...I intended to pop to the local shop for bread, milk and cat biscuits but for some unknown reason ended up jumping on a bus, asking for a day rover ticket. Hockley was my first stop. Judy, the lady on the till in the Friends of Lions charity shop asked where mum was.
On hearing the news she cried..... holding my hand in her brightly nail polished hand.. We shared feelings over the counter which was strewn with rings and things and cards and trinkets. Easing myself away I looked around the small shop picking up a little ornament. After paying Judy we exchanged a few comforting uplifting words and I boarded another bus this one taking me to the heart of Southend-on-Sea.
It was a warm day and I walked slowly from charity shop to charity shop stopping ocassionally to text Hairy Suit about my doings. And as I reached the High Street I texted back a firm 'yes' to lunch at Birdwood cafe.
I strolled on..... coming to the Cancer Relief shop where mum and I used to hang out.
I was hot but unbothered and then I saw a box...Yellow and large...Full with hardback Agatha Christie books..... 50p each..........And as I handled the volumes sitting cross legged on the faded mat I was convinved Mum was behind this terrific day.
I hadn't set out for a shopping spree all I needed was bread and milk and yet there I was in Southend flicking through the pages of Ten Little Indians et al.
After no thought at all I bought Ten Little Indians And left the shop wishing I could have bought more...
Then I met Hairy Suit for lunch at Birdwoods and after hearing me enthuse about the book collection just down the road he smiled and suggested we dash back to get the lot.
And after some wheeler dealing I handed over £20 for 92 novels. We'd cut a deal with Steve. He was happy. And by jolly jingo so was I.
A winters worth of fine reading from the Mistress of Crime. They kept hold of the books till closing time when Hairy and myself would return in a car. I, remember was carless. Hairy however never goes anywhere on foot.
Then I was left to my own devices. Never a good thing because I'm apt to get up to mischief. And today was no exception. Feeling as a weight was being lifted I felt able free and zingy. So I wandered around a crowded chemist and bought a lipstick then wandered around a jewellers and bought myself an Amber and silver ring.
I felt invigorated. I was convinced that by some magic or wishful thinking mum had been walking beside me today. Tosh or not. I felt like it had to be done. I needed to be with people because life is with people.
Then a quick dash to a bench where I applied lipstick and removed my sunhat. I'd arranged to meet Hairy at his place of work and within a few moments I was standing in the lobby of the huge building being eyed up by two security men.
"I'm here to meet my friend" I twinkled
"He's on the top floor and should be down momentarily" I twinkled again.
Within five minutes I was best mates with the boys as we rattled on about the British Movie Industry.
Hairy appeared with his boss and after a most unladylike firm handshake I bid him farewell and legged it across the car park yammering away to Hairy Suit.
Within five minutes the books were in the boot of the car and we headed home. Me utterly convinced that mum was behind this extraordinary day. If she was then thanks mum for leading me the right way, if not, if it was just good fortune then alright that's fine with me. Whatever the explanation it was A Wonderful Day.
Thursday, 31 July 2014
Knees willing....
I'll go for a long walk this morning.
Not that I know where to go of course.
But I can't do what I did yesterday, stay in and watch two films.
I think I'm missing the adrenaline rush I had when mother was in the house.
I had no time to think it was action action action. Mother though said that if you couldn't sit still there was something wrong with you.
Yep sure is something wrong my dear. You died.
Not that I know where to go of course.
But I can't do what I did yesterday, stay in and watch two films.
I think I'm missing the adrenaline rush I had when mother was in the house.
I had no time to think it was action action action. Mother though said that if you couldn't sit still there was something wrong with you.
Yep sure is something wrong my dear. You died.
Tuesday, 29 July 2014
It's The Little Things
I went into one of mum's favourite charity shops yesterday and came to a hurtful halt when I saw one of mum's handbags hanging on a rack.
