A Retirement Blog by Caree Risover

Snake Oil and Falling

noreply@blogger.com (Caree Risover) — Wed, 08 Apr 2026 22:02:00 +0000

Time has passed in something of a blur of late, mainly because my mother had the inevitable fall and landed (not literally) in hospital. Fortunately no bones were broken but there was a lot of pain and bruising. Falling can become more commonplace as we age, hence a memo to myself to remember the flamingo impressions going forward and to practise standing on one leg when performing mundane tasks like brushing teeth and washing up.

Some things do work and I've fully embraced the culture of striving for fitness in retirement; putting in physical effort to reap a reward certainly seems to make sense. If nothing else, the last ten years have seen me working hard to strengthen those bits and pieces of muscle and sinew holding my knee in place. I really don't want to be the person who constantly tumbles as I get older. I do struggle, however, to engage with the concept of potions and pills to dispel some of the facets of ageing not to mention painkillers. Wear wrinkles with pride, suffer pain in silence and beware the snake oil salesmen!

I confess, however, that I responded to the swelling of my unstable right knee joint coupled with a longstanding auto immune condition that has manifested itself through psoriasis and now keeps revealing itself in a myriad of linked ways, by deciding to look into the potential for complementary treatment alongside my regular medication. Fish oil and Vitamin D were consistently mentioned for all of the complaints I've been experiencing and have been the subject of numerous studies. Nothing ventured, nothing gained I thought and since the beginning of the year, after checking to ensure no conflict with the prescribed drugs, have been the useful guinea pig in my very own snake oil experiment.

Three months later, I can honestly say that whilst I have not detected any difference in the creaking knee there is a noticeable improvement in my skin, hair and nails. Moreover, despite sticking rigorously to a pre-diabetic diet for two years and it failing to have any impact on elevated blood sugar levels (another potentially linked condition), they have suddenly and at a point where I'd lost all motivation and started to eat cake again, dramatically dropped in the last 3 months.

I am totally flabbergasted. Take supplements and eat cake; is there actually a better quack remedy than that?

(Image by Pascal Laurent from Pixabay)

City, Country, Culture, Cake

noreply@blogger.com (Caree Risover) — Mon, 16 Mar 2026 17:52:00 +0000

Last week was something of a whirlwind! Following on from the birthday, I squeezed in annual blood tests and a dementia café before dashing to London for an overnight visit.

The Youngest has just returned from 2 months of skiing in Chamonix and had a few days free before taking up a new position. To be honest Mister E and I had been concerned lest she'd bother to return, believing she'd taken to retirement life just a little too easily, not to mention nearly four decades early. However, she duly did and we met at King's Cross for her to usher me to the Tate Modern. Ever since I suffered theft on the underground, the next generation seems somewhat over-zealous in chaperoning their country cousin mamma through the sites and streets of our crowded capital.

Presumably because of the lecture I received on the pitfalls of taking either phone or credit card from my pocket, we made it in one piece into the vast cavernous hall at the centre of the gallery. We had decided to visit the Tracey Emin exhibition entitled A Second Life. Apart from the heat and throngs of people, it was everything we had expected: raw, sordid, visceral, personal and brilliant. The celebrated My Bed was there but as part of the biographical journey depicted it was simply perfect, no longer a source of controversy and debate.

We lingered inside over the view of St Paul's Cathedral before I was escorted to Blackfriars' Station and passed into the custody of the Eldest for the journey to his house and a reunion with the grandchildren, who, touch wood, were in perfect health and for once appear to have ceded no cough, cold or dreadful virus to me.

As culture goes, the next day was probably a little tame although I did see some ballet. This was not, however, at The Royal Opera House in Covent Garden but instead inside a rather chilly, church hall in North London where Grandotty is learning the rudiments in a fun and playful manner. Moreover my daily dose of city art was limited to a stroll along the Rainbow Tunnel, resplendent on this occasion in pastel colours, on my way back to King's Cross and the evening train journey northwards.

I reached home in time for bed and a long sleep. Forget the effect of country air, tramping city streets can have the same impact. Unfortunately the recovery period allowed wasn't quite long enough because the following morning I was signed up to a cupcake decorating class. It may not be creativity, Tracey Emin style, but there's a certain whimsicality in buttercream and cake that the WI might tell you substitutes for fine art, at least in rural communities. All participants were certainly proud of their masterpieces. Unlike with paintings, textiles and sculpture, we got to eat our creations too!

Transition

noreply@blogger.com (Caree Risover) — Tue, 10 Mar 2026 22:26:00 +0000

I'd like to say Spring is here but it seems to be two steps forward, one back at the moment as we still haven't shaken off those depressing grey skies completely and had a little snow again only on Friday. At least there have been some brighter hours (rather than days) and I have finally been getting into the garden to move forward with the big tidy up that weather conditions conspired to impede last year.

Now, with all the winter rain, the earth is turning easily and I have planted garlic whilst the temperatures are still low as well as moving rhubarb crowns. Indoors, I've started to sow seeds. Mainly, however, I just enjoy wandering amongst the flower beds, admiring the bulbs that are beginning to bloom. It even looks as though the chilli powder might have worked its magic, although I won't know for certain until tulip time is here.

As winter turns to spring, it is always a revitalising time of the year, associated as it is with birth and new beginnings. Perhaps that's why I always seem to end up with a host of annual check ups in the month of March as well as the ritual decluttering and cleaning sessions.

Not such a new birth, but I also celebrated my birthday yesterday. We neglected garden and home for a trip out to Raby Castle for a wander and lunch. It's not too far from our doorstep but I confess I'd never entered the grounds since spending a week there under canvas back in 1973 for an International Girl Guide Camp. I'm not sure if it was the realisation that 53 years has passed or if I am undergoing a serious period of evolution but, and despite being constantly told that age is just a number, I suddenly feel a bit too grown up.

Is it because life has seemed to be a series of continuing grey days or rather because humanity could be looking over a dangerous precipice? I guess regime change is regarded as an ultimate transition, no matter the season. It's not like metamorphosing into retirement though, is it?

Jurassic Vibes

noreply@blogger.com (Caree Risover) — Mon, 02 Mar 2026 20:26:00 +0000

Grandchildren have to be the gift that keeps on giving, but why, in my case, is it always a North London cold that they bestow? Yes, another five nights with them and then another week in recovery. It's a pattern that keeps on repeating itself. Forget all those flu, RSV and Pneumococcal vaccines dispensed by the NHS to those of retirement age, what I need is something that protects me against the hotbed of germs that spread in nurseries.

