Come on Down 2014

I may have promised not to post anything here until I’m a published novelist but I lied. I am however pleased to report that after a exercising the old grey cells for weeks I have decided that Van Morrison will perform the soundtrack, and I will be played by Gwyneth in the movie. So the book is face about arse and I haven’t written a single word. Details details, people. I do have a plot summary ok?!

In any event there appears to be life in the old blog yet and what with the passing of another year in the life of a thoroughly awful and now single parent I have decided to share a few random thoughts with you. While I refuse to resolve giving up anything simply because I don’t want you to see me as a quitter, I have contemplated, during the course of the coming year to wean myself off the happy pills. I’m not for a nanosecond indicating a foray into drug free happiness: I intend to continue to imbibe irresponsible quantities of alcohol and tobacco; oh and caffeine and tannin. And valium because the Little Darlings find me so much more palatable after I’ve consumed 5 mls. But apart from the alcohol, smokes, coffee, tea and diazepam my body will be a temple in 2014.

I had what I will call a “moment of clarity” the other day. I won’t call it an epiphany because, firstly I am aware that Twin Two and a friend of hers occasionally read this (and generally Eve rolls her eyes whilst doing so) and they will probably assume that I’ve engaged in sexual activity; and secondly because it wasn’t profound in the slightest. During 2013 I have railed against all the received wisdom about grief and bereavement. I refused to treat Frank’s first Frankless birthday or the anniversary of his death any differently than any other day. I don’t regret that and will continue in this vein, but I have to concede that I started this year thinking that the phrase, time is a great healer, was toss. I was wrong. Once Christmas was out of the way and I thought back over a pretty shitty year of dismantling my life both physically and emotionally I could see what I had been missing possibly even a little more than Frank – a sense of myself, my identity other than as Mrs Frank (as I was known at his local), the Twin’s mum, or that fucking solicitor. This might sound like Chablis induced navel gazing. It probably is but it made complete sense the other day when I woke up for the first time in a long time feeling comfortable in my own skin.

Thanks for reading, but please move along now. STEP AWAY FROM THE BLOG - I’m going back to my book now:

Chapter One

It was a wet and stormy night…..

Thank you for reading...

This day last year Frank had seven and a bit days to live. I have resolved to resit the urge to write something on the anniversary of his death because it means nothing to me, and I will probably be blotting it out with a rather fine Chablis. People that I have dealings with, as opposed to friends, seem to think that once 365 days have passed everything will be fine and dandy. I will wake up on the morning of the 289h November 2013 and rejoice - It just doesn't work like that. As Twin Two said on the eve of her thirteenth birthday - I'm just a day closer to death. It's just another day in learning to live without Big G as he was affectionately known to some of his best friends.

 

This evening I say au revoir to everyone that has been reading and commenting on my blog. I have, I believe, identified a premise for a novel, and since I've begun working on it have decided that I'm just a tad too busy or lazy to also write here. I have to gush and let you know that my, probably unsuccessful, foray into a serious attempt at writing a book has been inspired by all the incredibly encouraging and positive comments that I've received. I love you all, but if I can't get a literary agent on board it's your fault, and I'll bring this back to life.

 

In the meantime, you probably won't see any posts for a while...

Beneficiaries, or Not

By complete chance I discovered that I was entitled to claim a state benefit – widowed parent’s allowance – from reading a newspaper article about how the Government are planning on substantially cutting it. The first revelation was intriguing, the second was quite the opposite. It hadn’t occurred to me that the death of a spouse (in limited circumstances) would lead to a benefits claim. I wasn’t informed of it when I registered Frank’s death. Again, unsurprising. Fortunately Frank held on until I reached forty-five since this is the minimum age for a claimant. Because losing the principal household income when you’re forty-four and three quarters isn’t financially devastating.

I submitted the claim after walking around the house muttering, “If I were a birth/marriage/death certificate where would I be?” Yesterday I received a letter from Job Centre Plus who are considering my claim. They requested confirmation of certain of matters before my claim could be assessed.

• When did you discover that your late spouse had died?
• Were you divorced from your late spouse? If yes, confirm date of Decree Absolute
• Provide the names, dates of birth and relationship to you of anyone living in your household.

Today I replied as follows:

• 1.  I discovered that my late spouse had died when a paramedic shook his head at me after applying a stethoscope to his heart region. That’s my late spouse’s heart region, not the paramedics.  If the shaking of the head by a stethoscope carrying paramedic alongside an inert body does not count as being informed, the Police Officer telling me later that evening that he was satisfied that there were no suspicious circumstances gave me further indication that my late spouse was, in fact late. He was late a lot, but never late before. If you’re talking about formal diagnosis of lateness, the Coroner confirmed the cause of death two days later.

• 2.He wouldn’t be my late spouse if we were divorced. He would be my late ex-spouse.

• 3. I’m not shacked up with anyone other than my children on whose behalf I am making this claim, as stated in the application form.

I had been pleasantly surprised that the application form was relatively simple, a bit like the people employed by the Jobcentre to assess them, and that it didn’t appear to be a means tested benefit. With this particular state hand out it would appear that the application form lulls one into a false sense of (social) security, before the tortuous process of correspondence begins.

I’m not yet sure how I feel about this benefit. The notion of benefitting in any way from Frank’s death troubles me. I’m by no means too proud to claim it. I’ve paid more than enough tax and national insurance from working almost continuously since adulthood to claim a little back during what are hard times. Not to mention the national insurance Frank won’t get an iota of benefit from. It may be that, after the Q & A with Job Centre Plus has concluded I will be deemed not to be entitled to any payment, and if this is the case I have no sense of entitlement – there are many single parents in far greater need than me. With the daily debates over the Governments attack on welfare benefits I have had the greatest sympathy with people who find themselves jobless through no fault of their own. In the so called social media it seems that either you are opposed to the cuts, or you’re opposed to the workshy. There are no, up to a point points being made. I have the fence shoved well and truly up my backside on this issue. There has to be a mechanism to make people work if they can, and to provide a real safety net for those that can’t.

I do have complete unadulterated sympathy for everyone - the young, the old, the washed and unwashed alike, the able bodied and the wheelchair bound - for having to endure any dealings whatsoever with the benefits claims process.

The People -v- Places

With the first anniversary of Frank’s death fast approaching the Little Darlings and I have finally made a decision about the ashes. That’s Frank’s ashes, not the ashes that may or may not be an old cricket bat depending on whether you think Wikipedia is reliable. The last time I wrote about the subject I was leaning towards the golf course but I have been counselled against it since the course or the game meant much less to Frank than the people he cared about. For the record, even though I’m invariably right, I do like to be told when I’m wrong, and I hold in the highest esteem the friends that have been brave and honest and not told me what they think I want to hear.

