Will you make a big splash, or one that nobody even notices?
Will you remember on the way down that you can't actually swim very well?
Will the water be cold, tepid or warm?
Will that hunky lifeguard be there, waiting with open arms?
Get a grip, Grandma. It;s only a blog.
I always told myself that when I finally became - it's hard to say this - old - I would not turn into an old crone. Some things are unavoidable - cataracts, skirts and pants with elastic waistbands, shoes with Velcro fastenings, losing things, text that has unaccountably become fainter and smaller than it used to be. Some amazing people seem to keep their shapes and their looks far longer than Nature intended, but the day comes when everything crumbles and collapses at once and you realise that it is probably better to let things change gradually.
Ever since my hair gradually became a rather fetching shade of white, I have loved the colour purple - as you can see.
And the following poem just about sums up my feelings on ageing outrageously -
This lovely poem was written in 1961 by Jenny Joseph. I haven't yet learned to spit, but I have embarrassed my daughter often enough by singing along to the Muzak in supermarkets and department stores...
16th December 2011