For the love of lists.

In recent months, I have come to realise, that my life, in all its simplicities and complexities, is held together by one thing, and one thing only –

- the list.

Yes, … the humble, unassuming, and yet, all-powerful ‘list.’

Whilst I am becoming increasingly worried about this phenomenon, this lowly prop at the same time, strangely comforts me.  And, I admit, it is exactly that - a prop that forms the scaffolding to support the otherwise fluffy and frankly flummoxed furore that resides unchallenged inside my head.    Unchallenged, that is, until along came the list.

So there we have it.  My weapon of choice - my armour against anarchy - the list! 

This, for me, ensures that order conquers chaos.

I am very fussy about my disorder.  It must be orderly.  I insist that my pandemonium is arranged in little boxes that are labelled and opened as determined by my list.   Then, hey presto, job done!  No chaos!

Some people can exist quite happily amongst the commotion that results from a world without lists – these people, who function without a framework of orderliness are to be admired, pitied, or, I have to say, even envied.    These people find themselves in Tesco four times a day because they don’t have a list.  And so it will take four trips to buy enough food to make the tea.  But incongruously, despite this ridiculous flirtation with supermarkets, these mysterious people believe that they don’t want or even need a list.   And, furthermore – they actually do not care!

You will have guessed by now that I am not one of the above.  However, I am not a total slave to the list.  Being a ‘with-it-woman-of-the-moment’ my day must obviously start with a quick scan of Facebook, seamlessly followed by the ritual consultation of ‘the list’.  And then my day can begin.

A number of you will by now be thinking that I really should seek some sort of therapy.  Perhaps you are right.  Indeed, perhaps there is no doubting it when my list starts with:  ‘Wake up’, ‘Get Up’, ‘Consult list’, or even worse:

“Make a list”

Yes, it’s a worry!

Having said that, the unpretentious list is one of life’s most effective coping mechanisms.  Not only does it give us order, it makes us question what’s important in our lives and forces us to prioritise.  It gives us purpose and direction and it can give us hope and determination.   You don’t have to read many bucket lists to see how powerful a list can be. 

Simply put, if you haven’t got a list of things to do then the chances are you will never actually do it.

And not only that, with a list, you can get all you need for tea in one trip to Tesco!

Lists, of course, take many forms.  There are the timeless scribbled lists on the kitchen board or calendar reminding you to get the bread, milk, butter, sugar … wine….

And there are now countless mind-boggling list-Apps for your devices to bring your list-making bang up to date.

But I am not a fan of the App. 

I like to write my list on paper – with a favourite pen.  I like to feel it, smell it, look at it far more often than is healthy, tuck it in my pocket or see it sticking tauntingly out of my handbag and then ….

… tick it off!

Oh the joy!

Deleting an item on an App just doesn’t have the same effect as that most satisfying ‘tick’! 

Done that.  Achieved.  I am a superstar!

So, I will continue to make my lists.  I will keep trying to impose order on my life and on those around me by having written something down that has to be done. 

Because it’s important.  It matters.

For me, when it comes to lists, the only thing sadder than not having a list is having nothing at all to write on it.    

The Manfreds .... Oh Mann! ....

Move over Cliff, the undisputed Peter Pan of Pop is definitely Paul Jones. 

At a mere 73 years old,  Paul Jones is touring non-stop with the Manfreds; the Blues Band and Dave Kelly. 

Added to that, he’s recording solo albums along the way and also hosts a show on Radio 2 on Monday nights, just in case he’s bored.

He quite possibly does lots more than this but, I’m sorry, this is all I’m aware of.

But more importantly – he looks fabulous!

Playing gooseberry – as, sadly, I now tend to do, – I recently accompanied Paula and Tom, and our hostess Andrea, to a Manfred’s gig in Burnley.

It was worth every penny of the twenty quid for the ticket.  It was worth the twenty quid just to hear their rendition of 5,4,3,2,1!

This was followed by many more hits from the 60s: Pretty Flamingo, Do Wah Diddy, Diddy; Hubble Bubble; If you Gotta Go, Go now; Sha La La; The Mighty Quinn… and so many many more….

And there was the amazing Tom McGuinness, looking every inch the grinning Capo-di-Monte-, not about to disappoint the audience with his fabulous and timeless ‘When I’m Dead and Gone….! 

So, the combined age of the band was quite possibly in the region of 230  or maybe 250 years old, and they have been singing these songs for at least 50 years and quite possibly much longer.

