40 Somethings

Well I’ve nearly made it through the first year of my forties, a time when life supposedly begins.

I’ve read a lot lately on various forums that I subscribe to about this decade of your life being absolutely dreadful, with ‘supporting evidence’ along the lines of: 

 

You can’t run uphill anymore

 

Your body stops working

 

More people you know start to die than get married or have children

 

Your children shout at you because they will be older than babies and probably) younger than 20

 

If you don't have children you may have resent or regret

You’ve had a mid-life crisis, or are expecting one soon

 

Injuries take an age to heal – if ever…

You have to watch your weight and take more medication

You go grey, or bald – or both

Everyone shouts at you

 

You piss people off all the time

 

You miss Downton Abbey

You've either taken on too much at work in a bid to keep up, or you're

stuck in a dead end employment

You worry about your health, your aging parents’ health and your children’s health, all in the same conversation

You might have enough money to treat all this stress with red wine or beer but, if you do, you will put on 5 stone just opening the bottle

You’re a narcissist and neurotic at the same time

 

So some of the above is funny, some is rubbish, and maybe just some of it is concerning.

I also did a Google search for ’40 Somethings’ which for some reason by and large elicited Jennifer Aniston.



Rachel - She'll always be there for you



It’s all very personalised though isn’t it?

 

I recall having a wobble of sorts just after I turned 30, believing nobody loved me and that I’d lost my salad days forever etc. (total rubbish of course) – yet 10 years later, having passed 40, I had no thoughts of a similar ilk, and found that I simply encountered a different set of life issues instead. Such as anti-depressants, and taking dare into my stride by hoying myself out of plane for charrriiiidddeeeee, which was incredibly amazing, but it does sound equally incredibly insane.

The medication wasn’t (isn’t) for depression so to speak, but for anxiety, which I still don’t understand fully, but I think it helps take the edge off for me in these times. It means I shout less, and panic less, and this is definitely progress. The doctor described it as "life in the 21st Century"

 

Tiredness is the killer for me – which will make Mrs Berrylogs laugh and frown in equal measure as she feels I get more lie ins than her (I do).

The juggle of working, being a dad to three at key stages in their own lives (17, 13, 4), maintaining a hopefully healthy marriage and striving to keep a social life going does take it out of you … and after that there’s still the vacuuming and ironing to do!

 

Football used to be my anti-depressant medication, but the older I’ve got, the more I’ve come to accept that the beautiful game is largely just about luck, and therefore I’m now content not to hit the stress / destress levels with quite the same anger as might have been the case in the past. Football is still good escapism, but I don’t find myself having my nights ruined just because the Albion lost anymore. This is also a good thing! It doesn’t mean I enjoy football any less, it just means I’m less likely to have a heart attack on a stadium concourse over it. Touch wood.

 

What does annoy me on a daily basis though, is eating. I love the food I love (who doesn’t?) but find it doesn’t love me back as much. What a bitch eh!?

Not sure how I help things regarding this as my limited food range hinders major changes to my diet. And I could never ever give up salt & vinegar crisps (I'd sooner give up chocolate.)

 

My drinking habits haven’t changed much in 20 odd years now, but one day that may catch up with me. Never had a hangover yet though and hopefully never will, so long may that continue. Still laughing at the outright anger I encountered a few weeks ago when someone refused to accept this as fact. I could only put their response down to jealousy.

Either that or they thought I was lying?

 

Am I grumpier, now I’m older? Yes probably, but don’t begrudge 40 Somethings that – they often delight in being a grump!

 

Socially it’s actually pretty tasty as things stand. Regular gatherings of various kinds keep that fun ticking along.

Do I miss the old days of pubbing and clubbing? (See previous blog November 1993 !)

I don’t so much desire to do it now, but I enjoy reliving and reviving the past on occasion. At a friend’s recent 40^th birthday party, where some lifelong friends rolled back 20 years and had a great night, one said to me that they"missed nights like these", but I believe everyone and everything has their time... that said, there’s no reason to stop enjoying it just because we’re twice as old. In all honesty I don’t feel much differently to how I felt 20 years ago anyway, though my body might sometimes disagree.

 

The truth of it all is that I feel very lucky, and very happy where I am at the moment. Things could always be worse, and this is sadly very true for some people I know. Compared to some, I have nothing worth complaining about.

 

Going back to an earlier point in this post, it is true that a sadly regular flow of people I grew up with have passed away, whereas before the age of 38, I think I went well over 10 years in not experiencing any kind of loss. At the rate of one a year since then, it only adds resolve to want to enjoy life while you can, and ride over the aggravation that pops up on occasion.