I'd recently given the church shop a sack of mum's bags, they were after all no good for her anymore and I knew she would have preferred them to go to place where, in the fullness of time, someone else would get pleasure from them as she did.
Yet when I saw the small brown handbag hanging amidst all the other bags it brought home to me my loss.
We had spent time and a small fortune in charity shops buying up bits and bobs, bags and blouses, ornaments and books, they were places of pleasure where we could spend our cash willy nilly and NOT break the bank.
Coming home, either to my bungalow or to her flat we'd drop the bulging bags down, I'd then make tea and drink it while holding up a blouse or bag each getting nods of approval from the other.
It was the one area where we truly connected. There were many others where we did not. But today is not about differences it is about talking kindly.
She was born in 1937 in London to poor parents, an only child and a much loved one. Growing up in London during the war she had of course many memories to store up, too many to note here but her childhood was one of pretty dresses and fussing parents. Then mum grew up and fell in love with my dad, Fred, it was then she was met with the wrath of bullish parents who, at the time, were not happy with their daughter's choice of partner, and so they really dug their heels in refusing to attend the marriage and then after the cake had gone, putting mum in the difficult position of choosing either her parents or her husband. She chose Fred.
A young inexperienced pair set out on life's matrimonial highway determined to prove that they would survive despite having very little money, nowhere to live and a baby on the way.
After ten years of living in many mouse infested rooms we finally qualified for a council flat...
And in the spring of 1966 mum dad and myself moved into our first proper home..... a fourth floor flat in Durban House on the White City Estate supplied by the council it was small and old but clean and wonderful and we loved it.
There was a nearby park, football stadium. greyhound track and glorious Shepherd's Bush market where incidentally mum and me started the Handbag thing....
Dad was working, mum wore a pinny and cooked mince and onions and Christmasses were filled with pies and presents and love and youthful energy. I was a happy nipper.
Then mum's dad died suddenly at 59 and she went bonkers. Asthma set in, dad lost his job and we left the old block of brown and red bricks for brand new flat in a grey stone and glass block.
Mum was never the same again. Almost from day one she regretted it, she never made friends, I made a few, dad was working again and life carried on.
To supplement dad's meagre wages mum worked and worked hard. Getting up early coming home late but oh boy she looked terrific. Blonde curly hair, never ending legs and stunningly beautiful blue eyes. Dad liked what he saw and showed it often to the annoyance of mum who by nature was shy. She didn't do displays of affection, some would call her cold I called her mum.
We were often in cahoots over things. Like me bunking off school, like me not going to work, like me wanting to stay home and clean every room and make dinner. Even then I showed love of domesticity which in my later years would prove my saviour.
At any rate she never let dad know I didn't go to school that day.
On those fun occasions when I skipped school I had the temerity to sit on a wall near the dry cleaners shop where she worked and wait patiently for her. Then along she'd wriggle in a 1969 short skirt, hair gleaming with gold and big bag swinging from her arm.
"What are you doing here?" she'd ask
I grinned like the ugly oily 13 year old I was saying that I hated being bullied and that I want to be with you instead.
It ALWAYS worked.
And after a thorough telling off on the way to the bus stop we'd arrive at my nans place (they had made up by then) where we'd eat chips with vinegar and read the Woman's Own. I'd often be asked to skim the scum off nanny's beef stew and got 6d for doing so. Nan had given up the fight. After Ted, her husband died, she gave up on life.preferring to sit and stare and complain continually about my mum. Her skirts were too short, she worked too much, and why was she stilll with my dad. Water off a ducks back to mum. She didn't allow the ramblings of an embittered mother ruin the good little life she had with dad and me.
Thankfully we never stayed long our visits usually being once a week, enough for mum and enough for me.
Mum had many jobs but the job she loved most was being a cashier in a betting shop. Man, did she and could she hold her own amongst those rowdy gamblers. I mean she was never fazed. And I know how difficult working in a bookmakers could be because in my later years I too worked in one.I didn't handle money though, I did the board. And I have my daddy to thank for that. He was working there and they needed a boardperson straight away and so I was enrolled.
