I’ve got the you-don’t-know-the-half-of-it-dearie blues

I’ve got the you don’t know the half of it dearie blues. (Gershwin knew how to write a song!)

 I went out for coffee with a friend. I didn’t want to go. I’ve been a proper grump. I’m not sure if she noticed but it probably did me good to go out and pretend to be normal. After, I went for a long walk and gave myself a bit of a talking to. It didn’t work. 

I feel the future will be blue and stormy (Truly Gershwin was a genius)

I wanted to find a little hole to crawl in, maybe lined with a duvet so that I’d be nice and comfy. I didn’t, though because you’ve got to keep trying, right? Even when there really seems no point and you’re properly fed up of all this malarkey. So, I plastered on a fake smile and taught my evening pupils.

“I haven’t done any practice because I was too busy with birthday stuff.”

“Okay. Happy Birthday. All the best people are born in October,” I said, not really feeling it this year.

“How long have you been playing the piano?” 

They always want to know this. I feel I should qualify my answer with a confession that I don’t practice because that many years and still being pretty terrible at something is very depressing.

“At least forty years,” I tell them.

“What? No way! That means you’re like 45 or something?”

“Or something,” I confess. You might remember that I stopped counting at 42 because I’m terrible at remembering but I know I’ve been 42 for a lot longer than three years. “I’ll be even older soon.”

The realisation that I wouldn’t be teaching them (and therefore not in their bubble) on my birthday seemed to cause a lot of disappointment. 

Maybe I’ve got the you-don’t-know-the-half-of-it birthday blues?

I’ve realised that when your parents are dead your own birthday feels like less of a celebration.

This might be a good thing for me because I always found the pressure of a birthday to be quite wearing. 

I have a very vivid memory of being upset at my third birthday party. Someone had been mean to me and (I think) spilled something on my dress. I was in my bedroom with my Nan. I told her I was going to get into the wardrobe and stay there. I was crying. My Nan scooped me up in her enormous bosom and said, “You mustn’t cry on your birthday or you’ll cry all year round.”

I told her that I didn’t care. I didn’t like birthdays and I was just going to stay in the wardrobe until it was all over. I was feeling sad that year anyway. We had a sad house. My brother had died at a few hours old and even though I didn’t know it I was picking up the grief. Griefs like that weren’t acknowledged in those days. My mother didn’t even get to see her baby after he was born or even after he died. Everyone was just told to suck it up, carry on and try for the next. This approach works. It’s what we all did but it didn’t stop us feeling sad.  

My Nan played the trump card.

 “You can’t be sad today. It’s your birthday. Let your poor mum and dad have this happy day.” 

And there it is. The reason I’m a grump. I have a birthday coming up and no reason to suck it up and carry on. My heart isn’t broken but it has a bruise (Gershwin - total brain). Grief is weird. It’s a little gift that keeps catching you when you are least expecting it. 

Gosh, that’s a depressing blog. Sorry. Here’s a picture of something small and blue to cheer us up.