Sticking a Tena Lady under each boob and another on my forehead was the only way I could cope with this week’s heatwave.
I always imagined I’d have the cool composure of Ingrid Bergman’s character in Casablanca if I was ever in searing heat. She stunned in pristine silk while everyone around her sweated bullets and mopped their sodden brows.
While I, with Tena Ladies stuck all over me, looked like an Egyptian mummy brought to life. I closed the blinds and locked the door in case anyone saw me and died of fright.
Such heat’s hard for older people like me, who can’t easily nip out to the shops to buy hot day supplies and might struggle to get into a paddling pool, never mind erect one. It’s important we look out for each other and ask for help if we need it.
I kept bottles of tap water in the fridge for an endless supply of cold drinks. But I knew the heat was getting to me when I went off food. OK, well not all food.
The Cadbury Flake ice-cream cones I had in the freezer were so incredible, I demolished the pack of four. And the box of strawberry cones were pretty delicious too. But if someone had said they’d deliver the finest, juiciest steak to me I’d have said: “Not today, thanks”.
In the 1976 heatwave my eldest son Jonathan was five and Robert was two years old, and although I’ve never been much of a sunbather we played together in the sun on our scorched back lawn. This time there was no way I could even open the back door.
Trying to let fresh air in just brought hot air in. Staying indoors in the dark wasn’t fun and I wish I’d found a David Attenborough Frozen Planet documentary just to imagine feeling cold.
Night times were worse. Roasting in bed left my pillow soaking as sweat even ran into my ears. I had to turn off the fan because its sound was doing my head in. I tried sleeping in my lightest pyjamas but in the end gave up and stripped off.
That just made me toss and turn with worry that I’d die in the night and look a sight when my body was found. From now on I will never dream of being in the sunny Caribbean. I have a new ideal holiday destination: the far north Scottish island of Lerwick.
Our cosy chats got all too snug
On a colder day, Janet invited me and another old school friend to her house for sandwiches and fresh cream eclairs. We spent hours reminiscing about people we used to know and it brought us straight back to our teens.
But far too often we heard ourselves mentioning a name then saying: “She died.”
For years all our little group of friends’ chat was about who was engaged, then about weddings, babies and sometimes divorces. Now we realised we’d become exactly like Ena Sharples, Minnie Caldwell and Martha Longhurst in the Rovers Return snug.
We sharp changed the subject after that.
Pride in our Lionesses
It’s brilliant to see the women’s football get the recognition it deserves.
Back in my day, I can’t remember any of my girl friends playing football, just rounders, athletics and hockey.
Watching the women’s Euros, I wondered what kind of a player I’d have been if I’d taken it up.
I suspect I’d have been sent off a fair few times. Because as a hockey player, I used to quietly and secretly clack my opponents’ legs with my stick to get away from them. I can’t think where our Robert gets his footballing feistiness from.
Thankfully Robert’s eldest son Charlie doesn’t have that side of him on the pitch. This week he’s been on a pre-season tour with Manchester United.
I FaceTimed Robbie’s wife Sarah and she propped her iPad up in her kitchen so I could watch Charlie play on their big telly in the kitchen.
It made me well up to see him compete alongside big names. Even the fact he was picked from such a star line-up made me emotional, as the Man United manager Erik ten Hag said he doesn’t care about players’ reputation, only what he sees them do in training.
When I heard football legend Bryan Robson said he’d been really impressed with our Charlie, I cried.
Then I texted Charlie, who was in Thailand at the time: “When you see the moon at night, that’s the same moon above us. When you see it, anywhere you go, you’ll know you’re always close to me.”
Charlie texted back: “Nana, you’re not crying again are you?”
Lottery dreams are fun but make prizes smaller
The record-breaking EuroMillions win of £195million is too much.
I wish the prizes were smaller and made many more families happy.
But I know exactly what I’d do if that win was mine. I’d open a cosy dementia care home-from-home and would personally interview all the staff to suss out if they were genuinely special, caring people.
Then I’d give the rest of the winnings away.
What good would all that money do for me at my age?
The “what I’d do if I won the lottery chat” is a fun one and tells you a lot about people.
When I mentioned opening a care home to my friends, they thought I meant a big care home where we’d live together and have riotous OAParties every day with singsongs, Motown blaring and our favourite puddings on each day’s menu.
Mind you, that does sound tempting.
Falling out of Love with show
My addiction to Love Island is waning and my allegiances have changed.
These days I like Ekin-Su – a beautifully unusual name but not one that I would trust myself to say after a few drinks – and Davide. They’re always bickering and their banter is like an old married couple’s.
But Love Island has been on for six weeks now and I’ve started to doze off during episodes.
Now I’m stuck: I can’t stop watching it because I’m desperate to see who ends up winning.
If you would like to contact Val, please email features@mirror.co.uk or write to Val Savage, PO Box 7290, E14 5DD. The Mirror makes a donation to the Alzheimer’s Society in lieu of payment.
