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.