The Lost Core

The most compelling evidence for the existence of my stomach muscles is the fact that I am able to stand up.  A rounded tum has never bothered me, it's a good place to prop a book in the bath.  I had a school friend who told me she put salt in her belly button on the beach and dipped chips in it.  Picture her on the sand in Brazil, serenaded by Frank, short and pale and round and peckish, the girl from Chipanema...

Apparently Jennifer Aniston can bounce a coin off her stomach.  Once you've done that a few times I imagine you contemplate the emptiness of your life outside the gym and have a little cry.  I can rest a trio of loving heads and a bowl of popcorn on mine.  Forget apples and pears, bodies are either trampolines or beanbags.  Snuggle up.

Still, what I used to have, giving my tummy an elegant frame, was a waist.  This is what I miss.  Marilyn Monroe was a size 16, one up from me, but her size was poured into an hourglass whereas mine is sloshing about in a bowl.  I am in smock territory.  I do love the '70s, the waft of a kaftan, a shake of beads and a peace sign, but I actually suit the '40s.  I'm not laid back enough for hazy days of dope and tambourines.  I prefer a sentimental song and a stiff upper cocktail.  Swing through today in case we don't have tomorrow.  But I need a nipped in waist.

So I have joined a Pilates class to see if I can find one.  I am the youngest in the class by at least 30 years.  'You're very mobile,' said the teacher. 'You might have problems with that'.  My joints are hyperextended, she says, and I should try to keep them under control.  My breathing is unruly too.  'Pilates breathing is different to Yoga breathing.  It's the other way round.'  I have no idea how to breathe the other way round.

'Forget the breathing,' she said, 'Just do the positions'.  I try to connect with my core.  Don't talk about stomach muscles, it's all about Core Strength.  I need a lot more of it.

The pace is gentle - I'd like to work harder.  I can learn the moves and do them at home.  I miss the banter in my London yoga class.  Laughter is encouraged there.  Here, I'm not sure that interrupting the careful breathing with a joke would be welcome.  Someone might expire.

Still, I am pleased to be there.  I am using lazy muscles, I have to make an effort, despite the slow mood in the class.  The room overlooks the sea.  During the class the waves turn from grey to a kaleidescope of green blues.  A good place to breathe, any way round.  Outside seagulls are riding the north-east wind, bodies fluid in the raw air.  I have a long way to go.

Hair on end

The fizzing yellow of the oil seed rape has gone, all the flowers were knocked about by the heavy rain we had a few days ago.  A glorious storm at night thudding and flashing - no blinds closed.  It was like trying to sleep in a night club.  Little One in with us, as usual.  Hard to sleep anyway with so much electricity in the air - I was expecting to wake up with hair like Ken Dodd.  Not much different to my usual morning hair.

Then a day of thick fog.  Not sure if it was a haar, the sea mist we had at university.  Wonder if a haar is particular to the east coast of Scotland.  Is it the same as a fret?  Are these mists different in essence or just in name?  Anyway, it was a real pea souper and stayed all day and night into the next morning.  I was convinced the house was no longer attached to the world and we were adrift in time.  Then I watched a programme about the queens of country music and the life of Loretta Lynn brought me back.  My son came downstairs, scrubbing his eyes, hair tufty.  He'd had a bad dream and heard scary banging.  He sat with me and looked at Dolly Parton.  We went to bed and he lay in his soft blue gingham pyjamas, eyes wide until I got in next to him.  I watched his long lashes settle on soft flushed cheeks.  Very grubby nails, hands neatly folded and then one reached to hold mine.  How do mothers bear it when their sons leave to sleep beside other women?

The light of the sun setting behind the rape caught in the hairs of the stems and the field glittered like a frosty morning.  There are bright poppies in the field and all along the roadside.  They last for less than a day in a vase.  So don't pick them.

Welcome to the second half.

By Monday evening I was 40.  My nearly-godfather (he would have been officially appointed had mum ever got around to having us christened) left a message.  'I remember your birth.  Dear God!  I had black hair!'  His hair is white now but lots of it still.  And his partner of 50 years (also my nearly-godfather) is drifting into dementia taking all their shared days with him.  I have low stock left from that generation.  It was good to hear his voice.

Friends, with gloomy camaraderie on Facebook, sent greetings like people who have managed to haul another soul into the lifeboat.  Or asked if I've written my will.

'Welcome to the second half' wrote one of my favourite people.  I have often avoided the second half and gone to the pub.  During this show they let you bring your drink in with you and the plot's not bad.  I've got good seats.  If it's close to last orders I can always say I need the loo and sneak out early.

As I suspected 40 feels remarkably like 39.  I celebrated the change of decade with the man I want to be with when I enter the next one.  We avoided subjects that have proved touchy in the past, like whether we once had a beer with Satan and the existence of flamenco, and had an excellent evening at the Wiveton Bell.  Nice Chablis.  Lovely cheese.

Presents from the children were a small parcel of 5 pebbles from my son, a handful of glossy hazelnuts and a linen box for precious things from my daughter and rowdy singing from my little one.  And Mr P and the children gave me a poppy red Pashley bike with a springy seat.  It is the bike of my dreams.  On the front is a basket big enough for a child to ride in.  Or I could put a dog in there.  Or some cockles and samphire and a bottle of cider.  It got dented on the way but some new bits are being sent and I sense a summer of adventures on the open road.  A merry song, small smooth treasures and the promise of a journey.  A good birthday.