On this occasion, our trip's main purpose was to celebrate Grandotty's third birthday. Wherever did those three years disappear to? Both she and Little Sister were on fine form despite their running noses. Grandotty provides active entertainment, non-stop from 7 am until bedtime, whilst Little Sister has mastered the art of standing up and moving from one piece of furniture to another, putting everything she comes across into her mouth whilst generously smiling, kissing and waving.

We had a family birthday party where I obviously missed the memo directing me to refuse cake after Grandotty had blown out the candles, spreading her infectious bugs onto my piece. We also made a trip to Lightroom to see 'Discovering Dinosuars'. We'd been a little apprehensive as to whether or not this would be too frightening for Grandotty but when, amongst the reviews I checked, one aggrieved tourist was complaining that it was like being in an enormous creche with toddlers running around wildly, we knew we would be on safe ground.

In fact, on the day of our visit, those children present were impeccably behaved. It's an immersive documentary narrated in true David Attenborough style by Damian Lewis. The dinosaurs are immense and tower around you on screens filling three sides of the room which is probably four storeys high; the floor shudders as they move and when babies hatch, turtle like creatures are filmed scuttling along around your feet. Grandotty and Grandma were entranced although the only running they did was, pursuant to the narrator's invitation, up to the screen in front of us to stroke a baby triceratops.

Remember how, back in the sixties, The Flintstones confused children into thinking families were living with prehistoric pets called Dino? Yabba, dabba doo and all that. Here there were no people, just what appeared to be an enormous wildlife film, shot close up. It was so realistic, that I truly ought not to have been surprised when, as leaving, Grandotty asked, "Can we go and see some real ones now, Grandma?"

Oh to be three years old.

(Image by Eric Labayle from Pixabay)

Gizza Job

noreply@blogger.com (Caree Risover) — Tue, 17 Feb 2026 21:03:00 +0000

Remember Yosser Hughes from the BBC drama Boys from the Blackstuff? I know, I know, I'm showing my age! Anyway, it all came back to me today when I paid a visit to the Job Centre.

I suppose I'd better start by squashing the beginning of any rumour that I went in there seeking work. Instead, I'd like to think it was all part of my quest to explore new places in retirement, even if I did feel like an impostor.

I have to say, it was significantly plusher than I imagined although it wasn't quite like a hotel lobby even if I was met by a doorman (aka security guard) who showed me to a vacant couch (not hard seat) whilst he disappeared to find somebody to assist.

Sitting there, I began to realise how open I am to subliminal messaging. Exploring the notices and flyers on the coffee table in front of me, I became intrigued at the idea of having a work coach not to mention stopping smoking (I've never actually started but the classes sounded interesting).

Then there were the other members of the public who presented as a decent, well-mannered section, not at all like the benefit scroungers some of the tabloids might have you believe. As for the staff, a very efficient but friendly lady was assigned to help, no doubt delighting in the fact that I wasn't there in a desperate attempt to secure employment. She was still smiling at the end of my session, even after I had surely caused her to suffer writer's cramp as she signed and dated 30 sheets of documents that she had also photocopied for me after another section of the Department for Work and Pensions had written requesting me to submit copies of Powers of Attorney for my mother through their local office.

To be fair the palaver in doing so was quite astonishing, bearing in mind that the government has managed to set up a well oiled system whereby you simply log in to procure a code to give a third party, be they bank or other body, evidence of the existence of the powers. Unfortunately this ease of processing hasn't extended to passing the information from one government office to another. I'd even naively thought that if they couldn't just click a box on the computer to confirm sight of the original paperwork then they would at least scan it. No, in the interests of efficiency or lack of it, everything had to be copied and then posted (no internal delivery channel) to an office in Wolverhampton.

I was there for approximately 40 minutes. Consequently I was grateful that the ambience was pleasant and there hadn't been a rush of job seekers who may have taken priority. That said, I couldn't help having a Gizza Job moment, not because I've reached an awful stage of retirement where the thought of returning to the workplace excites but rather because, with the passing time, I fell into a form of reverie where I dreamt of a time and motion study, the introduction of modern technology and a barista coffee to place on that little table in front of me.

Image by xuefei wang from Pixabay

Is It Just a Number?

noreply@blogger.com (Caree Risover) — Wed, 28 Jan 2026 23:02:00 +0000

Whoever said that age is just a number was surely being misleading. I know because today I truly felt my three score years and more.

The cause could just be the miserable dank and grey weather that continues to permeate every fibre, including last week when we spent our regular week in the Lake District. Endless rain and low cloud limited walking to the valley and only as far as various hostelries in several directions. There again it may be that after another week trying to match Grandotty's energy, I am simply more aware of my limitations.

Those limitations were even more pronounced than usual when I realised that despite the best part of a month's arm rest, I still could not properly lift Little Sister although, by way of some complex reasoning, I deemed attempts at doing so as a form of physical therapy along with resistance movements in the swimming pool and warming myself in the infra-red sauna.

The last few days, however, have been relatively pain free and I awoke this morning convinced that my cellular structure has rejuvenated ahead of time and that and despite the bruising that is still apparent, I am well on the way to the resumption of muscular health. Accordingly this morning, at the hospital appointment my G.P. had referred me to, I began by apologising for taking up valuable professional time, my body having healed itself without the need for medical advice or intervention.

"Not so fast," the expert responded before deflating me with statistics that suggested that after the age of forty healing is noticeably slower and injury more likely, leaving me wondering what scope there could ever be for a full recovery in one's retirement years. At least he didn't criticise my attempts at weight-lifting and to be fair did comment that weight bearing exercises aimed at building up core and spinal strength are possibly the best things you can do to combat the skeletal afflictions that come with ageing.

I can't say I cared for the insight that over sixty it is not unusual for atrophy to set in after as little as two weeks; a comment that followed a physical examination of my biceps. Fortunately the recommended treatment was simply to resume activities at the gym (I've already been back to Pilates and Yoga classes) but perhaps a tad less enthusiastically and to build up slowly and carefully. As a precaution, and hopefully not because of a prescient forecast, I am to remain on their clinical list for 6 months with a warning of all the awful ruptures and serious tears that could take place and never properly heal if I don't give my body time to rest between workouts or press on when it screams for me to stop.

