Confession of a Hypocrite

Posted on April 13, 2014 by Grace Lessageing

Anyone who has followed Anecdotage since the start will know what my opinions are on the National Health Service. It was a wonderful concept and is a precious resource to be preserved at all costs. I still think this. But after eight months of crippling heel pain and having followed all instructions as to exercise [no impact, stretch the Achilles, roll the instep, bottle of ice] and having exhausted all the options the NHS can offer [ultrasound and steroid jabs], I am now faced with waiting yet another 6 weeks to see a specialist or going against my principles and seeing someone privately.

I wouldn’t be doing this but for the facts that: a] I have yet to see the same GP twice regarding the problem, b] I have had to return to the GP surgery despite the physio’s recommendation for referral and c] The latest locum doctor-a young man called Sergei, handed me some sheets printed from a website with information I had ingested many months ago at the start of my own research and d] He concluded this brief consultation by shrugging his shoulders, indicating in no uncertain terms that he is unable, unwilling and uninterested in the difficulty.

Of course I do understand that the condition is not life threatening. It is neither high profile [as, for instance, cancer] nor unusual. It is, however debilitating, painful, miserable, quality-of-life depriving and impacts hugely on overall fitness. If you are unable to exercise over a prolonged period you become unfit. Does it not make sense to enable people to exercise and thus keep themselves as healthy as possible?

In a similar, parallel action I succumbed to my long-held, shallow, frivolous desire for whiter teeth by setting up an appointment with my own National Health dentist. Motivated by an approaching wedding, I was unaware that a certain amount of time would be needed to complete this cosmetic treatment, so waited one week for an assessment appointment to be told there was not enough time!

I rang a local private practice. ‘Of course!’ affirmed the receptionist immediately-‘and we have a special offer for April!’ Result! My appointment was next day. I sank into a soft, leather armchair and watched TV until called. I was offered tea [rejected due to having clean teeth]. The dentist took photos-‘Yes-there is still time!’ BUT [of course there is a ‘but’] you will need this, this and this done before the process can begin’. This, this and this, naturally, cost stadium proportions of money. Still-there is TV on the ceiling above my head where I lie in the chair, Robert [the smiley dentist] and Lara [the smiley nurse] are friendly and reassuring. ‘Bread’ plays quietly in the background. It’s just as well it is comfortable, given that I will be spending almost as much time there as at home next week, that is, except for the sessions at Physiotherapy having my heel pummelled.

So there! My principles are compromised. What is a health hypocrite to do these days?

Part 2…Grace’s Guide to Happy Old Age

Posted on September 15, 2013 by Grace Lessageing

…So much for the experts’ guide to ageing. I am no expert, but I may be moving towards knowing what makes for a happy, healthy old age. For the majority it must be a desirable state. Who would plump for the alternative? You would have to be in a miserable condition to choose to be either unhealthy or the ultimate in ill health.

Exercise

Some of the experts’ ideas are on the right track, but to me they seem too narrow, too prescriptive. For instance, why weight lifting, particularly? There can be few people left on the planet who don’t realise by now that exercise is good for you, but any kind of activity will surely suffice? I’d opt for something you enjoy-swimming, walking, dancing, gardening, cycling-even housework [perhaps not so enjoyable]. Experience has demonstrated to me that activities which are not fun or enjoyable will not be sustained. I never got any fun from weight machines. On the other hand I love Zumba.

Eating

Again, you would have to have lived on a desert island not to know that overweight is bad [in which case-you would be unlikely to have become fat, due to having to hunt for food]. Food intake is closely linked to the above [exercise]. It’s not difficult. Fuel in-expend fuel. Too much fuel without enough expenditure=surplus. I can’t see the need to fast, and in any case it is unpleasant.

Brain

I agree it is best to keep the grey matter in good order. If learning a language is what you enjoy, go ahead and learn one. Learn lots of languages! But I’d say there are plenty of ways to maintain the cells. Reading, discussing, learning, writing [of course!], observing, crosswords [if difficult enough], those number things with a Japanese name. In the future I’d guess more old people will be accustomed to computer game playing. I confess ignorance as to the value of these.

