Jenny Burrell

Once upon a time we knew things. We weren’t walking encyclopaedias but we managed. The human race survived by gleaning knowledge from the world around us. We watched, listened, experimented and learnt from one another. Knowledge was passed down from one generation to another. Each generation added a little more towards the great store of human understanding.

We knew our friend’s telephone numbers. We knew how to get somewhere without a satnav. We consulted recipes, we read books. If we didn’t know something we asked someone who did or accepted that we’d probably never know the answer. Knowledge has always been our greatest survival tool.

It started innocently enough. It was subtle. It didn’t arrive one morning with trumpets blazing to announce that life as we’ve always known it was about to change forever! It crept insidiously into our lives, one small convenience at a time! It came in the form of a hand held mobile phone, a small device that allowed us to make telephone calls without the telephone being attached to a wall. It was revolutionary, sure, but fairly straightforward.

Then somehow that little phone got ideas above its station.

It acquired a camera, the internet, emails, texts, weather forecasts, shopping, banking and enough apps to fill several lifetimes! And then the introduction of AI created another whole new world. Before long that humble little phone had transformed itself into the Great Oracle, becoming a fundamental part of our lives! It can tell us where we are, where we’re going, what the weather’s doing, how many calories in a banana, the capital of Kazakhstan, the opening hours of a garden centre and how long we should boil an egg. The list is endless!

And we now keep a doctor in our pocket! Our little phone has appointed itself as the medical practitioner we never knew we needed. There is no waiting in a queue for our call to be answered, no receptionist asking intimate questions or if it’s urgent or could we wait two weeks for an appointment. And we can ask it anything. Google, ChatGPT, DeepSeek, Gemini, whichever digital assistant we have chosen, can offer medical advice without us ever leaving our sofa!

We can ask , for example, ChatGPT, a medical question and, if we’ve already shared previous symptoms and medications, instead of starting from scratch each time, it can join the dots and put the latest query into context. It’s like a doctor who has read our notes before we’ve walked through the door!

We can call on our personal GP day or night. It won’t make us justify our symptoms. It simply waits while we discuss them in as much detail as possible. No judgment and no time restraints. It’ll ask pertinent questions and base the prognosis on comparing our symptoms against millions of other searches made by people feeling the same way. It bases its fundings, not by certainty, but by probability and confirmed by actual medical data. That’s what makes the diagnoses so convincing! But that does not mean that it should be a replacement for a doctor. It can just help us decide whether we really need to see one.

We no longer have to worry about being grammatically correct when we communicate. Once a sentence was structured with a beginning, a middle and an end. Now, apparently, whole words and sentences are considered an unnecessary extravagance. Thanks is now ‘thx’, you is now ‘u’, are, ‘r’, message, ‘msg’, later, l8r’, great, ‘gr8’. And then there are the common ones already well used, OMG, oh my God, BTW, by the way, IMO, in my opinion. Soon I suspect the entire English language will consist of three letters, a thumbs up emoji and a shrug!

We are, whether we like it or not, living in a brave new world. Technology reigns supreme and we are expected to keep up with it. Everything is becoming smarter and faster and reliant on passwords we struggle to remember. For the technophobes amongst us it is frankly alarming. But resist as we might there seems to be little choice but to embrace this digital revolution, press the right button and hope that we don’t inadvertently launch a satellite!

Once knowledge was gathered from books and from men

Then passed down through generations, again and again

Now families and friends are faces on a screen

Wonderfully connected yet very rarely seen

To get all the answers we have gadgets galore

So now we need humans much less than before

The art of communication will soon fade away

We’ll just text or email if we have something to say 👠

There are some things in life that are really annoying. Then there are things that are only mildly annoying, little habits and behaviours that shouldn’t bother us, but, somehow, they do!

I understand that we are only human. We all have irritating little foibles. Take the person who stops in a doorway. Not beside it, or just outside it, but right in it! They’ve reached the doorway and decided that this is the perfect place to check their phone, rearrange their thoughts and consider where they want to go next.

A queue of people soon builds up behind him. They would quite like to use the doorway for its original purpose.

‘Er, excuse me,’ someone says politely.

He doesn’t move.

‘Um, sorry, please could I get past?’

Eventually he moves about three inches which is clearly his contribution to the community!

Supermarkets are where patience is stretched to the limit. You want pasta sauce. Two women are comparing jars with the concentration of someone deciding which candidate should become prime minister. You hover, politely. You are ignored. You move to the left. So do they. You step to the right. So do they. Defeated you move on to the next aisle hoping you’ll remember to go back and get your bottle of pasta sauce!

Then there are those who don’t realise that their cars have something called indicators which should be used when they are going to turn. They can move a lever either left or right, up or down. For them indicators are optional. For us it’s just another irritation and another hazard on the road!

Let’s not forget the person who tells you that they’ll only be five minutes. It’s an optimistic statement made by someone who has no intention whatsoever of measuring time. It could be twenty minutes, half an hour, or, in extreme cases, next Tuesday!

