Thank you Archibald Leitch

Okay, some of you have been groaning at the tardiness of the blog yet again. I can only apologize yet again.

There is a reason this time and believe it or not, it’s because. I’ve been writing. Yep. Surprised? Me too! Having not written a screenplay for nearly three years (due primarily to a family illness) I have now taken up the pen again, or I should say the keyboard. It was quite a shock even to me. I didn’t think I’d write another screenplay, but oh well, it’s what I do I guess.

So, I apologize for being slow, but I was trying to make a living and as I haven’t made a bean for over four years – man, I need to.

Also, you’ll have to indulge me a little further here, because after 118 glorious, frustrating, heartbreaking, fabulously happy years at White Hart Lane, my beloved Spurs have played their last game on that hallowed ground and in that iconic stadium designed by Mr. Leitch

I was born within the sound of the stadium’s roar and was taken to my first game by my dad, aged just four. I’ll never quite understand fans that don’t support a team from their place of birth or the area of their early years. I remember my first game well. We sat in the North stand and climbed the dark stairs from the concourse. Suddenly, I was greeted by the huge expanse of green grass bathed in yellow sunlight. It felt like I had walked into a rainbow. I’ll never ever forget the feeling seeing the pitch for the first time gave me.

We played Preston North End and won 5-nil.

As I got older, my dad built a stool for me to stand on in the Paxton Road end, allowing me to see over the wall and watch the game. All us little kids were sent down the front and we met up with our parents, mainly dad’s, after the game. Can you imagine that happening today? Social services would have us taken into care in a heartbeat. The really great thing was if you were small enough to duck under the turnstiles, you got in for free. No one cared, the flat-capped turnstile operators certainly didn’t, it was just the way it was.

I was right there when Dave Mackay, our team captain, stepped over the wall into the crowd, and with a clenched fist, invited a supporter who had given him hell throughout the match to meet him after the game because he had something he wanted to give him. Then, looking around at us youngsters all wondering what he was going to give the man, Mackay explained that he had an ‘Easter egg’ for him. Ha-ha, I doubt if that supporter ever went to collect that ‘Easter egg,’ Mackay was a fearsome man not to be messed with.

I remember well, getting up at 3 am and camping out with my dad, lined up around the stadium to buy FA Cup tickets and getting them from a little wooden window in the ticket office in what is now Bill Nicholson Way.

And, then there were the times that my rich, great-uncle lent us his season tickets – we felt like movie stars, sitting high in the West stand and looking down on the pitch.

I remember the scarf my sister Sue knitted for me in 1967 for when the open top bus drove past right by our home. She sewed in all the players names, Jennings, Knowles, Kinnear, Mullery, England, Mackay, Robinson, Gilzean, Saul, Venables, Robinson, and, of course, the incredible Jimmy Greaves. That scarf was my pride and joy.

And then, I remember taking my son to his first game and watching him have all the same emotions that I had as a boy. But by this time we had the jumbotrons and later on, he was able to see his name up in lights on his birthdays. And now he’s old enough to take me… haha.

I know it’s hard for some people to understand a supporter’s love for his team, but Spurs are part of my family, it means that much. And I am just one of the many old geezers that are spread around the world, who have taken a moment to remember their own stories and times at the N17 stadium. But then it is more than just a stadium it is a part of the very fabric of my life.

Before the goodbye celebrations took place they showed a film in the stadium presented by director Sir Kenneth Branagh. It was about the team’s history. The picture to the left is a frame from that film. My dad and I made the banner you can see hanging over the railings. I was 6-years-old. Okay, dad made most of it, but I helped tie it up for sure. See, it is the very fabric of my life! That was the maisonettes that I grew up in. I can’t tell you how pleased I was to see it in the film and I know my dad, wherever he is now, would also be very proud and smiling broadly.

We won the game 2-1. And as if by magic the rainbow I talked about walking into for my first game, also appeared as we bade farewell to White Hart Lane. I know we are moving just a few hundred yards, but the ghosts in the walls, Billy Nic, Sir Alf, Jimmy Dimmock, Ted Ditchburn, Sonny Walters, Danny Blanchflower, Ron Henry, Len Duquemin and John White, will now be released and never again will we hear the deafening sound of stamping feet that made the rafters shudder as we sang out our songs.

