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Nicola Shares Stories Of Starting Over At Sixty

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27 November 2017 By Nicola Cairncross Leave a Comment

Sunday

The olive men came today with their nets and their chainsaws, rupturing my Sunday with loud buzzing, shouted instructions and much laughter.

Not before time, as the the ripe olives have been silently dropping with purple thuds, staining stone and plastic alike for a week or so now.

Where do they come from, the olive men and women, and who calls them? How do they know it’s the right time for this tree or that? Perhaps there is a secret schedule they follow, hundreds of years old, arriving to clear a grove at a time and then haul the sacks to the press.

Unlike the wood men who have to be summoned by telephone through the local taverna owner, he who knows someone who can help with just about anything.   The order goes “One trailer load please, smaller pieces please, not “wet” wood please, as it’s a wood burning stove”.

Then you wait, knowing they’ll deliver with no notice just when you decide to head out down the village, or when you don’t have the cash in the house, or when it’s raining in the bibical fashion it does round here, but they deliver anyway and if you are not there, stack it just where they please and come back for the money.

“Come” my neighbour said as she stood at my front door. “Come and see the fun, they are trying to get to the trees in the ravine and are clambering about like monkeys”.

No chance, I’ve heard your stories of how they suck you in with tales of fun, then you are trapped for several days by your own personal sense of commitment, leaving you stiff and broken for a week after, by the unaccustomed hard work.

Looking out of the window in one of my coffee breaks, I saw new faces, both men and women, strangers who must have come for the picking season.

They leave my garden bare and tidy, taking nets of olives with them, leaving branches to be burned.  I’m not sure who will return to do this, I’m confident someone will. Our little houses sit in the middle of olive groves of great antiquity, people have been following the seasons in this very spot for over 3000 years.

Last year, when I first arrived, I remember a big fire with much smoke and all the local men, Greek and English laughing together, revelling in the flames the way men do, around bonfires, barbecues and sports events.

Later, I walked my rubbish and recycling down the hill, followed by a black and white cat sporting a collar but acting hungry, confident he’s found a new owner. My rubbish attracts him like diamonds but as we pass the chickens with their gut-wrenching scents, the cat peels away silently as we reach the part of the road where the guard dogs live. He knows the limits of his territory.

I hurled my recycling into the bins outside my friends’ house, a source of endless annoyance to the owner. Unlike the locals I virtuously continue to the main bins, studiously ignored by the municipality now that the tourists have departed with the last charter flight.

I sat for a while by the dual churches to catch my breath, one tiny and ancient, the other much bigger, sporting modern stained glass but the stonework unfinished due to lack of funds, imagining the days gone past when the square outside the church would have been filled with village ladies catching up on the news.

They have moved on to the seats on the new promenade and like them, I am drawn next to the deserted beach flanked by sleeping tavernas, all bare tables and plastic shrouds to protect from the occasional winds.

The old people still pace the streets slowly, the men zipped firmly into anoraks and large hairy shawls clutched around the shoulders of the old ladies.

“Kali Spera!” I say cheerfully to every single one, to dispel the awkwardness of being the only other person on the street. They respond in kind, but in surprise, used to being invisible in the throngs of summer visitors.

The empty beach is being gently pounded by the waves, smoothing the summer footsteps away, creating lace at the edges of each wave from the torn up seaweed.  The last remaining broken sunbeds huddle against the sea wall, waiting to be dragged off by the scrap metal man, tossed onto his flatbed truck with the ubiquitous loudspeaker.

Red and pink streaks wound the sky as the sun sinks with a silent sigh behind the mountains of the next peninsula. The gloom deepens as I walk slowly towards the middle stretch, where the lights of the two remaining cafes and the sell-all supermarket twinkle gamely against the fast-moving dark.

The first taverna shelters some English friends but I am not ready for direct conversation yet, I’ve been editing podcasts all day and I need to ease myself in gently. I need bright lights, local chatter and some funky music. The taverna favoured by the local Brits tends to play laid-back music from the ‘60’s to cater for the older clientele, while the second is firmly catering to the young locals.  I like this place, it takes years off me.

