Derek Nimmo’s birthday
I marked the occasion (it was yesterday – 19th September).
It was not my idea. It was not even the inaugural occasion. How? Why? I don’t know – it’s lost in the mists of time that swirl around the recesses of peri-menopausal minds. A collective term for women such as myself might be ‘a confusion’. We don’t get out much – except to drive children to wheresoever they need to be. Like those cuckoos who pop of out clocks every 15 minutes, much of our daily existence is pre-ordained, by the demands of others.
We don’t get out much because there is no time, no money, no energy. When we do? We shuffle in with messed up hair and outfits and we order spirits. We talk. We laugh. We cry. We are on the edge.
We work, we parent, we try grow things in the garden. Some of us paint, or make, or write, or sing. We all dance, sometimes.
Some of us are the World’s Expert on Listerine. Some of us can teach 40 under-fives in pink leotards ballet and keep our heads when someone pees on the floor. Some of us exhibit at home, and abroad. Some of us run school discos after a day’s teaching. Some of us stitch, or bake and wear customised leather jackets. Some of us would kill for a turquoise sombrero. Some of us can’t be there because life has tripped us up, but we know, the next time Derek Nimmo’s birthday comes around – there will be something that has been said and done that day by all of us that is worth celebrating.
My life as the Magic Roundabout – channelling Ermintrude with a fawn dog by my side.
At least she was never forced to drive through at a McDonalds…