Worry Guts

Some of the photographs in this post will have little to do with its subject matter. They are merely there to pad it out and make it look pretty.

I'm worried that I'm getting too fat. This will never trouble Lily

When I have worries I bury them under an obsession. My current obsession is researching Bert's family tree. Tonight I am obsessed with his first cousins, once removed, that emigrated to Queensland. Bert is under the impression that these cousins are very far out relations because, in his family, emigration to Queensland changed first cousins once removed to fourth cousins, removed 9581 miles away.

My main worry is Covid 19. And because of that, I got my very first flu jab today which is not as stupid as it sounds because now, if I get flu-like symptoms, I'll know straight away that it is the White House Virus. The flu jab experience was interesting. It took place in a church hall and was well organised. Lots of masking up, social distancing, temperature taking and fellow boomers. I'm interested in other oldsters. Like to see how they are getting on. I listened hard when they were telling the assistant their dates of birth. You're ten years older than moi? I like the cut of your jib. Doing well. Not too tottery. We'd been asked to wear short sleeves. one dear hadn't got the memo and was encased in the tightest, white jumper in the world. She had to heft it off and expose her sensible white underpinnings. Out of decency, I averted my gaze but not before noting that she seemed to be wearing a liberty bodice. No doubt inherited from her own grandmother.

Must be time for another random photograph.

The third one along is Bert's father Johnny. The other two were keen gardeners who used to frequent our nursery. The one hiding behind the standard fuchsia was very keen on fuchsia. The guy in the middle was a rose man. The day that Johnny died he was in our yard first thing wanting to buy more rose bushes. I told him we weren't open for business, that Bert's father had died. He still wanted roses. I remember thinking him very callous. That photograph was taken three years before Johnny died, twenty-six years ago. They will all be gone now. The man behind the fuchsia was a sweetheart. That's all I remember. Not his name, just how I felt about him.

Twenty-six years later I can understand the rose man better. Death was unfamiliar to me, I wasn't used to it.

I have worries closer to home. They must be kept in a box with a tight lid and several bricks piled on top. Johnny, the third guy along, told me once that there is no point in worrying, it didn't make anything any better. I should keep that in mind.

This picture grounds me. What is all this worrying shit? Just grow your hair, tie it in a man-bun, wear a blue boiler suit, pile your two oldest grandchildren on to a rickety bike, and speed race around the house while they squeal with glee. 

And leave the worrying to other people. People like me. Now back to Queensland.