Recently, I heard from a friend who wrote, “I hope you’re well and better than you sound in your blog.” It suddenly occurred to me that maybe I’m sounding terribly depressed in my musings. I thought long and hard about this and the truth is…. I am friggin depressed! And no I don’t feel better than I sound!

I’m heading towards 60, people and that is not fun people!

Stop telling me that 60 is the new 40. NO, it’s not. It’s 60! It’s almost 21900 days old and I am not happy about it.

Stop telling to enjoy my life and get over it. No, I won’t!

Stop telling to do things to enhance my life. You are missing the point. I have no life, my knees are shot, my back aches, my mind is on the way out, my body makes weird noises I can’t explain, and I can’t remember the names of my children never mind people I’m supposed to be friends with.

The truth has hit home. I’m never going to play for my beloved Spurs. I’m too old to play decent tennis. It’s too late to learn the piano. Okay, I could probably type out a dislocated version of Claire du Lune, but I’m never going to bash out a selection of Beethoven’s greatest hits, am I? I won’t get to dance on Strictly. I’ll never shoot under par again. And I doubt if I’ll ever date anyone who has all of her own teeth again, OR that can come out on a date not wearing a bra without people thinking… “Oh, you shouldn’t have done that.”

Life at this end of the spectrum is shit and anyone who tells you it isn’t, is lying!

The only thing that makes me happy now is being a granddad. Now, there’s a friggin oxymoron if ever there was one. Or is it a contradiction in terms? I’m never sure which is which.

From now on, I’ll have to put up with people patronizing me. Oh, you climbed your own Everest, at your age, well done. Well, actually, it wasn’t Everest, it was Snowdon, and I didn’t conquer the North face, I went up on the Mountain Railway, but yes, well done me for still breathing, old fuck that I am.

Oh, you ran a half marathon, well done you at your age. Well, actually, I just did a shop in Sainsbury’s. I look like I’ve run a half marathon because I’m so knackered. Lifting those beers in and out of the trolley is tiring work, you know.

Oh, look you’ve still got hair, at your age, how do you do that? I tell you how — fuck off and leave me alone, that’s how I! I don’t want people telling how well I’ve done or how good I look for my age – I don’t want to be my age.

All I’ve got to look forward to now is bowls. And let’s be honest white has never been a colour old folk should wear. If the beetroot stains don’t ruin the ensemble the urine leakage is bound to.

One of my best friends recently turned 60, we’ve been pals for 30 years. Remarkably, it hasn’t affected him at all. He has settled into his 60th year with consummate ease. But then, to be fair, he’s an actor/writer/director so he has spent half of his adult life lying on the couch shouting at the television. So, he’s had a lot of practice at being old. Okay, the rest of his life was pretty industrious, being a successful director, but still, he’s embraced being sixty without any major trauma. I wish I could do that. I’m telling you now. I won’t be able to.

Latterly, I dread every new day because it moves me closer to the precipice of old age.

Once upon a time, I saw each new day as a new opportunity, a new challenge. Write a script, start a company, develop an idea. Now, I just see every day as a new part of me that doesn’t work properly anymore. I used to wake up every morning and feel a certain part of my body because I was young and horny. Now I wake up and feel any part of my body to make sure I’m still alive and being grateful that I made it through another night.

Seriously, I never checked my teeth in the mirror when I was young. I would just brush them and leave the bathroom, but now, I examine my gums to see how far they’ve receded while I was asleep and I give every molar and incisor a gentle squeeze – rocking them back and forth, expecting at least one to fall out.

I never looked into the toilet bowl before; I just did my business and got the hell out of there. Now, I’ve I don’t have pictures in my bathroom, I’ve got a Pantone colour chart pinned to the wall so I can compare the hue of my pee. Then I can see what stage the terminal illness, that the media tell me, that my age, I must have, is at. I won’t even mention measuring the poop, to see if it’s the proper shape, size, colour and has the right floatability.

Once upon a time, the only time I felt dizzy and faint was after 6 pints of lager, now I only have to get up out of the chair too quickly to experience exactly the same effect.

