“Good,” I said to myself, “Olympics. This time you’ll get over that nitpicky old lady attitude you have toward sports. You’ll learn to watch them without complaining and you’ll love them.”
There was some chance of this happening. I had been persuaded to watch football earlier in the year and had to admit that I hadn’t entirely hated it. There had been times when I had noticed some very elegant footwork that was almost balletic.
Could the Olympics win me over with their much-hyped insistence on equality and boast that there will be an equal number of men and women in this year’s competition?
The International Olympic Committee says Taiwan’s Lin Yu-ting (left) and Imane Khelif (right) meet the eligibility criteria despite previously being found to have elevated testosterone levels.
The answer is a resounding no. The beginning was not exciting, as the opening ceremony was unbearably boring. Who was the man playing the piano in the pouring rain?
Why a bunch of drag queen performers pretending to be at the Last Supper? Joan of Arc riding a horse down the Seine was amazing for five minutes, but for 15? I stuck with it because there was absolutely nothing else to see.
As for the equality demands, I could not have been more horrified than when I discovered that two female boxers who had previously been banned from the world championships for failing gender tests will now be allowed to compete in the women’s event.
The International Olympic Committee says Imane Khelif of Algeria and Lin Yu-ting of Taiwan meet the eligibility criteria despite previously being found to have elevated testosterone levels, possibly as a result of medical conditions present at birth.
I can’t say I approve of boxing at all, but I wouldn’t face his fists and I hope other competitors say the same.
But apart from that debacle, my overwhelming feeling is one of tedium. I’ve tried, I honestly have, but where’s the gripping drama I was expecting? Even when I watched several young women pedal fast through dangerous and deadly corners in the pouring rain on Sunday, there was no drama, just a couple of nasty falls. Yes, they must have suffered a lot, but they bravely picked themselves up and got back on their bikes.
I couldn’t watch any more because I was too angry at the disaster the Games had caused in Paris, the most beautiful city in the world.
My favourite spot, the Pont Alexandre III, was the site of cycling events, but its beauty could not be appreciated because there were flashy Olympic posters and billboards covering its exquisite statues.
Perhaps his goal was to protect the bridge, but he couldn’t stand what they had done to ruin it.
On Sunday afternoon I went to a birthday party with old friends and thankfully no one was talking about the Olympics or any other sport, men or women. OK, a lot of us talked about knee and hip replacements, hearing aid problems and how lazy we’ve become thanks to Deliveroo perks, but it was a wonderful, non-sporting day.
On Monday afternoon it was time to relax with a bit of TV. We were back to non-stop swimming on the BBC. I felt a little sorry for Adam Peaty, who missed out on gold by a fraction of a second. While it is lovely to see all those young, beautiful, agile bodies diving as straight as ramrods, the races are boring – just heads in caps darting around. There was a brief interlude to show off the incredible diving skills of Tom Daley and his partner, and then more swimming.
I stopped watching. It wasn’t just that I was bored, I was jealous. I used to swim like them. Maybe not as fast, but I was good. Then, last year, I broke a vertebra in my spine. The orthopedic specialist recommended swimming for rehabilitation. On the first day in the pool, I dove into the breaststroke and sank as my body turned over. It’s not uncommon, according to my physical therapist, but it will take a lot more practice to keep my back straight.
I’ve been thinking a lot about why sport is so unattractive to us older women. For so long we were left out. No football, no cricket, just looking pretty and making tea.
Then, raising all those young swimmers with their tough training schedules. But who was punished with getting up early, taking them to the pool and waiting to take them to school without any hope of getting a gold medal? Mom, of course.
So once again I was baffled by the enthusiasm for the Olympics. Even when they were in London, I avoided them like the plague.
-Come with me, Mom – my son said – It’s great. I stayed home.
And this year? I’ve settled for watching an episode of Vera that I’d seen a long time ago. It’s not very funny in a police drama when you know the identity of the killer.
Jen has twice the star power
It’s weird to be on the street with someone who looks like your twin but isn’t. Jennifer Aniston’s body double in the Apple TV series The Morning Show is Kelly Phelan. Same hair, same shirt, same bag, same wrinkles in the pants. How can Jennifer be a big star and Kelly isn’t? She looks great. She should be.
Jennifer Aniston’s body double in Apple TV’s The Morning Show is Kelly Phelan
Why did all my family doctors disappear?
Health Secretary Wes Streeting has proposed that we should all have a GP like in the old days. Of course we should, Mr Streeting, but I hope you have thought carefully about how you are going to organise it.
Because as GPs head to vote on strike action to improve their contract, that ideal has never seemed more remote. They are disappointed to have received only a 6 per cent pay rise, while junior doctors are receiving 22 per cent after their own devastating strikes.
I remember Dr. Murdoch, our family doctor when I was little. She was strong, kind, knew each patient individually, and was always there when I needed her. She came to my house frequently during my severe bout of measles when I was three. I think she saved my life.
Will such care be possible now, when you can be sent to see any of the half-dozen doctors in an average practice? And when, if the GPs go on strike, they threaten to reduce the average of 50 consultations a day to 25?
Given that GPs are our only avenue for more complex medical help, this is terrifying. We need them, and we need more consultations, not fewer.
We don’t collect garbage in the north.
I’m sure the person at North Yorkshire Council who decided it would be clever to use dialect for a notice telling people to “throw their rubbish in the bin” thought they’d done brilliantly when they came up with: “Gerrit in’t Bin”. Oh, God, what a pity. The best intentions destroyed by an apostrophe in the wrong place. It should be: “Gerrit in t’bin”.
Personally, as an expert on these topics, I would have used Chuck.
“Throw it in the bin” is what we would say in Barnsley.
I have interviewed many women in my 33 years at Woman’s Hour, but few were like the author Edna O’Brien, who died on Saturday. No one has changed women’s lives through their art the way she has. I adored her.
Irish novelist Edna O’Brien, who was also a short story writer, memoirist, poet and playwright, has died aged 93 after a long illness.
There has been much debate about Hannah Neeleman, the American “traditional wife” of Ballerina Farm, who has 10 million followers on Instagram. Stay at home or work? Not everyone has the same choice as Hannah, who is married to a billionaire.
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