Once upon a time, I was a decent tennis player. Once upon a time, I was decent at a lot of things I wouldn’t dare start up again. It gets to the point where you begin forgetting more than what people half my age know. And don’t tell me that it’s like riding a bike, you never really forget. I tried riding a bike a couple of years ago and had forgotten everything. I wibbled, I wobbled, I got off and I walked.
Age has something to do with it. It does for me anyway. It’s not that, at this stage of my life, a little practice would help the memories return…both mental and physical…I just don’t care if they don’t. Too many other things have taken over in my life to push those other things right out of the way. Anything requiring too much physical exertion is out as far as I’m concerned. You know the expression, ‘I’m getting too old for this shit’ ? My mantra.
I have managed to put my considerable mental efforts into writing and physically by keeping myself on top of learning new guitar techniques. Lots of finger exercising. I am not one of those who sees growing older as a time to keep pushing the boundaries to prove I am still young and fit. This happens in part because I drink beer/ale and wine and enjoy good food, desserts and all. The other night a few of us went out to a lovely pub in the middle of nowhere Gloucestershire, The Glasshouse Inn, for a meal, before driving into Wales to see a Blues band. We know the players.
The setting for the Glasshouse is beyond magical…except for those ubiquitous wasps (not English people, the bee)…in a setting where you expect to see faeries at the bottom of the Inn’s garden. The point is, the food is great and the ales are fine. I had ribs, a pint of pale ale and for dessert, Eton Mess. Calories? I know not the meaning of the word. Not when I’m enjoying myself. Off to Monmouth just inside Wales to listen to a set of The No-Parking Blues band. I am a Blues aficionado. My dad got me started when I was a young lad.
Music aside, the point of the above is about being overweight and out of shape. Had I been in charge of human evolution, I would have developed our bodies for eating and drinking anything we like, relaxing, never putting on weight. Such is not the case. When I turned 60, everything I ate seemed to go to my middle. I don’t care about reasons why this happens. It’s just not right. All I know is it happens and the only way to stop from exploding is to cut back on intake and keep on the move. What to do?
You’ve probably all heard about fitbits. They look like watches and track your daily activities, the more expensive ones even telling you how you slept. Not cheap. And very annoying. Everyone has to reach at least 10 thousand steps each day to remain healthy. It even tells you how many calories you’ve used. My best friend wears one. I refuse. I don’t need to spend over £100 to tell me if I’ve had a bad night’s sleep or not been as active as I need to be. Just another way to make money for the big boys while instilling in us another round of stress and anxiety.
My best friend was given a space in an old toll house (17th Century) in Lea, Herefordshire. It’s one of the reasons we moved our boat from Apsley marina in Hertfordshire to Droitwich Spa. From here, we are only a 40 minute drive to the studio. The old toll house is on the property of a dear 85-year-old woman, a retired medical doctor who tells you like it is. She loved the idea of an art studio in the unused toll house. Also on the property is an old tennis court, constructed in 1909, resurfaced once in 1980 and now overgrown with moss and the surrounding bushes. A high fence still surrounds the hard court and the net is in remarkably good shape.
We had been staying with our friends Tony and Deb at their place beside the doctor’s. We had to walk across her driveway to get to the studio. We still had our tennis racquets as did Tony and Deb. We had permission to use the court. The next step, after inspection, was whether it was worth the effort to clean it up before play. The fitbits said, yes. Out we went with scrapers, hoes, shovels, brooms and clippers. It took us 3 days to accomplish the task, but in between, we got in some tennis.
Well, I call it tennis. We played on a court with racquets and balls but none of us, save Tony, had remembered much about playing. We knocked balls far and wide, over the fence, into the apple orchard and into rose bushes we had not yet pruned…a hazard retrieving balls with all those thorns…into the net and sometimes hard into Tony. But we prevailed. We had the bug.
The second day, the lady of the house came out to view the proceedings as we continued to lop off branches and prune bushes. She made her way by Zimmer Frame (Walker) over a little bridge and along the path to the court. She sat awhile just watching, a serious look on her face. I tried to engage her, talking about the moss removal, but she ignored me (nothing really unusual there), staring ahead at the feverous activity taking place with the pruning hook. Tony came over and said to her, “You don’t mind us cutting back a bit, do you?” She replied, “I don’t like anything being cut down in my garden.”
Tony explained that we were just pruning, not cutting anything down. Some of the branches had grown over the court, bending the fence over. He took her on a tour around the inside of the court, revealing the work we had done and how we had basically restored the court to relatively good condition. We all stood waiting for her verdict. Finally, she looked up at Tony and said, “Yes, that’s fine. carry on. Just be careful.”
As she wheeled away back toward her house, I walked up and said to her, “What, you’re not staying to watch the Wimbledon Mixed Doubles final?” She let go a laugh that surprised all of us. And on went the game…well, the ball smashing anyway. Tennis anyone? You may not see it here, but we’re giving it all we’ve got and the fitbits are loving it.