Another real bugbear is cyclists, most of which are also motorists. They drive cars. They must surely suffer the same frustration as we do when we round the bend and are suddenly confronted by a hoard of cyclists. They’ve spread across the road like they’re out for a leisurely catchup with friends. Not a couple of cyclists keeping to their side of the road. The entire membership of the local cycling club in a happy little convoy, chatting, laughing and gesticulating, completely oblivious to the fact that they’ve created a traffic jam of biblical proportions.

Why do cyclists morph into a different species when they climb out of their cars and onto bicycles? Suddenly the road belongs to them. It’s amazing how quickly personalities change when swapping four wheels for two!

Then we get the one speed driver. It doesn’t matter if the speed limits is 20, 30, 40 or 50 miles an hour. They have selected their speed and that’s it! Along that whole, winding road with no overtaking places, the speed limit will vary from 20 to 50 miles an hour. Their car is stuck at 28 mph! Perhaps their car has only two settings. ‘Off’ or ‘28 mph’! Perhaps they just regard the speed limits as interesting suggestions rather than actual instructions!

Some people have never heard of ‘personal space’. They stand so close behind you in a queue that you can practically feel them breathing down your neck. You take a small step forward. They follow. You gingerly edge forward again. So do they. Eventually you’re standing so close to the person in front of you that you’ve inadvertently become part of a human sandwich.

Emails were invented to make life easier. I’m not convinced! Every morning I open my inbox to find clothes I don’t want, holidays I can’t afford, things I didn’t even know existed and special offers on products I have never shown the slightest interest in. I spend a part of every day deleting them and trying to ‘unsubscribe’. For a lot of companies the tiny word ‘unsubscribe’, although a legal requirement, is well hidden and often ignored!

The ‘reply all’ brigade are really annoying! Someone sends an innocent message to twenty people. Within seconds phones start pinging. ‘Thanks John’, ‘see you Tuesday’, ‘can you send me the details’, ‘good idea’. For heavens sake, we don’t care! It’s between you and John! Push the correct button!

I suppose life would be rather dull if we were all perfect! What would we have to complain about?

We’re all mildly annoying though we may not agree

For what drives you mad might seem harmless to me

So don’t take offence at what people do

‘Cos there’s a good chance that you’re doing it too! 👠

I thought that time would heal the pain

That one day I’d feel whole again

But the passage of time just shows me how

To cope without you, to survive somehow

‘Cos I still see you in the smallest thing

A picture, a flower, in the songs I sing

But life goes on, as life will do

The sun still rises without you

I speak to you but you can’t hear

That’s when the loss is still so clear

If I could just have one more day

There are so many things I want to say

I’d hold you close and make you see

Just how dear you are to me

I’d listen to stories heard before

So precious to hear them all once more

Because grief’s not a door you close

Nor is it something that just goes

It settles quietly, stays within

Takes the place where once you’d been

Although I cannot hold you now

Or see you, speak to you somehow

You’re living in every part of me

In who I’m now, who I’m going to be

You’ll stay with me through the years

Through happy times, sadness, tears

You’ll remain a constant in my life

The kindest mother and dearest wife

Our special love doesn’t ever leave

It’ll stay with me, I’ll always grieve

Perhaps that is the hardest part

You’ve left my life but not my heart

When I first heard the expression ‘apples and pears’ I naturally thought of Cockney rhyming slang for stairs. But in the world of body shapes, apples and pears have absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with it!

‘Apples’ and ‘pears’ are categories used to define the shape of the female form. The reason why these fruits were chosen is anyone’s guess! Perhaps there was a panel of ‘experts’ sitting around a table with a fruit bowl discussing the female body? Perhaps the bowl only contained apples and pears? ‘That’ll do’ said the Managing Director and, just like that, generations of women have been reduced to a piece of produce.

For women to classify as an ‘apple’ they need to carry weight around the top and middle of their abdomens. ‘Pears’ store surplus weight around their hips and thighs. Personally I think there should have been a wider choice. Perhaps those were the most recognisable fruit? If it was a panel of experts sitting around a table they obviously had no qualifications whatsoever in either anatomy or fashion. I’m going to stick my neck out and say it was probably a panel of men!

Whatever our fruit category, as we age, clothes shopping becomes more difficult. We walk into a shop knowing exactly what we want only to discover that nobody has designed it for us! Clothes seem to be aimed at either twenty year olds with figures that defy gravity, those who prefer shapeless tents or at women who want to dress like their grandmothers. There is very little in between.

In our youth most ‘off the peg’ clothes fitted us. Now we’re expected to take what we can find. We have to compromise, disguise, tuck in and hope for the best. We need the oversized blouse to deflect from the lack of a waist or an expanded bust, the jacket must be wide enough to fit around our hips but not droop at the shoulders and the trousers mustn’t reveal too much about our thighs. Clothes need to tactfully detract attention from those areas which have now become liabilities!