Getting old sucks! Why am I the only one being truthful about this? Everyone else, the world is in denial. I think the government is behind it… secretly telling us to try new things in the hope that a few of us will fall off mountains, crash to the ground while free-falling, or get eaten alive while swimming with sharks. It’s the only way they can kill us off – we are so many now.

I’ve discovered that there are two in-between ages to life — that horrid time between being a teenager and adult and a hateful time between being an adult and a pensioner. And there are many similarities between the two.

As a teenager, you think about sex all the time but can’t get it. Snap on that one.

As a teenager, adults tell you to grow up and stop looking so scruffy when you wear ripped jeans. When you’re my age and wear ripped jeans your grown-up children tell you to grow up and stop looking like a dork.

When you’re young you want to drive a sports car, but can’t afford one. When you’re old you want to drive a sports car, but can’t bend down to get in one.

Okay, I get that when I am truly old, I’ll just have to accept it. But by then my mind will have gone… so it won’t matter. And I understand that there is a group, mainly women, who believe that old age is the best time of their lives. But that’s because you’ve spent your entire life picking up after kids and cooking for a no good, lazy, ‘won’t do nothing round the house’ husband. You feel liberated because you don’t have to cook five different meals a day, or clean house, sort laundry, and tend the old man’s animalistic needs anymore.

Let me tell you, you could have felt just as liberated had you kicked the kids and your bone idle, lay-about husband out twenty years ago. Now, you are just old and liberated. All you’ve got to look forward to now is the WI, making jam, and crocheting doilies.

Twenty years ago you could have skied down the piste with the cold chilled breeze tickling your cheeks or quaffed champagne with a handsome devil on his boat, or just being downright naughty and climbed trees knickerless. Now, if you get helped up a tree you could use your knickers to parachute safely down.

People pretend that with age comes a new freedom. Wrong! The only new things that come with age are hips, knees, and unexplained bodily noises.

My advice to anyone in their 30’s, don’t let a mobility scooter be the only scooter you drive in life. Get on a Vespa and take a ride on the twisting, winding roads of life. Feel that wind on your face while you’re still young enough to enjoy it and it doesn’t make you breathless.

I’m a writer, not a particularly successful one, I admit. I’ve written a couple of films, a few plays, I do

the odd bit of script doctoring, copywriting, gag writing, speech writing, and blogging.

Anyone who knows any writer will identify that the go-to staple of the struggling scribe is caffeine. Not your skinny non-fat, triple, venti, extra dry, caramel macchiato, no. The writer survives, nay; thrives on the hard stuff – a no fuss, no frills, black filter coffee. The type cowboys brewed in a pot dangled over the campfire in all the best Western movies, pouring themselves a last tasteful memorable tin-cupful before heading into town to gunfight the desperadoes.

Forget your fancy Americano and don’t you dare add cow’s udder juice. Filter coffee is just the slow drip garnered from ground Arabica beans soaked with boiling water.

No discerning writer would sit at a keyboard without first putting on a pot of coffee. It’s his crutch in times of need, bridging the gaps in the brain’s synapses that cause writer’s block. While fags and booze create the obvious detrimental problems, all the scientists can say about coffees side effects is it stains your Hampstead’s.

The other aid to a writer’s creativity is ambiance. An occasional change of environment can inspire new ideas.

Enter the coffee shop!

Some of the best television and films has been created, written and honed under the influence of a mug of coffee. The aroma alone acts as a suppressant for neurotic, stressed writer, neutering his inventiveness as a mother breast comforts the hungry infant. Writers would have caffeine pumped through their veins intravenously if they were able or it was legal. In fact, IV stations dotted around coffee shops, not unlike the electric charging bays we now find front and centre of most car parks, is a cool idea and would compliment the Vape trend nicely.

These java emporiums, way before they offered the added incentive of free Wi-Fi, have been my office for as long as I care to remember. My daughter insists I was a digital nomad before the term was coined and long before today’s digital nomads were born. I’ve squeezed myself into LA’s coffeehouses crammed full of writers pounding their keyboards. I’ve shuffled around New York’s bustling, noisy coffee joints trying to grab a table and I’ve hung out in the laid-back hipness of Shoreditch’s coffee bars, but like most writers, I have a guilty Starbucks secret.