 

Relax if you can and chill in your 40s – you might find you enjoy them after all!

Breaking Up Is Hard To Do – Part 2

So Part 1 looked at the transition from Primary to Secondary School – fast forward 5 years and 1992 brought to a close my compulsory education years.

Over those 5 years, as is the case for the vast majority of teenagers, I’d built up some incredible friendships destined to last, with both individuals and as a group alike. So much so that during our last year, we’d extended not only to simply meeting at the park or sleepovers, but  to also going out for full blown meals in Brighton. How very grown up!
The irony is that now I can't actually afford to go out as often as we used to back then!

I recall one night going for a birthday meal at the Marina for one of the girls and during the course of the evening it significantly snowed. I say significantly, it was about an inch (a man's inch), but at the time it had been years since the last snowfall, so some of us ended up walking back towards Brighton throwing snowballs from the beach, which seemed a bit surreal at the time!

Fish Dandruff

The last few months at school were fine, though for me absolutely carried a sense of impending endings – which I found a bit confusing as to how I ought to feel about it. Would I be friends with these people forever? Would I ever see them again? Did they even want to keep in touch with me anyway!?

All these considerations were set against a backdrop of imminent GCSE exams. Shamefully, I barely revised at all – mainly as no matter how hard I tried to revise, it seemed that the more I read (and re-read) my books and notes, the less confident I became. I did alright in the end though, with my best result being attaining the highest grade in German that a male had achieved to date at the school. Wunderbar!
I'm sure it’s been smashed since...

May 8th 1992 - Our last day before taking exam leave !
It was quite emotional for some, and we all dressed up for the occasion but by and large looked pretty terrible – such was early 1990’s fashion.

Many girls (and probably some boys) were seen to cry – seemingly in the misplaced belief that they would never see any of their friends ever again. Whilst the final assembly party was in swing, I joined a few of my best mates on a final tour around the deserted school to say goodbye to the ghosts. Albeit this was a little bit daft, as I was coming back to same school the following September to the in-house Sixth Form!

However that day really did feel like the definitive end of my schooling. Like my time at Primary School, I had mostly enjoyed Secondary School too. I had made the best friends and enjoyed some fantastic laughs along the way, and barring one or two notable exceptions, most of the teachers were pretty good too.

And, certainly initially, the end of school didn’t totally mean the end all friendships. Primarily with my male friends, we were together virtually every day of that prolonged summer (due to exam leave etc) – I didn’t own a bike, but I borrowed one belonging to my friend’s brother, and we cycled all over the place at all hours of the day and night just talking about everything and nothing, girls and football, school and music, starting a band, drinking, Winona Ryder etc.

I really don't care that she was once a shoplifter!

It was a hot summer and it was one of the only times in my life that I got anything like a decent tan!
Rather belatedly I also finally grew a bit taller – earlier in the year I had been a stunted five feet three, but by the time I started Sixth Form, I’d towered to all of five feet nine!

It’s fair to say though that many friendships through school association did in fact disintegrate from this time, and I guess that’s the way it is meant to be. You don’t live with your parents forever as you eventually outgrow most of what they can provide for you, and it’s the same for your school mates. By the time you get to 16, there’s less and less you have in common with them apart from the fact that you have to be in the same building as them up to that point.

My step daughter recently passed up the idea of having a big 16^th birthday party (not my fault!!) on the basis that she is very focussed and particular as to who her friends are and likes the fact that it’s a smallish group. I think that’s probably a realistic and sensible approach.

I’m in my 40^th year now, and although I don’t still have any kind of regular contact with ALL those who were in our school group of about 9 close friends, I happily communicate with those who want to still be part of my life, and know that with one or two of them, we often resume our friendship as if we’d only been at school yesterday, which is a nice state to be in.

Musical interlude time again: I've gone with the Number One for the week in May I technically left secondary school (for exam leave)

Two years later, and it really was the last year at school! I had been quite looking forward to my Sixth Form years, as I had this illusion that it would be a great last hurrah for my school days.

Lower School, turned Sixth Form, turned entirely new school now

It wasn't!

The last few months at Sixth Form were a drag and I was sadly pleased when it had all finished. I’d enjoyed some of it, and had bonded in some new friendships with people I had not known so well before, but from very early on it felt like my heart simply wasn’t in it. I had genuinely enjoyed 99% of my school years, but during the last year I just felt I’d had enough.