As we learn about dressing to suit our shape, we look for ‘forgiving’ clothes. That doesn’t mean clothes forgive us for eating that last piece of cake! It means that we chose clothes that gently skim the bits that have become less cooperative. A dress needs to be a miracle worker. It must hide a tummy, disguise a hip and create the impression that our waist is still somewhere around where we last remember seeing it! I’ve always loved that word ‘forgiving’. It’s as though an item of clothing has been informed about our vanished waistline and generous bust or hips and decides not to hold it against us!

Age is unkind. Bodies seem to develop their own ideas about redistribution. You can exercise religiously and follow a strict, healthy diet yet, while you sleep, it gently moves things around. One morning you wake up and discover that certain bits have begun to migrate and there is absolutely nothing you can do about it!

And that means arms as well. Sleeves become a necessity and not an option. When the upper arms decide that they’d quite like their independence they cease to be part of the team. They gradually lose their firmness and acquire an alarming ‘wobble’. What was once a neat, toned little cylinder morphs into something resembling a small hammock. You raise an arm to say goodbye and, long after your hand has stopped waving, the rest of your arm carries on with the farewell.

There are different varieties of arms. There’s the ‘batwing’, ‘flapjack’ or ‘pendulum’. Now if we had to include them in the fruit bowl perhaps there could be a ‘banana’. This variety would be long, slightly curved and still relatively firm. A conference pear could be narrower at the shoulder, becoming mysteriously fuller towards the elbow. ‘Grapes’ could be the little wrinkly bits that appear from nowhere. A ‘watermelon’ is probably best avoided unless your upper arms have become exceptionally enthusiastic!

Buying trousers is depressing and best avoided. A pair that fits perfectly around the waist is usually far too generous around the hips and thighs. Perhaps that’s why elasticated waists are so popular. They’re not merely comfortable but also emotionally supportive! They don’t judge you after a meal and just mould themselves into your current shape.

Stomachs could be added to the fruit bowl. A ‘plum’ for the smaller version that wasn’t there twenty years ago. A ‘pomegranate’ when there are several little bumps and bulges and all are competing for attention. A ‘mango’ which is softer, fuller and somehow not quite where you remembered it. To complete the fruit bowl let’s add an orange for the thighs and over ripe peaches for the knees.

So, decide whether you’re an apple or a pear

Then dress with cunning and plenty of flair

Hide what you can and show what you dare

Embrace who you are and enjoy what you wear 👠

Not all that long ago, when we needed to go somewhere unfamiliar, we used a map. I was never able to read a map. I could stare at it for twenty minutes and still not have the faintest idea where I was. The trouble with maps is that roads run in all different directions. They are marked as coloured lines, numbers and tiny symbols which presumably meant something to someone but absolutely nothing to me!

I would turn the map this way, then that way, then upside down, trying to make the road in front of me correspond with the road on paper. In those far off days my husband still thought that I had some navigational skills. Bless him. How wrong he was! He regarded map reading as a perfectly straightforward, logical activity.

He’d hand me the map and say ‘You navigate’. What he failed to appreciate was that I never had any idea what I was supposed to do with it! He could glance at a map and know where we were, where we needed to go and which road we had to take. He never understood how I could find something so simple, so complicated! To me a map was just a collection of coloured spaghetti! The final indignity would come when I had to fold the map back up! It unfolded in seconds but getting it back into its original shape was a feat requiring the patience of a saint and the spatial awareness of an origami expert.

So, when satnavs arrived I welcomed them with open arms! What a wonderful invention! I would know where I was, where I was going and precisely how long it would take me to get there! All I had to do was enter the address, press start and obey instructions. Simple!

The first time I used a satnav it had a very pleasant female voice, calm, measured and reassuring. She never got flustered and she never swore. Her directions were simple. ‘At the next roundabout take the fourth exit’. Except, when I was approaching the roundabout at forty miles an hour, there were at least six exits with a motor bike, a tractor and a white van filling the three lanes in front of me.

‘Take the fourth exit’.

Which one was the fourth? I tried to count as I drove past each one, struggling to move into the left lane because there was a car sitting on my bumper. I had begun to panic but the satnav remained calm.

‘Now take the fourth exit’.

Thank you, I heard the first time.

I immediately take the next exit and find myself heading north up the M6 instead of south down the M56. This was not a minor navigational error. This mistake involved sitting on the motorway heading up to Scotland! The satnav remained calm. There was no panic in her voice, not even a hint of ‘now why did you turn down the wrong exit when I kept on reminding you which one to take!’ She simply said ‘recalculating’.

A while later she announced ‘in two hundred yards take the next left’.

Unfortunately I had already sailed past that exit at motorway speed.

‘Take the next left’.

There wasn’t a next left or even the possibility of a next left! There was, however, a great deal of motorway stretching ahead and I was travelling in completely the wrong direction.