The audience, not surprisingly, was more than a little crinkly and made the band look positively juvenile.  Being a mere slip-of-a-lass in my late fifties I was compelled to get off my seat and dance in the aisles.  I was accompanied by my sister Paula and friend Andrea, but sadly, not another soul felt the compulsion to leap from their seat and prance about like a bit of a prat at the front of the house.  I wonder if this is because they had not consumed quite as much Pinot? 

Maybe….

But it seems rude to me to merely sit there tapping a lame foot.  I mean … these guys are trying….!  And they are old!

Anyway, after the show, the relatively young saxophonist thanked me for my dancing efforts as he signed my programme.  ‘Oh I hope I wasn’t embarrassing,” I said,  ‘nobody else got up.’

‘No,’ he said, ‘I don’t think they could.’

Oh dear!

Well, bit of a prat or not, we had a fabulous time! 

But this was not the end of it.   Our delightful hostess had surpassed herself in  her thoughtful preparation and planned a trip the following day to the quaint little town of Clitheroe.  A town where the residents are expected to have wealth, and whose shops and restaurants are designed to strip it from them.  Okay, the place makes room for the obligatory charity shops, but, as Tom said, even the vagabonds in Clitheroe are stylish!

The town hosts the most amazing wine shop in the world, but, and I know this is hard to believe, I didn’t buy a single bottle!.

Andrea, rather nervously took us to our designated lunch venue.  I say nervously, because she has heard how tetchy I can be when it comes to lunch venues. (See previous blog!)

We found ourselves in the Emporium, where, I am told, everything is for sale. -  even the table you are seated around and the seat you are sat upon.  I understand people have had their table removed before they have finished their soup in order to accommodate the whim of an impatient buyer!  Thankfully, we were spared this intrusion and we finished our lunch in peace.

              

So thank you Andrea for a fabulous weekend and, if I’m not mistaken, the next lucky fella to see us strutting our stuff will be in Scarborough and no other than the stupendous Sir Tom Jones!

Bring it on!

Is it me...?

I’m finally coming round to accepting that I must have a problem.  Not drink – that goes without saying – but another, irritating little personality flaw that is threatening to ruin all my social activities and render them fraught with frustration.

I believe I am not alone.   Many of us, to some degree, suffer from this condition.  Perhaps even you.

Nigel once bought a book in an airport entitled: “Is it me, or is everything shit?”  If that title conjures up a smile, or prompts an understanding nod, then, I’m sorry to say that there is every chance you are already amongst the afflicted.

 

I’d like to think, like all grumpy old men and women, that my particular malady is age-related, but, not so.  I’ve always been this way.  However, it would appear that my disorder surfaces primarily in environments where people gather to eat and drink.

I have long since abandoned the good old cafe as a potential mid-morning meeting spot.  A quick cuppa and a snack in a café never quite did it for me.  There was always something …

… tea too strong, or not strong enough; leaky tea pot; coffee too cold; cup too fat; too much butter on the teacake; not enough butter on the teacake; chairs too hard; too many pushchairs, too many kids; too many grown ups – in fact, too many people!   Yes, I realise that to go to public places and be perturbed the presence of the public might suggest a problem.  

Pubs are off the list too – for eating at least.  (They’re okay for drinking – strangely, I don’t find that at all annoying!)   Bad pictures of food on sticky plastic menus sporting a splodge of hard-baked tomato ketchup just don’t make me feel hungry.  Added to that, if you manage to find a table away from the mind-popping fruit machines, then you are likely to be seated in sight of one of a dozen TVs with god knows who blaring out god knows what.  Or, they could always have the football on!

Anyway, I now opt for the relative serenity of Scarborough’s hotels for my brunch and lunch meets.   But, not surprisingly, given my condition, these trips are not without tension.  Apart from the obligatory presence of a gigantic TV in even the best hotels, there is one particular hotel that has everything going for it:  luxurious and cosy settees arranged in friendly groupings; an inexpensive, leather-bound menu; welcoming and polite staff; easy-listening music that remains in the background unless you’re stupid enough to sit right under the speaker.  (Yes, I have.)  Perfect.  You would think.

But, for some reason, they house the lectern where they file their knives and forks right there in the cosy, quiet, relaxing lounge.  And once our order has been placed and we are trapped, one of those welcoming and polite members of staff feels compelled to inspect every forking knife, fork and spoon the hotel possesses, flinging them back in their receptacle with a flourish, from as far away as possible, pausing only to grab entire handfuls to give them a thoroughly noisy rattling.    Why?

Could it be to see how long it takes for my irritation to turn the milk in my latte sour?  Or, perhaps to encourage me to sod off home?

Well, their encouragement generally works.  And apart from that, the food is remarkably average.

