Paper Money

When I'm 64 (from March 2011)

That is the age at which I will now receive a state pension.

Oh well. I think I shall have to become a bank robber.

Don't tell anyone I said that.

Joking aside - it was terribly unjust that women were entitled to a pension five years before men. What was that all about? And it's not as if 60 is even old these days. Or so I like to kid myself.

It's the kids I feel sorry for. There they'll be trying to get a foot on the career ladder starting with something humble and character-forming like working the aisles in B&Q or Tescos and there will be all the old codgers like me taking their jobs. And I will too - if the bank robbing thing doesn't work out.

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Nelly's Garden has sure turned out to be quite the aide-memoire pour moi. For, thinks I to myself - I should write about how great it is to finally be in receipt of the long-awaited state pension and I knew I'd written about it before and, there you go, seven years ago I was positively longing to be a pensioner. It turned out I didn't do anything quite as drastic as robbing a bank or getting a job. As if! There's rarely a morning that passes that I don't wake up and thank the universe that I don't have to go to work.

So it is that even the grandchildren, at least the ones that live in Ireland and are aware of the existence of money, knew that I was looking forward to my pension. For as we headed into the local Spar yesterday afternoon and I opened my purse to check how much money I had, Evie exclaimed,

Is that paper money Granny?

And Martha asked,

Is it your pension Granny?

I think she's been looking forward to my pension as much as I have.

I knew I'd have a little spending spree when it finally came and as it came with another little windfall there was definitely going to be some addressing of pent-up need on the wardrobe front. So I went shopping yesterday just before I picked up the girls, thrifting and regular, and got a lovely rust-coloured linen cardigan (for a pittance) and some ridiculously cheap biker boots in TK Maxx plus some navy trousers. Got home and discovered I'd got the wrong size trousers and the boots still had a security tag on them. The cardi was still delicious, no issues there.

So, it was back to the shops today. As I entered TK Maxx the security alarm shrilled which really confused the guy on the floor. But no bother, he removed the tag and I swapped the trousers for a very useful structured black jackety, cardigany thing. In the thrift shops, I bought a very nice summer skirt. Fits lovely but you'd know you're wearing it. I reminded myself that Loulou de la Falaise said that when it comes to clothes she didn't like to feel too comfortable and I think I might take that to heart except when I'm gardening. 

And I hope Martha will be pleased with the three quid Mini-Boden dress I found in Ballymena's latest charity shop. It's from several seasons ago but that means vintage and Martha likes a bit of vintage.

The personal motto for the rest of my life is - just because you're fat doesn't mean that you can't have Nice Things. 

Martha's dress and my pre-loved cardigan and a Brand New Book because no shopping spree is complete without one.

When I'm Sixty-Four And A Half

I've been thinking about this Senior Citizen thing coming up next March and it seems I should be making some lifestyle changes.

I say to Bert,

When I'm an Old Age Pensioner I am going to have ROUTINES. For instance, I'll always go shopping on one particular day. And I'll start liking Marie biscuits.

Oh yes?

And I'll have a regular shampoo and set and wear lilac cardigans and suede sandals from Hotter.

Uh-huh.

I'll watch the soaps, Emmerdale and Coronation Street.

You should.

I'll start going to church.

Really?

Oh yes. And Daniel O'Donnell will be my new favourite singer and I may even learn to perform a gentle jive.

You're on your own with that one.

I'm taking up crochet. I'll make crocheted blankets for my even older friends.

Good idea.

Later on, as we breakfast on boiled eggs and toasted wheaten bread I say,

Another thing. When I'm an OAP I shall eat like a bird. Old people do that.

What?

What do you mean, what? How come you were able to accept all the other stuff I might do and not that I could become a light eater?

Well. I could see you having a regular shampoo and set and starting to crochet but I can't imagine you ever losing your appetite.

Cheeky bugger.

Looking Forward

In around four months time I will be, at last, in receipt of my State Pension. I'm rather looking forward to it. It's not a fortune but it will bring me a bit more financial independence. I won't be getting the full amount as there are some gaps in my National Insurance record. But not to worry, for if I buy credits amounting to around £1,800 I can increase my pension by £1.13 per week. which means that by the time I reach my 95th birthday I'll have broken even on the investment. Yay!!

Not going to do that.

While I was doing these calculations I also worked out how much I lost out on because the government raised the pension age. Almost all my life I expected to retire at 60. If everything had stayed as it was I'd have pocketed around £35,000 by now. But don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining as I'd probably have spent it foolishly anyway.

Sourdough Wars

The husband is in my bad books. First, he suggests that I can keep my egg money. I reply that I’d rather not as he buys the chicken feed, so he should keep it. He says it would be handy for you, give you a bit of independence. I say, what is the egg order again? Two and a half dozen. That's £2.50 a week. A generous allowance indeed. Go on Bert, you can keep it.

Did I ever mention that I am one of the multitude of women caught out by the rise in the pension age? There are women I know, only a few months older than I am who have been receiving their pension for over four years now which is very galling.

Yet, it was very unfair that women reached their pension age five years before men but it doesn’t stop me wishing that they’d waited until I got mine before the rules were changed. Still, I’ll probably get a pension some day and with me being the frugal sort, it will seem like a fortune when it comes. Unlike my poor children who will be quite old before their pension day arrives.

Now, back to my devilish husband – for there were two things… now, what was the other? Oh yes, sourdough bread and the imaginary competition between Les and Nelly. It was Les originally piqued my interest and was quick to offer recipes, advice, and encouragement. Les has created a great many loaves and is close to perfecting his method. I know, because he has shared those loaves with us. I, on the other hand, have been successfully feeding the ‘mother’ but have actually made just three loaves. For life gets in the way. Then Bert goes to Les for music practice on Tuesday and comes home raving, raving about the awesomeness of Les’ latest loaf. And there is half of it sent home with him and it’s true, the bread is sublime. Bert goes to check my ‘mother’. His verdict? Not as good as Les’ ‘mother’, too watery, needs more flour. Then there is the way Mrs Les served the bread, oil and balsamic vinegar, sea salt on the side, bet you’ve never even heard of that? Heh, Nelly?

Nelly raging, says,

Of course I’ve heard of it. Why, I was reading an article in the Guardian about that just weeks ago! I’m glad you enjoyed it because that’s what you’ll be getting for your supper all week! Bread, olive oil, balsamic vinegar and sea salt! We’ll see how you like that!

He says,

Well I won’t if it’s Mother’s Pride bread!

I bet you all never knew how hateful he can be.

Anyway, I started another loaf on Wednesday. Assembled it yesterday, left it to prove overnight. It looked very promising this morning and I baked it at lunch time. Slow bread. Put the oven on high, placed a bowl of water on the bottom shelf, put the bread in, forgot about it, burned it slightly.

Had some with my homemade chicken broth made with own leeks. Tough crust but good flavour. Had some with Bert’s omelette at supper time. Made with own eggs, own broccoli, and own chives.

Later on we had some broken up and dipped in balsamic vinegar, olive oil and sea salt. Accompanied with glass of own rhubarb wine. Very nice but wouldn’t want to eat it every evening. (Unless it was Les’ sourdough loaf.) Did I mention I am turning into fat, bloated, sourdoughy lump? And it’s not even Easter yet.

Les and Bert