Grumpy and me

All this fuss and to do about selecting and getting THE school place. Unless the Kray twins relatives attend the alternative school on offer. In which case appeal. Quick.

You get to old age, get ever so slightly potty, or frail, and Bob’s your uncle, Fanny’s your aunt, and you are living in a old folks home, smelling of cabbage and fish for goodness sake.

The young generation regard you with pity or horror, and the older generation, eerrmmm, there is no older generation. Tag. You are it.

Nobody worried which school you went to. The one nearest your house. Take it or leave it. And share the classroom with forty or so other slightly grubby children. And nits. No snacks. Warm milk. No after school clubs. Most of us went home to mum. Or a key on string through the letter box.

Turn up your nose at your tea? Have a huff, or a hint of a stomp? You got a cuff and sent to bed.

Janet and John came home with you in your satchel.

Summer lasted five months. It snowed in winter.

Christmas was fantastic. You got an orange. No Advent calendar stuffed with chocolate. But if you had a couple of wire coat hangers, four candles and some flammable tinsel you could watch Blue Peter, and knock up a pretty awful Advent Calendar with REAL candles. Just remember not to hang it too close to the paper chains strung across the ceiling.

We had buses.

Black and White T.V.

Crisps with blue salt sachets.

We had fish and chip shops.

Bottled water meant your mum was having a pregnancy check.

We actually got votes in the Eurovision Song Contest. The only thing called Beki and Stan were people, not strange countries in Europe.

We ate Vesta Chow Mein on Saturday watching Dr Who. With Daleks that had toilet plungers for exterminations.

And we were the lucky generation.

We missed the war. We missed technology. We missed everybody having a damn opinion.

We had patience.

We had happiness.

We didn’t have to fret about social media.

We didn’t even mind if our bums DID look big in what we were wearing.

So yummy mummy, stop fretting. Stop looking at your phone. Stop letting your kiddies have it all. Start enjoying what you have. Because in the blink of an eye, it will be you sitting in a  chair by the window, wondering how you can smell cabbage when it hasn’t been on the menu for three months.

Que Sera Sera