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.