Gone Fishing

I don’t suppose anyone has noticed (sob) that I haven’t written anything for a while. This is due largely to spending the last month or so wallowing in self-pity. Fortunately a dear friend told me to shut the fuck up and do something about it. So I did. I’ve started fishing. I was going to say that this particular brand of fishing doesn’t involve tackle, although I’m hoping it will do at some point in the future. There must surely be a reward for trawling through countless profiles other than the obvious potential for poor puns.

So I’m not afraid to admit that I have joined the crazy world of Plenty of Fish. You would think that the beaches of the South West were chock a block with forty and fifty-something single men, the number that claim walking on the coast is amongst their favourite activities. There are so many adrenaline junkies out there: I was previously blissfully ignorant of the number of surfers, rock climbers and cyclists in the South West. Having an unused gym membership does not make the claim of possession of an “athletic physique” any closer to the truth. It’s not so much the transparently false claims that irritate than the sheer stupidity that these erroneous claims will be plain if any of these men actually get a date.

And they’re all genuinely genuine. However, having a user name “wannafook” may be uncharacteristically honest, but please, it’s not appealing. Neither is the opening gambit “Hi sexy – r u feeling horny?” And that’s not to mention the far too liberal use of lol which should not be employed by anyone over thirty: “Hi lol. Are you free at the weekend? Lol”, “Are u wet? lol”. Those three little letters do not give you permission to suggest a plethora of sexual  practices to a stranger. Mercifully I’ve been blocked by a distinctly unattractive man who accused me of being rude for not replying to his messages. I suggested that what, in fact, would be rude would be telling him that I have no desire to fuck an obese sixty-something that can’t punctuate and has a face like a bag full of spanners. LOL.

In summary, it’s been an eventful, if unedifying fishing expedition so far, but at least I haven’t caught anything...

 

 

 

Let them eat cake

Just a quick one that tickled my fancy, and might tickle yours, whilst still at my desk at 7.48 pm. Here is a note from a legal visit confirmation email I received today:

The following may not be brought into HMP Erlestoke:

Computers/laptops, mobile phones, USB memory sticks, recording devices, DVD/DSs, MP3 players, aerosols, alcohol, wax, chewing gum, wire, metal cutlery, weapons, drugs (non HCC), magnets, toy guns, syringes, alarm clocks, matches, glue, yeast, ladders, tin foil, clingfilm, solvents, bleach, rope, glass, vinegar, prescribed medication, Vaseline, lipsticks/gloss/lip balm, cameras.

Seemingly I’m permitted to take in a birthday cake with a file in it. I’ll probably not try it tomorrow, however tempting.

Zen and the Art of Motor Purchase

My apologies in advance for becoming something resembling Jeremy Clarkson. Most of my recent posts appear to be about car trouble, and I sincerely hope that this is the last in a significant line. After a further breakdown rendering my vehicle uneconomical to repair I asked my father for advice about what I should do in the hope that a loan would be forthcoming. It was, and as my brother and I discussed this evening, we are blessed with very generous parents, but that does not mean that there isn’t a price to pay, albeit frequent deep breathing and regular tongue biting rather than interest.

I had been feeling a tad guilty about not involving my dad in any decision making because for him it seems nothing is simple, but he knows much more than me about cars, so what could go wrong? I had reached the point of not asking whether he preferred to coffee or tea lest he make a decision in the house of Goddard, but decided to relent.  If I had gone it alone I would have wandered into a dealership, told them how much I had to spend and asked them to show me a black, navy blue or grey one. I would have then picked the prettiest car, pulled out the plastic and the job would have been a good’n. It’s my general approach to shoe buying, and I have very few regrets on that score.

I’m not sure if it’s a generational thing or a man thing or a combination of both but going car shopping with my dad made thoughts of having my wisdom pulled out with pliers but without anaesthetic seem appealing. Sticking pins in my eyes would have been preferable, but I persevered firstly because I knew that his approach was sensible whist mine was expedient and shallow, and he had a very firm grasp indeed on the purse-strings and wasn’t afraid to remind me of this. Frequently.

We went on a recci to the local dealerships. I had hoped in vein that this would lead to a purchase which in retrospect was naive in the extreme. After establishing what a two to three year old five door car costs in the land of trade sales (something that could have been established on the interweb) we re-grouped to  consider our position. The interweb search followed. Telephone calls to “people that know about motors” followed that. In the meantime, having been dropped at a bus stop after the unproductive foray in dealership world I embarrassed Twin One who accompanied me by giving the bus driver our address and asking him to stop at the cashpoint on the way home.