While the early-morning work-bound proletariat throng into the coffee shops like drone bees paying homage to their Queen, and coughing up through their noses for the privilege of ordering cappuccino’s, latte’s and Mocha’s, we, the writers, you can’t miss us, we’re the round-shouldered, troubled-looking freaks in the corner, doubled over a MacBook pro and talking to ourselves, we don’t pay £3.35 for a fashionable cup of air and foam. We pay a £1.00 for a cup of good old- fashioned filter java. It’s there for anyone to enjoy, all you have to do is ask. But most going into a coffee shop are scared of the dizzying array of options on offer and pick the first coffee style on the menu that they can actually pronounce. Then stay with that style for the rest of their lives because they know what to ask for and if they becoming a regular, any barista worth his weight will know their order, short cutting the inordinate length of time they have to wait for a brew.
But the poor old writer and most are poor, can’t afford to drink a latte-darte-macho-flippotinos, not when they’re drinking anything up to 8 cups a day, they can’t. But a £1.00, even for the hardest up of writers is a great deal, especially while enjoying free electricity.

Writers charge up all their electronic devices, phones, iPads, and even they’re electric razors in coffee shops. It’s cheaper than staying home and trying to write your latest barnstormer. You only have to check out the stampede for the seat next to the plug sockets as soon as one becomes vacant, to see that’s the truth. It’s the hottest chair in town.

Also, in coffee shops, writers don’t have the added distraction of daytime TV. Nothing deadens the creative process like Loose Women or that little bald, fraudsters chasing Dominic bloke.

I mention Starbuck and not the various other high street chains because Starbucks offers the cup of coffee for a £1.00 deal. That’s even cheaper than a leaky pot of pensioner’s tea in Morrison’s.

So, you can imagine my disdain, no my despair, when this morning at 6:30 am, I stood at the counter, ordered my small filter coffee and handed over my £1, only to be told that the cost had gone up by 25pence. How can this be, 25% in one foul swoop?

There must be laws against this type of profiteering. A hike like that on a BMW 118i 5-Door Sports Hatch would add £6150 to the price or add £150 to the cost of iPhone 7. Surely causing a public outcry.

When I last looked the rate of inflation was at 2.3%. This I could live with, I wouldn’t like it, but I’d accept it. In the grand scheme of things even for ease of accounting, if they added a walloping 5%, I could still probably cope, but 25% is just taking the macchiato, I’m afraid.

Brexit is blamed for a raft of economic pressures, but coffee beans come from Costa Rica, Colombia, and Kenya. They’re not Europe, are they?

I wonder is it a coincidence that the rise in price follows on no more than a day after the LA writers strike was staved off with the writers now getting a better deal for their musings. Did some sweaty exec in the Seattle organization see a chance to stealthily hit writers where it hurts and relieve them of the few pence they have just been gifted? Did Hollywood producers giveth and Howard Shultz taketh away?

I’m boycotting Starbucks. Now, where else can I charge this electric toothbrush?

Jennifer Sweete – Author

Some of you may have seen the blog http://jennifersweete.com/loose-screw/  which commented on how funny I am. Clearly, Ms. Sweete had been at the bottle, I’m assuming she’s a bit of a boozer, but like any creative, I’ll take all the plaudits wherever I can get them. Although, I did receive a message from her husband, who assured me that all was well in the Sweete household and I got the impression that not a drop had been touched when his missus was actually rolling on the floor laughing at my blog. So, would you look at that? Seems I am a funny guy after all. Who knew?

11 thoughts on “Thank you Archibald Leitch

  1. Rob Nelson, Portland, Oregon USA.

    Crazy that Cary Grant was Archibald Leach when he was born. Both he and Archibald Leitch were (and still
    are) icons in their chosen fields.

    Before it’s all over, Malcolm, you too will have left a mark on this planet – bigger than you realize. You have touched many people, and made their lives better. Plus, you have made a lot of people laugh, a rare gift, that. (One gift I wish I had).