Easier to injure; longer to heal; that seems to be the legacy of age.

Maps

noreply@blogger.com (Caree Risover) — Sun, 18 Jan 2026 23:08:00 +0000

I have actually made some progress with planning out my direction for 2026. I'm doing it with the mind-mapping technique and at present have produced a draft of something that resembles a spider's web with text scrawled across it. There's quite a bit of refinement to be undertaken and detail to be added but, if nothing else, it helps me to put options into perspective and hopefully assist in directing focus as I've realised very quickly that I can't possibly follow every strand of the strange diagram I have created, there just simply aren't going to be sufficient hours in 2026 to permit it!

Meanwhile, life continues apace regardless. Last week I spent a very pleasant afternoon in York by myself, visiting the Art Gallery where the pieces shortlisted for the Aesthetica Art Prize of 2025 were still on display complemented by Future Tense: Art in the Age of Transformation. The latter was a huge light installation by Squid Soup and Liz West that you could wander into, conscious of the movement of colour and sound, amongst strings of light bulbs. The art prize exhibits, like so much contemporary art these days, were a mixture of photographs, videos, sculpture and painting with various themes although climate change, domestic abuse, colonialism, identity and culture featured highly and from across the globe.

Despite the depressing and urgent message emanating from many of the entries, the overall impact was still positive and uplifting. That said I do find it difficult to negotiate an exhibition where there are a multitude of digital items on display, some requiring 20 minutes or more of time to watch and absorb. I'm uncertain whether constraints of time or concentration militated against me watching all from beginning to end but I stuck to my plan to visit Yorkshire Museum's Viking North exhibition too.

There the exhibits were rooted very much in the past but like the contemporary display around the corner, a story of colonialism, identity and culture unfolded as the Kingdom of Danelaw was established, grew and then overthrown. Far from being simply brutal invaders, the Norsemen who overran our Northern shores were farmers, tradesmen and artisans and some of the jewellery, gold and silver shown were exquisite and spell-binding despite being over a thousand years old. It's an era of time that we know relatively little about, but again I was able to leave feeling positive and uplifted about that Viking blood that still throbs through me.

I followed my afternoon out, the next morning, with a meet up for a walk. The intended strategy was to finish in time for a coffee and breakfast roll before a reading group meeting at noon. It doesn't matter how well made the plans are, there is always a risk of them going awry. There were five of us, dressed appropriately for the muddy route we had correctly anticipated. What we hadn't taken account of, however, was the extent to which we talk. It should have been foreseen; a group of women of a certain age, out for a walk with a deadline, miss a left hand turn through chatting! Eventually, realising our error once all familiar landmarks had disappeared from view, we had to clamber through a hedge, skirt a hole on a golf course where friendly golfers provided directions and finally make our destination only as book club members were gathering! Who says retirement isn't full of adventures? Forget mind mapping too, the next walk needs somebody prepped for checking an OS map.

Making Time

noreply@blogger.com (Caree Risover) — Mon, 12 Jan 2026 22:51:00 +0000

I saw the Doctor last week about the biceps pain I've been struggling with since before Christmas. It transpires it's a partial tear rather than the sprain I had suspected and although I can tell it is healing, albeit slowly, my left arm continues to feel incredibly weak. All that effort I put in to stay fit and one muscle chooses to repay me with an injury and eight weeks of rest from lifting anything with it

As ever, I've found the silver lining in the form of my tax return which, freed from some of my regular gym classes, I've been able to complete and submit with breathing space before the 31st January deadline. The weather has been exceptionally cold too, so I've snuggled down with a book for a couple of hours every day and ticked four off my reading list for the year. With those, a birthday lunch, non-weight-bearing classes, tidying up after the festive period's visitors and sorting various issues for my elderly mum, I've not been exactly idle.

Despite my last post, however, I haven't made much progress in planning out 2026. I love the scope for flexibility and impetuosity that a blank calendar can bring but also know that it's very easy to lose any sense of drive and direction without a well formed strategy. While there are so many things I'd like to be doing in the longer term, the immediate reality is different when I feel the pressure to be available to support the needs of others. Experience suggests, however, that to avoid living a life of duress, it's when the demands build that it really is important to have formulated your own personal plans.

I'm still not inclined to write a bucket list but with the tax return done and spare time with absences from the gym, now must indeed be the time to contemplate future objectives. Retirement is too precious to be squandered. After all, who knows when the next injury or affliction might arise?

Thrown into a similar dilemma two years ago, I reached out on this blog to analyse my progress in retirement against the initial plans I had set out back in 2014. Today I feel little interest in an historic reflection. It is living in the present and the direction into the future that captivate and interest me. As Alan Lakein, the time management guru said, "Planning is bringing the future into the present so that you can do something about it now," whilst "Failing to plan is planning to fail."

It sounds like my tomorrow is now sorted.

Image by Peggy und Marco Lachmann-Anke from Pixabay

2026

noreply@blogger.com (Caree Risover) — Fri, 02 Jan 2026 17:50:00 +0000

Well here we are in the Year 2026 and my very best wishes for health and happiness to all.

From New Year to New Year's Resolutions to New Me; I think that's how the theory goes. If so, I'm ashamed to say that discernible change at this end is non-existent. All those thoughts of renewal and revival went out of the window when I awoke yesterday feeling totally exhausted, nursing the beginnings of a cold and a biceps sprain that has haunted me the whole of the festive season.

Start the year as you mean to go on? On this form, no thank you.

Of course, it's only a hiccup. It's arrived, however, just after a lovely Christmas when so many of the extended family visited and close family stayed; I got the shopping in and decorations up in time; cooked for what can only be described as crowds on three occasions and enjoyed the company of those gorgeous grandchildren for eight full days. We've eaten all the left-overs and there are some days when I swear I haven't left the house. Now slob-like and slothful, I was looking forward to at least re-embracing normality but whilst all I'm inclined to do is hunker down, cough, sneeze and nurse my arm, it isn't going to happen.

I toy between wanting 2026 to be the year when I fire on all cylinders and breeze through as though I'm 20 years younger to recognising that with retirement has come the ageing process, with its longer recovery periods and need for caution. So I'm trying to strike a balance. I'm giving myself another two days to recuperate before hitting the gym again, after booking only "gentle" classes for Monday and, as a precaution, a doctor's appointment to check out the injury.