In any event I am pleased to report progress. Today I identified a car that is economical, has low mileage and within budget sufficiently to satisfy my lender. It’s black and pretty enough to satisfy me and the Twinset. My brother observed that on learning that dad was helping me with a car purchase that he had anticipated a discussion about makes and models over Christmas lunch. That has to be a result...

Every Cloud has a Silver Lining or Every Silver Lining has a storm cloud

Kate asked me to explain the term “every cloud has a silver lining,” and since she is invariably of a sunny disposition approved of the notion. Since this conversation I have attempted its application when a cloud enters my airspace. I appreciate that relating tales of car troubles may be tedious, but my motor vehicle has been something of a four wheeled storm cloud of late. Last Tuesday morning  just as I was pulling out of a parking space outside of Jack’s school the power steering failed, and I was stuck partially blocking a narrow road. I went through the AA routine, and expect to become best friends with the call centre staff shortly. It also happened to be a white van man morning in this particular cul-de-sac, and although I had engaged the hazards, white van men issued expletives for what they considered extremely bad parking until I explained that the technical term for the state of my motor at that moment was “totally fucked” They then they apologised and negotiated around my stranded rather than abandoned vehicle which is my general method of parking. Eliciting sympathy from men not renowned for wishing female drivers luck was something of a silvery chink.

Oh, and I lied when I said earlier that I was pulling out of a parking space. I had pulled over onto the outside school zig zags which everyone knows makes children hurl themselves in front of oncoming traffic, and is evil. I digress, but Jack informed me recently that the only positive thing about paedophiles is that they always slow down near schools. The next cloud on the horizon was a traffic warden. I explained that I had broken down, that I hadn’t actually parked on the zig zags, and that my child hurls himself out of my slowly moving vehicle when I deposit him at school which means that but for the break down I hadn’t technically parked there. Just as I was about to receive a waggy finger, and possibly a ticket the AA man arrived, told the warden that he would move my car, and that was the end of that.

He confirmed that the power steering was knackered and needed replacing, but with a method I admired he carried out a temporary fix – he bludgeoned the pump with a mallet – to enable me to drive the car to a garage. Then he asked me which garage I use. It then occurred to me that the last time my car has seen a mechanic was the summer before Frank died, so almost two years ago. I found myself explaining, matter of fact, that my late husband sorted out the car more in the hope that he didn’t think I was a completely dippy bitch, rather than playing the dead husband card, which I now strictly reserve for the Inland Revenue, and to be honest they’re all out of love now if ever there was any. While the AA man drove round the block to make sure his temporary repair would hold out I phoned a friend (50/50 and ask the audience being unfeasible) who knows about local garages, and he booked the car in for me. Another chink of silver appeared.

The AA man then said that he would follow me to the garage to make sure I arrived safely, spoke to the garage owner in much the way that a paramedic would hand over a newly arrived casualty, and then gave me his mobile number and invited me to call him if I have any car related questions. The kindness of this particular stranger fully lined the morning’s cloud.

Another silver lining was the garage loaning me a car while my motor was repaired. The cloud: it was a skoda. The silver lining: I appreciate the quality of my car.

When I managed to negotiate the clunky old Skoda that Jack later remarked was louder on the inside then the outside – a bit like the Tardis being bigger on the inside than the outside – I received a call from my boss offering me five day’s urgent work that would be worth about a grand. An unmitigated silver lining. Then the bill for the repairs to the car arrived. Let’s call it quits.

Another Grumble: for what it's worth

I’ve become sick to death reading about threats of strike action by teachers, tube drivers, nurses, and probably tree surgeons. Last month the Government imposed 8.75% cuts to the publicly funded work that I do. We are remunerated with a fixed fee based on the time spent on a case calculated on notional hourly rates. Now I have to undertake more work to hit the so called “higher” standard fee. The hourly rates as well as the standard fees have been reduced by 8.75%. Forgive me for not giving a shit about those workers (particularly public servants) that are complaining about a 1% pay rise. I’d happily take a pay freeze.

I appreciate that just because my profession is being savaged it doesn’t justify cuts to other services, and I agree. A dear friend and I have been accused of “teacher bashing” because we dare to mention the fringe benefits this profession receives including long  holidays. When we’re not facing a 17.5% pay cut over the course of the next two years my giveashitometer might stop flat-lining. Almost as painful as the pay cut is the lawyer bashing mostly by the Daily Fail, quoting the fees of the top two criminal QCs in the country intimating that we’re all fat cats in a feeding frenzy from public funds. The truth of the matter is that most legal aid lawyers in the criminal justice system earn significantly less than newly qualified teachers, receive no sick pay, holiday pay or pension contributions.

