Analysis

Bet you though I was going to start rambling about blood tests, didn't you?

No. Well, everyone else in the chattering classes, the mumbling and slurring classes and, of course, the hang'em, shoot 'em and flog 'em brigade has had a go at last week's riots. So here's mine. The fact that I am completely unable to get my head round it all is summed up by the fact that I've had to split it up into manageable bits.

The Police

The spark that ignited the whole firestorm was struck from the hobnailed boots of some idiotic Plod who refused to respond to the pleas of a grieving family for information on the death of their son. Why? Had the police already realised that the situation in which the man had been killed was not quite as simple as it appeared, and they hadn't had chance to come up with a good cover story? Did they not realise that those people had not only been bereaved but also had now been treated as if their feelings mattered nothing? No wonder a few people (and it only started with a few) got angry.

And then there's the Red Route problem in Tottenham (I was a local till we decamped for foreign parts, you know). You may have heard people talking about two unmarked police cars parked ouside the police station which acted like a red rug to a bull and wondered what they were talking about. Well, there has been a long rumbling annoyance from the residents because of the police's cavalier attitude to parking on the red route. Result - two torched police cars. And from little acorns ......

I did feel a bit sorry for them that first night when they stood there on the back foot looking gobsmacked at what happened. The second night they regained their role as temporary heroes by bringing in the exact number of extra boots on the ground as our wonderful coalition wishes to cut the force by.

The Politicians

Do I have to? Still, it's an enlightening experience watching the handbagging that's going on at the moment, isn't it. "I did it". "No, I did it". Oh, please.

The Media

I have to mention Mark Duggan here, the bloke whose death was at the heart of the original protest. Did anyone else notice the change in choice of images which occurred when it became obvious that he wasn't quite as guilty as the Press wished him to be? Please see above and draw your own conclusions. I know he may not be quite as much an angel as his family thought, but he's still entitled to fair treatment from all sections of the Establishment. Isn't that what's supposed to make us a civilised society?

The Rioters

I am making a distinction between rioters and protesters here. After the protesters had done their thing, there must have been a defining moment when some of the ready made gangs prevalent in London suddenly realised that this was a situation which could be capitalised upon. These people are already supplied with the most modern means of communication available. Result - instant mob. God, I'd love a Blackberry; can't afford one.

And did you notice the numbers who appeared to have just come along for the ride? You see, nobody's mentioned the fact that rule-breaking and chaos is FUN. This is probably why I do Carnival each year. Take over the streets, make noise, get a bit drunk ..... familiar? I was also involved in the Poll Tax Demo, but I ran away with my drum. Wuss.

Mind you, I'm no apologist. And this is why. I was a professional youth worker and I am fully aware of the depth of awfulness exhibited by some young people. I was also a single mother and managed to raise two great kids, one with a good degree, the other a successful jobbing actor. I also bought my house and paid taxes all my life. I didn't chose single motherhood. One dissolved away in alcohol and the other swapped me for a younger model. And I didn't fall into criminality. I just gritted my teeth and got on with it.

Conclusions

So I honestly don't understand what has happened to what seems to be a large chunk of our society. Does it all stem from the "greed is good" and "there is no such thing as society" attitudes of the 80s? By the way, have you noticed the progress from the "no such thing" to "Big" in relation to Tory policy? That's interesting, isn't it?

I seriously think we have not yet recovered from Thatcherism. There is a lingering feeling that possessions are everything and that being greedy, hard and go-getting is somehow admirable. And hard translates easily into other areas of life, like mugging that poor Malaysian boy while he was down, or kicking to death a pensioner trying to stamp out your pet fire. And if you're caught, you can play the disadvantaged card. Dear God.

PS. Neither do I believe that human beings can't recognise the difference between right and wrong. Hardness enables you to just ignore it.

Sorry about the delays between my posts these days. A mixture of feeling like hell on wheels, trying to maintain pecker height and keep the new hubby up the mark in the housewife stakes at the same time has been proving a bit of a trial.