Others

This is a tricky one. According to the ‘expert’ marriage and/or a strong social network were crucial to staying healthy. But I’d place the emphasis on the ‘happy’ part where marriage is concerned. For some, once the world of work and bringing up children comes to an end there is little left in a marriage and it could be more stressful to continue as a couple than as individuals. In retirement you spend much more time together as a couple. Similarly, the company of friends can sometimes provide more problems than it solves. But I do agree that loneliness can be a stressful emotion.

The experts were all agreed that stress should be avoided in order to live into advanced years. I’m with them on that. This is not to say a little excitement should be avoided however. But how you do it, I reckon is not rocket science at all. Enjoy life and live it to the full!

Too Rich and too Thin

Posted on August 25, 2013 by Grace Lessageing

The tale of Kate Moss’s meteoric rise to international supermodel stardom has been much related. She was ‘spotted’ at 14 years of age at an airport by a model agency scout. This is hardly a ‘rags to riches’ story, since young Kate was on holiday in the Bahamas, but still, doubtless provides fuel for hopeful adolescent girls’ imaginations. Since that time she has barely been out of the headlines of the tabloid press, either for her sense of style or for her wild party lifestyle and dubious partner choices.

A cynic could be excused for thinking that Kate’s excessive over indulgences and subsequent exposure [photographed snorting cocaine, consorting with drug users] had done her no harm at all, since she continues to appear in ‘rich lists’, ‘super lists’ and so on; nevertheless there has been an outcry at the latest depictions and criticism of her inflated and imperfect physique as she holidayed in Ibiza.

Kate has been lucky in most respects. Born with reasonable looks and being in the right place at the right time has been the catalyst for her success, then by cunning employment of the media and following the mantra that no publicity is bad publicity she has maintained a long [in supermodel terms] and financially satisfactory career. She is not the first or the last person to do this.

But you should not expect to both exploit the masses interest in you and all you do and eschew all sense of responsibility. Having made a fortune from staying adolescent thin into middle age, using that look to get work and exploiting the media, it would be refreshing if Kate were to either retire from modelling or reveal the secrets of her bodily success; for in order to stay whip thin she must have loaded her system with myriad cocktails of drugs.

With an obesity epidemic looming [or present], how helpful can it be for the huge, rich diet industry to keep focusing on the way we should look? Wouldn’t it be so much more helpful and motivating to encourage activity and show struggling dieters not only how much better they would feel by keeping within the average weight band, but how much more healthy life they could have.

I suppose it must be more of a dilemma for those who, like Kate, have built a career around their looks, whether to ‘let it all go’ and live a normal life as they approach middle age. She could certainly afford to do this, although presumably the dieting habit would be hard to break and she famously told the world that ‘nothing tastes as good as skinny feels’.

I must admit I quite enjoy the anonymity that being older bestows. I probably ‘scrub up’ reasonably well if the occasion demands it. Mainly, however I want to stay as fit as possible for as long as possible-and enjoy life, so I do my best to get regular exercise, then I can sometimes have a few chips with my lettuce leaves.

The Metamorphosis from Hare to Tortoise, and other stories.

Posted on May 2, 2013 by Grace Lessageing

If you consider the multitude of myriad, divers physical activities that can be pursued, from mountain biking to beach volleyball; from skiing to scuba diving, walking does not come across as a very sexy way to get exercise. Although I’ve listened to a riveting radio programme extolling the virtues of a ‘taught’ walking course somewhere in Yorkshire I admit I succumbed to a certain scepticism-after all, it isn’t a very difficult skill to master. Most of us manage it in the first year or two of life.

Ten years ago I was still in thrall to running, a concept that seems as unlikely to me now as tightrope walking the Grand Canyon, but I did really come to love pounding the pavements, even though I was one of those cross country runners at school who hid behind a bush, waited until the pack returned and tagged along at the back.

Once I’d got the hang of jogging and could stumble around the block without fainting I began to enjoy the meditative sensation I got. Husband, however pointed out that this did not lead to much progress in the way of faster speed. Apparently you are supposed to concentrate, do a mysterious thing called ‘interval training’ and various other improving activities. I was unconcerned. What I became was a long[ish], slow runner.

I was not aware of my dependence on loping along in a trance in the evenings and at weekends until increasing decrepitude forced me to hang up my running shoes. It was a blow. I realise that during this transitional period I was about as amenable as a premenstrual rattlesnake, but eventually I came to terms and replaced running with…walking. Of course, it burns fewer calories, it is slow; it is not impressive to one’s friends. As far as I’m aware, there isn’t a ‘walk-keeper’ that you can pop posts on to Facebook with-‘Grace Lessageing has just completed a 5k walk with Walk-keeper’ doesn’t sound like a remarkable achievement.