Teachers, nurses, firefighters, and probably tree surgeons complain that because their professions are vocational they are expected not to  be well remunerated. My first point is that they are. My second point is that lawyers have been instructed by the Government to  undertake pro-bono work. We already do, but we just don’t make a song and dance about it. I have given serious thought to changing jobs. In fact I considered lecturing in law, but just thinking about it lead to me experiencing the first signs of coma. So despite the fact that this option would be better remunerated, and I might even get paid holidays, I concluded that if my heart isn’t in it I won’t do it.

Here are a couple of the reasons why. About a week ago a life sentence prisoner client that I have represented for almost ten years confided in me that he had reached a point of utter despair and was pondering the most efficient manner to despatch himself since the powers that be, he believed, would never despatch him from prison. I have known him long enough to know that this was not an idle threat. He wept. Generally when client’s cry in front of me I inform them that cry babies have no business committing crime, and that they are wasting valuable (though barely chargeable) time.

In this instance I was in no doubt that my client was suicidal, and I understood why. If I had been thoroughly stitched up by my Probation Officer I would undoubtedly feel the same. He made me promise not to tell anyone because he did not want to be placed on what is known as an ACT (suicidal prisoners are monitored every fifteen minutes in the hope that if they do try to top themselves there is sufficient time to prevent death setting in, thus averting an inspection by Her Majesty’s Inspectorate). When you’re feeling low enough to welcome death, the last thing you want is a prison officer looking at you as often as adverts appear on prime time TV. I agreed to say nothing, but crossed my fingers behind my back. One of the few occasions that solicitors are permitted to breach client confidentiality is when there is a real prospect of self harm. You can also dob them in if you are aware they’ve committed a crime, but if a client attempts to make a clean breast of it with me I generally stick my fingers firmly in my ears and chant LALALALALALA. Unless the SRA are reading this, in which case I follow the Code of Conduct to the letter.

Before I left the prison I reported my concerns to the Duty Governor. Two days later I received a call from my client and his cousin thanking me. He had been provided with help and support and felt better able to face the challenges ahead, and that I had been instrumental. I did a small thing that made a big difference and it made me feel better about myself. Priceless, as Mastercard would say. Almost as good as when you complete a level on Candy Crush that you’ve been stuck on for months.

There are other occasions when my job just makes me laugh. I could probably write a book about the things that prisoners should never ever say. A few years ago a career criminal was giving evidence at a recall hearing before the Parole Board. He had been returned to prison following police intelligence that he was dealing in class A drugs which he denied in the strongest possible terms and wished to take to the highest court in the land. During the course of this evidence it was put to him that he had been observed buying £10 bags of heroin. He replied –“you’ve got to be kidding, you can’t get a £10 bag for love nor money these days; do you have any idea how much smack costs?... Oh shit.”

There are also those moments when cultural diversity intervenes and makes me appreciate the society I inhabit. I have represented a Bengali national who informed the Parole Board that he could not accept that he was guilty of assault because the victim “was my wife.” There was a Nigerian who proclaimed – “rape?!!! – she was a woman.” I offer advice, but am at times relieved that clients choose to ignore it. Also known as giving them the rope to hang themselves.

I’ve heard of many experienced quality solicitors are planning to leave the profession. At times thoughts of running a coffee shop or florist are attractive. But like my client with his £20 bags, I just don’t want to give it up.

I want a new pair of moccasins

Today has been challenging. On my way to HM Prison Dartmoor this morning a tyre I purchased in January burst. In the old days I would have phoned my very own fixer, the Frankster, and he would have made a very nice man appear to change the tyre. More precisely he would have asked his secretary to call the AA and rearrange my appointments. With the benefit of hindsight I recognise how much I relied on Frank to sort things out. In any event, after running out of profane exclamations I googled the AA and telephoned them, called the legal visits officer at the prison and put my appointments back to the afternoon, arranged afterschool childcare, and then emptied the boot contents onto the back seat in order to investigate whether I was the proud owner of a spare. During the latter process I discovered what has happened to the eighteen pairs of Jack’s PE socks I have purchased since the start of the school year and the source of that odour.