During this year I have realised that places are meaningless. Memories and people matter. It’s true that when I drive to Her Majesty’s Prison Dartmoor and pass a spot that Frank and I, amongst others paused for lunch during the Abbots Way walk in about 1997 I feel physically as though I’ve been gutted by a fisherman. It was a twenty-seven mile walk from Buckfastleigh to Tavistock across the moor, I’ll have you know, and we sponsored walked it with severe hangovers and no training back in the day when we could. Although I couldn’t walk for about a week afterwards. Frank can’t any more on account of being almost disposed of remains, and I have developed an aversion to exercising anything other than my wine glass raising arm.

The physical response to a place that evokes a memory does not make it a special place. Another spot I think of is where Frank proposed to me. At the time we were surrounded by our closest friends, and above us was a total eclipse of the sun (Bonny Tyler was nowhere to be seen). It was special that day, but now it’s just a field on the coast in the South Hams.

The Ministry of (in)Justice are contemplating closing HMP Dartmoor having spent the last three years investing your guess is as good as mine money improving it. That’s not turning it into a holiday camp if you navigated here from The Daily Mail Online, but installing proper flushing toilets and heating in a Victorian building with a microclimate akin to the Arctic Circle. In any event, if the closure goes ahead – it’s hard to predict with the number of U-turns in the Ministry of late – I won’t be passing that spot in future. It won’t make me miss Frank less. Even though I’m Frankless. But  it won’t diminish my memory of him.

So, if you’re still reading, the Goddards will be making a new place special – a spot under a cherry tree, in the garden of the Villa.

 

It's my Birthday and I won't cry if I don't want to

The first year of experiences without Frank is nearing an end, and I’m unsure how to mark it, or whether I should leave well alone. I haven’t actually decided what to do with his ashes which is pretty shameful and about once a month I receive a telephone call from a nice lady at the crematorium (who incidentally sounds like a bloke) tactfully reminding me that the remains of my  husband remain. Ideally I would like a small plot in the gardens at the Crem so that the Kidlets have somewhere to visit, but I can hear Frank screaming at me “HOW MUCH?!” (which he said a lot in the early days when I let him come clothes shopping with me), and then embarking on a rant about the local authority revenue raising from vulnerable people. I think he may come back and haunt me if I go down that route. I discussed my dilemma with a friend this summer, and she asked if there was a special place that ashes could be scattered. I had to concede that Frank’s special place was the Beer Engine Pub balcony, and while the landlord and landlady have been more than generous in donating to the memorial charity, I doubt that they, or the balconeers would appreciate this option. The Boychild suggested the golf course where Frank ruined a good walk now and again, and this is, subject to permission of the owners, probably the best option. I know it’s nearly a year since he died, but I’m still not ready to do this.

It’s my first birthday without Frank this week. Apart from ruination courtesy of the Legal Aid Agency sending in bean counters to check that I’m doing my job properly - because bean counters know how to practice law - it’s not a day that I expect to enjoy. Last year Frank bought me slippers (amongst other things)  from Tesco which he wrapped in a John Lewis bag. Kate who has an aversion to dishonesty disclosed their provenance. I was impressed that my spouse, who generally gave flowers with the words – they were on special offer at the garage - went to the trouble of wrapping and disguising a present for the first time since me met.

Today I overheard Kate telling Eve that she is learning “Happy Birthday to You” on the piano. This will be a treat. She started having lessons recently, and despite having cerebral palsy which means she has weak muscles on her right side, has persisted with the doggedness of a really persistent dog. I was going to say that she loves music but she’s into Celine Dion at present. Frank loved music too. If I were a kinder person I would call his taste in music eclectic. But I’m not. What do you call a collection of vinyl and CDs that range from Kylie, Steps and Barry Manilow to Marillion, Black Sabbath and Pink Floyd? Confused perhaps. No that’s still too kind. However the Little Darlings are comfortable when I play “old music” despite the fact that they think that the likes of Oasis, Crowded House and The Stereophonics are shit. A few years ago I decided to educate them in a range of music whilst on the school run. I dug out all of my favourite CDs but gave up after feeling really offended by their request that I replace the Stone Roses with Sing Along Times Tables. Frank chose a different tack and committed himself to keeping ahead of the kids, and did his best to out-current the current. The rationale was that they wouldn’t be able to claim that he was stuffy like mummy. We never did discuss how this went, but it might explain some of the more recent musical purchases.

I decided to give this a go, and when Kate bought the most recent Brit Awards CD I embraced it. I have to admit that most of it was noise not music, but I was determined to present a current mother. Happily we all agreed to skip One Direction and Olly Murrs (perhaps I’m not giving them enough credit). One sunny day towards the end of term, as we were approaching the school gate Starships came on and I sang along heartily “Can’t Stop… We’re higher than a mother-fucker…” This was too much for the Little Darlings to bear. Eve turned the stereo off. Kate’s eyes came within a cat’s whisker of popping out of their sockets, and Jack went into one of those uncontrollable convulsion infused giggling fits. I was told later that hand dancing whilst driving was irresponsible.

In summary – children don’t actually like hip and trendy parents, or whatever the current terms is. They need to be able to mock their elders for being out of date. It worked for me when I was thirteen and if it ain’t broke it’s invariably advisable not to fix it. 

Love Thy Neighbour

One of the golden rules I learned whist training to be a solicitor was never to become embroiled in a neighbour dispute. Sadly I’m a consummate rule breaker. Much as I love Goddard Villa, one can’t have everything and we don’t have off-street parking, but we do have neighbours that act as though they have off-street parking on the street. I didn’t enjoy a particularly harmonious relationship with my neighbours at the previous gaff, and the recent acrimony has caused me to question whether I am the problem (I took offence at their rendered half of the party chimney stack), but I dismissed that instantaneously because although I fully accept that my qualities as a parent stink, I am a reasonable person generally. As long as you don’t count my dealings with the Ministry of Justice, the National Probation Service, traffic wardens and cold callers in which case I have a face that was made to be photographed for a dartboard, but I wear that as a badge of honour. This list is probably not exhaustive, but I’m exhausted from dealings with the Ministry et al today and can’t think of any more.