I got bored with the work and coupled with the fatigue I was feeling all the time (I had Glandular fever and Anaemia), I was in no right mind to want to go to university. I’m sure it probably showed in my work as towards the end of my final year, one teacher absolutely (and unnecessarily) ridiculed me in front of my classmates, which totally wiped out any confidence and drive I had left.
After that humiliation, I had classmates that I didn’t really know that well come and offer sympathies because of her attack.
Given that I train and teach people for a living now, as my teacher for several spells between 1987-1994 she really ought to have known how to get the best out of me a lot better than how she attempted. It’s unfair to say that she alone ruined my lasting memory of school for me, but she didn’t help bring the curtain down on a happy note that’s for sure.

I pushed on through though until the exams were done, and pointedly I set up the Alice Cooper classic ‘School’s Out’ to play on my walkman as I left the school and walked down Portslade High Street for the last time following my final exam.

It was time to go out and earn a living...

Breaking Up Is Hard To Do – Part 1

A fairly pivotal few months lie ahead for two of my children. My son is making the step up from Middle to High School (or in old money, Primary to Secondary), and my step daughter is imminently about to embark on GCSEs and the move to College / Sixth Form.

I can’t help cast my mind back to when I experienced the same events myself, back when every summer seemed to be a long and hot one, and my biggest concerns had absolutely nothing to do with money!

I left Primary School on July 22nd 1987, and I doubt I could have enjoyed my time there any more if I tried. The teachers were 99% tip top and the same went for my classmates. On the last day of school, my favourite teacher gave her goodbyes and put it to us that we should come back and visit the school in the future – not necessarily the next term, or even the next year, but in years to come. And I did so in 1999, 2007 and 2009, and I actually found it quite an overwhelming experience (in a good way!)

Primary School - clearly NOT in July 1987

Here's another photo I took earlier...

And as is my wont, I have to include an obligatory music gesture! For this blog it comes in the shape of the song that was Number 1 the week I left Primary School:

Whilst it was sad to leave, I didn't sense any particular feeling of loss, as every member of my class was going to the same Secondary School anyway. So come the third of September 1987, we all moved up the ladder.

Told you I had blond hair!

I personally found the step up to be immense. I think that coming from a relatively small village primary school with barely 150 students in the entire school, I was now amongst more than 150 students in just one school year. I’d gone from being the fifth oldest in my last school year, to being about the twentieth oldest in this new place. I recall getting horrendous 'flu just a few weeks into the first school term. In fact I actually felt a bit voiceless, having drifted into the mass of numbers somewhat, not that I'm an attention seeker! Much.
*cough*
No-one believes me that I'm actually painfully shy!

Looks appealing doesn't it!?

I also had a bit of a rough start as I was selected in a class with not one of my male friends from primary school, and just one female. I got on really well with her, but being rather shy (seriously!) I needed a bit more of a comfort blanket than that. Most of the class seemed to know each other and were on the whole friendly enough, though one or two were crueller than they needed to be. Thankfully I found a couple of people who went out of their way to be incredibly friendly and helpful to me. They put in so much effort to get to know me during those early days which I was incredibly grateful for. I've never forgotten that and to this day I am pleased they are still amongst my circle of friends.

In spite of their great efforts though, both me and my female friend (with all due respect to each other) were still unhappy and craved friends that we were more familiar with. With the aid of a phone call from my Dad, a meeting was instigated with our terrific head of year, and he went through all the student class lists to see what arrangements he could make to help us. Thankfully there was a supremely easy swap which suited us both. My new tutor group was great from the get-go, and some of the children I met over those early weeks became lifelong friends, although there was one guy who seemed determined to exercise his height advantage by starting to bully the children of a smaller stature – namely me. He just gave me so much grief for the first month or so, such as literally shoving me out of the way for no reason and physically trying to intimidate me at every opportunity. It came to a head when I had just had enough of it all. I challenged him to meet me on a Saturday at a local park to ‘sort it out’. I managed to get the support of many of my new classmates, as they too had got fed up with his antics.

As it happened, I didn't go to the park. Maybe it was fear and I just bottled it, but I just thought that he wouldn't show up either. Come the following Monday though I walked straight up to him in front of his mates and bluffed: “Where were you then!?”... He countered with the same. Both of us claimed to have been there, smiled to each other and left it at that, and he never gave me any aggro again!

So all in all, once the minor issues had resolved themselves, it was a relatively easy transition, and one that I reckon my son will cope with well enough. Mainly as he’s far more confident than I ever was!

In Part 2, I’ll have a look at leaving Secondary School, which is a slightly different ballpark!

Moon River (Part 3 of 3)

The majority of you reading this will know I’m neither particularly special nor otherwise, but I think I rightfully recognise that my present family care, and my descendants might care too, about what happened on occasions during my lifetime. Exciting or dull, the content shouldn’t matter.