‘Recalculating’, came her dulcet tones.

It was at this point that I felt she could begin to lose patience but, after several more instructions and an unnecessary tour of the North West, I was reunited with the correct route. I learnt an important lesson that day. When the satnav says it’s ’recalculating’ it isn’t necessarily correcting my mistake. It’s simply working out how much further it can send me before I realise that I have gone completely the wrong way!

Sadly satnavs don’t have a sense of humour. If I’ve missed a turning they don’t say, ‘never mind, we all make mistakes’. They just say ‘recalculating’. There is something deeply judgemental about that word. It sounds as if I’ve disappointed her.

‘Keep right’, she’ll tell me.

Right where?

‘Bear left’.

How much?

‘Continue straight’.

For how long?

My personal favourite is ‘Your destination is on the right’.

Excellent, but I’m travelling at thirty miles an hour and there is nowhere to pull in, the car behind me is in my boot and the only thing on my right is a hedge! Perhaps she knows something that I don’t? Perhaps there’s a secret tunnel? Perhaps I’m expected to drive through the hedge?

The best thing about a satnav is the one blue line. It’s only one colour and the only one I need to follow! It’s displayed on the screen in confidence and stretches ahead, leading me towards my final destination. But it doesn’t know about road works or diversions and often hasn’t realise that another road has replaced it.

I rarely use the satnav. Each time I do she treats me like a new recruit who has somehow failed the basic training so is given instructions with patient, military precision. I get reintroduced to a system that I will never fully master. I no longer question her authority, I simply try to obey like a mildly confused apprentice who’s not really up for the job.

And so it remains that we’ll never be best friends, only rare acquaintances who meet when needs must and communicate under sufferance! 👠

I can still remember when buying toothpaste involved one decision. I’d go to the shop and buy a tube. There was minimal choice as all did the same job. The difference was in the price, so the cheapest won. Now when I go to the supermarket the choice is endless! There is whitening, enamel repair, gum protection, tartar control, charcoal, a special brand for sensitive teeth, herbal or even one that promises to improve your social life!

I need cooking oil next. Once upon a time it was just cooking oil. It lived quietly in the cupboard and never caused any trouble. Now an entire aisle is devoted to oils of every ilk. Bottles of oil line the aisle. There is extra virgin olive oil, light olive oil, cold-pressed olive oil, rapeseed oil, sunflower oil, ground seed, avocado, sesame, coconut, and something called ‘infused artisan’ oil, all in varying shapes and sizes and in glass or plastic bottles.

But it doesn’t end there. This is when the interrogation starts. Is it suitable for frying, roasting, drizzling, dipping or high or low temperatures? Does it have a high smoke point, a low smoke point or, for me, an emotional breaking point? Eventually I do what I suspect many have done before me. I buy the same brand that I did last time. That’s not because it’s necessarily the best, but at least we’ve met before!

When I stand in front of the washing up liquids I just want something to clean dishes that don’t go into the dishwasher. Now I have to decide whether I want ultra, ultra plus, max power, antibacterial, eco friendly, for sensitive skin, pomegranate blossom, man, it just goes on and on! Somehow, choosing a washing up liquid now requires the same level of research as choosing a mortgage! I can just see the new range of washing up liquids soon to hit the shelves! It’ll be a liquid with mindfulness. It’ll clean your casserole dish while helping you discover your inner peace. It will be available in ‘Hints of Himalayan Mist’ or Existential Lavender’!

My grocery shopping expedition doesn’t only insist that every purchase needs to be thoroughly investigated and every label studied to get the best product, but you also need the analytical skills of a forensic accountant.

You’re confronted with ‘three for two’, ‘any four for ten pounds’, ‘buy one get one free’, ‘25% extra free, ‘buy six and save 25%’ and the price if you own a loyalty card! I find myself standing in the aisle trying to work out whether it’s cheaper buying three for two, saving 25% and buying six, or just buying one which is all I really need. Then I call my husband to make the executive decision! He’s the finance controller and the keeper of the privy purse!

This, of course, is a marketing ploy. Supermarkets are forever getting us to part with our hard earned cash by trying to convince us that we save money by spending twice as much as we’d intended. Everyone loves a bargain. They never fool my husband! He’s always one step ahead while I lag behind, confused.com.

After this exhausting, harrowing experience we’ve earned a cup of coffee! We head for a well known coffee house. My husband finds a table and I stand patiently in the queue. He just wants a coffee. Gone are the days when we could walk into a coffee shop, sit down at the table and be served a coffee with milk and sugar on the side.

And so the interrogation begins. First I have to confront the size. It’s either ‘short’, ‘tall’ or ‘grande venti’. Then there is the choice of milk. Whole, semi-skimmed, skimmed, oat, almond, coconut, soya or lactose free. Then I’m asked if I’d like an extra shot. Then I get to the menu board. There’s latte, cappuccino, flat white, americano, espresso, cold brew, Frappuccino, iced latte, iced americano or some mysterious seasoning depending on the time of year. And then, of course, is it decaf or full strength! If only ordering coffee reverted back to just a nice cup of coffee!