My lovely new neighbour at stage left warmly introduced himself within hours of our arrival, trimmed my bush within days (the laylandii silly) , and now I know his age, family tree, history of the comings of goings on the road, and have received stern advice to avoid the mad woman three doors up at any costs. Stage left is an imposing period property in need of total refurbishment. Actually I must digress here and pay tribute to my selling agent who is not on my shit list strangely enough, and as a reasonable person I sent a card thanking him for flogging my imposing property in need of total refurbishment and  offered my sincere congratulations for being the only estate agent I’ve met that I haven’t wanted to punch. It was reminiscent of the time that Frank took me to a lovely hotel for a birthday weekend and he wrote in the visitor’s book that the owners were so accommodating that he felt really guilty stealing the towels.

Where were we? Annabel and her feckless husband stage right. Twice yesterday I encroached on “their” bit of the road by at least a foot, and they sought to teach me a lesson good ‘n proper and attempted to box me in. Fortunately my car has so many dings in it from bollards that jump out when I’m abandoning it in car parks that when last year it was rammed by a boy-racer I was unable to identify which particular damage he’d caused, and consequently left his no claims bonus intact. This has the concomitant advantage that when two Chelsea tractors are seeking to impede me driving off that I have little if any concern for the consequences. Since they appear to be unable to communicate any difficulties except in deed, any accidental cosmetic damage that may have innocently occurred has gone unmentioned. When I returned from my brief foray for the kidlets bush tucker for the following day’s lunch their cars were in situ leaving a perfect parking space adjacent to the front of their imposing character residence in need of total refurbishment.

It may be a coincidence that when we left for school/work this morning and I had to de-mist the windscreen with all the windows down to aid the process you understand (and their curtains were still drawn), Jack selected one of Frank’s Led Zeppelin CDs for aural enjoyment on our journey. And it’s against the laws of physics to play this at less than max. Dang that pesky early morning mist – it took a while to clear…

Coming soon: teaching Holly the cat to use the neighbour’s cat flap and crap in a bed; lessons for Elvis the guinea pig to howl like a lonely dog while we’re absent; and giving the Boychild permission to lob whatever the fuck he likes over the fence.

[Enter Post Title Here]

 

Zen and the art of Televisual Maintenance

It would appear that I’ve taken a break from the blog while squeezing the contents of the five bedroomed Goddard Towers into a three bedroomed semi which will henceforth be known as Goddard Villa. There were highs and lows, surprises and questions – some more welcome than others, and lots of tits and tears. I discovered that for reasons that died with Frank we have been paying for BT Vision for some time but not actually using it. As part of the new austerity regime I cancelled the Sky subscription which I had whittled down to totally pointless. The process of cancelling was arduous and I was ill prepared. I was asked something in the region of twenty times why I didn’t want Sky any longer having been a customer for fifteen years. I was asked if anyone else lived in the household and I naively answered that I have three children. And what sort of a reaction will you get from your children when they can’t access the wonders Sky has to offer? I mentioned that they seem to be coping with their father’s death without any counselling so I’m anticipating a bit of freeview won’t be an indefatigable challenge. Undeterred the Sky representative prattled on. And on and on. When he realised I was muleishly stubborn he asked for my telephone number. I made one up, anticipating (rightly as it turns out) that I would receive numerous sales calls with bounteous offers if I come back to the fold.

I have, as it turns out, disclosed my mobile number to Sky at some point. Four days after cancelling I received the first call from a troubled Sky rep, concerned about how I am coping without endless repeats of Friends, Top Gear and a plethora of plane crashes and police chases. I tried my best to reassure the representative that we are thriving and can actually access the same old shit for a fraction of the price, not to mention the Twinset are rather good at using iPlayer, thank you for your concern. The following evening I received a further call. Drastic action was clearly called for since both callers were able to identify the exact moment that dinner needed to be served.

I have been lucky enough to be counselled by Frank in the art of abusing cold callers. The last one I remember followed his iPhone purchase, and having ticked the box that he didn’t require insurance received a flurry of calls from India. The one that brought an end to the 7pm irritation was when he informed the caller that since he didn’t work in a call centre he earned so much money that if he dropped the phone down the shitter he would simply buy another one. How many times have you caused a telesales person hang up on you?

On call two when asked if I was missing Sky I said that in fact I was. I could sense the excitement at the other end of the phone and was informed that for a limited time only…. yawn… you get the drift. I enquired whether the new Sky box would talk to me like the old one did. Silence. I said that I was finding it difficult to cope without instructions from God, but that on the other hand life was far easier not having to paint myself in white gloss paint before watching Eastenders to ensure that MI5 can’t penetrate my mind and see how I plan to kick off the rapture. I’ve not heard a peep out of them since. Bob’s your Uncle and Fanny’s your aunt.

What has been reassuring is that the Little Darlings haven’t noticed the absence of Sky at Goddard Villa, and that their bad mother is happier, healthier and nicer to know. But still a badass deep down.

Moving On

I haven’t written anything for a while, largely because life has been humourless. The joy of exchanging contracts for the sale of Goddard Towers, and the purchase of what people keep telling me teeth clenchingly frequently is a fresh start, wore off with the next day’s hangover. The grim reality of the task of disassembling eight years of life set in. I decided to face it like a man, hired a skip and have been cracking on, with manflu, since. The Boychild hasn’t been helping much since he doesn’t want to throw away any of Frank’s stuff, so I’ve had to do it secretly only to find that he has raided the skip and replaced everything. Added to this he has taken to hiding in the packing cases Jack in a Box like. He’s also pretty miffed that next week he will be Jack in a Box Room.

I am looking forward to a more streamlined life, as are the little darlings. Goddard Towers is getting me down. It represents a monument of defeat. Frank and I really had no business buying this house due to our joint inability to complete any DIY projects. He however did have a talent for drinking and watching rugby with the best local tradesmen, so we did achieve a bit. But only a bit.

There is going to be regime change in our new house come next Monday. And I’m going all Blair and Bush-like and not seeking a mandate before doing so. In fact it’s a secret and the kidlets won’t know what’s hit them until the first attack. There’s no room for diplomacy here, no discussions and certainly no votes.  I’m not going to have a face full of Camaronesque egg. I’ve allowed the little darlings a pretty free reign since Frank died. I like to fool myself that letting the children stay up late, watch as much tv as they like, and eat in their rooms is benevolence on my part. But it’s just pure laziness.

As of Monday 23^rd September there will be no pocket money without graft. There will be a bedtime, and if not adhered to Herr Mother will remove the plugs from all electrical items. Except the straighteners because I’m not that silly, and Eve is a bit scary. I’m expecting a  return of fire, but I hold the purse strings, and when I set my mind to something I can be a stubborn bastard.

So please don’t give the little darlings the heads up. This week, of all weeks, I really don’t need a pre-emptive strike. My generally barely adequate psychic defences are at an all time low.

