Precious Children.

I was reminded this morning, while listening to Womans Hour, about late pregnancy and testing for Down's Syndrome. As I was an 'elderly primagravida', I had two amniocentesis tests at 16 weeks, one for each child, and was sure that it was the right thing to do. I just knew that I would not be the kind of mother who could sacrifice everything for a disabled child - at least I thought so at the time. Of course then I was in what I believed to be an absolutely secure, loving relationship. As it turned out, I was left on my own to bring up two children anyway, but at least they were (thank God) sound of mind and strong of body. The decision as to whether to terminate a pregnancy didn't actually present itself - but I was reasonably sure that we would have made that decision. Now, if I look at Son and Daughter and think that they might have been considered damaged or "unnacceptable", it's quite unthinkable that we might have ended either of their lives.

I have an old friend who decided against the amniocentesis test when she was also considered an 'elderly primagravida'. The decision was made on financial grounds,
which I found quite extraordinary. They, the then couple, were unhappy about paying for a private test, and weren't offered it on the National Health because she was borderline (35 I think). Of course, it turned out that her baby did have Down's Syndrome. Sod's Law. And they decided that they couldn't cope with such a burden, so the baby was sent for adoption. They went on to have another baby, a healthy boy, but never told him that he had a living sister who was disabled. The marriage foundered, of course, but the son, now in his twenties, doesn't know to this day that he has a sister somewhere. Just another of life's little tragedies.

My precious Daughter and Grandson are on holiday this week on the Isle of Wight. It's strange not seeing them every day, but something I have to get used to because they will soon be moving on, leaving Brighton and getting on with their own lives. This means that I will have all the time in the world to walk, cycle, write, read and paint - all the things I was looking forward to doing before they landed on my doorstep nearly three years ago. As John Lennon said, "Life is what happens when you're making other plans." And somehow, I know that 'life' will be much quieter and rather lonely without that little boy running towards me, arms outstretched, shouting "Nana"...

Such a Perfect Day.

Oh God, another Bank Holiday. Yesterday, Sunday, wasn't too bad because I went to a Car Boot sale in the morning, with Gay Friend. It was a lovely morning, warm and sunny. GF phoned me at about 9am to say that he would like to come with me, but that he was very hung over and needed to be picked up. Fine, so I did. He came out of his flat in shorts and a very battered Panama hat, carrying a large plate on which was one piece of buttered toast, one boiled egg (peeled) and one piece of toast and honey. Eccentric or what? Then he sat comfortably, while I drove, and ate his breakfast. We both felt better for that.

At the Car Boot we found some wonderful bargains. I picked up two lovely, large blue and white spotted teacups with saucers (the sort you dip your croissant into), a wooden shoe-rack, a heavy wooden cutting board with a handle, two blue and white delft pattern bowls for Son, an asparagus cooker (without basket) and another butter dish for Daughter (the last one was smashed by a falling plate). I spent £5, so that was very good value. GF bought a vintage Harvey Nicks black sequinned dress for 20p, a piece of vintage fabric for another 20p, various other bits and pieces and a terrific working Lightbox for £15. We were well pleased with our purchases and came back to sit and gloat and drink coffee on my balcony.

Later, a couple who are friends of GF came to stay here as B & B guests for the night. They turned up with two other women friends, all dressed to kill (and made up to kill), and made me rather long for my London days, when I did the same. (I mean a heterosexual couple; the husband, of course, was not made up - being rather more frog than prince-looking.) After I had settled them in, I went off to a barbecue with friends, taking some Damson Cheese I had made, some Dolcelatte, and some bread to go with it. Rather a good combination. It was a lovely late summer evening, with good company, good food and soft rose wine.