Television has gone the same way. There used to be a handful of channels and somehow there was always something worth watching. Now we have hundreds of channels, countless streaming services and enough box sets to keep us occupied until the next ice age. And yet, every evening seems to begin in exactly the same way. We spend half an hour scrolling through endless menus and then announce that there is absolutely nothing worth watching!

Perhaps this is the irony of modern life. We’ve spent years demanding more choice only to realise that choice can be utterly exhausting and very confusing! Maybe happiness isn’t having every possible option after all. Perhaps the greatest luxury is simply not having to make endless decisions. If this is progress I’d quite like a bit of the past back! Thank you! 👠

One of the greatest gifts bestowed on the aged is the loss of an internal censor. It’s wonderfully liberating!

For years I’ve worried about saying the wrong thing, upsetting people or being impolite. I would agree to a request then beat myself up knowing that it was not something I wanted to do but didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. But now I’m finding it easier to say’ no thank you’ and not offer any fabricated excuses. It’s amazing the relief and free time honesty can provide!

Now take restaurants for example. Whenever the waiter would ask if everything was alright with the meal, I’d smile and say, ‘perfect, thank you’. These days, if my soup arrives cold enough to preserve bodies or my medium steak is blue and still breathing, I’ll let him know. Politely. Firmly. Without any apology!

Another one of my new found super powers is leaving early. I no longer cling on at parties until midnight because I don’t want to appear rude or a spoil sport. If I’ve had enough, I’ve had enough! I’ll thank the host, collect my handbag and head home to a warm bath and an early night.

This is also the glorious age where fashion trends that look good on lithe twenty year old models with legs up to their armpits, really don’t bother me. At my age I know that horizontal stripes make me look wider and baring my naval, perhaps with a ring attached, would not be at all flattering!

Life is just too short to spend the day squeezed into something described as figure enhancing when the only thing being enhanced is my indigestion! Comfort wins, hands down! Elasticated waistbands stop being a guilty secret and become an engineering marvel! Shoes are judged entirely on one question. Can I walk in them? If the answer is yes they’re worth every penny!

Another aspect of growing older is discovering that my patience when dealing with patronising salesmen has packed its bags and left. When a product I’m returning is clearly broken I don’t want a twenty minute explanation that perhaps I’m not using it correctly followed by a suggestion that I read the operating manual. The product isn’t what it says on the tin. It’s not working. I don’t want it. I’m returning it. Can I have my money back? Please?

Then there’s technology. All I want is my bank balance. It’s bad enough having to remember a password but I’ve had to invent a memorable word, type in three random letters from it, wait for a security code to arrive on my phone, prove I’m not a robot by identifying seventeen bicycles hidden in a grainy photograph and then start all over again because I’ve taken too long! Gone are the days when I walked into the bank and the nice lady recognised me and gave me my bank balance with a smile. But I’m determined not to let it get the better of me! I mutter a few choice words and, when I do finally get the balance, wish I hadn’t bothered!

If someone asks my opinion I’ve stopped assuming that it’s a trick question!

‘Do you like my wallpaper?’

If said wallpaper looks like a tropical rainforest after an unfortunate collision with a paint tin I’m not going to pretend that it’s the best wallpaper I’ve ever seen. Being brutally honest is unkind. Being diplomatic but truthful when asked for my opinion is how I now respond because most people don’t actually want an opinion. They’re really hoping for an enthusiastic confirmation that they have made the right choice!

‘It’s not really to my taste’, is my honest reply. ‘But, if you love it, that’s all that matters’.

After all, they’ll be looking at it every day!

So, if someone genuinely asks for my opinion, I’ll genuinely give it, wrapped in kindness, sprinkled with humour and, usually lightly dusted in diplomacy. I still believe in good manners. I still believe in kindness. I’ve just stopped confusing either of them with pretending.

After a lifetime spent carefully choosing my words, I’ve learnt to choose them carefully. Growing older hasn’t been about losing my filter, or just getting bolder. It’s about finally filtering out everything that no longer matters. After all, if age brings wisdom, it would be a shame to keep it all to myself!

There are two kinds of people in this world. There are those who stroll cheerfully into a dentist’s waiting room, flick idly through a three year old magazine and emerge, twenty minutes later, with a brighter smile and a complimentary toothbrush.

And then there are people like me.

For us a dentist’s appointment begins about three weeks beforehand. Every possible outcome is researched. I prepare myself for all eventualities, similar to someone having open heart surgery! The receptionist greets me with a cheery smile. She knows I’m a very anxious patient and insists that there’s nothing to worry about! Lovely sentiment! Completely unsupported by any evidence!

