Making a splash

We went North at the weekend, to celebrate our grandson’s 16^th birthday. His father had told him it was to be a surprise, then took him to the Middlesbrough match, and he thought that was the surprise. But unknown to him, we had all assembled at the house, and hid behind the door when they returned, to leap out and call “Happy Birthday!”, so he had a second surprise and was suitably thrilled by the attention he got. Everyone was there – even the Great X – but not the boy’s uncle Dan, who went to the match, but then said “If dad’s there, I’m not going!” We have never learnt the cause of his animosity – but he completely ignores Ann, Edwin and me if he meets us, and even hurts others to avoid me.

Ann was on the Embankment in London some years ago, and our young grandson was staying with his uncle and met them by happenstance, shouting "There's Grannie Annie!" The boy ran across to greet her, but Dan stayed sulking in the shadows, and would not greet her or Edwin. Now, he cannot even bear to see me, though I have a second and even more nasty cancer to deal with. Who needs such animosity in their life? People of such ilk are not worth the knowing.

Yesterday was the pre-operative assessment at West Suffolk Hospital. They had asked for an early morning MSU, and I had carefully prepared and labelled the bottle at 6am when I got up. I put it in a plastic bag, and in a folder with its forms. As we walked towards the hospital, we suddenly heard the repeating screech of a car alarm. “Is that my car?” wondered Ann. I went back, and sure enough it was! I think the low sun streaming through the window may have triggered it. Unfortunately, in my rush, the urine bottle had slipped out of the folder. I went back to pick it up to find the bag and paperwork soaking. Ann said, “the bottle has a split in it.” In fact, it was completely flattened, with urine squeezed out with great force onto everything. The only car to have followed us in must have aimed straight at it, and run it over. In the clinic, I could only apologize, and give them a mid-morning mid-stream sample in a new bottle.

On the mild side of Wilde

Stopped at a favourite watering hole for the pint that refreshes on the way back from London.  The Three Horseshoes  is conveniently placed about half way home, just after leaving the M11 to take the direct and pretty way home. After a hard day in the office, it's good to unwind and collect my thoughts before trundling back across the slow country lanes. It's a very old hostelry, no doubt a stagecoach stop long before Stansted; possibly even before stagecoaches. It's the sort of place the Romans might have used after a hard day's road building. They have a selection of ales from microbreweries, and change at least one every week. Today they had one I hadn't seen before: Oscar Wilde, a mild beer, yet brimming with a dark quality that glinted mysteriously in the low light. A most delicious ale, worth capturing, as I will probably never meet it again.

Working into retirement definitely has some purpose with stops like these, and makes a journey to London well worth the effort. The work's good too, though travelling on the tube in the rush hour grows more challenging each year, with the crush of elbows and knees on spots that are more tender, and legs that grow tireder with the standing, becomes ever more intense.

An Irish border

Belfast is a youthful, vibrant, wonderful city, but one holding a dirty secret. When I first visited N. Ireland, some roads from the international airport were still blocked with coiled barbed wire and towering machine gun turrets. I came each month and watched the sectarianism being slowly dismantled, the small roads opened up again, and an air of peace spread across the ground. People from both North and South worked together at Almac in Craigavon for common purpose, and there was an air of pride and achievement in their joint labour.

Marking the border in Belfast

This summer, I visited Belfast itself for the first time, and found a city still divided. The peace lines are great walls of brick and iron, reaching up to 7 meters, topped with razor wire, and emblazoned with graffiti. They have proliferated since 1969, and there are now over 21 miles of them. The police stations along this border remain fortified, and each evening great gates close many of the roads, effectively imposing a night time curfew.



These walls seemed to put the immigrant control lines of Hungary and Macedonia into context, and make the current disagreements over a customs border with Ireland laughable. In a major European city within the UK, this is shaming.

Country Interlude

Walked with the dogs at the weekend round the fields I see from my study, before resting half way, sitting quietly on a stile. Suddenly something breathed into my ear and pressed my shoulder. I jumped up to find a horse with its head in my face. It had been the other side of the meadow when I sat down, and I hadn’t thought more about it. 

