Can someone please explain to me what happened to lightbulbs. When did we go from having cheap incandescent bulbs that fuelled our winter-nights with light to read by, to mercury-filled, evil planet-polluting $6 spotlights which, while they are supposed to last several times longer, don’t?

I ask because yet another bulb plinked out of existence in the bathroom, and plunged me into semi-darkness as I … eh, well, you don’t need to know what I was doing.

That’s the third bulb this month, which seems a little excessive to me for supposedly super bulbs. Seriously, this is getting out of hand. I might have to take out a Bank Draft just to keep up with the exorbitant cost of buying the damn things.

I think I need to write a letter of disgruntled complaint to our Prime Minister.

Dear Mister Trudeau … no, wait, he’s the PM, I have to get the opening salutation right. Dear Expletive …

Okay, forget the disgruntled letter.

Even if I could find a shop selling good old fashioned lightbulbs that have long since been discontinued. I have nowhere and no way in which to use them, given I live in a rental apartment—It’s spotlight madness in here; every room is fitted out as if I’m living in a Car Dealership showroom. I think they can see me from the Space Station at night!

What’s a person to do?

Please, send candles … lots of candles! Yeah, candles, that’ll work … won’t it?

I don’t know about you, but I have a terrible habit. One I’ve had since I was knee high to the proverbial grasshopper. I name things. And who doesn’t, right?

I mean, I name just about everything. What started with teddy bears and the like, moved to other things growing up till I hit adulthood and then? It moved from favourite childhood toys to grown-ups toys, namely, phones, fridges, cars. You know what I mean. Go on, you do it too, don’t blush. We all do it to a certain extent.

Phones have become the most inventive of the nomenclature I’ve started and has been wildly fun over the years. What started simply as Mister Beep, my first phone, moved swiftly to Noisy Parker, and then, my first flip phone—and oh how I loved that Nokia phone and that feeling I had just arrived on the set of Star Trek!

Mr. Sulu was soon replaced alas and I don’t remember by what or what I called it.

But then? Then came Apple. Oh, you glorious super sleek looking iPhone 4 with your beautiful aluminium body and comfortable feel in my hand. I loved you long and hard, my dear Lady Penelope, and carried all my music on you to listen to anywhere any time. You went well with my original iWatch, Dick Tracy. I had you up until not a month ago when suddenly, overnight, in your charging cradle, you sadly passed away quietly in your slumber, busting you case. A fatal battery failure.

I loved Gooseberry (5c) the compact little fellow who was my primary phone till, that is, we upgraded yet again to the iPhone 11 an ugly, heavy, brick which I referred to as, The Rock. Which itself was soon replaced by the more lightweight, agile iPhone 12 mini. And oh how I now lament the loss of Mr. Midnight, you faithful old friend. You fit in my hand much like the 5C before you and were as comfortable to use and carry, as said Gooseberry.

Why I ever let myself be talked into upgrading again to the iPhone 14 pro I will never know. The $200 trade-in? Maybe. The better class of camera? Maybe. At least the pro is not as heavy or as cumbersome as the iPhone 11. And yes, Mr. Plum does have better storage and capabilities, but still … still I mourn you my sweet Mister Midnight.

Maybe, maybe I need to just accept Mr. Plum didn’t do it in the library, with the candlestick, to Mrs. White … but who knows. I’m still a weird kid at heart. And you?

I have a mammogram every other year

Post menopause, and past having kids, I hope, I still go regularly for my pap smears and mammogram, but now, I do them every couple of years (as recommended). Believe me, Ladies, this is not something you should skip, ever.

I go to bed early

As in, I mean, by 10:30 pm every night. Nothing to do with a pandemic and everything being closed, and more to do with a change in life-style choices and, as I’m not as young as I once was, I no longer want to go out late at night. Doesn’t matter if I’m reading a good book, I’m in bed by 10:30.

Tax returns are a breeze

No, really. After doing them for, well, too many decades, it’s become almost rote. And, after all, now you can upload software, go through it step by step, and, of course being semi-retired, it really is easier to do at this age than in years gone by. Thank god for getting older.