You have the right to be economical with the truth the whole truth and nothing but the truth

Boychild returned last weekend from a week at a PGL (Parents Get Lost) summer camp. This was a gift from Grumpy who expressed concern that me allowing him to play unfettered on the xbox, mostly virtually shooting zombies, will result in him wiping out a future cinema audience with a sub-machine gun. There are no shades of grey, and certainly not fifty, where my father is concerned. I had no difficulty accepting the gift since it meant a week free of three squabbling, bored children, that Jack would undoubtedly love it, and I am a self-confessed bad parent. It was rather amusing when asked by Grumpy which activity he enjoyed most: air rifle shooting. My father paid hard unearned pension income training the Boychild to learn to use a real shooter, and providing him with the knowledge to make his massacre prediction more likely. And now, instead of incessantly pestering me for the latest xbox game he wants his very own air rifle. Game, set and matchlock to Jack.

I was late delivering the would-be shooter to camp on account of a two hour wait in A & E to have a cut in the Boychild’s pinky glued. He had found Frank’s Swiss Army knife, and unbeknown to me was playing with it in the back of the car. When I pulled over and couldn’t avoid the fact that the seat looked like a crime scene, then realised that it was a crime scene on account of Jack being in possession, not only of the age of criminal responsibility but simultaneously a bladed article, I began my sermon on economics and the truth. Repeat after me – the accident happened in the privacy of our home… Whilst writing it occurs to me that a private motor vehicle may be deemed a private place, but I wasn’t about to google Archibold for case law.

Evil Twin told Jack not to mess up. Angelic Twin’s jaw dropped. The next sermon was that it’s ok to lie to anyone in a uniform, especially traffic wardens. It doesn’t count. End of. Well unless you count Judge’s robes a uniform because I would never ever lie to the Court, and every rules has to have an exception. That’s a rule in itself.  The first question from the nurse was, where did this happen. Jack replied, on my mum’s seat, which technically wasn’t a lie since I do own the bloodied car seat he was sitting on at the time. It is refreshing, yet rare when my roles of badmother and lawyer coincide.

Venturing Forth

Several living, breathing, thinking people have encouraged me to try to get this blog published, and I’m starting to accept it as a possibility, and not just friends being kind. This has led to a kind of performance anxiety. I’ve started making notes – I have a proper little writer’s notebook with me at all hours of night and day. I might even proof read. It’s a pity that it’s not that simple.

Frank was not the sort of person that was phased by anything. In the early days of my career I would feverishly prepare every time I was in court, even if it was for a two minute bail application. This amused Frank because he seemed to get an adrenaline rush appearing before a High Court Judge after a mere squint at the papers. There was one moment however when he admitted that he was capable of experiencing anxiety. While wedding planning and discussing the future we agreed that we did want to bring new life onto the planet. He made me promise not to tell him when I stopped taking contraceptives because he feared, if he knew he was engaging in baby making activity it might adversely affect his performance. You get the gist n’est pas? Since I’m really crap at keeping my own secrets (I promise I’m ferociously protective of other peoples) I had to stop taking the pill immediately. Hence the Twinset’s premature arrival on more than one level.

What everyone knows about writing is you should write about what you know. The most pertinent subject for me just now is learning to live without Frank, and hopefully guiding the kidlets to adjust to life with a single parent. I’m going to briefly digress here and mention how fucking teeth-clenchingly irritating it is to hear mostly right wing pundits bang on about the carnage that is brought forth from fatherless families. Some of us don’t have a choice. In any event, a friend recently suggested that I should write about grief. Here goes…

During my twenty year relationship with Frank we got to know each other pretty well. It reached a point that we could often predict what the other was about to utter. This is no doubt very common. It was a huge comfort to me in the first six months or so after Frank died that I would instinctively know what he would have thought or felt about a news item, bit of gossip or world changing event. He would have been completely indifferent to the latest royal birth, unsurprised by the ongoing “revelations” about Catholic paedophilia, and really very angry indeed about the proposed changes to legal aid. My confidence in knowing what Frank would have said or thought is now starting to dwindle, and I’m not sure that I like it.

 I’m going to attempt an analogy (I’ve had two glasses of rather nice Chabis so please forgive me if it falls flat). Grief is like giving up smoking. For anyone that has done that – I will  do but  don’t want anyone to see of me as a quitter just now – I believe that you will recognise that it is impossible to stop thinking about it. I’ve never stopped long enough to evolve from this stage. After a couple of weeks I have a smoke and then comes the unadulterated relief, mostly that I don’t need to think about it every minute of every day. I’m sure that if I find the fortitude to persevere without tobacco in my life this might happen.

I used to feel sad at the moments Frank missed. Sports Personality of the Year was his most favourite show of the year. He would predict, wrongly generally, the winners, and we would bet on it. The loser had to clean the winner’s car. This never happened on account of some technicality. I couldn’t watch the programme last year and don’t know whether his predictions would have led to a myriad of rule bending that meant he won, or I would have been extracting crisp wrappers and children’s socks from his Saab.

As I said in an earlier post I think about Frank, and the day he died every day. I want the image of finding him dead to go away, but I have drawn great comfort from the memories of our time together, whether it’s from questioning of the little darlings, passing a place that evokes a sweet memory, or wondering what Frank would have thought about something, and rehearsing an imaginary conversation in my mind. Where the analogy ends is that when I’ve forsaken the evil weed I’ve implored the day that I don’t think about it to materialise. I fear the first day that I don’t have a thought about Frank. It’s in the post I know. If it has to be signed for I’ll be sitting on the bottom step refusing to open the door. 

Good Grief

I’ve been kind of running with the emotions that in the early days following Frank’s death I didn’t know I was capable of experiencing. I spoke to my brother the day after Frank departed, and he told me that I would be in shock for at least six months, and that I wouldn’t realise it until it went away. He is no stranger to grief: his eldest daughter died in front of his eyes at the age of ten. What a horribly tragic family we turned out to be. I admire the way that he carried, and still carries his grief. I don’t know if this is true, but I have very little memory of the weeks after Frank died, and that wasn’t entirely wine related. Honestly. I remember and rehearse the day that Frank died daily. It’s a day that I would prefer not to remember, particularly because I fear the effect the 28^th November 2012 has had, and may continue to have, on the boychild. That’s not to say that I am not concerned with the Twinset, but they weren’t there and haven’t found themselves in a hormone charged female household without notice.

I talked to each of the kidlets about bereavement counselling. Independently they looked at me devoid of credulousness: why would they want to talk to a stranger about what happened? I was pressed by a very kind friend who is a trustee of a local charity that helps children who have lost loved ones. Kate asked why would she want to hang out with kids when the only thing they had in common was that their dads were dead. I couldn’t fault her logic.