Yes, I am finally admitting that I have been feeling a bit bad for a while. I know I shouldn’t do that in the light of the Positive Thinking crusade which puts you in charge of your own cure and leaves you feeling a bit of a failure if you don’t manage to do it, but I’ve now instated the “Oh, bugger it” crusade instead. This allows you to feel what the hell you want to feel because you can’t be bothered wasting time on what other folks think you ought to be doing. I’m thinking of a logo of one raised middle finger, anointed with pureed asparagus – it’s a dead cert cure, you know – and surrounded by the motto “Leave Me Alone”

However, I must say that since my recent visit to my local hospital and new oncologist, I am feeling somewhat better. They didn’t bother with Positive Thinking, but instead dished out a nice new array of drugs (steroids and painkillers – amazing how much more positive you can be when it doesn’t hurt). The response was almost immediate and I found myself back in the kitchen, making soup; one of my “feeling better” pointers. And some Banana Bread; well, the fruit flies were getting a bit much, even for new hubby.

So Essex is proving good for me. Harwich itself is a little gem, only slightly marred by some really poor town planning over the years. Well, at least it ensures that you’re not living in Whimsey-on-Why, and leaves the place with a little edge. It has always had a somewhat salty reputation; at one time it was famous, if not notorious, for having more pubs per square inch than anywhere else in the universe. These days, there are still quite a few (roll of honour headed by the New Bell – CAMRA Pub of the Year, and the Alma, now a gastro pub with great dining rooms. And My Son the Actor sometimes sings there, too. And lives in a converted pub). However, these days it has the Harwich Society, which has slapped a plaque on anything standing still long enough and seems to have stymied the planners. Did you know that the Captain of the Mayflower lived here? And his house still stands? There you go, interesting and entertaining.

The photo is the view from one of my windows, and it constantly changes with the weather, the light and the human activity. We particularly like one of the fishing boats which goes out crabbing at dawn, adorned with enough multi-coloured floats to make it look as if it is going to take off using balloon power alone. Plus two Anarchist flags and half a Jamaican one bearing the face of Bob Marley. The fisherman? White, middle-aged and, I am reliably informed, known as “Scum”.

And, boy, do we have festivals. Being where we are, on the Quayside, most of them take place under out window, as well. So you glance out and suddenly see a complete helicopter rescue show from the RNLI, or the Town Band followed by a crappy rock group, or dancing fireboats. Nice one last weekend up at the Redoubt Fort – we have one of those as well, but it’s not under our window. It’s got a plaque though. Like any town trying to gentrify itself, we have a micro-brewery (it’ll be a cheese shop next. Or an artisan baker) and he was showcasing his new real ales against sun-warmed Georgian bricks with three local folkies noodling shanties in the background. And there were sausages. Nice.

Visit Essex. It’s so bracing.

Saga

Thanks to the conjunction of my recent shotgun wedding and a gang of lovely friends I have a nice new laptop. Never been a better timed gift as the old one had started snarling at me every time I approached it. It has only taken Significant Other two days to load the new one with all the stuff he deemed necessary; I am trying to quieten the unworthy suspicion that doing that was a damn sight better than the ongoing slog of forcing the quart of our large flat in Soller into the pint pot of our little flat in Harwich. Well, the big stuff is in, but we are struggling with the finishing touches; you know, hang the pictures, mop the floor, clear the last cardboard box before I start foaming at the mouth and screaming.

I can't really blame him; moving country, house and getting married in the space of a month is not something I would recommend for someone who has waved goodbye to the peak of physical fitness and is just about to reach the foothills of middle age. Ahem. I wouldn't recommend it to Sir Chris Hoy, actually, and he's got thighs and everything.

We had decided that I should fly back alone to establish a beach-head, and SO would drive back across Spain and France a couple of days later so we could have our familiar old banger. We only ever have bangers. Aaah. We also decided to bring our furniture back. Believe me, that was much less stressful than making SO walk round Ikea again. He insists there must be shortcuts, you see, and ends up walking purposefully against the direction of the arrows. And the oncoming blank-eyed hordes.

