Apologies for the lack of updates over the last couple of months. It’s been a crazy busy time around here but I’m mostly still treading water. We’re all a little stressed – and that’s a trigger for worsening poor Lucy’s schizophrenia
The basics are
Samantha has been offered a new job at the other end of the country. After much discussion, she’s accepted it and we’re moving next month down to Cardiff.
Unfortunately, and making packing and moving much harder than anticipated, Samantha has broken her leg. One of the most terrifying phonecalls a man can recieve is one from the hospital saying his wife’s been in an accident. She tripped and fell down the stairs at work, gave herself mild concussion, a couple of cracked ribs and a displaced fracture of her right leg. She’s been struggling post-operation on her leg, groggy with painkillers and looking for something to do other than watch TV and read – she’s a very active woman and being mostly immobile isn’t working for her. I’ve been spending a lot of time with her, keeping her company
I’m hoping to get caught up reading your posts over the next couple of days or so. Things are getting easier now we’re finding our current rhythm around the house.
The internet, blogging spaces especially, make me feel like a dirty old man. We’re going to completely ignore the fact that I am a dirty old man and focus on how young everyone else online seems to be.
I come across random blogs, start reading only to realise that the writer is in their 20s or 30s. I’ve joined interest groups on Dreamwidth and all the posts seem to be from younger ladies. I feel hesitant to start a conversation, to request to add them because I don’t know how they’d feel about a… (and I use the term loosely) more mature man reading their posts.
I try to imagine how I would feel if the situation was reversed; if I were that age and found out that someone old enough to be my father were wanting to read my blog. I think I’d feel quite awkward. I doubt I’d be interested in reading what they had to say.
Do I necessarily feel comfortable reading posts by someone young enough to be my son – if not younger than him. Am I opening myself up for completely inaccurate accusations of inappropriateness?
I did an interest search for over 60s but it was unsuccessful. I did a google search for ‘over 60s blogs’ and learned a hell of a lot about how to dress as a woman over 60 which I’m sure would be really useful were I of the female persuasion. I offered to send the links to an amused Samantha* and she shot me a look that would make a lesser person drop down dead.
Then again, does age really matter? Isn’t this whole thing about getting to meet people that I wouldn’t normally meet. Doesn’t science-fiction etc transcend barriers of age, gender, race, sexuality etc.
Or is my son right and I am ‘too old’ for this?
* Samantha is still many years from 60
The only problem with losing a substantial amount of weight is that things like my clothes no longer fit. Walking around with ones jeans sliding down is generally seen as A Bad Thing, so Samantha and Lucy decied this afternoon to take me clothes shopping.
Can I just say that this is my idea of HELL.
I would rather spend an afternoon locked in a room with my ex-wife.
I’d rather jump behind enemy lines in an active warzone.
Getting dragged from shop to shop to shop. Try this on, try that on, give us a twirl. The girls treatng me like a toy or a piece of meat. Lather, rinse repeat. Yes, I got some nice new clothes out of it. New jeans, new trousers, new shirts and t-shirts. A new suit for a faculty function that Samantha & I are attending next month. But really whats wrong with going to one shop, why do we have to do it over and over, try everything on. And then go back through to all the same shops to buy the things they’ve decided on?
Maybe it’s a woman thing.
I’m ashamed to admit I got very frustrated with the process, starting acting a little bit like an over-tired toddler, lost my temper and snapped at the girls. To say Samantha was disappointed would be an understatement of earth-shattering proportions. When we got home, there was a full on lecture on appreciating what she was doing for me and how to act in public. There was also a very painful caning, a ‘time out’ spent standing in the corner and, as if that wasn’t enough, no sex for the rest of the month – no masturbation, no orgasm. Nothing.
My own fault, admittedly, and I don’t think I’m going to be sitting down for a while either!