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was released in early November 2012 Frank and I had a wager on how long it would be until this particular life licence was revoked the individual would be hauled back through Her Majesty’s revolving door.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.