19 years old. Unafraid. After all I was TOLD I could do it by my parents. And whatever they said I believed. "Hey you go walk on those hot coals, I promise it won't hurt"
And it didn't.
Mum's life carried on with all the va va voom of a woman who bent the knee to nobody. Although I could never understand her offishness with strangers, I mean she hated everyone, I always respected her no-nonsense attitude.. She didn't concern herself with what nosey neighbours thought. She was clearly her own woman.
It wasn't all easy though, I'd be lying if I said otherwise. There were times especially during the 1990's when even my famous patience started to run out. It was when she had emotional problems and need to go the hospital, I always went with her, and on the one occasion I wanted to go home straight afterwards she made a cutting remark that floored me.
I don't know why she wished I'd never been born or why, during the last years of her life she felt she had no-one to talk to.
What more could I do to prove that I loved her?
I'd given her my home and love. I sacrificed my marriage. I made myself ill making her well.
Yet she still said she had no-one.
Life and families and love. A troublesome three. And when joined together sometimes make for an un-holy trinity.
I sorted out her draw yesterday coming across her favourite headscarf. I held it to my nose and breathed in her scent. What did I feel?
I felt sad.
The funeral last Friday was mercifully quick, her wicker coffin simple exquisite and as I peered through the slats I saw her head covered by the shroud. All I said was "Sorry I couldn't save you"
We didn't always see eye to eye but.........
I knew she would have done the same for me.
I'd recently given the church shop a sack of mum's bags, they were after all no good for her anymore and I knew she would have preferred them to go to place where, in the fullness of time, someone else would get pleasure from them as she did.
Yet when I saw the small brown handbag hanging amidst all the other bags it brought home to me my loss.
We had spent time and a small fortune in charity shops buying up bits and bobs, bags and blouses, ornaments and books, they were places of pleasure where we could spend our cash willy nilly and NOT break the bank.
Coming home, either to my bungalow or to her flat we'd drop the bulging bags down, I'd then make tea and drink it while holding up a blouse or bag each getting nods of approval from the other.
It was the one area where we truly connected. There were many others where we did not. But today is not about differences it is about talking kindly.
She was born in 1937 in London to poor parents, an only child and a much loved one. Growing up in London during the war she had of course many memories to store up, too many to note here but her childhood was one of pretty dresses and fussing parents. Then mum grew up and fell in love with my dad, Fred, it was then she was met with the wrath of bullish parents who, at the time, were not happy with their daughter's choice of partner, and so they really dug their heels in refusing to attend the marriage and then after the cake had gone, putting mum in the difficult position of choosing either her parents or her husband. She chose Fred.
A young inexperienced pair set out on life's matrimonial highway determined to prove that they would survive despite having very little money, nowhere to live and a baby on the way.
After ten years of living in many mouse infested rooms we finally qualified for a council flat...
And in the spring of 1966 mum dad and myself moved into our first proper home..... a fourth floor flat in Durban House on the White City Estate supplied by the council it was small and old but clean and wonderful and we loved it.
There was a nearby park, football stadium. greyhound track and glorious Shepherd's Bush market where incidentally mum and me started the Handbag thing....
Dad was working, mum wore a pinny and cooked mince and onions and Christmasses were filled with pies and presents and love and youthful energy. I was a happy nipper.
Then mum's dad died suddenly at 59 and she went bonkers. Asthma set in, dad lost his job and we left the old block of brown and red bricks for brand new flat in a grey stone and glass block.
Mum was never the same again. Almost from day one she regretted it, she never made friends, I made a few, dad was working again and life carried on.
To supplement dad's meagre wages mum worked and worked hard. Getting up early coming home late but oh boy she looked terrific. Blonde curly hair, never ending legs and stunningly beautiful blue eyes. Dad liked what he saw and showed it often to the annoyance of mum who by nature was shy. She didn't do displays of affection, some would call her cold I called her mum.
