a mirror and come to the same conclusion as I did over 50 years ago.

My mother first attempted suicide when she returned from Hong Kong in 1979. I now know that she had experienced mental health issues all her life. As her daughter at the time all I knew was that my beloved, respected, cared for Mum had attempted to take her own life as I had 6 years earlier. Her second marriage had failed - he returned to Hong Kong, she had no home, and didn't want to go back to her very successful career in the legal world in Hong Kong. On the plus side she had two new granddaughters, both my sister and I had had babies who were about 5 months and 2 months at the time. I visited her in hospital daily and she came to live with us while she sorted her life out. I do believe she genuinely wanted to end her life at that point.

Over twenty years later I was standing on Mare Street, London, when I received a call from my husband John to say that Mother had finally ‘done it’. A loaded sentence. In the intervening years she became Mother, not Mum. Why was the statement ‘she had finally done it’ in addition to the later coroner’s verdict of ‘misadventure’, so loaded. I won't go into the details here, but the verdict and my ongoing relationship with Mother were moulded by her weaponising her later attempts against us. She would ring after she had taken pills. If we were not available she called an ambulance in a dramatic fashion.

Threats or attempted suicides as coercive control in partnership domestic violence are well recognised, for example, Beyond Co-Occurrence: The Interplay of Coercive Control Suicide and Homicide and a number of websites provide advice on how to deal with these situations such as When Your Partner Threatens Suicide, and an Australian study provides insights from a policing perspective. Hands up I haven't read the full article but I will Policing perpetrator suicide threats in family violence cases: competing priorities and contemporary challenges.

I recognise Mother used suicide threats as a form of coercive control eventually completely fracturing our relationship in the last five years of her life. I also understand she was very damaged by her upbringing. I doubt she ever enjoyed the benefits life afforded her - from her family and friends, to a successful career as a lawyer, and the admiration of others and her access to and ability to travel. She was incapable of developing meaningful lasting relationships with her family and in later years pushed all her friends away. Her inner critic worked overtime and her personality disorder, bipolar fought against her. Nonetheless, I do have empathy for her. However, as her daughter, the mother of her granddaughter and youngest sibling to a brother and sister, all of whom were damaged by her actions it is very hard to push the hard, jagged lump of anger, lying in my soul, into oblivion.

Clearly this post is a starting point for thought and written from a very personal perspective, but there are many things I have learnt including:

• It is not possible to nicely pigeon hole suicide into neat little boxes

• Listenting to people in a non judgemental way can validate emotions and help stop the downward spiral.

• Listening ears can come from many different places. Sometimes the ear won't even realise they have helped

• I wish I had known Dr Wolf before my own attempt.

• I will, personally, never judge those who feel suicidal for whatever reason nor will I judge their relatives.

• We can never know the full story, or the full emotions of others.

• ‘Are you ok?’ can make all the difference even if the question is not answered right away, it gives someone permission to be honest in the moment, days or even months. Whatever the time frame, it shows you care.

Helplines

Samaritans 116 123 free 24 hour helpline

Papyrus 0800 068 4141 free UK 24 hour helpline for under 35s

Young Minds provides support and resources for young people and their parents.

988lifeline USA 24 hour help line

Lifeline Australia 24 hour helpline

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Prompt

Think of your the one place that makes you feel safe. What do you sense warmth or cold? What can you smell? Maybe flowers, grass, the sea, rain in dry ground? What can you hear - wins, a baby gently breathing, children playing outside, a gentle breeze, the sea, nothing complete silence.

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If you enjoy my posts please do subscribe and share with others.

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What is it about tree stumps? This is the rotting remains of an apple tree in the communal garden. It is almost completely hollow, the wood worm are having parties, yet it produced apples until 2024. The summer heat and lack of water may have done for it finally in 2025, but we shall see if it springs into life this year. In the winter sunshine, frost and dusting of snow turned it into a beautiful sculpture. In the mist it can look menancing. In the summer, if a winter storm doesn't finally knock it over I'll get my painting head on.

Looking for inspiration to get my writing brain working again comes from strange places, such as this stump. I know I'm not saying anything most people already know. What I know about myself is that I have to take the time to really look at things like this tree stump, or listen to the birds, to benefit from the calmness. It may only 30 seconds, Humphrey is always close by wanting his ball thrown or hidden. Unfortunately the garden isn’t secure so I have to keep an eye on them. I promise myself time in the garden without either dog but those big, brown, doleful labrador eyes crack my willpower.