    I’m thrilled to hear that you are back in the writing business. It’s who you are and what you should be doing. Today’s blog proves it. Some of the best stuff I’ve ever read. You got game, my friend.

  2. Caz Wilkinson

    I thought you had been so quiet that you may have gone and asked someone to push you up a mountain in a wheelchair and thrown yourself off. Or maybe taken yourself back off to America, where you just might find like-minded old gits, who want to enjoy moaning on about being old and unable to get out of the chair, or bed, or someone else’s bed even! I know ‘chance would be a fine thing’ but you have to pretend that you are up to the job otherwise the ladies are going to ‘run for the hills’ or at least become attached to much younger men (I know there is a word for that but I don’t want to offend anyone here by saying it!) Oh go on then Cougar, there I said it. Shoot me if you must!

    But working? Really. I didn’t think writing was work. Don’t choke on that black mud you are drinking that is turning your insides dark brown. Though obviously you need to earn a crust to buy food and coffee, to keep your creative juices flowing (especially as they have dared to charge you an extra 25p per cup more). Maybe they think you sit too long, in the dark corner, hunched over (in your aged state) to justify charging you so much extra! They may have even had complaints God forbid. Of a (poor old sod – your words) staring into space, or at them, for genuine ideas to put in your latest screen play or blog. Or they might think you have come in for a ‘warm up’ and are going to stay the duration.

    Ever since I can remember there has always been a football or two in our house. Also too much glass in the front and side doors, which were forever getting smashed because one of my brothers or their mates, thought they were Nobby Styles as they kicked it way too hard across our small front garden. I remember an Uncle years ago talking about Danny Blanchflower but never realising it was an actual footballer, I thought it was a made up name, until now of course!

    Three out of my four brothers (the fourth one being more arty and a high jumper, rather than a football player) were fans of Manchester United. Now Manchester is no where near Wiltshire where we came from but that doesn’t stop their fans from supporting them (all over the World) it seems.

    I remember supporting any team they played against just to stir my brothers up and I’m sure at one time or another I would be chanting ‘Up The Spurs’ just to wind them up. I’ve never heard of a stool at a football match (well not that type anyway) but I’m presuming it was a similar one, to the one in the bathroom for little lads like my Grandson, when he wasn’t able to reach the toilet bowl. The mind boggles if you will excuse the pun Hon?

    You memories churned out in your blog have evoked mine. Now my husband for instance isn’t a follower of football at all, give him a boat (model or otherwise and he’s ‘Happy as Larry’). Though give my Granddaughter, not a hard ball, she might whack someone too hard with it but a soft balloon, she kicks and whacks away very happily and no-one gets a bruise.

    I do enjoy to this day watching England matches (at home in my own lounge) whether they win or not, and the FA Cup it’s all about the taking part now isn’t it? Even now I can hear the roars of local boys in our street cheering on their teams, not from the terraces but their own front room TVs. Happy days, when all it took was a good old team to bring happiness to the young lads. If it was a nice day I wouldn’t be inside, I’d be watching the match through the window and getting my legs brown at the same time – result!. Never mind the lads being in seventh heaven, me too.

    Though to be honest I never knitted a football scarf, (lucky you having a wonderful sister), let alone one with your teams names etched into it but I did start a three-tone, autumnal coloured scarf for Jack when he was about two. Sadly he lost his battle with cancer age twelve and I never finished it because I either dropped a stitch and made a hole (which I couldn’t ever grasp how to pick up) or got my colours muddles! I think it still sits in a corner of the wardrobe in a bag of wool. I never was a knitter just a nit. Perhaps that is something you could learn to do while you are too old (at least in your head) to do anything else. Not even sixty and he’s past it – what a loon!

    Talking of loons which I wasn’t but I will, Mrs Sweetie sounds a bit of one. (no offense meant of course) I was told by someone, or maybe I read it (and of course we believe everything we read) that Americans don’t have the same kind of humour as we Brits but in this case I have to say they do. She gets it! you worrying about heading, at a great speed of knots (too much time with a sailor) to the ripe young age of sixty and wonders what all the fuss is about. She obviously knows when that important number shows its ugly little head, it won’t turn out to be anything as bad as you imagine it to be.

    I’m telling you it will be fine – honest Malcolm.