Midweek this sophisticated bar shapes-shifts back into a traditional kafenion, filled with men watching sport, mulling over their strong coffee and playing the local version of backgammon. But at weekends it’s full of locals in their late teens, early twenties, enjoying the lights, music and laughter, which never fails to remind me that life will explode in the sleepy village once more come Easter.

Today it’s full of familiar faces, who work behind bars and serve tables in the summer.  I’m greeted cheerfully as I fumble through my responses then sit in a seat with my back to a wall, not too near a loudspeaker or one of the big flat screen televisions, where I can happily people watch.  Eleni knows my winter order, hot Nescafe with “milk and medium sugar”, so it arrives promptly.

Makeup free girls who would give Helen Of Troy a run for her money, sporting designer casual wear and ponytails, are comparing notes on phones and pretending to ignore the boy-men, who sport an entertaining array of facial hair in spite of never having heard of Movember!

I sip my coffee and dip my wafer thin Amaretti biscuit, neatly lining up the tools of my trade on the table. One book to read, a Moleskine notebook to write in if the urge takes me, my mobile phone ready to catch text messages from my family or Shazam any particularly funky tunes.

I sit alone but not lonely, marvelling at the latest goddess-like addition to the waiting staff. I’m sure she’s not gone unnoticed by the young men or the older ones who sit outside, unwilling to be subjected to the relentless, but surprisingly tasteful, pop music, nursing their strong coffee and later ouzo. They stare at the sea, enigmatically, as greek men have in tavernas for thousands of years, occasionally grunting greetings at each other as another arrives.

Sometimes I order a glass of rose here, especially if there’s a match on and it fills up but more usually, as the late afternoon wears on, the lure of my own language and the company of my fellow Brits become stronger. Pausing for some essential supplies from the supermarket, while avoiding the demonic parrot-in-residence, Takis, I walk slowly to the second taverna and sit at one of the side tables, ordering my customary “tetato” of rose, now ready and willing for a chat.

I’m enjoying simple pleasures, concentrating on living in the moment, slowing my brain down and appreciating my surroundings by noticing every little thing.  I focus determinedly on slipping seamlessly into the endless movement of time, pacing the seasons rolling on relentlessly, feeling part of it all and part of the bigger picture.

These are the things that keep me sane as I piece together my new life, as I rediscover what I enjoy doing, what makes me happy now. In this tiny, comforting place, sheltered by the sea and the mountains, I’m slowly learning to live again, one quiet Sunday at a time.

Filed Under: Greek Tales, Short Stories

14 November 2017 By Nicola Cairncross Leave a Comment

Choosing A Book

Sighing in exasperation, Nicola realised she’d read everything in the “Starting A Business” section in Books Etc, Oxford St.

She’d either read them all or didn’t like the look of them, titles such as “How To Incorporate Your Business” being too dry, by far.

She was looking for the secret you see, the secret of success in business, the one thing that had eluded her thus far. Little did she know that she was making a fundamental error about businesses, every time she set up a new one.  A fundamental error that doomed each to failure.

“It has to be here somewhere” she muttered as she glanced at her watch.

Nearly out of time on the one-hour lunch break allowed and her sandwich and cappuccino not even bought yet.  Time was nearly up and a long afternoon at her job loomed like a prison sentence.

“What’s wrong with me?” she thought wearily.  “Why do I spend all my time dreaming of owning my own business?  Why can’t I just be normal, go to work like everyone else and be grateful to be earning at all, with spare time on the weekends?”

Nicola walked out of the business section, past the self-help shelves, the section she never looked at as she imagined it being full of yoghurt weaving and macrame “how to”.

Just as she walked past the final shelf a book dropped on the floor in front of her, for all the world like a tiny book elf had pushed it out himself.

Nicola loved and respected books and was nothing if not tidy and so she didn’t want to leave the book on the floor to get kicked around.  The few staff in evidence looked busy enough.

As she looked for the right section, she glanced idly at the cover.