While waiting for the AA I pondered the very many times that Frank asked me what I would do without him. As well as wanting to scream skyward “THIS, AS A MATTER OF FACT!” I recalled my response was generally a warm smile, whilst muttering under my breath, I’d phone Natasha. I am no believer in the notion that everything happens for a reason, but today has drawn a number of diverse strands of recent thought together. It brought to mind a strange conversation with my dad at the weekend. I asked him if I could borrow his lawnmower, and after ensuring I was aware how inconvenient my request was (as is his way) he agreed. He then informed me that my mum was away for the weekend and he was on his lonesome. I ignored the inference that he would be amenable to a dinner invitation, and instead suggested that he walk a mile in my widowed single parent  moccasins. He stated that I’m happy because I don’t need anyone. I’m generally fairly good at retorts of a sardonic or sarcastic nature, but on this occasion i was stumped.

It occurred to me that I have been irked that my newfound ability to bludgeon the boiler with a wrench, cobble together flat-pack furniture, and generally overcome my fear of power tools had apparently gone unnoticed by my parents. I wasn’t expecting them to arrange a chorus of Halelulah, although that would have been nice, but a “well done you” wouldn’t have gone amiss. What occurred to me at that moment was that my father was disappointed in me for not being needy enough. It’s possibly a man thing (cue sexist remark debate). Frank liked helping people generally, and became animated when he was able to fix something for me or the Little Darlings, frequently celebrating as if he had scored the winning goal in the 89^th minute of the FA Cup Final. I suspect that if I hadn’t called on him as much as I did he would have been equally as disappointed as my dad seems to be.

I didn’t need Frank’s help with anything, but I liked the fact that he loved sorting things for me, and that I miss. Once I’d sorted the tyre, and realising that as I had no CDs in the car and the Jeremy Vine show was about to start on the radio I popped into Sainsburys about bought one. It’s music that I have on my ipod, but rarely listen to these days as the Twin Set have it away with my earphones on a regular basis: when the boy isn’t inserting them up his nostrils that is. I’m in danger of getting a bit soppy, but this track, which I’ve listened to many times but never heard, made my eyes leak. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z6lKaLNZSVk I didn’t need Frank, but that’s not the point. I don’t need any more pairs of shoes either, but it doesn’t stop me wanting.

When Grumpy (as he is known to the Little Darlings) appeared, huffing and puffing I pointed to the lawn and informed him that it wouldn’t mow itself. I believe this is the first time in a long time that I’ve made my father happy.

Attempting to be a good mother for a change and struggling

I learned today that Jack has been offered a place at the local academy school in September. I was keen to move him from him from his current school, mostly on account of the fact that he is the only child in his year. I did ask for an appointment with the Head to discuss this about a month ago. Strangely enough while the secretary is scrupulously efficient in pursuing overdue fees, she is concomitantly inefficient in arranging appointments where difficult questions are in the offing.

Frank and I opted for this school after the Twinset’s first year at the local primary school when it came to our attention at the end of reception year that Kate and Eve were unable to write their own first names. We didn’t choose monosyllabic names to ensure an easy introduction to the written word, but having done so I anticipated more progress than was demonstrated. I have a number of friends who are teachers, and can therefore virtually feel the heat from their reddening cheek areas. Frank and I could legitimately be criticised for not teaching the Twinset to write at home after school. My view is that children go to school to learn, and while I’ve always been prepared to help with homework, I am a bad parent and not a teacher. If I am expected to teach my children, then their teachers can come to my office and do some filing. Just saying.

During the course of this academic year I have formed the view that we do not always get what we pay for, and concluded that the Little Darlings are likely to be better off in a good state school than a mediocre private one. With this in mind I took the Boychild to visit our local state school late last year and he was staggered by the options and facilities on offer, particularly in sport: a sports hall; tennis courts; and rugby and football pitches. One look around the woodwork and metalwork rooms and he was asking where his signature is required.

The Twinset are divided. After their visit Kate concluded that it would be like attending Waterloo Road, the maths teacher made her laugh rather than cry, and would move tomorrow if beaucracy were not an issue. Her motives may not be based on securing the best education available because high on her list of wishes ticked off were the fact that she could wear trousers and would not have to tie her hair back. Still, I took that as a victory. Eve on the other hand had to be dragged, literally, huffing and puffing just to look around. She rolled her eyes and sighed loudly at approximately seven second intervals. Since then she’s been using every weapon in her armoury to persuade me not to send her there. I have been on the wrong end of emotional blackmail bullshit that “this wouldn’t be happening on dad’s watch.” She’s learning what a hard bastard I’ve become since dad’s watch prematurely concluded, but she doesn’t like it and I’m ruining her life. The fact that I ruin her life when I won’t let her watch Eastenders because it’s mindless drivel and clashes with Chanel Four news which I am compelled to watch on account of it makes me feel superior to most of my clients, means that this particular attempt to pull at my threadbare heartstrings has, to date, failed.