  3. YAY! You’ve been writing a screenplay! Now I am EXCEEDINGLY curious! Any spoiler alerts thus far? I like the hometown father-son baseball theme for it. It reaches out to me. Especially the line “the ghosts in the walls”—perfect, says it all. Like Hemingway telling a story in six words – “For sale, baby shoes, never worn.” You’ve beat him by doing it in only five!

    I jest about my lack of enthusiasm for sports. I just don’t care for watching them on the boob tube—in fact, I don’t care to have a boob tube so it’s a moot point anyway. I enjoy them much more from the bleachers where the real action is, however I also don’t care much for crowds. All the years I spent on stage rockin’ and rollin’ burnt me out on crowds. The noise and chaos is annoying to this ol’ granny. Baseball’s not so noisy and chaotic, and it has a place forever in my heart because . . .

    My grandmother used to sneak me out of school every year starting in elementary school, to take a bus to the subway station for the train ride downtown, followed by a bus to the stadium to eat stadium hotdogs, drink pepsi cola, munch on popcorn and cotton candy, milkduds and redhots, and watch the double-header opening season game. She was an adventurous one, that good Catholic, bingo-winning, fine lady. I feel blessed to have known her in this life, and have her in my corner from wherever her wings have flown her beyond.

    I like your friend who wrote, “I hope you’re well and better than you sound in your blog.” But your response was a bit frightful, don’t you think? “I’m heading towards 60 and that is not fun people!” you said. Well, I beg to differ. I’m a few days older than you and I am not “friggin’ depressed” and I DO think it’s fun heading toward 60. 60 is not the new 40, it’s the Crone Phase of life—and we are entering the most probably “last trimester” of our life here. How about that? Did you ever imagine we would even be alive at this age? I certainly did not think I’d still be hanging in here. Proof that Guardian Angels are real.

    There are some great games for people like us—like Shuttleboard, and Rememory, and Senior Moments. We’re still young enough at heart to enjoy a good game of Hide and Seek several times a day, whether we’re hiding something from a friend who always teases that our memories are fading (gotta bring ’em into the fold, eh?) or just hiding things like car keys and eye glasses from our own selves (a game for one). There are also some games I’ve made up recently, like, “Let’s try to guess when it would be propitious to stop paying the bills and taxes, and scuttle off to the beach to enjoy my last decade, and leave my kids with the estate and the bill.” . . . The question being when to start so that it all comes out a wash for them. I’m compassionate and fair, if nothing else.

    You can’t remember your kids’ names? This is just now happening? Clearly, you didn’t spend enough time with them when they were children or this would have happened to you many, many years ago. All my kids and grandkids have names that start with the letter “J”—I just start shouting down the line until I arrive at the proper name for the kid bringing on the drama in any given moment. I’ve been doing this since they were born. Now, remembering friends’ names is a little different because it’s difficult to borrow money from someone whose name you can’t remember. It is, however, advantageous to forget their name after they’ve loaned you the money, and even more so if they too have memory issues and forget that you ever borrowed the money.

    Actually, I’m more ethical than that, when I can remember to be.

    Being a granddad makes you happy—this is a good thing and probably why grandchildren are here on the planet—to make it harder for their grandparents to fire up the spaceship and head home. My first grandchild became my adopted child by his first birthday. He’s been with me ever since. Now he’s turning 18 . . . rite of passage, “becoming a man.” He wants to be an aerospace engineer. He’s engaged to be married. He’s an amazing pianist. He’s an amazing person. The nest will at last be forever empty. Three generations I’ve raised—my first family siblings, my first husband’s children, my grandchild. My offspring has been dutifully informed that if one more baby arrives in a basket on my doorstep I will take it directly to the Dumb Friend’s League (that’s American for “the stray pet recycle). No more, please. I have retired.

    Of course, I learned a lot and I’m not complaining. I learned and loved, and really lived, because children really know how to live! Here, now, present and attentive! A baby’s laughter worth every dirty diaper, runny nose, skinned knee. Yes. And their short-term memory totally sucks!!! So, you see, age really has nothing to do with anything. It’s attitude, man! Attitude!

