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Today I made ravioli for lunch. Well, I had some pre-made so only had to boil it for 8 minutes to make it yummy.

I remembered the first time I ever ate ravioli. I was 14 years old. My parents had taken me to Italy – to Rome. One of the first meals we had was ravioli and I immediately loved it! This was in 1958 and, coming from a colony in Africa, Italian cuisine was virtually unknown. After that meal, I ordered ravioli whenever we dined out. I don’t remember ever having a plate of this amazing pasta dish that disappointed me.

Dad died as the dawn broke. Before he went to sleep the night before, I spent my final hour with him. Heart failure and whiskey made him ramble, but I got his gist. I tucked him in, as he had tucked me in once and kissed him goodnight.  “Leave the curtains open, would you darling, I want to see the dawn.” Those were the last words I ever heard him say.

Surrounded by his children, it was a good death and with it came a strange release from his paternal authority over us. Afterwards, waiting for the undertaker, we became naughty. My sister, giggling, put on his shoes and glasses and shuffled around, pretending to be him. We raided his pockets for his last thirty pounds and someone went out and bought champagne with it. We played his favourite tunes much too loudly, almost disrespectfully, cocooned in a strange, hysterical grief bubble.

Later, one by one we crept back to see him on his death bed. We smoothed his shirt, combed his hair, inspected his hands, kissed his cold forehead.  The grandchildren, some as young as three came in, curious. We answered their questions as best as we could. After a while, we told the children that soon they’d come to take Grandad’s body away. There was a long silence, then the youngest piped up “But aren’t they going to take his head, too?”

Every now and then, on our healthful morning walks, we go off track. Retired life is comfortable, even predictable, but last week, living dangerously, we turned down an unknown path, studded with wild boar hoof prints. The track opened up to reveal a ruin, alone in the field, a byre and a shepherd’s hut with the roof fallen in and a deep open well. I leant over and looked into the depths, but I couldn’t see my reflection. Approaching the ruin alone, I peered tentatively through the byre door and fancied I smelt the ghost of the donkeys that once toiled between the surrounding  walls and terraces, where stunted ailing carobs and almonds grew untended. Then, just by the door, I spied an old pitchfork propped up for the last time and  a lump rose in my throat for he who once wielded it and his lost way of life. I turned back to my man, feeling melancholy for the rich years we’d left behind us and our lost youth and strength.

I always try to see the best in people, and when they do something I don’t expect I try to find a reason for it. So when I am on a packed bus, with no seats available, I have to assume that the two young teenagers sitting in the disabled and elderly priority seats have something wrong with them. So that must be why they sat there for the whole journey, while a number of elderly people stood, clinging into the rails for dear life, while the driver practised his F1 strategies and driving skills – Including trying to take corners on 2 wheels.

If I had been sitting in those seats I would have been using my iPad, so I can’t complain about them using their mobiles the whole time to play games. Nor can I really say anything about their tight black lycra track suits and pure white tee shirts. if I was that slim I might have been dressed like that too. And for all I know they were going to work and that was their uniform.

However, there is such a thing as Karma. As the bus started slowing and coming into the terminus, they started to get up and found me and my case planted across the aisle, trapping them in their seats. I really enjoyed that. And so did the other elderly passengers, who were able to pass me as I turned sideways and lent forward over the teens, and the young mum with the difficult double buggy!

Satisfaction. Job done.

Manners on the Bus

Following a similar ‘disaster’ sent from a friend I recalled the time that one wet windy day I slipped in muddy wet manure patch (worn out Crocs, never wise to wear on these sort of days) and was covered in yuck from head to toe. I stripped off, shoved everything into the washing machine, found some rubber boots and trundled the wheelbarrow through the rest of the chores…stark naked! No one around to faint in shock and disapproval!