Jack does appear to be normal, whatever that epithet means. He proved on holiday recently that he’s more than capable of driving me to distraction when it suits him. He gets angry with me at times. While sunning ourselves in Sardinia he asked me if dad had wanted to go to Italy, and I told him that he did. We planned to go, but for reasons I was unable to identify, we never did. Jack was angry with me for taking us to a destination that we should have gone with dad. It was always my responsibility to book holidays, and although I sought approval Frank would always ask me, usually on the way to the departure gate, where is it we're going again? I pointed out to Jack that there were (gloriously for me) no English accents pervading the beach, no karaoke, no quizzes or fish n chips, and asked if he thought his dad would be enjoying this holiday. He replied – no, he’d be bored shitless. I normally take issue with the Little Darlings uttering profanity on the grounds that if they know how much I swear it means they’ve hacked my email or facebook. On this occasion he was fucking spot on.

Bugger – this was meant to be a happy holiday related post. I wasn’t brave enough to take the kidlets abroad alone, and was lucky enough to join forces with a friend who was taking her two daughters, friends of the Twinset, to Sardinia. We kinda invited ourselves along. Emma proved to be first class company. She loved supermarket shopping as much as Frank did, and assembled some fabulous mozzarella and cold meat meals. This led to Eve developing a mozzarella addiction – she was on three balls a day by the time we left. Not quite a ten quid bag, but nevertheless... Happily doses of Tesco value mozzarella has been for Eve more subutex than methadone to a smack head. It’s also handy going away with a multi-lingual buddy who also engages in irresponsible drinking and smoking. I am now able to order una litro casa blanco vino per fervore. As the holiday progressed it seemed to me that Italian is largely a mixture of French and Spanish with an “o” on the end. Being a consummate mime artist helped with other interactions with confused locals. I am pleased to report that I won the prize for being the most drunken and embarrassing parent. That at least was consistent with previous family holidays.

Our local was reminiscent of home: full of gossiping middle aged men. Every afternoon. Frank would have felt quite at home there had he been fluent in Italian. For fear of being characterised a dirty old woman, I have to report that there were some fabulous views of delicious young Italian men. Emma and I were taken by how cultured they seemed. One evening we were utterly absorbed by two men, probably in their late twenties, enjoying a meal together. They were sharing a bowl of mussels, drinking vino and talking. We agreed that it would be unlikely to see a similar sight in the bars of Exeter, even if anything other than ham, egg and chips was on the menu. Then, as we were gazing, their mains appeared, and simultaneously Emma and I said dreamily, “they’re having another course…” I’m probably revealing too much about the sad git I’ve become.

I did wonder what the other guests made of us – two forty-something women with five children. Did they speculate whether we were a couple of lesbians that had played fast and loose with a turkey baster? 

I am pleased to report that another in a series of new experiences without Frank, the Goddards, with some much appreciated help, have delivered once again.

Word of the day: disingenuous

Last night I medicated my frustrations with a bout of irresponsible alcohol intake. This evening I’m trying to write it off. My sense of utter frustration at the Ministry of Dwindling Justice’s proposals to introduce price competitive tendering in the criminal justice system is now mirrored by the process of selling and buying a property. Both matters have been foist upon me in quick succession. Yesterday I met up with an old friend who I haven’t seen in person for over fifteen years. He was a pupil barrister while I was establishing myself in the murky world of prison law. We tried briefly, over a pint, to identify the silver cloud in my husband’s sudden death last year. The fact that he knew nothing about it was all we could muster. The bright side of the PCT proposals is the magnificent wit, eloquence and insight published daily on faceache and twatter by lawyers. They make me proud to be a member of the legal profession. For the time being.

Meanwhile, having overcome the bank’s computer refusing to offer me a substantially lower mortgage than I have currently, I viewed a property that I believe could prove to be a home for me, but more importantly the boychild and twinset. According to the Daily Fail I am a fat cat lawyer on £200 per hour. Perhaps the journalist can disclose evidence of this to my bank manager because I'm buggered if I can. I naively calculated the sum I would be able to invest partly on the basis of sums owed to Frank’s estate following his retirement from a firm of solicitors shortly before his death. Although an agreement had been reached while Frank’s heart was still beating that the outstanding sum would be paid in monthly installments, I rather assumed that his former partners of over approaching thirty years, some of whom I have considered friends over the years, would want my children to  have a secure home. Wrong again. I should have known better than to ask. I was briefly a partner of the firm having worked for them for five years. Nearly thirteen years ago when the twinset were born prematurely at twenty-six weeks and looked distinctly like something from the X Files, I was informed by another partner’s wife that I would be relocated to an office some thirty miles from my home when I returned from maternity leave. You can feel the love, right? Because of Frank's position as an equity partner I chose not to pursue an application for constructive dismissal. I regret very little, but I now regret that.

I am consequently finding it increasingly difficult to care anymore. I still care about the effective delivery of justice, but in all honesty I am struggling to give a shit about individual clients. It is harder to sympathise with clients who assume that amongst my arsenal of solicitor weaponry is a magic wand and crystal ball than it was in the past. As a representative of mostly indeterminate prisoners, I tend to act for clients over many years. One such client who was embarking on a mandatory life sentence at a time I could get away with wearing tight tops and short skirts, wrote to me recently to inform me that it was our seventeenth anniversary. During a brief spell in the community he invited me to his wedding. A bond develops in professional relationships that can span decades. There can't be many lawyers that have received congratulations cards on the birth of your babies, and condolences cards on the death of your spouse from murderers, rapists and the like. Oh and the Parole Board. In the face of losing my career, I am struggling to assemble any enthusiasm for going the extra mile.

Today I feel defeated by disingenuousness: the falsehoods issued by Chris Grayling and Daily Fail journalists; and recalling the correspondingly insincere “if there’s anything I can do” from the mouth of Frank’s former managing partner at the time of his funeral.  Sigh.

Computer says no

It was bound to happen sooner or later – an angry post about the process of moving home and miscellaneous matters. I’ve finally found someone foolish enough to buy the money pit, the abode Frank and I believed would be our last home. He was right and I was wrong. Again. In any event, Team Goddard are moving on with a mixture of excitement and sadness. Boychild is finding it hard to get his head around the idea that leaving Goddard Towers does not mean leaving his dad. It does however mean leaving the remains of more pets than I could shake a stick at, but I won’t go back there, except to report that the hamster with no name is no more. The Twinset by comparison are eagerly awaiting a small but perfectly formed home that they won’t be embarrassed to invite their friends to. You can please some of the people some of the time, and all that.