I have savings

Yes, thank you pandemic. I no longer go outside, or shop (even online) so guess what? That every day latte, or lunch out money is now resting in a high interest savings account and accruing me enough for, I hope, another holiday in Europe. Or, at the very least, a small nest egg and financial buffer for future things to come.

My bank is a Co-op

Yes, I own part of my own bank. Well, I’m a paid up member and can buy shares, if I want. I can even participate in elections for said bank. The advantages are numerous with this arrangement, but also, like any bank, it can have its downside. Usually fees.

I’m old enough to not give a fuck

Yep, you bet I no longer give a nickel what most strangers think. I’m living my own life, my way without hurting anyone else. And if how I live my life offends you in any way, then you’re the problem not me.

I haggle

And you should too. Being my age though probably has its advantages. When I bought the new bed I haggled with the salesman about pricing and then, got quite a substantial discount. I think I wore him down and he just wanted to get rid of me. I did the same thing buying a series of carpets. I was buying several for the new apartment, so yes, I wanted to get the best price possible.

And yes, I complain

If I’m paying for something, I have a certain set of expectations, especially with equipment like white goods for the house. And if they fail to meet expectations—like not lasting past 3 years for example—you bet I’ll complain and demand to know why or ask for a replacement.

And you, do you Adult with the best of them?

I was reading Robert Birming’s post, Letting Go, this morning and had a rush of childhood memories and a little pang, and a sense of loss at all things I had to let go of, as a child in a military family. Any kid who’s grown up in the same situation, whatever the military: army, navy, airforce, will know what I’m about to tell you. That, as a kid, you learn very early on in that life how to let go. And how not to bawl your eyes out when your mother tells you in no uncertain terms, ‘no, you can’t take Charlie with you on the plane.’

Charlie being a three foot high stuffed toy chimpanzee, dressed in red shorts and yellow top who was my constant companion for two years. I remember fondly dragging him everywhere with me, and insisting he go with me even to the bathroom when I needed to pee. Even if he were heavier and bigger than I was at the time and probably needed adult help to be carried.

But when I was told at the tender age of 4 that Charlie was going to a new home and wouldn’t be coming with us, yes, I bawled my eyes out and was inconsolable for anywhere between 2 hours and 2 weeks. At that age time had no meaning to me and yes, it could well have been 2 minutes for all I knew. It was at this young impressionable age that I learnt the hard lesson of what it was to be a military brat, and that letting go was going to be a really BIG part of my life for the next 10 years.

I got so that I learnt from my older siblings—only be attached to items that could safely be hidden about my person, in a deep pocket, a coat pocket, or a pair of rolled up socks in my suitcase. Items small enough to not make my mother’s keen notice. And certainly nothing as BIG as Charlie that might need its own seat on the plane; something that was definitely not happening, ever!

It was my sister who gave me the best advice, older and wiser than I. She whispered to me to ask my mother one day, when we were all out at a street market, for a little over the shoulder purse. And thus was born my way of hiding even more childish treasure.

Even now, as an adult, I am capable of walking away from just about everything I own without looking back, carrying with me only what I can fit in my pocket, or my bag. And you?

Me and mine have been watching a lot of the Para Olympics, something I haven’t really done in previous years (for whatever reason, I don’t know). I mean, I’ve watched some in previous years but the coverage was never as good as it’s been this time around. As a consequence, we’ve tuned in of an evening and sat glued to the screen as competitors have show true grit, determination, and courage in their chosen events. Where these amazing people have competed in everything from archery to goalball (a new sport to me) to basketball and ping pong (sorry, it will always be ping pong to me) through to truly heroic swims in the pool, and equally amazing feats out on the athletics field.

We’ve been floored and humbled and will never again say we can’t do something. Because, quite clearly, there are any number of ways to overcome physical and mental adversity to challenge ourselves to do more, be more, and achieve more even when we think we can’t.

