November, month of growth, rejuvenation and unnatural practices.

70 is the new 40.

I’m skidding in with a late post for November, just before we go full bonkas into Christmas.

Now I usually love November for its quiet misty stillness, drenching rains and all over introspection. For me that makes it the perfect ‘Month of the Dead’ welcomed in by Halloween celebrations. But this year, blow me down with a feather, it has turned out to be the month of growth, rejuvenation and unnatural practices.

So firstly growth. No, not a magical new way to get new subscribers. In spring I grew some extra bone in my shoulder which caused problems that cortisone injections magically resolved. Not to be thwarted, the extra-bone making activities went to my feet. Initially I thought I had eaten myself into grout, but X rays revealed that I have been growing spurs on my big toe joint. It’s called Hellux Rigidus (shouldn’t that be a character in Asterix?) or, as I prefer to describe it- toe antlers. These are going to have to be removed with a chisel and hammer (which is far too biblical to contemplate.) In the meantime I am Pia, with knobs on, the human stalagmite. Here is a photograph of my medical condition.

The surgeon, who had been comparing my foot to a squeaky gate, laughed when I said ‘but we are going skiing’ and recommended Sole Bliss shoes, solebliss.com as worn by Oprah and Princess Kate (apparently.) They do extra wide, extra comfy shoes which you have to get in huge sizes. So my entire collection of treasured boots and high shoes are now going to my lovely daughter whilst I get a new collection of very expensive clown shoes.

Whilst I bristle with good intentions which occasionally manifest into a guilt-driven cycle adventure or lurch around the tennis courts, my commitment to the discipline of writing- rather than any form of exercise or dietary restraint- sees me sat at my desk/ sofa/ chaise longue with the only exercise lifting the kettle and tracking a path to the fridge. With a dodgy shoulder and limpy foot inhibiting the exercise options I am at an all time…er… greatness. Only Ozempic can save me now.

Anyway Hugo and I had been honoured to be invited to a very exclusive and intimate 70^th birthday - a masked dinner at a wonderfully atmospheric villa above Lucca in the Tuscan hills.

But what to wear? Lucca had nothing and the clock was ticking. I found an outlet store (theoutnet.com) for my favourite designer Camilla Franks (floaty silk specialist), found a gold and black floaty frock, albeit in the size above, and after byzantine complications it was winging its way to me. When I say it was on the big side, it was more marquee than robe and would have fitted Demis Roussos -with shoulder pads straight out of Rivals. I tried squeezing my hoof into shoes with a heel but it was like the ugly sisters trying to ram a pedis into a glass orifice. With the Sole Bliss merchandise stuck in Italian customs there was no choice but to wear a pair of black flat loafers I had bought in a moment of sensibleness when Zsa-Zsa graduated in Rome in March- cobbles are a nightmare for walking on, but these shoes are virtually orthopaedic.

The party villa was spectacularly glamourous, the company scintillating, no one mentioned Trump, the table was breathtaking, the food delicious, the cocktails chilled, the speeches funny and intimate and I didn’t knowingly faux pas for England.

All the other ladies looked spectacular – 70 is the new 40. Everyone else there was fit as a flea. When the ladies aren’t skiing, they are horse-riding, cycling , exhausting dogs, designing houses or curating art. They were in glamourous short sparkly on-trend dresses, rocking out on chunky high heels. Me, I didn’t realise until the photographs came back that I looked like a tanker clad in black and gold silk wearing nun’s shoes.

We then went to another 70^th birthday party- wonderful people, homemade delicious food to die for, poetry recitals. It was held at a gothic banqueting hall in the Cotswolds. Between the rain, the sodden misty ground, and getting lost in the grave yard it was very Bram Stoker.

Another bloody expensive dress, but the Sole Bliss shoes had arrived, although I would call them Sole Agony, as it turns out that antler feet can’t be bent into heels. Then to add insult to injury Sole Bliss then refused a refund as they said they had been worn.

The Cotswolds are also a bit Rivals. The medieval stone architecture is very pretty. We think our part of Surrey leans towards posh – we are God(alming)s chosen people after all, but the Cotswolds think themselves a cut above. Honestly, I know they are historic wool towns but I have never seen so much tweed. One woman pushed passed, head to toe in Bruer with riding boots that had only ever seen the inside of a new range rover.

‘Did you see her?’ I whispered to Hugo as we slunk past

‘Did you see her dogs? He responded, ‘they were ….snooty!’

That’s the Cotswolds- stone, swanky and snooty bitches.

And so to unnatural practices. My MacBook Air had been refusing to recharge. We think it has become a socialist. We bought it a new recharging cable. It weakly accepted a small amount of charge for a couple of weeks then went full Scargill, 3 day weeks but then, as soon as we got to Italy and it would be impossible to get stuff, it went full black out, thou shalt not pass.

Hugo and I went to the new commercial centre near us- Euronics. The very helpful lady said that it was too old (I think it has reached the ripe old age of 3 years)

Then she did something which borders obscenity. She stuck a recharger IN THE WRONG HOLE!

And it worked! Well, bugger me, my MAC had been born again. Who’d have thought it?

My children’s illustrated book is now available. Wholesome, charming good night bedtime stories. Buy copies, everyone will love it, especially me! https://troubador.co.uk/bookshop/picture-books/lavender-pots