Posts Tagged ‘Age’

Bon Cumpleannu a Cheli du ’92


Flashback Friday

Status Viatoris

status viatoris – being ‘on the way’/being in a state of pilgrimage

At 6 o’clock this morning, after a night punctuated by the bat thumping round her box like a stroppy adolescent, the dog padding incessantly back and forth from the sofa to his water bowl and odd snatches of half-sleep where I dreamt that my pillow was covered in spiders, my room was full of people and from which I eerily woke myself laughing, I just gave in and got up.

And this is the bewildering sight that met my eyes…

Whoopee! I’m Always Up for a Bit of Anarchy

But What Can It Possibly Mean?

The Thot Plickens…

The Mayor! (apparently I don’t warrant a mention even though it’s my street too, sob)

The intrigue was exacerbated by the fact that all this unexpected graffiti was in dialect, rendering most of it incomprehensible to me.

So, unable to…

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None The Wiser


Tired Old Tales for Thursdays

Status Viatoris

status viatoris – being ‘on the way’/being in a state of pilgrimage

SV: Good afternoon! How are you today?

Little Old Italian Lady:Well, you know how it is. Bad back, bad legs, bad eyes. Very tired. Can’t sleep. Weather’s a bit too hot and a bit too cold. Fell downstairs last year. Doctors say I’m too old to fix.

SV: Ummmmm. Oh dear.

Little Old Italian Lady: There was a woman here looking for you yesterday.

SV: Really?

Little Old Italian Lady: Yup. Asked me if I’d seen the lady who’s always walking her dog.

SV: Well, not always, I sometimes do other things as well…

Little Old Italian Lady: So I told her I hadn’t seen you.

SV: Are you sure she was looking for me?

Little Old Italian Lady: Definitely. Lady who’s always walking her dog, she said.

SV: Hmmmm. What was she like?

Little Old Italian…

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Ding Dong the Bells are going to Chime


status viatoris – being ‘on the way’/being in a state of pilgrimage

Sometime towards the end of 2012, discussions turned to the state of my ovaries.

Given the apparently serious nature of our love affair, and the possibly decrepit state of my reproductive organs, I thought it prudent to point out to Tigger that should he envisage a family with me, sooner rather than later might be the key to thwarting the wear and tear that was invariably being wrought by Old Father Time.

To be honest it was merely an observation – I had long ago made peace with the possibility of a childless future (Life seems to me to be filled with plenty of other goals to strive for and hidden corners to explore).

Anyway, it transpired that a family is exactly what Tigger had envisaged with me, which is how I now find myself engaged to be married.

The Rock

Less of a rock and more of a chiefly calcium carbonate deposit formed around a grain of sand or other foreign matter in the shells of certain molluscs… But still very pretty.

And I simply cannot wait to be the wife of such a kind, loving, funny, supportive, intelligent, and wonderful man – although preferably via a registry office wedding involving no more than two guests and which I can attend in my trainers… oh yes, I am the last of the great romantics.

On paper we  are undoubtedly a very odd match.

I am a thirty-five year old English girl (not sure what it takes to be a woman, but I don’t feel I’m quite there yet…), he is a twenty-six year old Romanian of Hungarian origin.

I am an atheist, an only child and a bookworm; he is Catholic, the fourth child of six and has never picked up a book in his life.

I am an antisocial over-thinker; he is gregarious and happy-go-lucky.

I write stuff, translate stuff, teach stuff and sell stuff; he does stuff with iron, and has been known also to do stuff with wood and bricks and cement too.

I am messy, he is neat. I am fanciful, he is practical.

I have moved to Spain then France then Italy in a self-indulgent quest for a more exciting life, he has moved to Spain then Cyprus then Italy out of necessity – a necessity for reliably paid employment.

I have been through a fairly impressive roll call of partners in my attempt to track down “The One”, he never saw the point of having a girlfriend until he met me.

In fact about the only thing we have in common is that we love each other, and very much. A warm yet exciting, comforting yet heart-pounding kind of love that makes me go “oh! so that’s what everyone meant…!” for up till now I had assumed that people in relationships just made do.

No More.

No Less.

