Braving the storm. Thoughts about growing older positively.

 Storm Amy rattled around the house all night it seems. When I woke this morning she was still going strong. I heard the rain lashing down and the wind howling and so I switched off my alarm, turned over in bed and went back to sleep for a while. No running round the village this morning.

I read that all eight of London’s royal parks, including Hyde Park and Richmond Park, will be closed on Saturday because of strong winds during Storm Amy

I’m quite glad not to live close to the sea. 

Or in the Isle of Man where they have flooding or Ireland where around 100,000 properties were reported to be without electricity this morning! 

It’s the sort of day when you want to curl up by the fire with a good book. So my crazy Granddaughter Number One has gone out for a drive because her equally crazy housemate wants to drive!  I might venture out to buy bread later if the weather clears up at all but maybe I’ll just stay in. 

We braved the weather yesterday to go to our old friend’s funeral. Funerals are sad-happy reunions of friends and family. Another friend says she would like to know when she will die so that she can organise a ‘party’ that she can also go to. The old friend we celebrated yesterday would appreciate that sentiment. Even her daughter said that she would have loved being the centre of attention at yesterday’s event. She was the kind of person who loved trying new things, be it food, music, activities, whatever. So she would have enjoyed reading what actress recently deceased Patricia Routledge wrote not long before her 95th birthday:

“I’ll be turning 95 this coming Monday. In my younger years, I was often filled with worry — worry that I wasn’t quite good enough, that no one would cast me again, that I wouldn’t live up to my mother’s hopes. But these days begin in peace, and end in gratitude.”

My life didn’t quite take shape until my forties. I had worked steadily — on provincial stages, in radio plays, in West End productions — but I often felt adrift, as though I was searching for a home within myself that I hadn’t quite found.

At 50, I accepted a television role that many would later associate me with — Hyacinth Bucket, of Keeping Up Appearances. I thought it would be a small part in a little series. I never imagined that it would take me into people’s living rooms and hearts around the world. And truthfully, that role taught me to accept my own quirks. It healed something in me.

At 60, I began learning Italian — not for work, but so I could sing opera in its native language. I also learned how to live alone without feeling lonely. I read poetry aloud each evening, not to perfect my diction, but to quiet my soul.

At 70, I returned to the Shakespearean stage — something I once believed I had aged out of. But this time, I had nothing to prove. I stood on those boards with stillness, and audiences felt that. I was no longer performing. I was simply being.

At 80, I took up watercolor painting. I painted flowers from my garden, old hats from my youth, and faces I remembered from the London Underground. Each painting was a quiet memory made visible.

Now, at 95, I write letters by hand. I’m learning to bake rye bread. I still breathe deeply every morning. I still adore laughter — though I no longer try to make anyone laugh. I love the quiet more than ever.

I’m writing this to tell you something simple:

Growing older is not the closing act. It can be the most exquisite chapter — if you let yourself bloom again.

Let these years ahead be your treasure years.
You don’t need to be famous. You don’t need to be flawless.
You only need to show up — fully — for the life that is still yours.”

Well said, Mrs Bucket!

Life goes on. Stay safe and well, everyone!