Despite what his grandparents think, Boychild is a thoughtful child, frequently questioning the world around him, but not always particularly considerate. He won’t admit it to me because he is aware of my evangelical atheism, but he seems to be toying with the idea of letting God into his life. I don’t push my beliefs, or lack thereof, on the Little Darlings and simply tell them when they’ve been around the block a few times they can make their own minds up. I’m far too lazy to do it for them. I’m a follower of the Marcus Brigstocke view of religion, and consider that children can no more be  Christians than members of the Postal Workers Union. Boychild was recently overheard saying to one of his religious friends that “I’m purer than my sisters because my mum and dad were married when they made me.” I was so proud of his mathematical ability.

In any event, after five months of running around the house madly making beds, hiding dirty underwear, and putting toilet seats down before leaving for the school run I can sit back and relax. Or that’s what I naively thought. I found a potential new base of operations for Team Goddard, persuaded grumpy to lend me the deposit, and made an appointment to see the bank manager to arrange a new mortgage. Computer says no you can’t borrow £100,000 less than you currently owe us because you don’t have signed off accounts for your first year of trading, even though you bank with us, and we know exactly what you earned over this period. You also have too much access to credit, and even though you asked us to cancel your overdraft facility, and your loan will be repaid from the proceeds of sale, the computer still says a resounding no. I say, no fucking wonder there is a banking and housing crisis. By comparison to the banker (yes I did say banker – this time) HMRC are a bunch of fluffy kittens.

The British, or at least the English have no bollocks. When anyone with any degree of authority says it has to be so, we sit back and accept it. We may write or share angry posts on our faceache pages, but deep down believe it’s futile. I may have mentioned that the Ministry of Justice, led by Mr Failing Grayling, is intending to introduce price competitive tendering into the criminal justice system. Did I mention a petition? Everyone I know that has a vested interest has informed the Ministry in every possible way that the proposals are misconceived, based on out of date costs figures, unworkable and will lead to wasted court time with defendants representing themselves, costs to the public purse for inevitable miscarriages of justice, and the unemployment of solicitors, paralegals and support staff casting their burden on the State as a consequence of the hundreds of firms that will close.

On the Today Programme on Radio Four this morning the snivelling prefect incumbent Chancellor spoke of the need for the various Ministries to make savings. Much in the same way that I know that my current mortgage is unsustainable and am trying to take steps to reduce it, I accept the Government’s need to reduce public spending. It’s not what is being said that is bothering me, it’s what is not being said. He referred to prisoners receiving legal aid to make complaints about the treatment they receive in prison when they should be using the Prison Service’s complaint’s service. The truth is that there has been no public funding available for prisoners to complain about their treatment by the Prison Service since 2008. Yes it is possible to apply for funding to help illiterate or mentally ill prisoners to navigate a complaints system which invariably ends with the Governor’s computer saying no. I once applied for funding to assist a prisoner with learning difficulties to complain about being bullied by a prison officer and the computer at the Legal Aid Agency said no. To avoid disappointment I haven’t bothered asking since. I also saw Osborne on Breakfast Beeb this morning justifying the cuts to public sector budgets by pointing to the fall in crime rates despite the cuts to the Police Service. What he neglected to mention is that the Police are not arresting or charging nearly as many people, and the CPS are not proceeding with nearly as many prosecutions. Not only has this lead to a significant reduction in claims against the legal aid fund, it is leading to the guilty going free. One of my firm's clients was recently caught fair and square on CCTV committing an assault. It should have been a fair cop – he was after all bang to rights. He would have been advised to plead guilty if the computer at the CPS hadn’t said, no, it’s not in the interests of justice to prosecute. Really? Perhaps the next time he twats someone the computer might reconsider. Perhaps the bank will be persuaded to look at the detail of my mortgage application. I’m not holding my breath.

I had intended to spend today reflecting on the fact that Frank is now six months dead to the day. I wanted to feel sad, but I'm just sad that I feel so fucking angry.

http://epetitions.direct.gov.uk/petitions/48628

Dead and Buried

There’s been an unfortunate number of deaths in the Goddard household of late. Boychild’s guinea pig, Norman, died last weekend. Twin One’s guinea pig, Humphrey, popped his clogs just before Christmas. This was swiftly followed by Shakira the dwarf Chinese hamster, and the replacement miniature Russian critters are missing, presumed dead, having escaped from the wrong sort of cage. Who knew? This leaves us with two cats, Holly and Jess, Fat Elvis (surviving guinea pig), and the hamster with no name. I think Twin Two decided there’s not much point in naming a pet when it will may well croak in the foreseeable. 

When I noticed that Norman was feet up in the run on Saturday morning I swiftly put him in a shoe box in the shed in order to ensure that Boychild didn’t happen upon him. He was very fond of the little feller, and Norman tolerated Boychild taking him on trips in his Tonka trucks. I’m sorry to say that in my haste I forgot to cover Norman, and only remembered that I had left him in plain sight on Monday morning during the school run. I also remembered, with a titanic sinking feeling, that a house viewing was scheduled an hour later. I needed to get to work, so I debated whether the sight of a dead guinea pig would be off putting to a would-be buyer. I decided that it wasn’t worth leaving this to chance – there’s enough to put off potential purchasers in Casa Goddard - without stumbling upon a deceased animal. I was late for work.

I forgot to mention Mildred, a cat who adopted us, and Frank took something of a shine to without ever admitting it on account of the fact that he HATED cats. During one of my moments of rage in the days following Frank's death, and during funeral planning I considered the Cats Protection League for charitable donations: that'll learn the fucker for dying on me. He cooked her prime chicken breasts and tuna protesting that it had to be eaten or it would go off (in five days’ time). She had been a stray and was very skinny when she arrived. We assumed that the weight she was gaining was a consequence of her fine dining, but then realised that she was pregnant. She gave birth to Bob, Lady Gaga, Cheryl Cole, Richard and Napoleon Dynamite. In any event, shortly after Frank’s death and the realisation that she would eat cat food or go hungry she did one.

These recent events brought to mind an incident two years ago in the dying days of the school holidays. My neighbour called and said that there was a dead ginger cat in her garden, and thought it might be Holly. I duly identified the departed animal, wrapped it in a sheet and brought it back to our garden. I broke the news to the Little Darlings, and they sobbed in a group huddle, back in the day when the death of a pet was really upsetting. I suggested a funeral, and we picked a spot under an apple tree for Holly to rest in peace, mostly from Boychild’s nurf wars. The grave was dug, a box of Whiskers at the ready for sustenance as she went on the journey to meet her maker. As I was about to place the bundle in the grave, the Little Darlings asked if they could see Holly one last time. I pulled back the sheet and exposed the statuesque creature. The children exclaimed, in unison: “That’s not our cat!” and, as if by magic, Holly walked nonchalantly past us. Oops. 