I intend to spend the weekend cocooned in self-love during which I might give some thought to plans for the coming year. It's trying to be realistic that's always the issue. I know that my historic tendency to take on too much and power through regardless is a ridiculous trait that can teeter close to self defeat on occasions. On the other hand, slowing down, unless enforced by external events, almost feels unnatural and very definitely frustrating.

Do we reach an age where body and mind never work properly in tandem again, when the belief continues but the physical capacity doesn't? For instance, I see a snowflake and imagine skiing again; the sun shines and I want to hike up mountains. Is it my mind or my knee that is restricting me? By accepting that I am not going to do these things, am I limiting myself unnecessarily or being sensible? If I can self-regulate because of joint issues, can I extend this to other areas or does it only work when there is physical pain? Moreover and in these days of modern medicine and surgery should one even accept the discomfort that comes with overuse of worn and degenerating joints?

Balance, realism, prudence are these all concepts that I need to work into 2026 and how bored will I be if I succeed? So many questions, but are there really any definitive answers?

Image by Zx Visual from Pixabay

Thwarted

noreply@blogger.com (Caree Risover) — Mon, 22 Dec 2025 21:42:00 +0000

I confess, I am a little behind with my Christmas preparations. Perhaps I was overly relaxed when I thought two weeks was too early to start getting everything ready or maybe a tad optimistic as to how long the necessary steps would actually take.

Let's say the wheels came off over the weekend when I realised the enormity of clearing a spare bedroom ready for Grandotty to sleep in. Sadly, it was full of those boxes we've just never found the time or perhaps more correctly enthusiasm to empty since returning home at the end of March. Thankfully, and bar only two that I have found space elsewhere to store, everything is now sorted, the bed is made and the floor is clear.

So a little late in erecting the Christmas tree, it became a task scheduled for this afternoon, after I had picked up the Youngest from the station and together we had undertaken a major food shop. Sadly, it didn't happen.

A delay on the railway meant that the Youngest arrived an hour late. Even then we planned to press on and hurry through, until we hit traffic on both the high street of our local town and then again on my attempted detour. This wasn't any old traffic either; it was gridlock. Sitting in the car, going nowhere, I felt a yearning for Christmas Eves of old, when I have been known to finish work at lunchtime and then dash to pick up a turkey, scared that the shelves might already be empty and always relieved to find that was never the situation. I'm unsure how likely that is to be the case this year, and do I really want to still be visiting the supermarket on the afternoon of Christmas Eve anyway?

Do you think society is changing? If there's a rumour that shops are going to run out of festive birds, will everyone dash out and buy three of them, creating a shortage as with pasta and toilet rolls before the first of the COVID lockdowns?

Ultimately fed up with our slow progression on four wheels and convinced that the carpark at our destination would be overflowing, after passing its competitor with cars queuing outside and adding to the traffic jam, we gave up. We returned home downtrodden and exhausted, our bags empty and enthusiasm for all things Christmas diminished.

However, we have a plan. It is something I have never tried before, but as you know retirement is nothing without new experiences. Tomorrow morning, long before dawn, the Youngest and I intend to set out in an attempt to beat the crowds. Our preferred shop will be opening its doors at 6 a.m. Let's hope its shelves are stocked and there are spaces in the carpark!

(Image by Marzena P. from Pixabay)

A Stage

noreply@blogger.com (Caree Risover) — Mon, 15 Dec 2025 22:57:00 +0000

Following on from my post about Nature and Art, yesterday I found the ideal venue. It was at Nunnington Hall, a National Trust Property situated on the edge of the Howardian Hills. Inside there was a photography exhibition by Joe Cornish and Simon Baxter with the title "All the Wood's a Stage." Yes it was a play on that much famed quotation from Shakespeare, but the point they were making was that trees are the performers in nature and that we should reconnect with woodland using our powers of observation and other senses. I wasn't sure what to expect but went with an open mind.

The photographs were stunning, unlike my own example above. They showed trees through the changing seasons; symbols of life, beauty, death and renewal; providers of quietude; guardians of the environment. They appeared as immense, silent wardens of the natural world and a fundamental part of the planet's vital ecosystem. I felt inspired; I wanted to reach for a camera myself or at least start hugging tree trunks. Nobody could possibly visit a wood or an exhibition of this kind without feeling a boost to both their physical and mental well-being.

Many visitors, however, appeared to be there with the aim of appreciating the multitude of Christmas lights and trees decorated by local schools and community organisations, amidst the historic furnishings on the lower floors of the Hall. They were warm and cosy but they did not elevate the spirit in the same way as the exhibition gallery on the top floor. Sadly the draw of the tea room or the reluctance to climb another flight of stairs, deterred many visitors from going higher.

How often and how easy is it to be enticed and comforted by the familiar? Embracing the unknown, particularly when there is a natural element to the experience, can, however, make us soar or at least climb that final staircase. In retirement I have discovered that it definitely works for me.

The Woman in Black

noreply@blogger.com (Caree Risover) — Wed, 10 Dec 2025 17:00:00 +0000

Many years ago, in that world of work I invariably wore black. Dull, sombre coloured suits with white blouses and heeled shoes were viewed as appropriate attire for both office and court room. I think there was even a myth that black flattered and slimmed. Hence I had a collection of LBD's for evening events and even black swimwear for holidays.

In retirement I realised that they served little purpose. Getting rid took much longer, but I think I finally got there in 2021.

Today, however, looking through my wardrobe where various hues of blue dominate, the thought went through my mind that whilst there is no black there is no purple either. I was thinking of course of that wonderful poem by Jenny Joseph, "Warning- When I am an Old Woman I Shall Wear Purple."

Scanning the poem in my head, I realised that I don't have a red hat (unless the pink one I now wear in the garden in winter, after it was partially eaten by a moth, counts). I haven't taken to spending my pension on brandy, summer gloves and satin slippers either. I don't use a walking stick, and definitely don't spit or press alarm bells. As for devouring sausages and growing fat, for me retirement has been a period of much healthier living than before and I've shed the pounds rather than loaded them on.

Do you have to rebel to enjoy your later life and does it happen gradually or overnight? I did keep my slippers on when I went outside to the dustbin this evening; it's not quite the same as going out in them, but is it a start? I'm guessing if I haven't yet solved this conundrum then there may be only two potential conclusions to draw: I am not yet old or alternatively I am as prudish as ever.