And into this already pretty cushy bargain, I also get the benefit of a lovely family. One that already boasts an Ecuadorian brother-in-law, thus relieving me of the burden of being the only foreigner; as well an extraordinarily special little Ecuadorian/Romanian nephew who had already melted my heart long before I had even made his uncle’s acquaintance.

Thus a whole new chapter of my life opens up, and in a direction that I really had not counted on.  Will it still be possible to be a Modern-Day Nomad with her head in the clouds and her fingers on the keyboard as well as a wife, and possibly also one day a mother?

I sincerely hope so. And I think that this partnership – for it most decidedly is a partnership, as opposed to two independent humans sharing merely bed and board as in previous relationships – has the necessary ingredients to make it possible.

I was already fairly sure of that six months ago but when my lovely strong cheerful man broke down and cried like a baby at the prospect of losing my beloved dog; then I knew it for certain.

This is Status Viatoris, who has enjoyed a few days off from An English Fandango, but who will be cracking on with “Marbella” from Monday.

Ticking Along


status viatoris – being ‘on the way’/being in a state of pilgrimage

As thrilled as you no doubt all were (cough, cough) to catch up with my news last week, I have a sneaking suspicion that there will be a few out there who are currently tapping their fingers, whilst muttering:

“Yes, yes. That’s all very well, but what about Pooch?”

And quite right too… What about me?

So you will be relieved to hear that Pooch is, well…. as Poochy, as ever.

Perhaps even more so on occasion.

He is also exceedingly relieved to have bid goodbye to the ghastly summer heat, which has been particularly punishing on a boy of nearly twelve, and which has led to the fur on each knobbly little elbow being rubbed into extinction by hours spent lolling dolefully on unforgiving floor tiles.

Too much embarrassing personal information, Mummy!

And it would appear that floor tiles and arthriticky hips are also a ill-advised partnership; all of which meant that by the time the temperatures began to descend to more manageable levels, our dear Pooch was quite reduced to a hobbly, panty, bald-in-patches shadow of his former self.

But despite his previously palpable misery, a couple of cooler weeks was all it took to get Mummy’s Little Soldier back to his irrepressible best.

Just the memory is enough to make me feel faint. Dash and get me another snacklet to perk me up, Mummy, there’s a poppet.

As wonderfully joyful and bouncy as he is, the fact that Pooch will be twelve this December is  never far from my mind. And being that I am one of Life’s worriers-about-every-wee-thing, I have for a while now been prone to panic at the slightest limp, sneeze or shake of his head.

Other than regular exercise, food supplements and eventually medication, I have been assured that there is absolutely nothing further I can do to ease the path of the arthriticky hips.

The squidgy lumps that have sprung up hither and thither are apparently harmless fatty lipoma, and the milky eyes are a result age-related lenticular sclerosis – aka nothing serious.

But there was no getting away from the fact that sooner or later there would be SOMETHING, and after a routine heart scan I was finally given the news I have been dreading since February 2001 when this amazing little creature became part of my life.

Pooch has a myocardial tumour.


Taking cells for a biopsy would be a risky procedure in itself, and even if it was discovered to be cancerous, removing a tumour from a dog’s heart is not an option. Chemotherapy is also known to have little or no effect on this sort of growth.

And anyway, the scans do seem to indicate that the tumour is a benign fibroma.

Pooch is currently showing very few symptoms other than a bit of a cough and slightly raised blood pressure, so hopefully the progression of this hateful mass will be slow.

But progress it eventually will; affecting his heart and lung function, with the obviously fatal consequences.

Having to come to terms with the irrefutable evidence that my beloved dog is not going to live forever, or even as long as I had started to hope given the astounding longevity of some of the local hounds, is ridiculously hard.

But I mustn’t let my sadness impinge on his right to the happiest life possible, so fingers crossed he puts the recent frenzy of hugging down to his ever-increasing cutesy wootsiness, and not my desperation to hold him close for as long as I still can.

This is Status Viatoris, hoping that the cardiologist appointment in six-month’s time indicates a less than speedy decline, in Italy.

83 Shades of Blue Grey


status viatoris – being ‘on the way’/being in a state of pilgrimage

Hectic busyness combined with a sudden but severe inspiration drought are the two components responsible for keeping me from these pages. But I must confess that once the feelings of guilt lessened, I very much enjoyed this mega break from the blogosphere.