What’s the point of this post? I’m not sure. Boychild was sad when I told him about Norman, but not very sad. Death has a curious way of putting things in perspective, and I am now a firm believer in the maxim “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” I’m still fucking angry about the Government’s proposals to murder the criminal justice system, but I know Team Goddard will be well.

My Proposal

In the light of the PCT proposals which have been subject to a robust impact analysis (can you feel the irony jumping out of the internet and giving you a big sloppy kiss?), I have decided to conduct a social experiment with the Little Darlings. This will, I trust, provide empirical evidence for the Ministry of (dwindling) Justice if they decide to contemplate the consequences of PCT before imposing it on us.

This weekend, when it comes to doling out the household assignments (in return for paper folding currency) I shall abandon my tried and tested method of assigning tasks on the basis of aptitude, experience and enthusiasm, in favour of price competitive tendering. Twin One generally elects to do the Saturday morning Tesco run for the egg and bacon brunch. She likes spending other people’s money, is motivated to attend to the task in good time since she loves a bacon butty, and can simultaneously listen to pop music on her iPod without me screeching at her to “turn it down”. Twin Two prefers less strenuous tasks. She likes washing up. Well that is overstating the case - If she wants money she would prefer to stand still with her hands in hot water, achieving very little over an overly long period of time (shall we call her the CPS?). Boychild’s preferred little earner is to take the rubbish bags out to the back gate. This was his father’s job, and he seems to feel some pride in a man-of-the-house activity. In any event, the Little Darlings are fairly content with this arrangement, and generally carry out their obligations to the household with little complaint.

This weekend however I am introducing competition in order to make savings to my purse of at least 17.5% whilst simultaneously encouraging productivity and sustainability. I am going to ensure that the tasks are carried out to the same standard enjoyed under the previous system: I will scrutinise their every move and carry a big stick whilst doing so. Or perhaps I will employ a child minder to do this for me, and deduct his or her wages from the Little Darling’s money. I normally give them a fiver each, and Twin One gets to keep the change from the shopping on account of, shall we call it – travelling expenses. Some parents may think that I am rewarding them handsomely for fairly straightforward tasks they are familiar with. I can afford it (at present) and it seems to me fair when one takes into account the cost of sweets, music and game downloads and sundry merchandise.

I’m not going to tell them about my plan until it’s too late for them to come up with a reasoned objection, alternative proposal, or to stop bickering for long enough to unite against me. They will each be required, if they wish to continue to receive funds, to make an offer for the task they wish to perform. They will need to be prepared to do their jobs for at least 17.5 % less than they are currently receiving, and if one or all of them would like to earn more (on an economy of so called scale), they must ensure that their bid undercuts their sibling’s best offer. And the supplement for the Tesco run will no longer be available.

I am confident that the outcome of this experiment will be that they decide that it’s just not worth their while. There is a remote possibility that they will give the new system a go because some money is better than no money. Since they will be remunerated significantly less, I doubt very much that they will put a great deal of effort into it.  It seems more likely to me that, while the Little Darlings will consider the good these small deeds do for the household, they will conclude that if you can’t even afford a bar of chocolate and Taylor Swift’s latest download, well, what’s the point.

Of course, pretty soon we'll all starve - if the rats don't eat us first - but the important thing is that the public (i.e. my) purse will look reassuringly full.
 

www.epetitions.gov.uk/petitions/46828

I have read with interest numerous blog posts since the so called “consultation” on PCT was unveiled prematurely and ill advisedly. I wholeheartedly agree with the ponderings of fellow professionals in the criminal justice system. The only feature of the call to arms that I depart from to some extent is the ethos that we must emphasise the cost to justice and the public, and ignore the very real consequences in the personal lives of so very many solicitors and barristers. When cuts have been made in the NHS and to benefits for the elderly and disabled, the human cost in the quality (or otherwise) of the lives of those affected is at the forefront of the opposition. 

This is of course quite right. I feel utter horror at the implications for those on the wrong side of the criminal justice system, and what will amount to the end of justice being even seen to be done, let alone actually being done. I have read many perfectly reasoned, researched and argued pieces about this monumental issue, and I therefore leave well alone. I don’t believe that I can reasonably add anything of significance.

I do want to emphasise that solicitors and barristers have been practicing in this field have continued to do so  not because we are self-interested money grabbing bastards.. It is a vocation on the same level, I believe as teaching, nursing and caring and the like. It is unfortunate that all solicitors and barristers are thought of as swimming in the same pond. We in the criminal justice system who probably earn less than the average primary school teacher (I know I do right now) are being judged by the same standards as partners of international commercial law firms that are doing very well, thank you nicely.

I’m not ashamed of saying that my first reaction at reading the PCT document was “fuck – I’m going to lose my ability to earn a living and support my three children, doing a job I’ve been doing for the last seventeen years, which I mostly enjoy, and frankly am really pretty good at.” The implications for the justice system as a whole and what it means for the country were secondary. But there you are, I’m just a self-interested bar steward in the eyes of the Daily Fail reading public.

It is possible to be motivated by more than one concern, but  that solicitors and barristers are neglecting to point out the personal devastation that will be a consequence of PCT. We are not the lawyers living in country estates or penthouse apartments. We – well I – will be casting our burdens on the state. I can only speak for myself, but I’ve had a gutsful of trying to defend the work that I do in defending the most vulnerable in society, and earning just about enough to pay the mortgage and take care of my little darlings.

I guess I picked another bad day to give up drinking

I appear to have mislaid my sense of humour and I doubt very much that I will rediscover it for some time, if ever. If this post raises the most wry of smiles my amazement will be second only to my current sense of utter despair. The joy of the news of the demise of Thatcher has now passed. I shall rejoice no more. Well perhaps a little on the day of that funeral.

I spent this morning reading the Criminal Legal Aid Best Value Tendering "consultation" document. I should have known better and heeded one of my partner's advice to, instead, stick my head firmly in the sand, or if none is available, up the anus of the nearest Tory politician since I'm depressed enough already. The document brought to mind the last time that BVT was mooted in 2009, I think, and the President of the Criminal Law Solicitors Association put the British criminal justice system on ebay with a reserve of £1. Honestly he did. Perhaps this inspired our incumbent Government to invite bids from criminal law practitioners to enter into a similar auction - "I'll raise you a police station interview for your two committals for sentence."

There has been no increase in legal aid rates for criminal defence work for the last fifteen years, and there have been significant cuts. Nevertheless the government expect us to pitch our bids at at least 17.5% below the current fees. This is, apparently, to ensure that criminal defence work is sustainable. I'm not sure our bank manager would agree.