Just Not Yet

noreply@blogger.com (Caree Risover) — Sun, 07 Dec 2025 17:09:00 +0000

Yes the Christmas chatter has begun:

"Do you have your tree up?"

"Are you sending Christmas cards this year?"

"Have you bought and wrapped your presents?"

On my part the answer to all of those has been a definitive No! Those who can smugly answer Yes, appear concerned that December 25th is but a mere seventeen days and so many hours away. For me that really is an age, just imagine all the exciting things I have planned for the interim (like planting bulbs, for instance).

Despite ticking off a couple of Christmas lunches already, I do subscribe to the idea that the Christmas season can be extended far too long if you let it and what's wrong with a bit of spontaneity when it really does arrive?

Now that attitude is totally contrary to how I thought my approach to the festive season in retirement might be. There again, why change the habits of a lifetime?

This will be our first Christmas at home since 2022, so of course I am looking forward to it and with the family intending to descend on us there is inevitably a need for preparation and planning, it's just I have over two weeks for that. Presently it's time simply to absorb the mood music; the lights, the markets, the celebratory gatherings with friends. They are a rallying call for action and I shall be ready, just not two weeks in advance!

Once Again

noreply@blogger.com (Caree Risover) — Fri, 05 Dec 2025 16:19:00 +0000

We're heading towards the end of another year but why is it that once again I never managed to get all my borders dug over and bulbs planted before the gardening season came to an abrupt end? Forever the optimist, I'm still checking the forecast, hoping for a rise in temperature and one or two calm days in anticipation of finishing the job.

As a consequence of the digging that went on inside and outside the house starting in late 2023, autumn clear-ups have of necessity been neglected for the past two years. The baked clay that resulted from our recent summer of drought and high temperatures resisted all attempts to turn it with a spade, whilst, in the meantime, field mice from the adjoining farmer's land have filled themselves at the expense of my tulip and crocus bulbs.

Confronted by a depleted floral display when we returned home earlier this year and facing another in the Spring of 2026, I had therefore set myself the task of planting a thousand bulbs. The process has been slowed by an experiment in rodent deterrence, when every hole opened up to receive a bulb has also been gifted a generous helping of chilli powder! In a few months time I'm going to be excited to learn if it's worked in scaring those pesky creatures and also the impact on the bulbs themselves. Will my tulips have a hot pepper fragrance or perhaps a fiery orange shade?

I've always maintained that retirement is a time for challenge, new experiences and experimentation that you don't have to travel to indulge in. There's also that satisfaction of getting down and close to nature, the dirtier your hands the better. It's just sometimes I can't help wondering if I'm scraping the barrel a little and that sometimes I really should find something more exciting to occupy my time.

A Future Strategy

noreply@blogger.com (Caree Risover) — Tue, 02 Dec 2025 22:26:00 +0000

I have just returned from another enjoyable but exhausting trip to London to see our granddaughters. On this occasion, rather than driving, Mister E and I took the train and the journey proved to be the only part of our four nights away when I got the opportunity to sit down with a book.

I had deliberately chosen something light and recommended to me on the basis that it was funny and astute, a little in the style of Jane Austen's humour but set in the late 1960's. I'm not at all sure that it completely lived up to that description but it had a certain wit and whimsicality that captivated me regardless.

The book was 'Mrs Palfrey at the Claremont' by Elizabeth Taylor and it depicts the interaction between various long stay, elderly guests at a hotel on Cromwell Road in London. I was intrigued to turn the pages in circumstances where friends have often suggested that in our dotage it would be preferable to check into a good hotel rather than a care home.

Mrs Palfrey was of similar mind and had anticipated that basing herself in the country's capital city there would be plenty to entertain her and to participate in. I'm not sure that she had imagined evenings spent knitting in the lounge with fellow guests from differing backgrounds each with their own habits and eccentricities. They share loneliness, boredom and vulnerability in common. Visitors are sparse however much they might wish otherwise and they spar with each other as frustrations and petty feelings spill over.

The novel does nothing to promote any solid benefits of old age and nor does it provide answers to the challenges faced. Frailties and anxieties are depicted perceptively against a background of younger generations living busy lives to the full, ignoring and neglecting their elderly relatives at The Claremont and whom the staff view as a burden too. The guests themselves seek acknowledgement, connection and fun; it is not their intention to give up on life even as their world closes in and becomes smaller.

The story is sad, maybe disquieting. It provokes an emotional response, a craving even for the well-being of the hotel residents, for they are what the reader could become.

It has left me thinking profoundly about planning for those later years but as yet with no sensible strategy.

Range Anxiety

noreply@blogger.com (Caree Risover) — Sat, 29 Nov 2025 20:46:00 +0000

Acquiring an electric vehicle has introduced me to various new concepts when it comes to driving.

'Range anxiety,' for instance, seems to be a phrase that crops up regularly. Progressing so suddenly from a hot, dry spring and summer into current conditions has fostered an epidemic of the condition and I've even heard tell of one poor lady who couldn't bear the stress and ended up part-exchanging her electric car after only a few months to return to a conventional petrol engine. Unfortunately, deploying heating, lighting and windscreen wipers throughout every journey has an inevitable impact on battery power and the decrease in miles per kwh as a consequence can be worrying. Somebody even described to me how they are donning extra layers and driving without heating in an effort to tweak as many miles as possible out of their charge.

I'm lucky in that most of my driving is local and to be honest I'm not sure that I would have swapped to an electric car if it wasn't. I've learnt quickly also that charging an EV isn't the same as stopping for fuel at a filling station. No more driving from full tank to almost empty. Instead, little and often seems to be the mantra with frequent charging to keep the battery level between 20% and 80%. There's no conventional gauge and instead simply an indicator of the percentage to which the battery is charged and a very broad (invariably erroneous, often by a large margin) estimate of the number of miles that percentage will enable the car to travel. Obviously actual mileage is affected by driving mode and style as well as use of electricals within the vehicle.

I'm enjoying the challenges that a different type of engine is presenting and look forward to accumulating sufficient knowledge and experience in order to get a proper feel for how much range I can extract from the battery whilst refusing to reduce the enjoyment of the ride by turning off the radio, seat heating and other accoutrements. I'm guessing that there must be some nerdy drivers out there with complex spreadsheets to record mileage and battery drawdown against weather conditions and accessory use. If so, perhaps they could send me some tips.