Anyway, the flying alone thing went as well as could be expected, given the comfort of the average budget airline, until I reached the carousel at Stansted, when I realised that 20

kilograms was beyond me, and the case dragged me along the belt like a piece of lost sushi until I was rescued by a little old man. Oh, lord, the mortification. I collapsed, sobbing, into the arms of the Fabulous Ms H who took me home for TLC. Thank heavens for mates.

Thus started the complex task of proving residence (Have you ever tried to prove anything in the UK without a utility bill?)to the satisfaction of the Register Office. Staying with the Fabulous Ms H, we had to do it in Lambeth. To get married in Canterbury. One bright spark of our acquaintance wondered if we were on an Archbishop hunt, or something. We did manage it eventually,

but the paperwork only arrived at Canterbury on the Friday before the Monday we were due to wed, which was a bit close to the wire for my liking.

My Son, the Actor, caused another complication. We decided to move into his town so he could be a comfort to his poor old mum. He promptly got a job, touring Germany. I am giving him the benefit of the doubt. We did, however want him

at the wedding; he does a good turn. Well, there's got to be some perks to parenthood. So we had our reception in Daughter Dear's garden the day before the ceremony and he flew in the following day so he could be there to witness the deed and, of course,

sing. Pity, really, he missed a damn good do, organised and managed by Daughter Dear, Son-in-Law and his brother, otherwise known as the Dream Team. We had a marquee in the garden

(get me!) and fish and chips and mushy peas and lots of creamy puds and a cupcake wedding cake all made by Daughter Dear. And a guest appearance by some of the vintage members of the London School of Samba. And it was the

hottest day for six years. Perfect.

The wedding itself was really nice, considering. I knocked together an outfit from the back of the wardrobe (SO, as usual, outshone me in the kilt) and a friend who is a milliner made me a beautiful hat. Although another nice friend had offered to buy the flowers, I couldn't bear to present her with the astronomical prices charged by florists for wedding bouquets. So I whipped down to Tesco in the morning, spent the grand total of £17, and managed to make a fan shaped bouquet for me, a nosegay for youngest grand-daughter and buttonholes for the men. Ta-daah!

The ceremony was good, except for that bit where they ask the assembled if they

know of any reason and I saw it forming on the lips of a couple of them. Then My Son, the Actor, sang, and several grown men cried. In fact, there wasn't a dry eye in the house.

Then we went down the pub.

I'm back

You have to imagine this being spoken in an extremely apologetic tone of voice. I haven't died yet, honest. It's just that moving country, moving into an unfurnished flat and planning a wedding took all my available brainspace.

This is just going to be a short post to announce my return to the blogosphere, but just let me tell you - my new flat is lovely - I watch cruise liners and car ferries going past all my windows. It does suffer a bit on the storage front, however, and we have had to buy an enormo-wardrobe. We are seriously considering moving into it.

I'm getting married the day after tomorrow. It's been a bit tense as I needed to make an honest man out of Significant Other so he can have my pension when I'm gone. So we needed to beat the Great Reaper to the draw. Well, ner nerner ner ner - done it! You'll have to wait for descriptions of how fabulous I looked. Daughter Dear has been indescribably wonderful and done virtually everything for us; she now looks like a wet rag, but a bit of fake tan and makeup will soon cure that. I hope. Don't want her spoiling the photos.

Speak soon,

Look at me, I'm a model

Well, that’s another ticked off the list of “things to do before you die”. Wasn’t expecting it to be quite so literal, but still – I was a glamour model for a day for a cancer charity calendar. Yes, it’s amazing what can be done with a bald 65-year-old, given enough time and sympathetic makeup. And kind lighting and a nice photographer who understands about chicken neck. This I an unrepentant puff for Samantha Hemsley, the aforesaid nice photographer.

It was a lovely day. Significant Other and I drove to Samantha’s romantic old house up a hill in the country and he was settled in the man-creche with beer and a book. I was then made up for several hours by Barbara from Salon B. Well, it felt like several hours, but then I need an anaesthetic to go to the hairdressers. She applied INDIVIDUAL EYELASHES. And gave me back my disappearing eyebrows. Thank heavens I don’t have to look gorgeous all the time; there aren’t enough hours in the day. I must say though, I looked bloody great when she had finished. Another puff there.

