A Glassful of Life

I’ve begun this week’s blog three times now, as you can see from the title. The first was turning into a thesis and heading towards 10,000 words, the second was positively trivial, though fine for a general feelgood kinda blog post and finally, in view of world events I have decided to dedicate this blog post to the people of Ukraine. Although it will not really be of any practical help. I had a pretty shit week, I got a bit deep in the bottle, and even missed my Friday deadline, but I don’t feel sorry for myself, only annoyed that I gave in to my weaknesses and didn’t achieve as much as I had aimed for. Compared to the Ukraine/Putin situation it is nothing, a blip, nothing to get my great big Bridget Jones’s in a twist about.   I can offer nothing except my voice to the sadness and anger that I feel and that I share with most of the World. Sadness for the people who have done nothing wrong and only want to live their lives with dignity and democracy and anger at Putin and his ...

I hate the way my body looks so I have stopped looking at it. I wash in bits, stealthily, like my drinking. The bottom part one day and the top part the next. “It’s too cold for a shower,” I say. So, I never have to disrobe completely, and I avert my eyes as I pass the mirror. Once trussed in tight undergarments with flowing layers on top to disguise the bulges, I can look During the pandemic, my last good bras disintegrated. Buying a new bra was problematic owing to the lockdown but not a big issue as nobody was looking at me in my underwear, or without it either for that matter. Only the Westies see me in the naughty naked nude and to be honest they only get excited by the sound of the fridge being opened. However, I don’t like going bra-less, I’ve never really enjoyed that swinging-free feeling, and at my age, the old girls need a bit of support. I want something that will lift and separate and am waiting for those wonderful 1950s cone bras to come back into fashion. In the meantime...

                                                                                         About a month ago I realised it was time to take my body back in hand—seriously. I had toyed with the idea for months but lacked the will and the consistency to do it. Giving up drinking was a big part of the plan too but has proved harder than I thought.   I come from a long line of alcoholics on both sides of the family, though oddly, my father’s parents were teetotallers belonging to a very strict religious Russian Orthodox sect. He made up for their abstinence. My mother drank more than was good for her though you would never see her drunk and her father had died from over-imbibing the demon rum too before any of us were born.   We four children were all brough...