I realised it was getting late and hadn’t posted. I have a couple of more difficult topics planned that need time and thought. So this is a very short one.

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Prompt

Take 60 seconds to just watch a tree stump, cloud, the rain or listen to the birds, traffic, airplanes, digs breathing. How did you find it? Did you think of anything else? Or just think whats the old curmudgeon on about.

I am so grateful to everyone for reading and subscribing, it makes me feel like a real writer.

All my posts on Growing Old are free to all. Otherwise let’s be honest, who would read these eclectic eccentric rambles down the rabbit warren 🐇, fox 🦊 dens, badger 🦡 sets and otter 🦦 holts. If you enjoy my posts please do subscribe and share with others.

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The road is closed, yet again. Not a great start to get new working week for many, and a pain for me. If I want to go to the farm shop I now have to drive an extra 10 miles, ok 2 really, along a single track road with a dip in the middle full of water, which is now ice, before getting to the main road.

I can hear a collective sigh - ‘that whingeing southern English curmudgeon knows nothing’. Even in the UK there have been areas with a few feet of snow completely trapping people in their homes, closing schools, causing power outages etc. Our smattering of snow is not enough to be even that pretty and certainly won't close schools. However, the freezing cold is an issue for the exceedingly old infrastructure, hence the burst water main turning the main street into an ice rink. I felt sorry for the workers digging it up at 10 pm in -6 degree temperatures and the road is now closed.

So why the usual whinges and moans about the weather and blocked roads? The sudden blocked road, the hibernating - because of the cold got me thinking about how uncertain life has become in the space of a month. Today is the start of a new school term, people returning to normal work after the loooooong break, New Year resolutions have been made, and already broken - not mine I didn’t make any. I was determined to start my 2026 Substack on a positive note, a fresh start, yet everything seems uncertain, with the world on edge. On what edge I have absolutely no idea but it doesn't feel safe. Ok I'm nearing the end of my allotted time. However I do care what happens to my son in the future and to the younger members of my family.

Europe feels squashed between two powers, or is it tyrants, who are totally out of control, only interested in their own personal gratification regardless of the cost to others, or even their own people. How have we got to the point where one country takes control of another country in a matter of days, almost without question? I am not commenting on the power struggles within Venezuela and the rights and wrongs within their country, that is not for me to say. However it is something that has the potential to affect the future. The US and global populations are being thrown into unknown territory and the international rule books torn up. We have Denmark telling the US not to invade Greenland and the wife of an American politician stirring it up - Danish PM tells Trump to Stop Threats Against Greenland. What excuse can the US find for invading Greenland? The main reason appears to be greed from where I am sitting.

What impact will the way our ‘leaders’ behave have on the behaviour of others. Is it ok to see something and take it without question? Nobody knows what will happen in Venezuela and the impacts on South America, the Caribbean and further afield. I don't know the answers but it worries me that we are in danger of losing of sense of right and wrong. The me, me, me society only helps the few, the powerful, the rich, the unscrupulous, including the drug cartels this latest move is supposed to eradicate. I don't want to go on a rant and I won’t. Can we start clawing, empathy, community, friendship, respect, care and patience back or are we headed for a precipice we cannot recover from? I strongly believe we can, but it could be a very long hard journey.

I will not be beaten nor will I give up in my belief of the essence of respect, integrity and goodness within people. However it is not always easy. I will leave you with Eric Idle.

I remember seeing this film at the Wood Green Odeon with John, the supporting film was Away From it All with John Cleese’s list of what the Romans have done for us. It's only 13 minutes and worth a watch until then end.

Copyright is Monty Python but they appear not to have continued it according to Jules Dingle Studio on YouTube.

Apologies for the rather sombre post but it got to me this morning. I am now going to watch ‘Away From It All’, remember my youth and may even invite the rabbits 🐇 in out of the cold….. Maybe not the house would not survive the chaos.

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Prompt

What would you like to see change on a macro and micro level and why over the next year or decade? You can take those words to mean anything.

I am so grateful to everyone for reading and subscribing, it makes me feel like a real writer.

All my posts on Growing Old are free to all. Otherwise let’s be honest, who would read these eclectic eccentric rambles down the rabbit warren 🐇, fox 🦊 dens, badger 🦡 sets and otter 🦦 holts. If you enjoy my posts please do subscribe and share with others.

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