It is said that, as we proceed through retirement, learning new skills is important for keeping one's brain in good working order. I'm a little concerned though that I'll never acquire the necessary level of expertise especially when degradation of the battery itself gets added into the mix. Come to think of it, this could be a long-term skill-learning experience when, and without even having to leave the driver's seat, as the battery power in the car diminishes my brain cells increase. Is driving to stave off dementia even a thing and, if not, could it become one?

Nature and Art

noreply@blogger.com (Caree Risover) — Wed, 26 Nov 2025 18:40:00 +0000

Ever since new research at Kings College, London suggested that visiting art galleries is good for our health, I seem to keep stumbling across commentary on the findings from that study. It concluded that viewing original art could lower markers within the body for a wide range of inflammatory conditions including heart disease, diabetes, stress and depression.

As somebody who is predisposed to a number of inflammatory conditions, my interest was piqued. Already aware of the benefits of immersing oneself in nature and of exercise, how wonderful if visiting exhibitions can be added to the list of preventative healthcare measures for adoption in retirement. Some of my best days out in the last decade have certainly involved admiring the creativity of others which I always find generates an inner emotional response. Potentially it now seems feasible that instead of planning a visit to a gallery as a cultural indulgence, we should look upon it as a prescription for the well-being of both body and mind.

It's perhaps a shame that the weather is somewhat foul at the moment as the ideal scenario would presumably be to power walk through an outdoor sculpture exhibition, a little like our recent trip to Durham Lumiere. Of course many venues have now closed for the winter and although Mister E and I were fortunate in visiting Newby Hall's sculpture trail on a very balmy autumn day before it shut its gates until Spring, trying to emulate that experience at the moment might be more akin to participating in a Tough Mudder event.

Instead it seems sensible to compile a list of peaceful indoor venues, where both the crowds of Christmas shoppers and the temperature outside can be avoided. Conducting our own research on the inducement of calm and wellness from regular engagement with artwork sounds like a deserving project for the winter months and who knows may even bring its own mental and physical health benefits for the future.

(My photograph of Just Breathe sculpted by Lucy Kinsella)

Make Believe

noreply@blogger.com (Caree Risover) — Sun, 23 Nov 2025 19:20:00 +0000

The highlight of my social calendar in the last few days was an Alpine Evening organised outside the gym where four large tepees were installed on the lawn, complete with a gondola carriage for photographs. Mulled wine was available on tap, whilst raclette and bratwurst were served to eat. By chance, the temperature had plummeted to below freezing and we were even treated to a flurry of snow from the sky above.

Like most events, it was of course the company of others present who really made it a success, although recognising some people in their winter coats and hats rather than lycra was a challenge in itself! Many of us suffered a healthy dose of nostalgia reminiscing about skiing trips past but not present. Concerned about weak knee and hip joints or maybe brittle bones, it really was the closest most are ever going to get to après ski going forward in retirement.

Of course, I realised as long ago as 2013 that skiing wouldn't dominate our retirement planning and although we skied in three areas of Switzerland in 2016 (which is where the photo at the top of this post came from), we now fondly refer to that as Our Farewell Tour. At the time, however, I wasn't entirely sure that would really be our final ski trip. Never say never and all that, not to mention an element of delusion and make believe.

It could be further proof that with age comes wisdom or alternatively that sixth sense of self-preservation, either way meaning that I haven't found myself back on piste. No matter how old we get, however, make believe never goes away, does it? Those idle dreams and what ifs, not to mention the ability to pretend, even on a freezing cold evening in a tent in suburbia.

Rocking and Rolling

noreply@blogger.com (Caree Risover) — Fri, 21 Nov 2025 22:28:00 +0000

During our recent visit to Crete, Mister E and I stayed in a small boutique hotel renowned for its gastronomic offering. Still on UK time, we reserved a table in the restaurant on our first night for somewhat late in the evening. So much so that as we entered the other diners were already in the process of leaving.

It was a relatively small room, perhaps a dozen tables, certainly no more.

Shortly after we sat down and the other guests departed, an obvious security guard entered and began to rearrange tables. He came and went, communicating by walkie talkie and indicating to the waiting staff that: "They say they won't be long."

Obviously our interest was drawn and when suddenly we spotted three people running up the staircase, our eyes turned to the entrance. Shouldered on either side by two apparent minders was someone whom I can only describe as the most enlivened ball of nervous energy I have ever encountered.

"That's X," said Mister E.

"No, it's a woman," I responded.

When X spoke, it was evident I was wrong and after a short period of unobtrusive ear wigging that Mister E was correct. We are, of course, not ones for celebrity culture. However, Mister E confessed quietly to me that he does still have some of X's vinyl albums for despite his advancing years, X remains one of the world's most iconic rock musicians. Nevertheless we were clearly regarded by the security put in place as a harmless old couple, neither of whom was likely to post to social media, call the local press or do anything to disturb X's clear wish for privacy.

The security was right except on several occasions during the remainder of our stay, I made sure to sit in the chair X had occupied. I mean even elderly couples have to get their giggles in somehow!

That said, encountering somebody so well known in such circumstances did make me feel grateful for my own lack of talent. Clearly X hasn't retired but how awful must it be to spend your dotage having to avoid the crowds and employ minders to look out for you. Ultimately, of course, somebody spilled the beans and the media caught up with X on the day he left Crete.

Now coincidentally that was the same day that we were upgraded to the best suite in the hotel which had become vacant. I've no way of knowing if X actually stayed there or if he was just eating in the restaurant. It would be nice to think that was our reward for silence, but thank goodness we don't go in for hero worship because sleeping in his bed would be just be too good a story not to tell!

(Image by Pexels from Pixabay)

Full Circle

noreply@blogger.com (Caree Risover) — Wed, 19 Nov 2025 20:48:00 +0000

Back in 2009 (a year when retirement wasn't even on the horizon) I visited the first ever Durham Lumiere Festival. It left quite an impression, not least of the Son et Lumiere depicting the history of Christianity in the North East. Indeed, I don't think I shall ever forget the images of the Lindisfarne Gospels projected onto the facade of the Cathedral against a haunting musical score.

The Festival grew into a biennial success and I always intended to visit again. With its rise in popularity, however, it became a ticketed event and although tickets were free, there was inevitably a degree of organisation in obtaining them. Other things got in the way and suddenly 16 years had passed. I realised that if I was ever going to experience the event again, I really had to get online, click a couple of buttons and secure entry passes.

