Acting my age

Today is election day and I have no intention whatsoever of listening to any more soi-disant "news" than I absolutely have to. It seems to be wide open. Watch out for rants ahead, maybe.

A small amount of fibre activity - I have redyed the silk and soy silk with madder and have improved things quite a bit. I would say that the soy has not taken up the dye as readily as the silk - or any of the other dyes for that matter. I have no idea why that should be so. Pictures later.

Now, the rest of this post has no fibre content whatsoever, and indeed is shamelessly self-indulgent not to say navel-gazing. Readers of a nervous disposition, and I am including myself at a later date here , should stop reading immediately.

Today's secret about moi number one: I am a sucker for online quizzes. Recently, I have done two on "what is your mental age?" (for want of a better title.) Answering as honestly as I can, which is not easy, as sometimes the questions are so ridiculous that I sit in front of the screen thinking "just why, pray, am I doing this?", I have got a remarkable consistency: 37/39.

Now, I am extremely happy with that. And do not think for one minute that I am deluding myself that this is the age I look. No, not that stupid. As an aside, when I was at Convergence last year, I was chatting to a couple of persons who shall remain nameless, but are famous - a nameless namedropping, here? - and they were very concerned because I looked so tired - was I ok? Well, yes, more or less, but I pointed out to them that this was the first time that they had seen me not wearing glasses, and that I had just not realised what a multitude of sins the old gig-lamps concealed. Those Start under-eye bags, for one thing. Every time I notice them in the mirror, I think of my father and my Uncle Harry. But late thirties as a mental age, is pretty cool, and I can live very cheerfully with that. It is an age of some maturity, not to say gravitas (all right, I won't), but still young and of an enquiring mind nature. I intend to stay at this point for as long as I can. Pete likes to say that when our generation is in its dotage and retirement home, the music played on festive occasions won't be all Vera Lynn and Henry Hall (or even, heaven forbid, Semprini or Richard Claydermann) but the Who and the Stones. Actually, I've updated a little bit from there meself, well, added on - but I digress.

Today's second secret isn't. Well, I have never kept it as such, but then neither have I shouted it to the roof-tops that I have been seeing a counsellor for quite a while. I don't front up to strangers, and say "I see a therapist" out of the blue, but I do mention it lightly and in passing if the conversation warrants it. So why is it cropping up here, now, then? Because talking to her yesterday was, I think, something of a landmark, and I want to record it. And in part because it is a hard thing to put in to words, and this is yet another attempt to do so - articulation is part of the process, I think.

OK, so imagine me sitting here in front of the monitor, eyes glazed. I can't do it. Not properly, not yet. If this was paper, there would be words and sentences scribbled down and crossed out. Ulp. This is not really such a big deal in the grand scheme of things, but obviously is in my small corner of the universe. I am really quite amazed by how hard this is, and I am going to leave these apparently meaningless burbles in place, to be my first clue, first footprint in the sand.

Reading back over this, I realise that of course, it has to do with age, with achievement, with status, with employment, with balance. Wow, that's progress, and will have to do for now.

I realise that I haven't given my actual age. I was just about to, when I decided that it would be much more fun not.

So mean.

gw