Wednesday 20 November 2013

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...


Friday 8 November 2013

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.


Monday 4 November 2013

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.