We were often in cahoots over things. Like me bunking off school, like me not going to work, like me wanting to stay home and clean every room and make dinner. Even then I showed love of domesticity which in my later years would prove my saviour.
At any rate she never let dad know I didn't go to school that day.
On those fun occasions when I skipped school I had the temerity to sit on a wall near the dry cleaners shop where she worked and wait patiently for her. Then along she'd wriggle in a 1969 short skirt, hair gleaming with gold and big bag swinging from her arm.
"What are you doing here?" she'd ask
I grinned like the ugly oily 13 year old I was saying that I hated being bullied and that I want to be with you instead.
It ALWAYS worked.
And after a thorough telling off on the way to the bus stop we'd arrive at my nans place (they had made up by then) where we'd eat chips with vinegar and read the Woman's Own. I'd often be asked to skim the scum off nanny's beef stew and got 6d for doing so. Nan had given up the fight. After Ted, her husband died, she gave up on life.preferring to sit and stare and complain continually about my mum. Her skirts were too short, she worked too much, and why was she stilll with my dad. Water off a ducks back to mum. She didn't allow the ramblings of an embittered mother ruin the good little life she had with dad and me.
Thankfully we never stayed long our visits usually being once a week, enough for mum and enough for me.
Mum had many jobs but the job she loved most was being a cashier in a betting shop. Man, did she and could she hold her own amongst those rowdy gamblers. I mean she was never fazed. And I know how difficult working in a bookmakers could be because in my later years I too worked in one.I didn't handle money though, I did the board. And I have my daddy to thank for that. He was working there and they needed a boardperson straight away and so I was enrolled.
19 years old. Unafraid. After all I was TOLD I could do it by my parents. And whatever they said I believed. "Hey you go walk on those hot coals, I promise it won't hurt"
And it didn't.
Mum's life carried on with all the va va voom of a woman who bent the knee to nobody. Although I could never understand her offishness with strangers, I mean she hated everyone, I always respected her no-nonsense attitude.. She didn't concern herself with what nosey neighbours thought. She was clearly her own woman.
It wasn't all easy though, I'd be lying if I said otherwise. There were times especially during the 1990's when even my famous patience started to run out. It was when she had emotional problems and need to go the hospital, I always went with her, and on the one occasion I wanted to go home straight afterwards she made a cutting remark that floored me.
I don't know why she wished I'd never been born or why, during the last years of her life she felt she had no-one to talk to.
What more could I do to prove that I loved her?
I'd given her my home and love. I sacrificed my marriage. I made myself ill making her well.
Yet she still said she had no-one.
Life and families and love. A troublesome three. And when joined together sometimes make for an un-holy trinity.
I sorted out her draw yesterday coming across her favourite headscarf. I held it to my nose and breathed in her scent. What did I feel?
I felt sad.
The funeral last Friday was mercifully quick, her wicker coffin simple exquisite and as I peered through the slats I saw her head covered by the shroud. All I said was "Sorry I couldn't save you"
We didn't always see eye to eye but.........
I knew she would have done the same for me.
Thursday, 24 July 2014
With red and pink roses from my garden and bunches of Gypsophila and yellow roses from the florist on the hill, mum's floral kisses are ready to be laid..
Tomorrow.
Heaven knows what I'll do when I see her again.
I know what I'm going to say though as my hands touch her wicker basket coffin..
"When I was a child I couldn't have had a nicer mummy. When I grew to be a woman I couldn't have had a better friend"
Tomorrow.
Heaven knows what I'll do when I see her again.
I know what I'm going to say though as my hands touch her wicker basket coffin..
"When I was a child I couldn't have had a nicer mummy. When I grew to be a woman I couldn't have had a better friend"
Thoughts
I'll be picking flowers from the garden today to lay on mum's wicker basket tomorrow.
