Seeing things as they are

Today was a mostly wet day
But, in one of the few bright spells I decided to go out and dig out a large bramble which has appeared in one of the few weed-free spaces.

Taking my sturdy two-pronged fork from the shed I started to dig around the base of the beast.  I dug and dug until I was about six inches down, still no sign of roots.  For about six or seven minutes (quite a long time for someone of my age to be digging bent over from the waist (don't ask).

I stopped when a voice said "Gooday Mate that's my hair your pulling".  Actually I had found the root.

As I tugged it out of the ground I suddenly noticed my horrible hands, gnarled and with distended veins, wrinkled and not at all how I mentally view my hands.

Obviously I am forced to look at my face every day when I attempt to make myself fit to be seen, but apart from ladling cream onto them I seldom look at my hands.  Really look I mean.

The hands at the top of this page are the way I think my hands look, the pair below are much nearer the truth.

Why, as well as all the other physical indignities which are inflicted on the aged do we have to acquire such hideous hands.?

Often I take pleasure in looking at the face of a friend or acquaintance who has aged well, but an unwary glance at their hands tells a different story.

Heaven forbid I should be accused of vanity but why can't nature leave us just a little something to be proud of?

Surely it is the job of veins to remain under the surface quietly getting on with their job not to sit in full view like so many tree roots for all to see.

Is nothing sacred?