We then chose clothes in various shades of black, which had been lent to me by my friend Estelle, the most glamourous lady of a certain age I am ever likely to meet. I have to mention one dress here which has a loose blouson top trimmed with leather and a very slinky lycra skirt bit; told you she was glamourous. The only problem was that the lycra bit was so clingy if I tried to pull it down to cover my knees, my knickers came down with it. Good old Significant Other had to be enlisted to hold up my knickers down the back of the dress whilst I attempted to adjust the skirt bit. I will leave you with that mental picture, and assure you he managed to do it without giving me a wedgie. I swear that dress has a mind of its own though; every time I attempted to walk in it, it either crawled up my legs or slithered down them. I’m not made for elegance, obviously.

The photos here are for publicity; I don’t know which, if any, is going to be used in the calendar. But I’m incredibly chuffed with them.

Thanks, girls. It was a lovely day and has been added to my memory store.


Copyright Samantha Hemsley Photography

Isn't cancer ENOUGH?

I hope you didn’t think I’d already gone without saying goodbye; it’s just that I’ve been so busy trying to organise the next few months I haven’t had time. I had to hit the ground running. Places to go, things to do. For instance, have you ever tried to free up investments in a hurry? From another country? Well, don’t. There is a conspiracy to stop you getting hold of your own money.

How about this for tactless. I emailed one particular company telling them I was on my last legs, and asking them to close the account and let me have the documentation so I could get my hands on the hard-earned. I then waited for a week or so and received two, yes two, identical standard letters referring to my decision to “review my investment”. And, of course, no documentation so I could close the account or access MY money. Look, I’m reduced to using capitals.

I wonder which part of “terminally ill” they didn’t understand. The bit where it comes to money, obviously. And the bit about decent human behaviour. I wonder if they have ever considered how hurtful it is to tell strangers you are on the way out. They apparently perceived it to be the perfect time for me to give them more money, or perhaps move it around a bit. NOOOOooo. Want to spend it on getting home to my kids, you unthinking bastards. Never mind, had a very cathartic rant at some poor child over the phone, and strangely enough the documentation arrived by email within five minutes. That was lucky because I was considering turning up on the steps of their office, clutching my throat and going “It was… it was… aargh” just like they do in the movies, because you obviously have to cry for this company before they descend to the use of modern communication methods; if you’re calm they make you do everything by snailmail. Clever. It means that they can extend their hold on your money, and therefore their cut till the last possible moment. Even cleverer, when you’ve jumped through all the hoops and completed all the paperwork (by post, obviously), they then say “we wait four days before we free your money to your bank account”. Erm, why?

And then there’s trying to organise a flat in the UK. My kids are on the job, and so far it looks like we will be aiming for Harwich, on the Essex coast and quite cheap (heavens, I hope they don’t mind a short let) near my son, who (Sod’s Law) will be off on tour around Northern Europe within the next month. He’s in the Rocky Horror Show, but not in the basque, unfortunately. Boy, the embarrassment potential of the photos.

And the wedding. We have to establish residence in the country then wait for fifteen days before we can tie the knot and guarantee Significant Other’s pension. Lord, don’t they realise I’m in a hurry? Of course, I’m arriving home in wedding high season, so the only places available for hire will probably be Westminster Abbey or Dirty Dick’s Line Dance Bar and Grill. You see, horrible bankers? That’s why I need my money QUICK. More capitals.

Then there’s clearing this flat and getting some of our stuff back to the UK (more money, Mr Banker) and my preparations to be a Calendar Girl – that’s a teaser for my next post. I will be back, honestly.

The thing about dying is, it does concentrate the mind wonderfully.