I did so a couple of months ago ensuring I could breathe a sigh of relief when a few weeks later it was announced that, because of local authority funding issues, this would be the last ever festival.

Despite a deluge of rain all day, Mister E and I moved ourselves into gear and arrived in Durham last Thursday as darkness was falling. It rained throughout our visit and although the light installations were impressive it was the River Wear in spate that most caught our attention, especially as flooding had put six of the exhibits out of operation! The organisers must have had some element of clairvoyance though because one piece on the riverside entitled Fire resembled a large burning bonfire with realistic sparks and shooting flames. It was hard not to be drawn in and feel its imaginary warmth.

Light benches along the river have been in permanent residency since the 2015 festival and last week the red aura beckoned but the dripping trees made us keep our distance. As ever the highlights were on Palace Green where a field of flowers bloomed in front of the Cathedral and inside a powerful sound and illumination experience echoed around the pillars, emphasising the grandeur of the vast nave.

The Garden of Shadows had been created on College Green where, despite my becoming wetter by the moment, I was mesmerised by a hologram of a moving tree. The artist's aim was apparently to capture the essence of life through the contrast of darkness and light in nature. I just loved the effects.

We moved on to eat. We were considerably damper than when we had arrived but I had come full circle and visited both the first and last Durham Lumiere.

Changing Colours

noreply@blogger.com (Caree Risover) — Tue, 18 Nov 2025 18:32:00 +0000

When I wrote about our trip to Portugal, I did say we were searching for inspiration for a recovery trip. On a whim and with a definite need to experience a little more European sunshine before winter sets in, Mister E and I headed off to Crete. Age must definitely be playing its part because this was not our usual must-explore-from-dawn-to-dusk travel adventure. We have seen the archaeological highlights of Crete previously, so we embarked on this vacation with the sole aim of resting, reading and relaxing.

The weather smiled kindly on us and with blue sky, sea and even a matching swim towel, life was almost complete. With the addition of some coastal rambles, authentic tavernas, our own plunge pool and temperatures in the mid-twenties this was a trip that ticked the boxes set for it.

Sometimes retirement life is so busy that I forget about the need to simply stop and breathe. Part of me believes that with the absence of the daily pressures of a working life, I should be able to unwind at home. Reality suggests otherwise, even if it took a journey to Greece to prove it. Reposing oneself into a calm or even semi-vegetative state is simply a hundred times easier when the daily distractions (not to mention To Do List) are two and a half thousand miles away. Yes it was an indulgence but how much better we feel from spending time in a get away destination where there is literally nothing to do but chill out.

When we returned home, the world had turned orange. A couple of mellow days deluded me into thinking there were several weeks to plant the thousand bulbs that I had ready to replace those decimated by the field mice last winter during our enforced exile. A little less than a fortnight later, however, everywhere is sodden and brown. Snow is forecast for overnight. Outside winter has most definitely arrived; inside I'm still harbouring a warm glow from some late season Mediterranean sunshine!

The Dreaded To Do List

noreply@blogger.com (Caree Risover) — Tue, 28 Oct 2025 22:39:00 +0000

My To Do List habit is something that I have carried over from diligence in the workplace. I'd like to be able to describe it as a thing of beauty but in reality it is on the one hand the bane of my life, on the other potentially the only item on which I can rely to maintain order.

I keep it in a specifically designed app that is available on all my devices as both a standalone schedule and also a daily precursor to calendar entries. Essentially there is no hiding from it. Some days it is a monster with a controlling claw, on others a tawdry specimen that can easily be ignored. There are chores that repeat, reminders for bill payments and other deadlines, nudges for seasonal tasks in the garden and so the list goes on.

There are some days when I wonder if the time I expend reallocating dates for jobs on the list could perhaps have been more usefully deployed tackling those items. On other occasions, I sail through the list, ticking off every item for the day and reaching the twilight hours with a deep sense of achievement.

The trouble with a To Do List, however, is generally two-fold. Firstly it can drag you down and overwhelm; it is after all never-ending. Secondly, it can get in the way of living. It is meant to be a tool, a useful assistant for navigating the furrows of life, but how easy it is to permit it to dominate and takeover.

Postponing spontaneity, declining an invitation, putting off what we enjoy just to complete the mundane and repetitive is definitely not the way to operate. It might be an appropriate way to conduct oneself in the 9 to 5 world, but in retirement I want to be liberated of the run of the mill, duplication of tedious undertakings and certainly don't wish to give them priority. However, simply walking away, forgetting about them and distracting yourself with the purely pleasurable facets of retirement life doesn't get the tax return completed, food in the fridge or the linen laundered. You can walk out, shut the door but let's face it the moment you return everything is still waiting and may even have acquired a degree of urgency.

Is there a solution? I've started to allocate specific days for niggling items and if I'm waylaid and don't get to them then, unless they are urgent, they wait until that allocated day of drudgery comes round again. Moreover, and at the risk of extending my list into the next decade, I'm seriously limiting how much I plan to tackle on a given day.

Does it work and lead to feelings of fulfilment? Probably not. It's still a spectre in the shadows, a petty frustration that lingers over you as you devote your energy elsewhere.

Is there an alternative? What about the nuclear option of simply deleting the darned directory of drudge? I am tempted, so very, very tempted!

(Image by Jan from Pixabay)

Travel - A New Dimension

noreply@blogger.com (Caree Risover) — Sun, 19 Oct 2025 20:59:00 +0000

I have recently returned from a family trip to the eastern Algarve where we rented a villa and spent our days on the beach running in and out of the sea and building sandcastles. A reminder of childhood holidays from yore, except there was no need for a windbreak and we also forsook the opportunity for sandwiches with tiny fragments of grit in them for a small choice of coastal restaurants and cafes. The sun shone everyday; temperatures were warm and best of all tourist numbers were low meaning we frequently had a vast area of seashore to ourselves.

The packing to get there was another matter. No feelings of warm nostalgia when it became a mammoth operation to accommodate a mountain of nappies, books, toys, baby clothing and essentials, despite our rental property being fully equipped. Does every generation invariably weigh itself down with more and more stuff? I certainly don't recall travelling with so much when the Eldest and Youngest were little but then my own parents probably thought the same when we arrived at the airport with a buggy, bottles and baby.

