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.

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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.