I don’t intend to cause her needless unhappiness, but, for fear of sounding like my own parents (which let’s face it, all parents if they’re honest promise themselves they won’t but nevertheless  end up doing at some point), I know she would be better off there. I also appreciate that adjustment will be tough, and I will be on hand to provide as many hugs and chocolate brownies as she can stomach, probably considerably more of the latter. I’m also prepared to act as a punch-bag if this helps.

This is the hardest thing that I’ve embarked upon since Frank died. The bastard bank, HMRC, Sky and BT have made my blood boil, but I don’t recall losing any sleep over it – possibly because at the time I was medicating with repeated doses of Sauvignon Blanc. The grim reality of making life changing decisions for the Little Darlings as a reluctant single parent – I’m struggling to remain cliché-free (Luke) – really can be pants: an XXL sized, over-worn and under-washed pair at that.

 

I won a bet with Frank today. The last Parole Hearing he undertook before he died was for the first life sentence prisoner he represented, back in 1994. It's events of this kind that the lovely Reverend  that conducted Frank's funeral informs me that God is working mysteriously to look after me. For example when I met him, at his request, close to the anniversary of Frank's death, the fact Jack had a new male teacher who similarly had lost his father at Jack's age was a gift from God. I refrained from suggesting that it was probably the answer to an advert in the TES, but hey ho. Now that the teacher in question has handed in his notice, and Jack will have his third teacher during the course of his last Junior year must surely be the work of the Devil. Or not.  

Struggling to get back to the point of writing this,  when this client was released in early November 2012 Frank and I had a wager on how long it would be until this particular life licence was revoked the individual would be hauled back through Her Majesty’s revolving door. Despite what you might read, when a person receives a life sentence it is for life – the recipient’s liberty being subject to restrictions that you and I would find problematic, and breach meaning being returned to prison, not for committing further offences, and taking many months for the system to decide whether the recall was justified.

Frank backed six weeks while I gave him a tad more credit and put my money on six months. In fact he proved us both wrong and managed over a year. But I was closest and I win. So there. Despite my lack of faith I have found myself looking skyward and inwardly changing "nr ner ner ner ne." Not particularly satisfying, but I have to get my kicks somehow. And there’s a pyrrhic victory for you. I finally won a bet against Frank and the fucker is dead and can't take the punishment. I might ask the Reverand to advise on that. God's work or the Devils. Or the law of sod. 

In any event the lifer telephoned me this morning requesting representation, and said something along the lines that since Frank’s dead you’ll do. None taken, I replied.

This is precisely the exchange that I find myself, sixteen months after his death, still making a mental note to tell Frank. I don’t miss the big stuff as much as the little stuff. I’ve booked a two week holiday with the Little Darlings this summer and I’m not phased in the slightest that this year I’ll be a single parent in charge. Well maybe a little bit. But  I can deal with it, and the bank, the mortgage company and all the big grown up stuff. What makes me wobble is not having the big man to chew the shit with. He made me gaffaw (generally spitting “you can’t say that!”), and I knew what would make him chortle.

Back to the story -after the client in question hung up I recalled a key feature of his case for release late in 2012, before Frank was late, although he may not have pitched up on time for the hearing, such was his laissez faire approach to judicial matters. Parole Board hearings are based, not as the Daily Fail may have you believe on the quality of the Panel Chairman’s breakfast on the morning of the said hearing, or the severity of the congestion on the M5, but generally on a dossier prepared by Probation Officers, Psychologists and intelligence (if one can be so bold as to use this word in connection with the Prison Service) from prison staff, and the evidence presented at the hearing itself. Please don’t confuse the “dossier” word with the Blaire Government’s interpretation, albeit some clients will insist on inferring similar veracity. And sometimes they are right. The client that is, not Tony Blaire.

In any event, this particular client had taken to feeding a stray cat that voluntarily strayed into an open prison during his time there, and release was recommended by staff strictly on the basis that if this lifer were granted liberty, so was the mangy cat. Following his recall to prison my client is housed in a closed prison and I doubt that the cat would have been smuggled into the prison past the eyes of staff in Reception (yep, that’s what the first department you encounter in prison is called – although no offers of a morning paper or shoe shining service here – unless you read the Daily Fail).  The early morning call is obligatory, as is the food you wouldn’t serve to your dog, let alone a recently liberated prison cat.

I have Frank to live up to but not to live with. Such is life and death. Not necessarily in that order. What I am confident of is that if I succeed in securing the re-release of this life sentence prisoner it will be on account of what Frank taught me. If I fail it will be my failings.  Such is life. Personally, I’m more concerned about the fate of the cat.

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.