But walking does have its own, modest advantages. Other than a pair of comfortable shoes and a water bottle there is little equipment needed. It can be a means to an end or the purpose itself. Weather is of no consequence. A stop for shopping, tea and cake or beer can be incorporated. A solo walk can now induce that same period of meditation that used to be brought about by a run and is perfect for sparking off loads of little ideas for stories, or working out a difficult chapter of novel, or coming up with another load of drivel for this blog.

Walking these days is a popular activity, although most walkers are accompanied, either by other walkers or a dog, or both. I enjoy company on a walk but don’t find it indispensable, and much as I like other peoples’ dogs [sometimes] I really don’t want one of my own. So two or three times a week I stride out for the good of mind and body [even if, just once in a while. I do come home on the bus].

It’s Torture on the Trail and Suffering in the Saddle…

Posted on April 11, 2013 by Grace Lessageing

In the doomed interests of resurrecting my bicycle fitness, my personal cycle trainer, [aka Husband] has begun the general cajoling, wheedling, persuading, justifying, soothing and encouraging needed to get me back into the saddle and off into the great beyond along the tracks and byways that make up France’s cycle-paths.

In preparation for this annual event he has cleaned and prepped the bike [a wondrous bike-not in the least responsible for my ineptitude], gathered together any equipment that may be likely to make the entire business less arduous and painful [for both of us, you understand], organised as much as possible in the way of safe, flat, sheltered routes offering respite along the way-in other words-bars, and prepared himself for the slow, pathetic, whimpering would-be cyclist I always am.

The ‘pistes’ are superb; flat [due to the terrain], tarmac, off-road, signed [mostly]. Husband is an expert cyclist, swooshing effortlessly through the half barriers and up over jutting kerbs with no perceptible reduction in speed. He offers an occasional glance over his shoulder to assess my progress and is rewarded by the sight of me back in the distance, affecting an undignified paddle through the chicane or lifting the handlebars up to scale the pavement. He offers strategic stops to assuage the soreness of the backside and the undercarriage; my own upholstery soon becomes tender, even with the gel-padded, hi-tech cushioning of the lycra cycle shorts that are wedged, nappy-like under my nether regions.

“Keep your speed up…and just GO!” he exhorts as I attempt to negotiate yet another obstacle. In the past I have endeavoured to follow this instruction, resulting in my crashing into the sides of narrow bridges or parting company with the bike [painfully on to gravel] on a particularly sharp corner and rashly into a night-time clump of aggressive nettles. I seem to have an innate inability to steer, needing to dismount completely whenever a complete turn is needed, or any sudden change in direction.

The traffic, thundering around the occasional roundabout where the path has momentarily disappeared, terrifies me. “I’m going to walk across”, I announce and he eyes me wearily as he waits for me to catch up.

Somewhere there will be an incline, perhaps to cross a bridge, or a cross wind-or a head wind, where I fall further behind. “Low gear!” he advises, unaware no doubt that I’ve been in low gear since we started out and have, now, no more gears of the low sort to change to…

Despite all this pain and effort I know that by the end of the month I will have racked up the kilometres and have returned to a semblance of my slow, summer, fair weather, recreational cycling persona, with a slightly more resistant derriere, sturdier legs, wind-blown skin and appetite for beer. Then I will be home and be able to take up the reins of Zumba where I left off……

Oh dear!

Keep up! A parable for the third age.

Posted on March 31, 2013 by Grace Lessageing

When I was in my early thirties and my youngest child was two I got a terrible shock. I was coming down the stairs one day and caught sight of a frumpy, fat, grey woman in a shapeless, elasticated-waist skirt I did not recognise. Who was it? It was me. For once I’d looked up into a mirror attached to the wall just where the stairs ended-the first look at myself full length for some time. I’d been preoccupied with matters of childcare-to the extent that I’d quite lost any sense of myself at all.

Overall, that shock was a good thing. I was never a sporty type. I was born into a sedentary family. My parents invented the potato couch. My mother’s preferred activity was to sit in front of the TV and knit-preferably next to a box of Cadbury’s Milk Tray. My two brothers did not pursue any type of sport, or display any interest in sports activities. Aside from gardening, my father was alone among us in enjoying watching cricket. That was it.