However the time has come to set my scribbles in motion once again, and what better way to get back on the blogatory horse than with a tale or two of geriatric lovin’.

Well ok, not geriatric lovin’ exactly, more stories recently (and slightly disturbingly) recounted to me by a lady who is now well into her eighties.

Like the time she was sitting in the piazza with a group of her similarly aged lady friends discussing the losing of their virginities:

“And one lady – ninety-four she is – told us that her marriage couldn’t be consummated on their wedding night because her new husband was expecting to be confronted a hole like this” (at which point the narrator joins thumb and forefinger to form a circle) “and when he couldn’t see anything similar, he declared he had no idea where his whatnot was supposed to go!”

Break for much gasping and wheezing.

“Well we all laughed and laughed at that, even though we were in public!”

And then:

“Another one of the ladies told us about the time she went to the loo in front of her three-year old granddaughter, who told her she really needed to go to the barber because her lady bits had grown a beard!”

Leading to:

“I wasn’t scared, even though I’d never seen one before. Neither me or my husband really had much of an idea what to do, but we eventually figured out where everything went.”

Not forgetting:

“And I said to my husband – well if you really insist on doing it, make sure you pull out; the baby’s only little and I was as sick as anything for the first five months of pregnancy – but he didn’t.”

Which led to:

“So my daughter was born when my son was still breastfeeding. She ripped me to shreds but the doctor wouldn’t give me any stitches so soon after the other birth and I walked bent over double for nearly a year.”

And as an afterthought:

“And my paternal grandmother was a saint, although I never met her because my father was 13 when she died. She always wore bloomers down to her knees; no indecently short undergarments for her. A real saint.”

This is Status Viatoris, wondering who needs “Mummy Porn” when the great-grandmotherly stuff is so much more entertaining, in Italy.

Emotional Incapability Need Not Be Terminal


status viatoris – being ‘on the way’/being in a state of pilgrimage

I have recently been taught that good communication may well be the key to making relationships work.

It is also, apparently, the key to saving them – those which still have the whisper of a pulse, anyway.

For when the dust settled on a sudden and inexplicable rift with Tigger/Toyboy, and I was at last capable of having a meaningful conversation without ending up snuffling pathetically into a hanky, we sat down together and had a good long chat.

We talked, really talked, and realised that despite the relative brevity of the relationship, really talking had been allowed to slip fatally low on our list of priorities.

And although I had certainly been aware of its descent, it was Tigger who actually troubled to point it out.

It was assuming that had stepped in to take the vacancy left by really talking, and assuming makes a very poor substitute indeed – as well as of course making an ass of you and… well, I’m sure you know the rest.

The trouble with assuming – besides being very different from the actual knowing that tends to come from really talking – is that it relies quite heavily on the experiences and past observations of the assumer.

Not ideal when the assumer and the assumee have an age-difference of almost a decade, come from extremely dissimilar cultural backgrounds and communicate in a language that neither of them speaks to mother-tongue standard.

So having established that what we both wanted from each other was considerably different from what we had assumed we wanted from each other, and that what we both want is to be together but with a little more dedication and a regular helping of really talking, Tigger and I managed to retrieve what we both thought we’d lost for good.


This is Status Viatoris, working at making a relationship work, in Norfamtonshire.

Souvenirs of Deceased Memories


status viatoris – being ‘on the way’/being in a state of pilgrimage

Whilst casting around  for something to while away the “inside” time currently being gifted to us by the UK’s charmingly schizophrenic weather (sunshine, rain shower, hailstorm, sunshine, storm clouds, sunsh… HAILSTORM! rain shower, storm clouds, sunshine, rain sh… SUNSHINE! rain shower, hailstorm, sunshine, hailst… RAIN SHOWER! sunsh… OH FOR PETE’S SAKE, I GIVE UP!), the Mothership and I decided to do that which we had thus far been putting off, and tackle the chaos of the long-ignored attic – scene of a veritable explosion of family artefacts brought on by the demise of three grandparents and one husband/father in relatively quick succession.

A row of possible ancestors on a beach…

Photograph albums, letters, diaries, school reports and birth certificates jostled for attention alongside WWII memorabilia, school projects and endless boxes of identifiable and not so identifiable curios; lovingly collected by each consecutive generation and kept safe by their descendants out of sentimentality and a sometimes misguided notion of continuity. Misguided, because the memory or emotion associated with personal possessions so often dies with the owner, leaving behind nothing but a rather meaningless object.