This morning I got up to cook breakfast for my guests, only to discover that the husband was not feeling well; he had had a really bad toothache last night, and was still in a lot of pain. So breakfast was not a great success. I had to whizz off and pick up Hon. Grand-daughter, so couldn't stop to commiserate. I cycled off, towel and cosie at the ready, and we had a lovely day. It was warm and sunny and we swam in the sea and built a stone dam to try and stop the tide advancing. What a good game. Then we came back and did some painting - the watercolour variety - had supper and watched "Breakfast at Tiffany's". Quelle day!

Saturday Live

Heard on my trusty radio this morning an interview about lone twins. In fact, I am a lone twin, as my identical twin sister was born dead. My Mother told the story, though not in great detail, and I understood that my twin was born dead because my Father "knocked (my Mother) from one side of the room to the other" when she was eight months pregnant, killing the baby. Now my Mother could be a drama queen and I have no way of knowing if it is true, but this knowledge just sticks in my head like the first pancake in the pan. I know that my Mother was pregnant with me when they married, and that my paternal Grandmother did not approve. She did not think that my Mother was good enough for her Son, Jasper Stanley. (So what's new?) And I know that they had a very rocky marriage. It wasn't helped by the fact that my Father was an alcoholic (as defined), and a philanderer, and that my Mother, probably as a consequence, was very neurotic and would, today have been considered depressive. It can't have been much fun. And they lived through the 2nd World War. So having one baby born dead when you have only been married six months, and there is a war going on, might have been either a curse or a blessing. Certainly, neither of them ever showed any emotion about it, and since I can't remember the moment when I was told, I seem to have no feelings about it either. (My Sister came along 18 months later, but I don't know if she was made aware of the dead twin, and I don't think we have ever talked about it.) Because of my Parents' various characters and behaviours, we must have had a rather strange upbringing, Sister and I. But of course, we thought it was normal because we had no other experience. I may be wrong, but I don't suppose many other people have the memory of their Father slowly sinking down in his chair at Christmas Dinner until he slid, quietly and drunkenly, under the table. We may have giggled, but that was normal for us. Consequently, there were lots of fights, many of which I remember quite clearly. I recall my Mother throwing the iron at my Father (though I think she missed), and I also vividly remember her hitting him over the head with our frying pan. This was never to be forgotten, because we continued to use the frying pan which had a dent the shape of my Father's head ever after. It was quite funny I suppose, because eggs always slid round the dent and settled into this strange, curved shape. As I tell this little tale, I can see that it might not be everyone's cup of tea, but it has become so much part of the vintage patchwork of my life, that I simply accept it. And anyway, I can't change it.

Going back to the dead twin, I'm aware that I have resisted re-birthing at various times in my life, as a form of therapy, because I have this horror of reliving my birth. Of course this is not an actual memory, but somehow I know that I had to fight my way out into the world, past a dead baby. I don't know how I know this, it's pure instinct. But I have never been sure that I could actually do it again successfully. There is no way that I would put myself in that situation again. What if I didn't make it?

And now for the good news; apparently Doctors have stopped drinking themselves to death. They have come to their collective senses at last,and are taking their own advice about drinking and (hopefully) smoking. That's great news indeed. I do remember reading, about 5 years ago, that Doctors had the lowest life expectancy of any professional group - around 37 years! I thought then, don't ask advice of a Doctor. What does he (or she) know. So have they maybe increased their life expectancy to 40? It would be interesting to know.

It is Moving Day.

Every time I log on to Blogger, I tick the box which says 'remember me', but it never does. I always have to type in my password - not sure why? Am I particularly unmemorable?