Despite this we were not fat children, and we played outside in all weathers as well as eating a somewhat conservative, but healthy diet.

So having been jolted into undertaking an uncomfortable appraisal of my state, I took myself to an exercise class in a local church hall. This was the eighties; an era of leotards, tights and leg-warmers, an ensemble that most of my fellow exercisers had taken to with gusto and in a plethora of pastel colours [predominantly pink]. Swathed in a camouflage of baggy, jersey jogging pants [that had seen action as decorating and gardening gear] and shapeless tee shirt, I cringed somewhere near the back with little hope of blending in.

But I loved it. I loved the cheesy music and the chance to almost dance, and I loved the way I felt afterwards, tired, aching and jubilant. I loved meeting my fellow aerobic-ers and being part of the shared ethic. Soon I progressed to a proper gym and even acquired some acceptable and appropriate clothing [not pink and not leg warmers]. Over time my shape became more conventional, but best of all I felt fit. I started running a bit-only half a mile at first, but slowly building up until I could do about 5 miles without too much discomfort.

I probably reached a ‘peak’ of fitness [for me] at around 40-45. After that the joints began to complain, I slowed and had to start modifying what I did. I went to the GP with a condition called plantar fasciitis, which is an inflammation of the membranes under your feet. The doctor asked me why I couldn’t just go for a nice walk. It was a growing trend, he said, for the middle aged to present themselves with exercise-related injuries.

Nowadays, being as fond of dance exercise as ever, I’ve taken to the ever popular Zumba, coupled with, as my doctor suggested, a good deal of walking [with a bit of cycling thrown in during nice weather]. During the day the gym is packed full of sprightly ladies [and a few gents] of more mature years all strutting their stuff. It is a wonderful and uplifting sight. I just wonder what my mother would make of it all if she were around and were to look up from her knitting and to see it!

The obesity mountain just gets BIGGER

Posted on February 21, 2013 by Grace Lessageing

We British, apparently, are the porkers of Europe; and not far behind [excuse inadvertent pun] the US in world fatness tables. Horrors! Why are we all so fat? And what is to be done about it? ‘Too much access to fast, fatty, sweet, calorific junk!’ shriek the health gurus. ‘Not enough activity!’ scream MacDonalds, Burger King, Pizza Hut, Kentucky Fried, Cadbury’s et al. Blame the schools! Blame the parents! Blame food manufacturers! Blame the fast food outlets!

Film clips accompanying news about obesity are always shots of portly, overspilling pedestrians on the street, usually their middle portions, showing how their flabby tummies are barely contained by their clothing and their bottoms and thighs wobble as they lumber along, or seated at cafes tucking into clandestine mountains of chips.

I’ve always wanted to know whether anyone recognises themselves when these clips appear. For instance, take the young woman in picture 1, pushing the pushchair. She is wearing a very distinctive, eye-catching ensemble…a spotty pink tee shirt and hot pink, ‘GOLDIGGA’ trousers-not hard to identify.

The gentleman in picture 2 seems, from his outfit, to be about to take part in a sporting event, although it is difficult to imagine which one. Can he have checked his look in the mirror before leaving home? Indeed, might he have reconsidered his wardrobe choice had he realised he’d be caught on camera?

I’ve more sympathy with number 3, given that she is, in all likelihood in transit, hence her choice of clothing [and the surrounding luggage]. She also clearly has no idea of how she looks from the rear view, particularly posed on a small chair [or perhaps a normal sized chair that is dwarfed by her ample derriere]. How can it be comfortable for her to be bulging over the edges in that way? She presents the overall impression of a string of grey, budget sausages.

Number 4 has been captured in the very act of scoffing! What did she say to her loved ones when her image was broadcast to the nation? That it was a case of mistaken identity? That she never eats lunch?

No, I’m sure that unless these unlucky portrait subjects were exhibitionists they would have been unlikely to sanction the use of their corpulent bods to illustrate negative reports on obesity. So it follows that they were the unwitting victims of the papparazi lens, which is a discomforting thought-because today, or tomorrow, or next week it could be you or me. And I don’t know about you, but though I do not consider myself to be obese, I am not the whip-thin little wraith I once was…but then…as I said in a previous post…I never look in mirrors, so I might not recognise myself after all.

Anecdotage

Views from the Descent

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