Are the waiters getting younger? Who's that teenager behind the doctor's desk?
Or Oh boy am I glad I'm old snicker
It's a sad fact that when the policemen (and waiters) look as if they should still be in Primary School, you're either getting old or need your eyes testing. Or both. However, conversely, you have life experience. Allegedly.
Not that I'd know exactly what those two words are supposed to mean. Grief be you six, twenty six or sixty, you've got life experience. Okay at six, it's a bit limited, I'll give you that, but it's valuable to you then. Now at sixty, you've a lot more experience, than then, but a lot less than people think. Not only that, there's a lot more rubbish cluttering up your mind. You have to sift through the dross it to get to the gold. If there is any.
But when you do… drifts off into hot and er oh right, where was I.
Life experiences. Take for instance the Swinging sixties. (Well I accept to most of you this is what you did in history class at school, and I was ahem very young.) however when my daughter came home from school, and said they were doing the sixties in history, and had been told to ask their grannies if they had any memorabilia, well I was a wee bitty pissed. However nice mum that I am, I found my cowbell (ohh hippy me) and my genuine navy lacy Mary Quant Tights for her to take in. They locked them in a glass case, giggle as they were valuable! I didn't say they'd been shoved in a drawer with my tie die granddad vest.
But in actuality? Swing? Where I lived? Any swinging that happened was on the swing boats at the fair. I don’t remember anyone burning their bra, or wearing a topless dress. (Although the local market did have a stall that sold one. To a girl who wore it under a jumper.) As for throw your car keys into an ashtray and pull out any old set and discover your partner for the night? More likely be to pull them out and find the key had melted with all the smoldering dog ends.
We did sneak into the pubs for a Dubonnet and lemonade shudder, or a half of bitter, before we hit the legal age. Add a layer or three of hairspray and lipstick to get into the Odeon to see an x-rated film, and snigger all the way through. (Michael Caine in Alfie) Go eww when the guy kissed the girl. Get all shivery when Sean Connery touched Honey Rider in Dr. No. Squirmed when she's strapped down for the crabs to crawl over her. Oh and wonder what being tied down was like. But swinging? Well, according to my cousin who was a few years older than me, not a chance. The fear of pregnancy and shame was the biggest, most effective form of contraception ever. The Plimsoll Line (above or below your boobs and definitely above your bits…lol—this is fun remembering those old words for pussy and clit) was invisible, but effective never the less. If a guy asked you to wear that pretty jumper with the buttons all the way down the front, and your hipster skirt, you know he was intent on crossing the line! You developed a headache PDQ.
Oh thought what the hell let's risk it for a biscuit.
By the time I hit the legal age for sex (16) drinking (18) watching those movies and wondering about as we called it so delicately 'doing it', there was something amazing called the pill around. Sort of.
To get the pill was a bit like waving a flag with 'slut' written on it where I lived. Fist of all you had to brave your GP and have a reason to get it. "Because I don’t want to get pregnant wasn't enough." The way not to get pregnant was to keep your legs firmly crossed, not wrapped around your partner's waist or neck. I had a bad back, which gave me hell at the wrong time of the month. (Well the GP bought it so shh.) So he very reluctantly wrote the script. Oh yes, you couldn't even get more than a 4 weekly supply. I've no idea what they thought you were going to do with them.
Not only did you have to pay for it though, where I lived you had to register it at a chemists. None of this ohh hell I've run out, and shoving the prescription into any old chemist. Same chemist, every month, and same old biddy shouting disapprovingly at the top of her voice. "Contraceptive pill for Miss Y. Or sometimes for "Mrs. Y." At which point, I'd say very firmly. "It's Miss, and it's me," and ignore the tuts and shaking heads of other people in the queue.
I did once get told it was slutty behavior, and I said "yeah, it's great you should try it." rolls eyes
All part of life's rich tapestry. Was I really out of the norm? No, not really. We all experimented to some degree or another. It just wasn't so open.
True story. I'd lived away from home for oh two to three years. Steady fella, and my lovely mum said to me, in all seriousness, "I just wondered where 'A' slept when he stayed over?"
Me.(very tongue in cheek) "Well I do have a camp bed."
Mum (much relief in her voice.) "Oh yes, I forgot about that. And after all he can always put his pajamas on in the bathroom can't he." (I had a studio flat) Bless her, definitely another generation. She and dad were so open about telling me the facts of life, but sex wasn't something discussed otherwise. I was in my forties before she asked if I had had sex before I got married. I was honest and said yes, just not who to or how often.
Are you still reading? Has my rambling bored you rigid? I must admit I'm having fun trawling through my reminiscences. I'd forgotten just what I'd got up to. Mini skirts, tights(Yuk now but oh so liberating after stockings and suspenders.) No pinger marks on your skin. It was damned annoying to have to wear your suspender belt (Garter belt I guess for you non Uk-ites) inside out, so no tell tale round red marks were on your legs if you went swimming. And as skirt lengths went ever upwards you couldn't wear stockings, or your tops would show!
Then anything different was kinky. I had knee high patent leather boots. Ohh kinky. A suede mini skirt? Yeah ditto… Blindfold, bondage? Ohh my you kept quiet about that. The sex shops in Soho, were very discrete. The first time I went in I was er what's this? And er this? The bloke I was with went red, as the assistant demonstrated! (And my fella worked as a rep for the main maker of condoms in the UK. I should have asked him if he ever had to demonstrate his wares.)
So fast forward to today. I still wear my skirts too short (or too long) still wear stocking and well still lol…
I refuse to grow old gracefully, well what's the pleasure in that?
And if you're still reading this, thank you. I actually didn't start out to remember my semi-misspent youth, but I have so enjoyed it.
Oh and I have a book out lol. Now the way I write is certainly something I never ever thought might happen. But oh boy am I glad I do.
If you want to be nosy, you can find out about me and my books by clicking here.
Love R x
Raven lives in Scotland, along with her husband and their two cats—their children having flown the nest—surrounded by beautiful scenery, which inspires a lot of the settings in her books.
She is used to sharing her life with the occasional deer, red squirrel, and lost tourist, to say nothing of the scourge of Scotland—the midge.
A lover of reading, she appreciates the history inside a book, and the chance to peek into the lives of those from years ago. Raven admits that she enjoys the research for her books almost as much as the writing; so much so, that sometimes she realizes she's strayed way past the information she needs to know, and not a paragraph has been added to her WIP.
Her lovely long-suffering husband is learning to love the dust bunnies, work the Aga, and be on stand-by with a glass of wine.
You can find out more about Raven here…
https://www.facebook.com/rmcallan (my page)
https://www.facebook.com/ravenmcallan (author page)