I read and re-read the section on the number of contracts that we will be in a position to bid for. Then I rang a colleague who I knew had also read the document in the hope that I had misunderstood these provisions. There are currently 1600 providers of criminal defence services in England and Wales. The number of contracts that will be awarded to those that can afford to stoop to even lower profitability is 400. I hadn't misread it. In Manchester there are currently 137 providers, and this will be reduced to 37. In Devon and Cornwall, my area of practice, 10 contracts will be handed out. In Exeter alone there are currently 6 providers. 

The document also encourages bids from organisations outside of the legal profession who can then subcontract the work to "real" solicitors. If we weren't such a hated profession I suspect that Tesco would put in a bid. Actually, I can see the advert: "Nicked? Every Little Helps. And it will be little help since there will be no incentive to do a good job for a client when a good reputation means absolutely nothing. It seems to me that the only possible way that most criminal defence solicitors can stay in business is to merge with other firms. This is laughable. In my firm there are four partners, and it took us at least three hours to agree on the colour of our logo. The sorry fact of the matter is that we appear to thrive on loathing other each other; exulting in other's misfortune; and luxuriating in being chosen by a prolific criminal over another firm. We are professional bitches. It is extremely sad that the divide and conquer philosophy that I believe was expounded so successfully under Thatcher, is (happily unlike her) alive and well today, and is likely to underpin the cull of numerous firms across this country and effective criminal defence for the innocent and guilty alike. 

If we do somehow survive the bidding contest there will be no reason to crow about being the king cock of the Magistrates' Court since the punters will not be able to choose who represents them. I promise I'm not making this up. When an individual is arrested the case will be allocated to a solicitor on the basis of either the initial of his or her surname,  or their date of birth. If the matter proceeds to trial, and solicitor and client despise each other, they are stuck together, for better or worse. Is that justice being seen to be done, one of the fundamental principles of British justice?

I am not in any way expecting or attempting to illicit any sympathy. There are far more deserving cases being shat on from a great hight by Dave and his pals. When the disabled, the elderly and sick children are getting a much less fragrant end of the stick I offer the following advice: don't, above all else, get caught.

Ten Points of a Learning Curve

In my previous post I said that death is a learning curve. Here's a, non-exhaustive, list of what I've learnt, in no particular order:

1. Friends are immeasurably more important than family. I hope you know who you are, and that you make the difference between existing and living.
2. Putting the rubbish out is a pain in the arse. There is a gap in the employment market for a Putteroutoftherubbish.
3. The putrefying bag of green liquid in the bottom drawer of the fridge that I believe was once broccoli, and I strongly suspect may have been Frank's last purchase of a vegetable nature, will not clean itself up. 
4. The cats are decidedly happier in the depths of so called Spring not to be chased out of the house. 
5. Frank had many qualities, but sadly the panache of a Greek Cypriot politician in matters financial.
6. Checking tyre pressures and filling the screen wash isn't actually that big a deal.
7. One I learnt from Eve, via an eves-dropping friend - "your dad dying is like your cat dying, except much, much, much worse."
8. For the very many people that have said to me over the last four months "I don't know what to say", I still haven't worked out the correct response. 
9. Even nice estate agents occasionally deserve to be slapped simply for being estate agents.
10. Just because you lose your husband, don't expect anyone to show you mercy in Words With Friends. Actually, bad choice of word. I didn't lose him since that implies that I might find him again, and in the manner of Lady Bracknell suggests some negligence on my part. I accept full responsibility for losing Kate's locker keys and the car log book, but I refuse to accept that I lost Frank.  He didn't, in American vernacular, "pass" either. Frank passed his Law Society Finals (just), and a great deal of urine, but not to another level of existence. Did I mention that he bloody well died?

A Note From a Bad Widow

I'm not too sure where to start with this post. Spouse didn't like me sharing personal shit on tinternet, especially fb, but he leaned to live with it, and anyway, he doesn't have to any more. One of his most repeated jokes was why do men die before women? Because they can. I'm very tempted to have this emblazoned on his memorial.

While friends with religious faith have been very kind and prayed for us, Spouse's death has only served to reinforce my evangelical atheism. If any person is able to explain to me how three children losing their father is part of His master plan then I may reconsider. I don't believe that he is still with us in any sense, apart from in the characteristics, and ideosyncracies that he's passed on to our children, and in our memories. 

Kate has his stoicism: when I would wind myself up about something, he would just shrug his shoulders and take a highly practical approach to an issue. Kate has been much the same since she lost her dad. One of her first worries was that Frank always did the "big" food shop in our house, because I would end up engaging my tried and tested, anger management strategy of trolley-barging if there were more than two people walking slowly in front of me. She confided her concern in a friend of mine, and "you shop, we drop" was the solution. She also asked me if I would pay my parking fines off quickly because dad used to get really mad when I left them until the Summons arrived on the doormat. I was touched that she also has Spouse's expectation management qualities, and doesn't think, for a moment, that I'm capable of parking legally all the time, much in the same way that Spouse knew that he could only ask me not to get "too pissed" on a Friday evening.

Eve has Spouse's creative abilities. He excelled in the blokeness code of conduct never to follow instructions. He liked to make things up, and this included his approach to cooking with mixed results. Eve is the same - the word "recipe" is not in her vocabulary. It's comforting to know that unusual combinations of food-stuffs, like marmite and marmalade because they both begin with an "m" will still be consigned to the bin.

I suppose I shouldn't really refer to Frank as Spouse any longer. As Jack keeps pointing out, we're a single parent family now, and he is the man of the house. The first responsibility of the man of the house is ownership of the remote control. Strangely, I'm struggling with the ugliness of the word "widow" as much as I am the ironically euphemistic term "passed away." And I've derived far too much pleasure pointing out that he didn't pass away, he bloody well died, mostly to call centre staff. I'm very sorry to all the Indian call centre staff that I've taken my rage out on, but since they seem to be unable to accept that Frank is actually still dead since the last time I informed them, I can't seem to help myself. It occurs to me that a death certificate is not sufficient and I will continue to receive post addressed to Frank until they see his smouldering ashes sailing down the Ganges.

With death comes a learning curve. Learning not to have someone to piss you off because they haven't put the rubbish out is just as hard as not having your confident in chief always at the ready. But I'm learning to live with it. Jack keeps telling me to join match.com and get another husband. It's refreshing how simple life is when you're nine. I didn't try explaining the fact that I have more baggage than a Saudi family at Heathrow Airport. He has plenty of time to work that one out.