    “Now I wake up and feel any part of my body to make sure I’m still alive and grateful that I made it through another night.”—so you said. Of course you do! I’ve been doing that since I was thirteen and someone handed me my first bottle of Tequila! There’s nothing new about this feeling, I now realize, although perhaps you’re just noticing it for the first time? It’s not an “old age” thing at all!

    Now, the time you spend admiring the color of your pee and the many variables of your excrement may be normal or excessive, but think about it—did you ever perform this ritual prior to someone educating you about such variables? No, of course not. Had you known about these variables at the age of, say, six years old, I imagine your potty paranoia would have presented itself long before now. Again, not an “old age” thing.

    Obsession with sex, torn up blue jeans, and sports cars, well, I can’t help you there since some of us never get over those things. I guess it’s a personal choice. I’m still wearing my torn-up jeans, and revel in the power of a souped-up engine . . . (either/or both, if you’re wondering).

    Really? There is a group of women who think old age is the best time of their lives? Where are these women? The “best” part of their lives? I doubt it. But there is an element of “screw it” that comes with age, which permits for certain walls and inhibitions to come down so maybe . . . ?

    Now about that “boozer” comment you chose to describe my level of insanity . . . just to clarify, I don’t care to touch the stuff. So it must be the estrogen replacement therapy that gives me the giddiness of a schoolgirl at a sleep-deprived slumber party when I read your hilarity, lol!

    Take your plaudits as well-deserved, well-earned, and well-meant, dear YAY. Whine and carry on about aging as you do—as long as you know in your heart that when my grandson gets his degree in aerospace engineering, and builds me that rocket ship I swore him in kindergarten to build me, we’ll be stopping by your place in our torn-up blue jeans to see if you’d like a ride in our souped-up star car . . .

    One mustn’t yield to the meat grinder before all other options have been exhausted. I just hope they have a good dental plan on whatever planet we land. You seem to have a “thing” about teeth all remaining in place when most men hold removable dentures in such high regard . . .

    Until next round . . . Best of the Best to ya, dahlin’ . . .

    Sweete Jen 😉

    http://www.jennifersweete.com

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    • YourAutumnYears

      appreciate the feedback thank you… the layout is just a WordPress theme, which I modify.

  5. Not baseball? Oh dear, football, yes, I sit corrected, but there simply is no contest between FIELD OF DREAMS and THE BLIND SIDE. “X” plays baseball and I’m with “X” – (S:6 E:19 – “The Unnatural”) . . . This, though, does not make me indifferent to your loss. For the flood of thoughts and emotions that arrive to face the wrecking ball leave us speechless. Yet you’ve done well to weave the words into a transport vehicle for all of us to revisit that moment when a piece of the past is literally ripped from the face of the earth, never to be seen, heard, touched, smelled, or tasted again but in memory alone. When I signed up to play this game of LIFE, I thought the word “Demo” meant “Demonstration” – I’ve come to gather it more likely meant “Demolition” . . .

    • YourAutumnYears

      I, of course, was being a gentleman and not pointing out your baseball faux pas, but as you raise the matter yourself I feel the need to mention the error in the correction. While my beloved Spurs do not play baseball, although it had been a long-held dream of mine to own a baseball team who played in Spurs colours, alas your correction was also a little wide of the mark. Your mention of Blind Side leads me to think you are referring to NFL – Gridiron as was one known. So, that is a double faux-pas. A faux pas upon a faux-pas. I am a proud North Londoner, the big game in these parts is Association Football. My beloved Spurs play football, a game played with the feet, unlike the game played on USA soil, that although it is called football, is primarily played in the hand. We like to think that ours is the original game. But thank you for owning up to your mistake and trying to amend it and ably demonstrating your sporting interest – or lack of it. Haha. The point is, as you realized, whatever your sport if you’ve been going to a stadium all of your life to watch the team you support… to see that stadium razed to rubble… will alway evoke memories.

  6. Always a gentleman, YAY, and especially now to be so forgiving, thank you. Yes, lack of sporting interest on my part. Frankly you couldn’t be more correct to point out the ridiculous way American “hand-foot” ball is played. I’ve never seen an Association game so perhaps I must add it to my buck-it list.

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