So to cut a long story short (too late) - Families and individuals COULD and SHOULD make more of an effort to record their lives for the benefit of future generations. I spent time researching my family tree in 2006…what a laborious task that was/is!

Even with help from relations that could recall folks who lived and died long before I came into being, it proved to be a lot of effort with little reward.

What I did ascertain is that I know barely anything about anyone before three generations prior to mine. Isn’t that insulting to their memories? Without them and the way they were, I wouldn’t even be here – well certainly not in the physical form I am now. It’s probably neither here or there whether my soul would have ended up in someone else’s body depending on your view of ‘how we come to be’ and karma amongst other theories.

So get yourself a project.

Could you possibly document everything about yourselves?

Highly unlikely is the probable answer.

Even my own efforts, aided by what I think is a good recollection of events that happened to me, caused me to question at many stages if I really ought to record absolutely everything.

But I found a healthy sprinkling is better than nothing and if it only provides the slightest interest for my children’s children’s children and beyond, then I think it will have been worth it.

Hopefully it will give them the opportunity beyond the 21^st century to find out about their ancestors during my generation. A joy I was denied when trying to find out information about my relations who lived in the early 20^th century.

         

Now here’s where I am a tease!

I don’t want my retro diary seen in totality until after I depart this world. The whole point is for the future to look back and see – not for the present to judge.

Indeed my work is ongoing, though I have made a rule of working three years in arrears, and if I can’t remember something I notch it up to it not being worthy of being remembered. 

If it never gets read then so be it, but it’s been tremendously cathartic in the making. 
And as a cherry on top, you might even just feel a bit more at peace with yourself!

Moon River (Part 2 of 3)

So should I try to forget what I can’t help but remember?

Confused yet?

I honestly don’t know if I should try to forget aspects of the past, but back in 2007 I started to write a retro diary anyway.

A manuscript collection of ruses is how it could be described and I wrote it as how I honestly saw certain situations in my life from as far back as I could remember.

I’m realistic enough to acknowledge that my version of events may actually be wholly inaccurate on occasions and for that I would be genuinely sorry to any reader. For starters, my lovely brother is always dubious about the accuracy of my recollections!

But being a great advocate of the fact that there are at least two sides to every story, I respect being corrected ad hoc.

However for the purpose of what I wrote, it’s just how I personally saw events (or non-events) unravel – it’s eternally incredible to me as to what is important to some and not to others, but that’s life I suppose!

Does it sound like I actually do have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder? You might not be far wrong. Besides which I wrote my diary year by year of course!

The reason I even began writing it back in 2007 is largely due to Grandparents.

For me I felt very fortunate to have experienced loving Grandparents during my upbringing. Both sets of my Grandparents gave me memories and experiences that will remain with me forever. The stories I’ve heard recounted time and again did, at times, get humorously repetitive, but who’s going to recount them once the storytellers are long gone – or if the memory has failed? Their stories were woven from times when they saved my country and gave me the chance to have the life I have and the lifestyle I live.

But did I write them down? Sadly not at all.

Presently, the most I can tell MY children and Grandchildren about their family history, is a diluted version of events with barely any names to the characters, and frankly I feel that’s just not right. It’s certainly not an honourable memoriam

Third and final part tomorrow! Click here

Moon River (Part 1 of 3)

"I am always drawn back to places where I have lived, the houses and their neighbourhoods..." wrote Truman Capote. What a terrific opening line for a book – am I allowed to nick it? Not that I’ve read the book in question (Breakfast At Tiffany’s) but I have seen the film too many times to remember and although purists may shudder, I am happy not to ever read the book as the film does enough to satisfy and intrigue me.

The opening line attracts me as I feel I actually ‘get’ what Mr Capote means, whilst I rightly or wrongly suspect many people don’t want to...

Maybe it’s just that for many valid differing reasons, they choose not to remember their lives, be it yesterday or yesteryear. That’s fine – each to their own of course, but I’m not sure I mentally have a choice. I think I ‘get’ it because for better or for worse I seem bound to not forget many things that have happened to me. I wouldn’t dare to say for certain if it’s a good or bad thing actually, but I suspect it’s both…and for good measure it has at times been a hindrance to others too - my memory serves me pretty well, and no-one likes a know-it-all.

I’ve fought many rages trying to plead that I never professed to be someone who always has an answer to everything. My battle is usually that I feel an urge to have a perfectionist state where everything is factually accurate – OCD alert! Over the years I’ve realised how wrong my approach is, and I find that the older I get I’m moving more to the state of ‘live and let live’, which is a far healthier and more friendly way to be!

Part 2 in due course...! Click here