Horsey in his field

He lives in the seven acre meadows beyond my window. The people who own it break horses, and I watch them leading their young mounts in circles on halter training. Later they graduate to the bridle and saddle, and are led past our house for their road work, ready for their new owners. The grey is one of two older horses, used perhaps to lead the young ones. The land is prime building land, and NIMBY-like I hope it is not sold for development, or instead of looking out on a meadow with spring hares dancing, and deer upon the hill, I will look out on a field of small cramped brick housing and smell the fumes of commuters.

Then, turning round, a bunch of blackberries thrust themselves into my face. Almost an inch across, dripping with juice and honey sweet, they fell into my mouth at the lightest touch. Sometimes country living has good rewards.

Backing Labour

Have rejoined the Labour Party, to support  care and fairness rather than to support the eccentricities of the present leader. I was last a member in Middlesbrough, a town strongly labour with a massive and vocal support base that ended up so vitriolic against any disagreement that it drove me out for 40 years. But I have taken the risk, and returned to the fold.

My first meeting this morning. This meeting was gentle, caring, well led, and thoughtful calmness. One person came late - the representative for women's issues - appologising that her child was playing up this morning. He'd had his first day at school this week, and for a dare had opened a drain and jumped in with both feet. His shoes were black with oozing slimey mud, so she'd put them in the washing machine. "Luckily they were Clarkes," she said, "they came out again quite OK".

Someone raised the looming problems of Brexit and the possibility of shortages of food and drugs, and wondered what should be done. The chairperson (I am becoming conscientiously PC these days, so I won't specify chairwoman) immediately pulled the meeting back to the local issues.

"No one knows what will happen, and I can't get a position from the Central Party about the attitude we should take towards a second referendum. The important things for this branch are to build support for the struggling food banks, to publicise the increasing number of impoverished children, when the prime-minister promised to eliminated child poverty by 2010, and to pressurise for more support for the school bus service, because the poorest children are forced to use schools they can walk to rather than schools of their choice, as the parents can't afford the bus fares." All, I thought, very worthy issues. I must go again.

Anticipating Finality

Each day, Ann posts a new poem on "No Coward Soul is Mine", her poetry site on WordPress. Each poem is deeply personal or introspective, usually reflecting the mournful reaction to a soul of unease. Many reflect the people closest to her - the strained relationships or deep injustice or betrayal.

She has a unique voice: beautifully crafted simple themes, minimally rhymed, punching home a message of truth. They invariably move me deeply: to tears, or to make the hairs on my neck bristle. If challenged for their source or meaning, she cheerfully proclaims "Why does everyone think my poetry is about them? It about everywoman or man!" Today's is:

 "Finality":

He died

now it is as if he never lived,

never drew breath

or held another's hand,

he is gone

and given up to death

never more

will he taste the joy that was his home,

his garden now is but a field of weeds

all he held most dear has moved on,

the man he was is forgotten,

buried deep

now his life is lost

those he left will grieve

and then move on

It could be about the great loss suffered by all who grieve, or - with two cancers with potentially fatal endings - could it be interpreted as a life beyond my own? I will not ask. Ann would always reply, "Why must everything be about you?"

E. spent yesterday in Cambridge, removing the pain of memory by revisiting shared places. He phoned to say he would take dinner there, and be late back. Clearly there were a lot of memories for so brief a time together - let's hope they are assuaged.

Ann's cousin Allan is visiting, and over the weekend will come Ben, Lucy and their families. Last weekend it was Matthew, who wanted a picture of "me and dad". Is everyone mourning before I'm gone? Do they all share secrets unknown to me? To have a deep and hidden cancer is mentally wearing. I am tired and feel weak, and I don't know if it is physical or psychological. But I'm not on the death bed yet - I dread to think how they will behave with that finality in the air.

A (very) short break

After walking the dogs in Clare at lunchtime, I drove back onto the drive to take Edwin's place as he was to be away for a few days. Ann came running out, phone to her ear. "You'll have to park back on the road," she said. "Edwin's coming back."

Today, Edwin should have been in Denmark. He left Cambridge and the train to London. Only after boarding the Heathrow express did we learn he had had a disagreement with the friend he was flying out to stay with. He got off at the first terminal and caught the next train back.