Yesterday and today have been rather frantic, and I have felt both stressed and worried. Mostly because I can't just make things happen for Son and Daughter. The blooming flat sale has been holding everything up, and I just feel powerless to help.
Because we are victims of a broken chain, and because it is August (during which the whole world seems to be on holiday), we have been twiddling our thumbs and waiting for something - anything - to happen. Today Son had to move out of his dreadful flat in London (a curse on his bastard Landlord), and has nowhere to go. Well, in fact he has somewhere to go, because some good friends have just bought a house and are thankfully letting him stay for a while. But it's not his, and it can only be for a short time. He will be homeless again on his birthday, and there's no way round it. Today he will be driving that van probably until midnight, loading and unloading his and other people's stuff. And his mobile phone is broken (so he has borrowed mine). And he's got no bed to sleep on when he finally does get finished! At least I managed to feed him and his friend before he drove off again. Daughter, too, is stuck until the flat sale completes, because she and Grandson can't move on until it goes through. So we are all wading in treacle, or so it seems.

And yet, this evening, after Son drove bravely off in the hired white van (having deposited yet more stuff in the storage we have been keeping for the last year), I did suddenly feel more hopeful. Somehow, I felt that everything would be alright. The flat sale will go through soon, Son and his friends will find somewhere really nice to buy in London, Daughter will move on with her Boyfriend (who adores my Grandson, so that's OK), and I will be able to relax and think of them all being settled and happy.

If only I could wave my magic wand, just like Harry Potter (or rather Hermione, who seems to get all her magic spells right), and make it happen now. We do seem to have been waiting rather a long time for things to go right. Perhaps that's how it's meant to be, but I think they deserve a lucky break, God. How about it...

Football Commentary

I absolutely love the way Son uses language. I looked at his Facebook profile earlier this evening, and saw his comment that he was "somewhere between passion and apathy". Maybe because I am/was an english teacher, and love both literature and language myself, I really appreciate it - and perhaps that's why he does too. I'm not taking the credit for it, because he is his own person, always has been. And he has always followed his passions. I just enjoy it when he uses words in such a fresh and distinctive way. And he could always write. His degree in Sociology may have helped (though he would probably disagree). I was certainly impressed with a lot of the stuff he learned at Sussex, and which seems to have stuck. He knows about Psychology, Cognitive Therapy and many things which are a complete mystery to me. I remember a while ago I sent him a text message quoting something from Jung (which I've now forgotten), and his reply was "Yeah, but Jung did go completely mad!" It's that lovely combination of knowledge and wit that appeals to me. And the fact that it's Son saying it is just the icing on the cake.

Watching the England game this evening also reminds me of Son. He has been playing
and watching football since he was knee-high to a goal post. (Our team is Tottenham Hotspur, The Spurs, courtesy of my Mum who grew up in Tottenham, round the corner from White Hart Lane.) He played first for the school team in primary school, and then for the Cubs. This was a disaster because the Cubs had a terrible team who always lost their games - very disheartening. Then we discovered the Cherry Hinton Lions, and he played for the under 8s, right through to the under 17s. What a team! They were in a Sunday League which played, come rain, shine, hail or snowstorm,every week, and was very competitive. Everyone (except the manager's son) had to fight for their place in the team. And they won all the cups and medals, year after year. Son was a very good player, who scored a lot of goals, and loved his footy. It was always very exciting to watch, and I became a Sunday Football Mum, shouting encouragement from the touchline in all weathers. On one memorable occasion (I think it was Under 13s), the Cup Final was played at the Cambridge United ground, and Son scored the winning goal. The excitement was almost too much to bear, and that tinny old stand echoed to our ecstatic cheers. At the end of each season, when they took home the League and Cup trophies, we used to drive home, covered in mud and glory, singing along to "We are the Champions" by Queen. It was wonderful. And we have those medals and miniature trophies still. Tucked into a box of memories for Son, along with stuffed toys, vintage Spurs kits, old school books and his collection of football programmes. I kind of hope he always keeps them, but who knows..

Late result: England 1 Germany 2, in a Friendly (Ha Ha) game at Wembley. No comment.

In Sickness and in Health.