Another hotel, with all the attributes of the former, has its very own Mrs Overall, whose particular compulsion is to bring out her beloved Henry as soon as we are seated, and, despite the extremely large and deserted lounge, focuses her energetic vacuuming entirely around our table.  Why?

It’s not that I actively pursue perfection.  Not at all.   I certainly don’t expect it.  But on the rare occasions when I do encounter it – my outpourings of gratitude border on the positively nauseous.

In spite of the countless imperfections I encounter, I rarely complain.  I’m English after all.  I just sit there, disappointed.

I have though, with age, become more confident in asserting my will.  So, when entering a restaurant and the waiter takes me to a table and says, ‘Is this table okay?’  I often find myself responding, ‘Well, actually, no, it’s not.’  The reasons for this are numerous.  It might be too near the door, or a draught, too close to the man with the very loud voice, too near the open kitchen, too near the loo … and so it goes on …

I have wondered that maybe I should do everybody a favour and stay at home, just give up on the whole thing.  But no.  That would be quitting. 

Still, accepting that it is utterly impossible for any establishment to get a tea or a coffee just right, I will be rescheduling my brunch meetings in favour of lunch, which means we can go straight for the wine.  I mean, you can’t get a glass of Pinot wrong can you?

Well …  I suppose the glass might have lipstick on it, or the wine not sufficiently chilled, or…

Oh dear ... I think it is me!

Dan the Man and poor Mary Ann ...

Fiddling around in my family tree on an otherwise dull Friday afternoon, I came upon a set of my great-great grandparents - Daniel and Mary Ann McLenahan.  Something had brought them from their native Ireland, either together or separately, to settle in Fleetwood, where I assume they were married in 1860.  This assumption is based on the arrival of their first child in 1861.  I’m also guessing they were Catholic.  This less-of-a-guess is based on eleven more bundles of joy bursting onto the scene every eighteen months or so for the next twenty-one years!

12 kids!

I realise that oodles of kids in those days was not unusual, but all other unions amongst my ancestors – even an Irish/Spanish pairing – called it quits at eight.

So, can we place responsibility for this huge family at Catholicism’s alter?  I wonder?   

Perhaps Daniel McLenahan was a pious, sensitive man?   Perhaps he came home from work, gathered his loving and ever-growing family around the table for some nourishing broth, shared a few bible stories and indulged in a spot of hymn singing, while the beautiful and blooming Mary Ann sat busily knitting bootees for gift from God number ten … and eleven … and twelve?  And when all the little ones were tucked up – top and tail - four in a bed, Daniel would reach beneath the sheets for Mary Ann and whisper … “It’s God’s will…”

Or … perhaps not.

As they say in all good detective stories – this doesn’t quite fit the profile.

Daniel McLenahan was a pattern maker in a foundry – a skilled craftsman, a grafter.   Two of his sons were iron moulders – most likely at the same foundry.  He would probably leave for work at dawn, his boots clattering over the cobbles of Fleetwood’s streets.  He would most likely work a twelve-hour shift and then, sweaty and knackered, head for …

… the pub!

“I’ll just give Mary Ann time to get the little ones to bed,” he might have thought, as he downed his first pint.   “Well, the wailers at least.  I mean, six kids under twelve can try the patience of any man.”  Being the considerate type, he would doubtless stay in the pub long enough for Mary Ann to shift the wall of steaming washing from around the fire so he can warm his feet when he gets in, give her chance to rid the house of the stink of mucky nappies.   Get his tea ready.  Tidy up.

Considerate.

And then, more than a few pints later he’d get home, slap a couple of kids round the back of the head, chuck his burnt broth at the wall, and perform his nightly ritual with poor Mary Ann.

Or … perhaps not.   

But there must have been a time when Mary Ann gave up on mourning her lost waistline.  Too tired to care about what was left of her swollen body, scarred with livid, purple stretch-marks, there would have been a point when she let it go straight to hell.  She might even have imagined that if she didn’t bother with how she looked, Daniel might just leave her alone.

For years she might have been too damn tired to find joy in any one of those twelve bundles and when her exhausted body finally gave in, at the age of sixty-four, she might have thanked God, with her final breath, that at last, it was all over.

Or…

They might have been two people doing the best they could.  Just getting on with it, like people did.  They may very well have loved each other completely, and every one of their twelve children may have brought them bucket-loads of joy.  The iron men and women of the McLenahan clan might simply have been hard working, law-abiding, god-fearing, ordinary folk.

Who knows?

But whatever the real story, the widowed Daniel moved in with his other Mary Ann, one of his seven daughters.  For the next fifteen years before his death, at the age of eighty-eight, he just might have been nursing a broken heart.

Quite the man, Dan.