My latest adventure involved replacing the crowns on my two front teeth. Such an innocent sentence, like just popping out to have my two front teeth rebuilt. Back in a jiffy! But I knew what this was going to entail. Drills, suction hoses and a chair that reclined so far back that the odds of me choking to death would be one to ten on.

The dentist explained everything with calm professionalism. I nodded despite hearing little of what she was saying. Dentists have a wonderful ability to use reassuring phrases like ‘you might feel a little burning sensation when I inject into the top of your gum. I’ll do it slowly so that it’s not too uncomfortable’. She also mentioned that I might ‘feel a little pressure when I remove the old crowns’. If I felt any pain or discomfort I was to raise my hand. What she should have said was ‘we’re about to recreate the construction of the Channel Tunnel inside your mouth!’

The first challenge was the mould. Apparently they needed one for the temporary crowns so that I didn’t walk around for two weeks looking like Countess Dracula. This involved something resembling industrial bathroom sealant getting wedged firmly into my mouth. Not only was it enormous but also determined to squeeze itself into every crevice. I had to sit perfectly still, breathe calmly and resist the impulse to gag while the material set. My lips stretched into a startled goldfish impression. When it was finally removed and parted company with my teeth the noise sounded like pulling a wellie out of deep mud.

Once the chair had reclined sufficiently for my head to be almost touching the floor, a paper bib was tied around my neck and, as I clutched the chair handles tightly with both hands, the dentist asked, what for her was a perfectly reasonable question. ‘Are you comfortable?’ This was at the same time that my mouth contained three instruments, two gloved hands and what felt like a small garden rake!

Then came the drilling.

I know that dentists no longer use medieval torture devices, but, if they did, I’m sure they would have sounded exactly the same! The moment the drill burst into action my two forty year old crowns dug their heels in with the determination of two elderly tenants who’d been informed that their building was about to be demolished! They had no intention of leaving quietly. After four decades of loyal service they’d clearly decided that they were staying put until the bailiffs arrived!

The dentist remained calm. ‘I just have to persuade these crowns to come off’ she told me.

Persuade?

That wasn’t a gentle persuasion! It was full scale eviction! It came in the form of drilling, tugging and strategic wiggling. Every now and then she’d pause to inspect her handiwork while I lay there wondering whether she was removing two crowns or excavating an archeological site.

Suddenly there was the unmistakeable smell of burning. Perfectly normal if grilling a sausage, considerably less so when the smell was emanating from somewhere deep inside my mouth!

Now let me tell you about the water. There was an astonishing quantity of it! The suction tube was doing its very best but, with my legs up in the air and my head near the floor, it felt as if someone was spraying a garden hose directly into my face. Every few seconds another torrent would arrive and soon I became convinced that my chances of drowning had definitely overtaken my chances of winning the lottery! Every few seconds I was expected to swallow, breathe and remain still! I could picture the newspaper headline.

‘A local woman survives forty years with the same crowns only to perish in six inches of dental irrigation!’

You’re doing brilliantly, the dentist informed me, oblivious of the drama unfolding within my vivid imagination. What felt like hours later the atmosphere in the surgery subtly changed.

‘Aha’ said the dentist. One of my crowns had finally surrended! Its companion, clearly impressed and inspired by its partner’s heroic resistance, put up an equally spirited fight. There followed more drilling, more mysterious scraping, gallons more water and the ominous burning smell before the second veteran finally gave up the battle.

With the old crowns out of the way I made the fatal mistake of thinking that the worst was over.

It wasn’t.

There followed the delicate business of reshaping what was left of my teeth. I’d imagined neat little pegs had emerged from beneath the two crowns. Apparently not. The dentist explained that she needed to carefully contour them so that they would fit snuggly inside the temporary and permanent crowns. Contour turned out to be one of those innocent words that has a multitude of meanings. The drilling started again, followed by the deluge of water. I didn’t realise that dentistry was so precise because the contouring felt surprisingly intricate and took a long time!

The dentist appeared to be studying the stumps from every conceivable angle with the concentration of a master sculptor. Michaelangelo had David. My dentist had my incisor stumps! By this stage I was wondering if there would be anything left. I was sure that my two teeth had been reduced to a pair of vampire fangs. For forty years they had successfully anchored two crowns without even so much as a murmur!

Before the temporary crowns could be fitted there was the final mould required for the bespoke, made to measure, exceptionally highly skilled creation of my new Rolls Royce front teeth!

At last my temporary crowns were fitted and would be in place for two weeks. They came with a health warning. If I don’t want two orange front teeth I had to avoid tea, coffee, red wine, curry or any other food or drink which might discolour them.

As I wandered out clutching my post operative instructions and wearing my temporary smile, I decided that I had survived the ordeal rather well! I now faced a fortnight living on a diet chosen for its colour and not for its flavour or health benefits. It would also be comforting to know that my new crowns would have a brighter future than the rest of my body!👠

I always thought that most unfinished tasks were temporary. Little jobs waiting patiently for a spare afternoon and or a burst of motivation. One of the greatest myths of retirement is that I would finally have the time to tackle these little ‘domestic challenges’ I had put off for years! It’s a lovely theory but definitely impractical because these little annoying ‘challenges’ are remarkably adaptable creatures. Given more time and unsupervised they are prolific breeders!