Wiped out by a sick bug - it serves me right for going on about buttered buns. I woke up yesterday feeling so sick that I couldn't move. I was worried to death in case the food I had cooked the night before, for me and Gay Friend, had caused it. But when I phoned Gay Friend to confess, he was fine - so that was a relief. However, I was feeling so bad I couldn't even read, which is rare indeed. I lay in bed, drifting in and out of sleep, and I think Daughter appeared at some point to ask if I needed anything. "No", I groaned "I already have two kinds of water, boiled and sparkling." It was strange to lose a whole day, but I couldn't keep awake.
Daughter came back, with Grandson, this morning, and I was feeling a bit better, so managed a cup of tea. Nothing else passed my lips until this afternoon when I had a piece of toast. And now, I feel fine.

I looked at my Facebook and found a message from another old friend, met during a holiday on Skyros in 2001. We have kept in touch, but Facebook seems a very easy way to do something more immediate. I guess it's like a chatroom - though that is something I've never tried, and at least with Facebook it's people you know already. There was also another connection from Skyros on her Facebook, so I contacted him, in Vancouver, and now have another Facebook Friend. It sounds a bit Barbie, I know, but I really am enjoying it.

Thank god I turned down the last German student, because I wouldn't have been able to stand up, let alone prepare breakfast and dinner for her. It has only happened once before that I was ill when I had a foreign student. He was from the Italian Navy and stayed with me for 8 weeks. All was relatively fine until the last couple of weeks of his stay, when I got the 'flu, which really wiped me out. His english wasn't too good, so I had to leave him notes, and relied on friends to shop for me. I was so ill that I couldn't come down to feed him and had to give him food I'd prepared earlier! At one point he left me a note, which I thought might be a commiseration for my state of health. What it actually said was "Salt is finished."
So much for the sympatico Italian.

Buttered Buns I have known

Listening to the radio this morning I heard a chat about tea trolleys and offices which brought the past back in a flash. My first job, at 17, was in a City bank in Bishopsgate: The Chartered Bank of India, Australia and China. How exotic that sounds today. I used to travel on the commuter train from Romford to Liverpool Street, being an Essex girl, and always bought a lovely buttered bun on my way to work, to have with my morning coffee. Those buns were wonderful. They were fruity, yeasty and had crystallized sugar on top. And they were generously buttered - with real butter. I think they probably cost one penny, and I mean old pennies, because this was before decimalization. As our Luncheon Vouchers were for 4 Shillings (this was a very good deal) I'm sure a bun couldn't have been more than that. Lunch was usually taken in the upstairs Dining Room of one of the local pubs, and they all offered a two-course lunch for 4/- then. We could have something like Steak & Kidney Pie with three veg, or a Curry with rice , or a Ham Salad, followed by a Syrup Pudding and Custard, or tinned Fruit Salad, and a cup of tea or coffee for our four shillings. That sounds like an incredible bargain now, of course, especially when you consider that four shillings in old money would now be twenty pence. Makes me feel very old.


I remember working in that bank so clearly. We were very privileged, because it was considered a great plum to get a job in a bank then. My Mum was so proud that I worked there. It was rather like an extended version of the Grammar School that I had recently left (without taking my A Levels!). There was definitely a rather jolly old school atmosphere; work was mostly conducted at a steady pace, except for the excitement when the Bank Rate was changed (just like today). And we had a Sports Club which everyone used at weekends. Ours was at a place called "The Wilderness", somewhere near Hampton Court, and we all played either hockey or tennis for the Bank. (Rugby or Soccer if you were a bloke.) The Bank was your life, really, and people then expected to work there all their lives and retire on a Bank pension. How things have changed. When I left the Bank, Mr Toynbee, who was Deputy Manager of Inward Bills where I had worked for four years, said "Well done, Lassie!" (he was very Scottish) "You've never given us a moment's trouble." I distinctly remember being rather surprised and yet pleased at his remark. It would never have occurred to me to be any trouble anyway - we were all very law-abiding in those days - but I did wonder what might have happened if I had stepped out of line. Anyway, I have always hankered after those buttered buns, and can't seem able to find them now.