In retirement, I thought I'd got packing down to a fine art. Indeed I've even substituted my five sheet personalised Excel spreadsheet with a generic list downloaded from the internet. I've also discovered the joy of packing-cubes meaning I can quickly transfer items from holdall or suitcase to storage facilities at our destination and, more importantly if touring, easily find various categories of clothing.

It's surprising how easily the best rehearsed plans can be upset by one small two year old in the form of Grandotty who eagerly volunteered her assistance. Consequently and before we had even left home, I lost a lightweight fleece (a just in case essential earmarked for my cabin bag) as well as a small cross-body bag into which my passport, phone and purse neatly fit. Fortunately I hadn't actually placed any of them in there, when it too went walkabout. Eventually I gave up searching for them, intent instead on finishing the job, whilst all the time dissuading Grandotty from adding unnecessary extras to my luggage.

I failed miserably. Unpacking at the other end, I may have travelled without the fleece or small bag but had acquired any number of interesting additions from my dressing table which Grandotty had clearly taken a liking to and, despite me having removed them once, they reappeared in Portugal buried in the depths of those packing-cubes.

Of course, the holiday itself was a delight. Getting everyone together is always a pleasure and without household chores to weigh us down and the relaxed atmosphere of the sea and sunshine we found a winning combination. It was exhausting though. Grandotty has recently dropped her daytime nap and she or Little Sister need constant attention. So much so, that immediately following our return I have been scanning the Internet for inspiration for a recovery trip.

Can you imagine a world where the completion of one holiday requires the start of another to recuperate, and so it continues in a never-ending chain of travel plans? Silly me, isn't that world called Only In Retirement?

New Experiences

noreply@blogger.com (Caree Risover) — Sat, 13 Sep 2025 21:30:00 +0000

The hallmark of retirement has to be opening the door to a raft of new experiences. This can involve travelling, but more and more frequently I have found that the time retirement bestows enables unfamiliar adventures much closer to home. Indeed fresh perspective and novel opportunities can often arise unexpectedly and from out of the routine and mundane.

This past week has been no exception. Following on from the acquisition of The Bug, I decided that I was too cowardly to try out the self parking function alone so called into the car dealership where the salesman was more than willing to show me the vehicle's capability. Nothing ventured, nothing gained but apart from deriving a good laugh at The Bug's choice of parking spaces (at one point it parked on the access route between two rows of parked cars, blocking everyone else in) and failure to recognise all the obvious ones, it is not a function I anticipate much need for. Indeed the demonstration convinced me that I have a superior aptitude for parking a car than a piece of software linked to a host of sensors. Call me arrogant if you wish but, despite all we hear about AI, there is hope for the intelligence of we humans after all.

Next, of course, there was that visit to the dentist and this was swiftly followed by another visit, this time to an Extra Care Facility. Obviously, it wasn't for myself, at least not at this stage of retirement. Instead, I was accompanying my mother there for a social event, but it did captivate my interest. Gone were the rooms with ill-matched wallpaper and carpets and the high-backed armchairs around the edge with their slumbering occupants that I recall from my grandmother's final years. Instead the building had the air of a pleasant hotel with high ceilings and wooden floors, exhibiting too the tasteful impact of interior design. The residents, despite their advancing years and clear disabilities, were otherwise sprightly and alert as they indulged in a craft activity and quiz. Another option to file in the brain's recesses, should the time for assisted living arise.

Then there was my injury. I guess I got a little carried away trying to execute a Camel Pose in Yoga on Wednesday and on Friday morning awoke with horrific pain in both sets of quadriceps, those long muscles at the front of the thigh. Walking was agony and Doctor Google was less than helpful when it suggested that 6 weeks' rest and recuperation accompanied by the application of ice were needed and that a medical examination might even be required! Good grief, all I'd done was apply a little too much enthusiasm and overstretch. This morning my legs were still in torment but I continued with the ice treatment (20 minutes every couple of hours) and then, courtesy of a You Tube video, some self-massage; first with a tennis ball, then a roller and then an electronic massaging device. Clearly technology does have its plus points because the advice was spot on and by mid-afternoon I could once again go up and downstairs, relatively pain free.

All in all a fairly typical week for retirement when I continued to learn from experience rather than a text book and in so doing found energy and stimulation in normality. The best encounter of the week, however, came from simply staring out of the kitchen window whilst washing up, when there on a branch in the hedge rested a little willow warbler, a never-seen-before visitor to our garden

(Image by Kev from Pixabay)

Unexpected

noreply@blogger.com (Caree Risover) — Mon, 08 Sep 2025 21:39:00 +0000

I had an unexpected visit to the dentist today. Unexpected on two scores: first, because I never thought it possible to ring at 3pm and get an appointment for 4.15 pm (courtesy of a last minute cancellation); second, because apart from check ups I have had no need for dental treatment for over 40 years.

Unfortunately that changed when, chewing on a slice of toast (I swear it wasn't even crisp) a molar at the back of my mouth broke. I wasn't in any pain but knowing from the experiences of Mister E that these things, if left, tend to fester and cause problems when you least want them, decided to get it checked over as soon as possible.

Now on my last foray for dental treatment, back in my twenties, I recall being absolutely petrified. It was for a filling and a decade had passed since the sadist who posed as my childhood dentist had wielded a drill in my direction and filled my back teeth; no anaesthetic, nothing but the drill constantly hitting a nerve and he insisting it would only be a little longer. The subsequent experience in my late twenties was something of a revelation when I received a small injection, and felt nothing at all from either that or the procedure itself.

Today I had no idea what would occur but steeled myself for the worst. "I'll mend that straight away," the dentist said as I closed my fists around sweating palms wondering too why I had chosen to eat raw onions only a few hours beforehand; vampires and bloodletting came to mind.

Then it happened: "Do you want it numbing or should we try without?" he said. I blinked, surely the sadist from my early years had not returned.

Next, and I swear my brain detached as I observed a little voice say, "Oh, I'll try without!"

Well, I'm all for new or even the resurrection of old experiences in retirement but I did not anticipate that for a moment. "Put your hand up, if it's painful," he said and for a while I actually thought it wasn't too bad until suddenly...and my hand shot up.

"Okay we're nearly there; a little break and we'll go again." The definite reincarnation of that practitioner from the past.

But I survived to recount the tale. I've heard dental treatment is a feature of retirement that until today I'd been spared. Fingers crossed there'll be no repetition, although alarm bells tell me it may just have been a practice run.