I have, on numerous occasions, written ‘to do’ lists. Currently I don’t just have one, I have a few. I’ve categorised them, in the hope that this will help. There’s the ‘waiting for perfect weather conditions’ list, and ‘it’ll only take five minutes’ list, the ‘one thing could potentially lead to another’ list, the ‘can be adapted if necessary’ list and the ‘urgent’ and ‘non urgent list’. I even have a special note book so that they are all in one place. Somehow, by writing these lists, it feels like I’m making progress and am in control. Unfortunately these lists assume a stable universe. They also assume that one glorious day every box will be ticked. But the reality is anything but stable or glorious!

Every item on my list starts life as a single task. Left untouched some get promoted to a ‘project’ or even eventually reclassified as a commitment with a ‘to be completed’ date. Reading through my notebook I could call it a collection of domestic adventures. Perhaps that would inspire me? It’s actually closer to a catalogue of postponed good intentions!

I have also created a list for my husband. It wasn’t an unreasonable one, just a few jobs that have been quietly aging around the house like a fine cheese. He studied it carefully, nodded thoughtfully and then lost it! Now you can’t ignore a list that no longer exists. There was, however, one, brief, glorious moment when the list resurfaced. We gathered around it like archaeologists discovering an ancient scroll. He then, bizarrely, added another couple of jobs to the list before putting it somewhere ‘safe’. When I’ve enquired as to its whereabouts I’m told that he’s not sure but he’ll find it. With the passing of time he now has even more jobs to complete but no actual list. It’s the domestic equivalent of increasing the national debt while shredding the accounts!

The most well read and scruffiest page in my note book is the ‘five minute’ list. Number one is to sort out the drawer that won’t close. I’ve just moved it to the newly created ‘ten minute’ list because I need to go through the drawer and ruthlessly throw out scarves not used for a number of years. I love scarves. I’m loathe to throw any out!

Number two on the list is gluing back the arm of a china doll. This is a classic example of a five minute job with a caveat. First of all I have to remember where I put the arm. The super glue tube’s lid had welded itself permanently shut. I finally remembered to put a tube of glue on the shopping list but the supermarket had sold out. This job has celebrated its first birthday, seen a Christmas and now been transferred to at least three other lists.

Then there are the slightly longer jobs which require optimism on an heroic scale! The loft needs sorting out. I can’t climb into the loft myself. Actually that’s not true. I can get in but I can’t get out! The leap from the loft to the top rung of the rickety ladder petrifies me. My husband has to climb into the loft and pass the boxes down to me. It’s on his ‘to do’ list which is probably wherever old chargers, obsolete instruction manuals and single socks go to retire.

I need to delete thousands of old emails. I should be able to do this in half hourly chunks. On a number of occasions I have sat down with my phone and good intentions to start this onerous task. I spend half an hour reading conversations I’d completely forgotten about as I trawl back to 2014, which is where I ended my last clear out. Before long I’m laughing at office gossip, reminiscing about people I haven’t seen in years and wondering whatever happened to Sybil from HR. She always insisted that meetings would only take five minutes! Two hours later we’d shuffle out of the meeting room wondering what it was all about! Needless to say, I’m still in 2014!

On some dull grey days I sit in my office and glance over at the dreaded book lying on my desk. I start paging through it trying to find the tiniest bit of motivation. Perhaps I could sew the button on that shirt before the button gets lost. I do really need to make a start on the photographs before my husband and I shuffle off our mortal coils and no one else in the family would be able to identify anyone.

So, I’ve decided to make peace with my ‘to do’ list. It’s becoming less about unfinished tasks and more about the comfort of a long term relationship. We have our ups and downs. Sometimes I tick something off just to keep its spirits up, but it often retaliates by sprouting more new jobs! Some items have been carried forward for so many years that it would feel disloyal to complete them now!

Some people leave behind a legacy. I’ll leave behind my notebook. I’ll write its eulogy on the cover.

‘This book is not a record of failure, it’s an archive of optimism. I’m sorry we never got to the end of our journey together but you served me nobly, grew enthusiastically and steadfastly refused to give up. I thank you for your patience and am sorry that we never did complete our journey together.’

But currently there is a new addition to the list which has a ‘complete by’ date so if you’ll excuse me I really must ‘finish the blog about my ‘to do’ list’ before Monday the 6th July 2026!👠

If asked what humanity has achieved over the years, most people would point out magnificent cathedrals, great works of art, medical breakthroughs, moon landings or engineering marvels. Of course, these feats all deserve recognition but I think that history has overlooked some really important facts.