Miniature of unidentified woman found with the miniatures of grandmother, great-aunt and great-grandmother.

Although it was far from being the first time my mother and I had been confronted with these windows into the lives of our forebears, we had never before tackled them without the comforting presence of a “go-between”; a generation whose own memories could shed an explanatory light and act as a bridge between old-fashioned “them” and modern-day “us.”

But over the last few days we have been viewing them from the rather more uncomfortable position of being the end of the line; the culmination of those long-dead strangers’ life choices, their struggles, and their hopes for the future. It has, all of it, come to rest in our hands and only we are left to decide what to do with the remnants of their existence.

Somebody in my family obviously cared enough to frame her picture; but without leaving mention of who she might be!

Two rather ponderous lines of thought have sprung into my mind as I peruse my great-grandfather’s 1891 birth certificate, read letters from my great great-grandfather to my 13-year old grandfather or flick through albums of  unknown early-20th century faces:

The first is to wonder how these disciplined, upright people would feel about seeing their genetic lineage culminating (due to a family that has grown smaller with every generation) in the plump person – complete with recently tattooed buttock and pierced nose – of one who has thumbed her nose at convention and rejected an education, simply in order to become an aimless wanderer.

Having strived so hard to improve their lot; to steer their children towards a brighter and more financially stable future – the jump from tradesman to doctor of medicine made in a single generation – I can only imagine what they would have made of my choices…

Still haven’t managed to track down the anti-conformist gene…

Also compounded by this amble through the past is my long-held conviction that life is short and infinitely precious.

It should be seized upon and lived to the absolute max, for within only a few generations all that may remain of any of us (aside from our often unremarkable genetic footprint) are a few bits and bobs that hold meaning only for those who knew us intimately, and a selection of photographs in which even our great great-grandchildren are unlikely to be able to pick us out.

So Carpe diem, folks, because Tempus fugit and this life is all we get…

…it may well be brief; but let us at least try to make it spectacular!

Early evidence of the superior literary skills and masterful spelling of an anonymous person… 😉

This is Status Viatoris, who has been inspired to start culling all but the essential and/or beautiful from her life to save whoever has the unlucky job of mucking out the Augean Stables upon her demise.

Something In The Air


status viatoris – being ‘on the way’/being in a state of pilgrimage

Utterly daff-t…

Spring is without doubt my favourite season.

The air of promise is almost tangible; the excitement of all buzzy and feathered things at being able to put the wintry struggle for survival aside in favour of more amorous pursuits, positively catching.

It does seem to have one adverse effect, though, and that is the turning of my Italian (and Albanian) friends’ and neighbours’ minds to thoughts of  procreation.

And not even theirs… mine.

With my Little Italian Home almost finished (I am but a few doors and curtains away from a full pictorial exposé) and the Tigger/Toyboy situation still, by some inexplicable means, going from strength to strength after nearly eight months; the almost universal consensus of opinion seems to be that I should be submitting to the call of this most fertile of seasons and throwing together a bun for my oven.

I can only think that the snorting of too much pollen has caused such a staunch refusal to accept that nearly 35 is far too young to be thinking of motherhood.

Exceedingly much too young.

Ever so ever so young.

And anyway, as long as there are other women out there infinitely more suited for parenthood, I feel I am probably better off leaving the production and raising of the next generation in their capable hands.


Welcome to the world, Viviana Michi Rose. This one’s for you!

This is Status Viatoris, and anyway I only have one bedroom and  have sworn NEVER TO MOVE HOUSE EVER AGAIN so no space for a baby unless it sleeps in my sock drawer, in Italy.

34 or 64?


status viatoris – being ‘on the way’/being in a state of pilgrimage

At the hairdressers for pruning and re-doing of roots purposes…

SV (peering at herself in the mirror): How nice! My natural colour seems to be getting lighter.

Hairdresser: It’s all white.

SV: It’s better than alright, it’s great!

Hairdresser: No. Your hair is lighter because a lot of it is now white.

SV (putting on her glasses and peering a little closer): Oh.

This is Status Viatoris, thinking she should probably dispense with the glasses and just stick to the fanciful blur, in Italy.

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