Other than that I won't know what to do.
I've never known tiredness like this.
Shock and grief for sure.
Other than that I won't know what to do.
I've never known tiredness like this.
Shock and grief for sure.
Friday, 18 July 2014
Wednesday, 16 July 2014
Cameron's Night of The Long Knives and My All Over The Place Musings.
Man hath no greater love than to lay down his friend for his life.
So did Prime Minister David Cameron in yesterday's cabinet reshuffle. Shoving to one side his cabinet buddy and Education Secretary Mr Michael Gove in favour of 41 year old brunette Nicky Morgan who breezed into 10 Downing Street wearing a very short jacket. Hmmm. She looked over the moon.
Also given their marching orders were William Hague, foreign secretary, who, from now on, will be waving the whip at unruly backbenchers.
Making an ill advised fashion statement was one time tv presenter Esther McVey arriving at Number Ten in a thigh flashing dress. Oops. According to the Daily Mail an outfit unbecoming of a newly appointed cabinet member.
Others ladies strutting along were Priti Patel in a jacket ten times too big for her, Liz Truss (one to watch) clad in bright pink and cobalt blue. Oh dear.
And promoted to Welsh Secretary the hirsute Stephen Crabbe. Pundits were quick to point out that it's been donkey's years since a bearded man walked into Downing Strret. I fear for his growth.
Losing her job as government whip is Claire Perry, Ms Perry is now junior transport minister.
There ooodles more I could blog about but life is short, life is fleeting and I do have other tasks to attend to. So on that flippant note I'll say cheerio.
P.S.
I'm hoping, that by midday mum will be dressed and able to come with me to Two Ducks where she'll be fussed over and fed by Mr Hairy Suit and myself. And, as it's another summer sizzler, we'll be eating a picnic lunch outside.
Looking at mum just now I feel it will be just Hairy and myself.
Earlier today mum held my hand when I sat on the bed, she looked far away, her gentle stroking of my rheumatic hand had me speechless. Mum, you see, doesn't do holding hands. I hope that whatever transpires this afternoon mum will feel a little good.
So did Prime Minister David Cameron in yesterday's cabinet reshuffle. Shoving to one side his cabinet buddy and Education Secretary Mr Michael Gove in favour of 41 year old brunette Nicky Morgan who breezed into 10 Downing Street wearing a very short jacket. Hmmm. She looked over the moon.
Also given their marching orders were William Hague, foreign secretary, who, from now on, will be waving the whip at unruly backbenchers.
Making an ill advised fashion statement was one time tv presenter Esther McVey arriving at Number Ten in a thigh flashing dress. Oops. According to the Daily Mail an outfit unbecoming of a newly appointed cabinet member.
Others ladies strutting along were Priti Patel in a jacket ten times too big for her, Liz Truss (one to watch) clad in bright pink and cobalt blue. Oh dear.
And promoted to Welsh Secretary the hirsute Stephen Crabbe. Pundits were quick to point out that it's been donkey's years since a bearded man walked into Downing Strret. I fear for his growth.
Losing her job as government whip is Claire Perry, Ms Perry is now junior transport minister.
There ooodles more I could blog about but life is short, life is fleeting and I do have other tasks to attend to. So on that flippant note I'll say cheerio.
P.S.
I'm hoping, that by midday mum will be dressed and able to come with me to Two Ducks where she'll be fussed over and fed by Mr Hairy Suit and myself. And, as it's another summer sizzler, we'll be eating a picnic lunch outside.
Looking at mum just now I feel it will be just Hairy and myself.
Earlier today mum held my hand when I sat on the bed, she looked far away, her gentle stroking of my rheumatic hand had me speechless. Mum, you see, doesn't do holding hands. I hope that whatever transpires this afternoon mum will feel a little good.
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| Now you know where I get the posing thing from... | Mum in about 1982. |
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