“Swimming With Piranha Makes You Hungry” by Professor Colin Turner was the rather cryptic title.  While Nicola idly pondered whether there should be an “S” at the end of piranha, little did she know that this book would change her life forever.

She turned it over and realised that it was a book designed to encourage people who worked in corporate life to set up a business on the side of their day job, with the ultimate goal of breaking free of Cubicle Nation.

“Preaching to the converted, there, Colin my old love!” she thought, but as the book was under £5 and she didn’t have anything to read on the tube, she bought it quickly before going to buy her lunch.

Over the next couple of days, Nicola raced through the book which was entertaining and thought-provoking but ultimately containing nothing new for this veteran of “How To” books.  However, she had a nagging feeling she was missing something so she read it again.

And again, and then again.

Over the next few weeks, she read that little book about 10 times while not quite sure why she was doing that.

One day, just before arriving at her stop in Kensal Rise, Nicola noticed a little drawing near the end of the book.  Here is that drawing exactly as she saw it.

She immediately realised that this drawing held the secret, the one thing she’d been looking for, all her life in all those books.

It showed her the difference between being an employee and saver, and an investor.  She immediately wrote a 5* review on Amazon.

Nicola started out on a journey to learn how money works, how success works, how business works. How successful people think.

This led to buying a 12 bedroom hotel “no money down”, starting four six-figure businesses, one of which “The Money Gym” went on to become her own first book and mentoring programme, which changed hundreds, if not thousands of people’s lives.

Then, fifteen years later, an email arrived in her inbox from a Professor Colin Turner, who had just been sent a screenshot by a friend, of her review written all those years ago.

“Fancy a chat on Skype?” he said.

Filed Under: Memoirs, Short Stories

14 November 2017 By Nicola Cairncross Leave a Comment

The Wooden Box

Madeline saw the wooden box in the window of the junk shop and was drawn to it immediately.

She opened the door and jumped slightly as the old fashioned bell tinkled above her head.

“Hello dear!” said the tiny, old lady who appeared from behind the ancient lace curtain hanging between the shop and the sitting room behind.

“Hello” replied Madeline, envying the old lady her roaring fire which looked very cosy on this cold wet day in November.  “I really like that wooden box in the window, how much is it?”

“Well, it’s not really for sale my dear,” said the old lady. “It’s more like it’s waiting for the right person to come along”.

“Oh!” exclaimed Madeline, feeling disappointed and a bit embarrassed.

She turned to go but the old lady, moving surprisingly fast grabbed her wrist with warm bony fingers.

“Shall we see if it’s you, dear?” she said, lifting the box carefully from it’s carved plinth in the window.

The box felt strangely warm as she put it in Madeline’s hand and as she tilted it she felt something roll across the otherwise empty inside.

A spicy smell rose up, food from hot lands and perfume, subtle but strong, as Madeline started to open the box….

Filed Under: Short Stories

14 November 2017 By Nicola Cairncross Leave a Comment

The Break Up

You really did it this time.  We’ve broken up before but never like this.  This is the big one.

Before, I knew you were always at the end of a text, or skype or FB messenger even when I’d blocked you on all those things with stabbing, vicious, angry fingers.  I always knew that in a family emergency or if one of the teens needed you, if I really needed you, you would answer the call or the door even when all your instincts were screaming not to.

Remember the time you went to bed after one of our rows and I threw every glass we owned at the coffee table?  I had to clear it up the next morning with you laughing at me while making breakfast for two.  Our storms were epic and biblical in their force but the morning always brought clear skies.

But you’ve put yourself beyond reach this time, I have no idea where you are. I can’t contact you no matter how dire the emergency.

Since we stopped living together, sometimes you manage to hit my hot buttons so hard a cold white rage arises and I can’t bear to talk to you for weeks.

I’m sure you do it on purpose, just for fun, to see if you still can.  It’s another test of my love, my unconditional love, the love I give to my children and then to you, the love you never got from anyone else.  

The love that was unwanted initially, the love that was a force of nature for me, that could never be denied or withheld, the love that was totally undeserved according to my family.  

