After seven months, I finally have a routine – of sorts.? When we first arrived in France and started to settle into a new way of life, one of the things that was hardest to adjust was our waking up time.? It all started off well, with jumping out of bed at a reasonable hour (for retirees) and getting on with emptying out the boxes that were strewn all over the house.? Making the place presentable for our first visitors was paramount and we achieved most of what we wanted to do by the time they arrived on the doorstep in late October.? Not perfect but acceptable.? After that, the rot set in.? As we had done so much in the first couple of months, we had that invisible ‘Didn’t we do well’ sign hovering over our heads.? Jobs slipped and we suddenly realised that it was often midday before we actually managed to achieve anything that wasn’t heaving ourselves out of bed and having breakfast.

“Enough!” we cried.? It made sense to have some of the morning to do be able to go out in, since the shops almost all shut between twelve and two, and many – including our bank! – are closed on a Monday.? We quite liked having some time in the house and garden, as well, so we have actually started planning what to do; I have a list.? (I may have put one or two things on the list after I have done them, just so that I could cross them off.? Psychology is a wonderful thing!)

All this is well and good but, in order to do all these wonderful things, we have to be up and about.? To this end, an executive decision was taken.? Rather than ignoring the alarm and never putting it on unless we have to catch a ferry to the UK, we now have three different times set; Monday to Friday is 7.30 am, Saturday is eight o’clock and Sunday … the alarm is off!? Unless, of course, we have decided to go out for the day, in which case it will be set to go off but, probably, around eight-thirty.? This routine has been working well now, for a few weeks and we are able to get much more done.? (Having had some of my health issues sorted out had made a huge difference as well, but that’s another story.)

So. The alarm clock is not my master but my slave and I won’t let it forget that fact.

When I was seven or eight years old, I knew I wanted to be a teacher.? Nothing, other than the facts that I would always have my doll, Rosalind, and my parents would always be there for me was a greater certainty.? Sadly,? Rosalind became a distant memory quite quickly and, as we all know, parents aren’t as magical as we thought when we were young.? Luckily, I still have one who I treasure.

When I started teaching, it was the culmination of my dream and I have never regretted it.? Even after a break to raise two children, I went back to it, as though drawn by an invisible force.? Eventually, I had to let go.? I was no longer the twenty-odd year old who had all the energy to work and play – now I had to make time for the playing.

So I have time on my hands and my son – who knows things – suggested a blog on what it is like to be a Modern Retiree,? So be it …