I have a confession to make. Museums usually bore me! I know this is not something I should share as it makes me appear empty headed, but there, I’ve said it! I cannot understand how people can spend hours gazing in awe at pottery fragments, ceremonial weapons or the remains of some poor soul who died around the invention of the wheel.

I have visited a lot of museums. My husband finds them fascinating. For me, they have become boring. There are only so many rusty swords, faded paintings, bits of broken jewellery or prehistoric bones that I can admire! I start going from exhibition to exhibition, nodding thoughtfully before secretly wandering if the cafe sells gluten free cakes. There is only a finite amount of time that I can pretend to admire an earthenware vessel circa 400BC.

At my last visit to a museum in Lima a couple of months ago, it struck me that, perhaps museums should expand their collections. Why only preserve antiquated artefacts from kings, emperors and brave warriors when we have fascinating objects that people live with every day. That’s where I came up with the idea of a ‘Museum of Ordinary Things’!

The first exhibit might contain remote controls. There would be hundreds of them, all shapes and sizes, held together with sticky tape, missing battery covers, or even just fragments circa the 1970s. Visitors would be invited to an interactive section where they would be presented with a television and a comfortable sofa. The challenge would be simple: find the remote. Visitors could spend hours trapped in a cycle of hope and despair. They might find lost coins, reading glasses and even dust to knit a small jumper. Very few would find the remote, a humbling reminder of humanity’s limitations!

The next exhibit could hold the ‘National Collection of Plastic Bags’. This is where plastic bags are carefully stored within other plastic bags. Scientists believe this nesting arrangement dates back many generations and remains a sacred tradition in British households. Nobody knows why they keep them but they dare not throw them away!

A particularly popular exhibit would be the ‘Drawer of Mystery’. Inside would be old batteries of an uncertain vintage, keys that fit no known lock, instruction manuals for appliances long since deceased, a screw that once belonged to something very important and many other exciting artefacts dating back to the late 1800s. It could, once more, be interactive where children could try and find keys to fit padlocks. Men could gleefully recognise miscellaneous tools and read through riveting instruction manuals recognising appliances popular before they were even born.

Women would move hastily on to the ‘Hall of Missing Socks’. This poignant exhibition could highlight poor, bereaved twins of a vanished sibling, condemned to spend eternity torn apart by fate, the solitary survivor, haunted by the empty space beside it. They would be carefully laid out in a drawer, on top and underneath a bed and on the floor. Comments by leading scientists would have studied this bizarre phenomenon for many years. Current theories would include wormholes or alien abduction. Washing machines and tumble driers would share some of the blame but remain innocent until proven guilty. This exhibition would be a tragic reminder that even the closest of twins could be cruelly separated, never to share another spin cycle together again. Like all devoted twins they would have hoped to grow old together, their partnership ending only when time wore them both thin, not by a cruel disappearance in their prime!

The list is endless. You could have the ‘National Archive of Takeaway Menus’, The Tupperware Lid Collection’, The Drawer of Greeting Cards’ and ‘The Shelf of Decorative Candles’. Another interactive exhibit could be ‘The Museum Cafe Queue Experience’.

The most emotional exhibition, which would come with a warning, could be called the ‘Mobile Phone Graveyard’. Held securely within glass cabinets, dozens of these ancient mobiles were once considered cutting edge technology. There would be a notice for those under thirty not to mistake them for archeological finds. The notice would also urge visitors not to laugh at these exhibits as their owners once believed that they proudly owned the very pinnacle of human achievement! These devices were designed in a time when phones were made for calls, texts were changed by the character and nobody expected it to communicate with a refrigerator or take a photograph. Particular notice should be taken of the Nokia phone, a device so indestructible that scientists of the time believed that it would outlive several civilisations and even the earth itself.

The penultimate room would house the British ‘Just in Case’ collection. This would consist of pieces of string, buttons, rubber bands, drawing pins, paper clips, reading glasses, chargers, etc. Visitors would be asked to allow extra time for this exhibit as most will be so excited to discover that they definitely had ‘one of those’!

This would bring us to the museum’s most valuable treasure, displayed under bullet proof glass and illuminated by a single spotlight, ‘The Indestructible Ballpoint Pen’. It could be found in a kitchen drawer circa 1980. It would apparently have survived house moves, office clear outs and at least three changes of governments. It would have been dropped, chewed and accidentally sat upon. It could even have survived the washing machine experience, yet it could still write with unwavering confidence. Experts who examined the pen would be dumbfounded that the ink hadn’t run out and would be convinced that, should the last computer give up, that tiny plastic monument to the remarkable durability of ordinary things, would faithfully continue filling out forms and signing important documents. It would be a survivor. A true legend. Few of us have owned a bronze helmet but we’ve all owned a good ballpoint pen!

Most museums preserve history. There is a place for them and I understand why they would be appreciated by a large section of our society. However, the ‘Museum of Ordinary Things’ with its humble exhibits, preserves memories. While kings, battles and empires have shaped the world, it’s the everyday objects of ordinary lives that continue to shape ours.