When you make me so mad, I want to punish you, to show you, to somehow make you feel a tiny part of what I feel because I know you will never love me like I love you.  But you don’t even notice and I only hurt myself.

That first time I said the words out loud, that wonderful summer weekend when we first got closer, lying in your arms on the warm beach as the music and the party and the stars wheeled around us, when the words were finally wrung out of me, you simply said “I know, I know”.

My love is a burden you have carried for years, you didn’t ask for it, you didn’t want it, you didn’t value it until recently, so in the past you have held it casually, carelessly, you put it down roughly, over and over.  You only picked it up when you needed it, when your aloneness and independence got too much, even for you.

After a big fight, you always eventually popped up on Skype, usually in the late afternoon or early evening, when the first drink of the evening was warming your heart and you were cooking something delicious for dinner.

You would share a link to a tune, with a song lyric that said what you are thinking, what you couldn’t say, what you can’t say.  You left me to puzzle out the meaning if I can.  It often made me angry all over again, don’t make me guess, I’d think, just say it, just tell me what you are thinking.

Instead, you told me what you are eating, what you were cooking, what I could have been sharing.  If we were talking. 

It’s food porn, and you know I can’t resist.  This is how we broke our long silences, with redolent tunes and short tasty tales of fine dining for one.    You knew that, for me, with my emotionally starved childhood that echoed yours, food is love even when you say it isn’t.

You haven’t been well for a year or so now, the voices that have taken up residence in your head taking charge for long, frightening months at a time.  As they ebb and flow in power, with their terrible tales of imagined sin and danger for all, you are alternately pushing me away and clinging so tight but I hang on, I won’t abandon you this time no matter what you say.   

After travelling the globe for work, I returned to find you scared and diminished but more loving than I’ve ever seen you.  Should I be glad or sad?  You moved back into my little house with the bare minimum and we spent our last days working, our evenings cooking, our nights holding hands in the dark.  You said you felt safe in my bed, you said it was the only place you felt safe now.

Only last night we were talking about living together again, finally getting those chickens, a dog for me and a cat for you, finding a place where you could grow your own vegetables.  We ate a welcome home dinner, a thank you for still loving me dinner, a monkfish and samphire dinner, before I went to bed early, still battling jet lag.  

I’ll be up soon, you said. I’ll just finish the wine you said, I’m fine you said.

Then you went for a walk.  You left all the lights on and the front door ajar and you walked and you walked and the voices drove you on, over the river and back to your own home where you lay on the floor and your heart stopped and you broke up with me forever.

No goodbye, either in anger or love, no words at all.  

Now I feel you everywhere but you are nowhere.  

The finality of it is crushing,  It holds me down, pins me to the spot, robs me of breath, of hope, of life.  You are gone and the word echoes loudly in my head.

Just gone.

Filed Under: Short Stories

31 October 2017 By Nicola Cairncross Leave a Comment

Diet Club

We all looked down as Penny sobbed as though her heart was breaking.  Diet Club was like that, you never knew when the emotional storm clouds would roll in like twisters from the sea.

Confessing you had “lapsed” from the strict “shakes and bars” 500 calorie a day regime always elicited gentle but probing questions from Val, our group leader and expert in Cognitive Behavioural Therapy (CBT).

We were all emotional eaters, either packing it in or drinking it down in a vain attempt to fill up our ever present internal void usually caused by not feeling loved, worthy, good enough.  Sometimes caused by worse, terrible situations current or past.

Removing yourself from “using” food and drink (our drug of choice) was designed to allow our emotions to surface, be expressed, be faced and hopefully dealt with, once and for all.

Or not, I thought, looking around the room, full of hopeful newbies like me as well as women on their 2nd, 3rd, even 5th go round.

“Why would you ever lapse?” I wondered.  “It’s hard enough to do it the first time round without prolonging the agony of delaying reaching your goal weight”.

Little did I know that Phase 2 – Maintenance – was just as hard as Phase 1, the battle to keep off the 5 stones that had nearly all melted away so magically as I sat there, crossing my be-jeaned legs for the first time in years.

Little did I know that I’d be back where I started just 11 years later.

Filed Under: Short Stories

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