Love Song

My kids are great. They turned up, unannounced, on my doorstep on Saturday last (a not inconsiderable feat given that they live in the UK and I’m in Mallorca) so we could spend Mother’s Day together. Daughter Dear had organised it and subbed My Son, the (Skint/ Resting) Actor, so he could come too. What a sweetheart. We had the nicest time and showed them places they didn’t know existed and the sun shone. Perfect. And it struck me that although I have used the poor sods unmercifully for blog material, I’ve never actually introduced you all. So here they are. My Son, the Actor He was my firstborn, and despite falling desperately in love with him at first sight, he was really, really ugly. He had definitely fallen out of an ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down. Thin as a rail, bald as an egg and covered in infantile exzema doesn’t win Beautiful Baby competitions. He also had enormous eyes and a wide mouth which gave him an unfortunate resemblance to a pink frog. His forceps delivery had given him an elongated skull and a rakish red pirate scar. God, he was gorgeous. You will be pleased to know that eighteen months cured it. He turned into the most angelic toddler you have ever seen, with blond curls and blue eyes. The complete Mabel Lucy Attwell child. And he had the sweetest nature; a complete stoic, he dealt uncomplainingly with the exzema and the later asthma and seldom cried. He didn’t walk till he was sixteen months, choosing rather to tittup around en pointe. I should have known he was headed to ballet class then, shouldn’t I? He didn’t talk properly till he was two and a half, when he suddenly burst into full and grammatically correct sentences. Funny little thing. He grew up in the era of black and white Fred Astaire films on the telly on Sunday afternoons and aged about four used to tap dance just like Fred on the lino in the corner. Career sorted. We gave up with the local dance class when he was eleven, bit on the bullet and used the family allowance to send him to a Theatre School in Liverpool. As a lifelong socialist, it nearly killed me, but that’s mother love for you. And the rest is history. He is the least likely male dancer you have ever seen, barrel chested and husky just like his dad. Going into Liverpool for classes on match days, he really wanted to be stopped by the cops as a suspicious football fan so he could open his sports bag with a flourish and waggle his ballet pumps at them. He acts, plays guitar, keyboards and drums, and if someone said “You can have this role but you need to play the euphonium and juggle”, he’d say “Cool” and go off and learn. He has the most amazing rock voice and why he isn’t a superstar is beyond me. And whilst he was here last week, he fixed the toilet. Daughter Dear Being an idiot, I expected another angel when Daughter Dear arrived eighteen months later. Big mistake. She was a spiky, sleepless, screaming little harridan. She was prettier than her brother though, despite being born with a pale grey crew cut that continued right down over her face. I was so relieved when it wore off, even if she did look rather like a cute little marmoset. But, boy, she was a screamer. I remember one day (end of tether long since reached, passed, thrown on the floor and stamped upon) holding her who was (as usual) screaming, at arms length and sobbing “What do you WANT?” She was a clever little devil though. Walked at eleven months, talked from about the same time and could count by eighteen months. The minute she realised, aged about one, that the evening bottle was making her sleepy, she refused it. Sleep was anathaema to her. Looking back, I think she may have found being a baby boring, and the older she got, and the more stuff she could do, the nicer she got. See, time cures most things. By the time she went to school, she was a quiet little sweetheart. I did feel sorry for her though; deeply intelligent, she followed her talented and popular acting, tapdancing, athletic brother up the school to a chorus of “Oh, you’re Sean’s sister”. And nobody applauds you for being brilliant at Maths. So I determined that she would have the same chances as he did to fulfill any latent talent, but she was not driven like her sibling, and I stopped the piano lessons the minute she said that her cheeks were aching from trying to keep smiling at the teacher. Bless. She always had a marvellous way with words, inventing the description “fooligan” when exasperated to tears by her brother one day. She once asked me what a penis was, and biting on the bullet (trying to be a Modern Parent), I told her. She responded in a bemused fashion “That’s funny. I thought it was someone who played the piano”. She has turned into a beautiful, generous and loving woman who creates warmth round everyone she touches. I thought I has better say this now because I’d like them to know how much I love them both. My doctor, bless her – God, what a job – told me last time I was there that I might as well stop the chemo because another round would not prolong my life by a nanosecond. I have a limited amount of time left, so Significant Other and I are going back to the UK to be near the pair of them and the grandchildren. We are going to get married when we’re there so he can have a pension (told you he was a ne’er-do-well) and so we can have a bloody good party. Any excuse.