I know from here on in I won’t miss watching these para athletes again, given the opportunity. They truly are an inspiration.

Taking my cue from Lou Plummer’s post today, I Am Not Proud, and talking about what I take pride in. And it isn’t necessarily my appearance in the way some do. I am happy to wear comfortable clothes, have never done fashion (*sorry folks, I just have the wrong body shape*) and am not interested in following the latest trends. Believe me, you don’t want to see me in a crop top, lycra, spandex or a bikini. I’m not interest in competing with anyone either, whether that’s in dress, debate, or otherwise. I’m so over dealing with fools and idiots. Especially in today’s polarising climate where everyone feels the need to be extreme in their views.

I simply don’t have the time, energy or care to get into with anyone these days. What little time I have left I want to spend with people who care as passionately about nature and the world we live in, more than political parties, overblown personalities, and the latest thing as prescribed by some dumbass online influencer.

My life just doesn’t revolve around inane asinine people. It never has. Even as a kid growing up. And that’s probably due to the era I come from and being a military brat hauled from one posting to another with my parents. Parents who set my morel compass for me long before I knew what one was or what it was for.

What I take pride in are the little acts of kindness I can do for others, on any given day. Whether it’s a kind word to a stranger, or someone I know online. I think this is why I love the people over on Mastodon so much, as Lou says, we’re here for the kindness of the community. It’s all about taking pride in adding to that diversity.

Bang … bang … BANG!

It started just before 10 am and hasn’t stopped since. I thought, at first, dopy sod that I am, “who’s setting off fireworks in the middle of the day?” especially as it’s peeing down out there (again). But as the banging continued I began to realise it probably wasn’t fireworks in the rain, but something else. And, taking a break from writing, made myself a brew and went out onto the balcony to listen.

Turns out not two blocks from here there’s a worksite in full swing with two maybe more, pile-drivers pounding away at the foundations for a new building. And that’s what I’m hearing. Well, the echoes from them bouncing off all the surrounding buildings. Throw in the constant Beep Beep Beep of onsite vehicles backing up and, you have a cacophony of noise that has become annoying to the Nth degree.

I can only hope that at noon they’ll break for lunch and give the neighbourhood a much needed break. But then again, it’s Wednesday, it’s bin day and at 1 pm almost to the second a dump truck is going to turn up and empty several large containers at the back of our complex. Oh joy of joys …

Damn but we live in a noisy world. I need some noise-cancelling headphones.

It’s the fourth day in a row that the rain is steadily falling from a slate grey sky, and I’m tripping down memory lane remembering how my parents, my mother in particular, use to keep us—us being six kids—occupied during rainy days at home. Not that all six kids were together all that often. The older ones I always remember being at school or at friends houses, while me and my two younger brothers (*the second batch as my father referred to us*) were more likely to be together. There was a considerable age difference between the oldest, my sister, and the youngest, my brother, by 15 years.

On those odd weekends when we were all at home, and because of and despite the rain, my father would take us like a herd of sheep, and walk us to the library. A favourite place to wile away 2 or 3 hours on a Saturday morning, and a way of keeping us occupied reading or, at the very least, listening to story time. My dad got a break and could read, pick up several fat books to take home, and also, give my mother a few precious hours to herself to do, well, whatever she did.

On other rainy days, when it was just us three little ones, I remember my mother getting us involved doing jigsaw puzzles, or quietly reading, while she herself read. Or sometimes, building sheet forts under the dining room table, with old sheets, curtains, and cushions. The best time of all was when she read to us, her lilting Scottish brogue lulling us to mute listeners as she created characters out of sound. The sound of her voice something I thought would always be with me, forever.

Even now I can almost hear her reading us Winnie the Pooh, or Alice in Wonderland, for the millionth time.

It’s funny how a rainy day can bring back so many happy childhood memories and bring a simple joy into my heart. I’m also forever thankful to my parents for giving me such a love of reading.

Now, if you will excuse me, I just might go and read J. M. Barry’s Peter Pan or Lewis Carroll’s Alice Through The Looking Glass one more time.