A history lesson at the carwash

Taking the car to be cleaned this morning ready for the New Year, and mine being the only car there, I was talking at length to the owner. He came from Macedonia 19 years ago, and has done well by the business. Unusually, he commutes from Cambridge where he owns a house, for prices were low 19 years ago. He employs several people, who pay £400 per month for a single room in Haverhill, but prices have risen so much even in Haverhill that he couldn't afford a house here.

He told me a little of the history of his region, and how the country had been stable under Tito when united with Yugoslavia, before the great Yugoslavian wars of disruption that ended with the country fragmenting along religious lines. He was one of five boys, but his father had earned enough to keep the whole family comfortable. Now, wages are so low each family member has to work. But he loves England, the land of opportunity, and is so well settled in Cambridge he has no desire to leave. In some way I didn't fully follow, Macedonia is not allowed to join the EU (something to do with Greece claiming it, I think).

Serbia/Croatia/Montenegro/Macedonia? The history is impossibly complicated for an outsider to comprehend, but I know from my history of Tesla (a Serb) that the Turks caused their usual mayhem, obliterating the original Serbian peoples and instilling Muslim theology into the region in the battle of Kosovo of 1389, which is still remembered. I remember an Armenian girl who told me a similar tale, of how the Turks had destroyed her people. Now, they are intent on destroying the Kurds also. How hatred perpetuates itself through the world, usually through the instigation of one wild man, unrestrained by his people.

On the domestic front, the cancer continues to make its presence known. The bladder is sore, PU'ing is difficult and painful, and dipstick testing confirms the presence of blood, protein and leucocytes, probably all a result of the vicious inflammation induced by the DXT. I continue to feel nausea, with reduced appetite, and have lost weight. Only three more treatment days, thankfully!

Paulo's ABBA Party

Edwin with friends at the Abba party

Last night was party night at Paulo's. The theme is usually highly classical, with opera singing and professional musicians, but last night was "Abba", in a severe break with tradition. Edwin did a good job of sight reading to lead the singing, supported by Max who is a professional organist in London, and showed how to lead us in on the upbeats. The Abba songs were followed by a traditional hearty rendition of Jerusalem, in memory of the mother of Paulo's partner, John.

John chose it as a hymn at his father's funeral, despite some resistance from the vicar who declared it was not a proper hymn, but he managed to get a friend of his to sing it. John told the vicar to turn the microphones and PA system off, as it would spoil the purity of the vocalist. "But can she fill the church with her voice?" asked the vicar.

"She fills Covent Garden without trouble," John responded, and the vicar gave way after that.

Jerusalem was especially poignant, as Edwin has left for a 10 day vacation in Isreal today. Ann and I should have been going as well, but this was lost when my cancer treatment intervened. Indeed, the whole evening had more the atmosphere of a wake than a party, as the principle harpist who normally performs for us is on extended absence at her majesty's pleasure.

Ann and Grandad-John at the Abba Party

Paulo is Portuguese and Edwin's piano teacher, and makes a fair sangria, mostly containing vodka with a dash of fruit juice. I am saddened to say that Ann drowned her worries about me by consuming this to the point of unsteadiness. She has no recollection of getting in the car to return home, or of falling out of the car to lie with her head in the bush at the gate. We carried her in, but she was certainly a little the worse for wear even 24 hours later.

"Why do people get drunk?" she asked the next day.
"To forget," I said. "If you get drunk at my wake, you'll forget who I was!"

The BBC are running a series of 100 influential women. Everything these days seems to be about women; the BBC are shutting out half their audience. They should aim to be more balanced in their broadcasts: I paid my licence fee as much as everyone else, until they said I was too old to contribute. Why not a series of 100 influential old people of both genders? I'm sure there must be some oldies who've continued to add to the world in meaningful ways, rather than merely being the drain on society that we're painted to be these days.

Please send me a comment if you feel neglected by the BBC

Mail comments to: grandad.john@2from.com

Birthday gifts

My birthday passed quietly, although for most of it I lay covered in a blanket in my chair following my morning dose of DXT. Many wives would never tolerate having a Great X in their home, and many people have commented how unusual it is for Ann to host the Great X. But Ann is a very unusual woman, and the Great X behaved with dignity and compassion. She was a hospice nurse once, and his not forgotten the role, though she did apologise after blurting out, "of course, this cancer can't be cured - only held at bay."

Mary-Anne and the girls brought a basket of wonderful gifts for my birthday:

A basket of birthday gifts

• Balloons to help the celebration go with a bang
• Bubble gum to remind me to stick with it
• Tea bags for when I need a cuppa
• Elastic bands to keep me flexible
• A lollipop for when life sucks
• Paper clips to help hold things together
• A yo-yo for life's ups and downs
• A magnifying glass for when I lose my glasses
• A pen for when it's too rude to go on the blog
• An eraser for when it should be rubbed off the blog 
• A ball of string to tie it all together when things fall apart
• A name tag in case I forget who I am
• A pair of scissors for when I need to cut people's heads off (in joke! see finding-zillian)

Be free to comment if you've received a special birthday gift

Mail comments to: grandad.john@2from.com

Happy Birthday To Me

Eds brings the cake

My birthday and three quarters of the way through the DXT ceremony. A number of visitors came to cheer me on, including the Great X with son Matthew and his new partner Rosie, and Mary-Anne and Sam and their two girls. Sam told some wonderful tales, such as the report on the Hundon Facebook page that a local burglar had been caught and would be sentenced in the new year. This brought a number of comments, including one from the burglar himself who said, "I didn't do it. You'll regret this when they find me not guilty!"

Another of his stories was of a mate of his who was having a microwaved Christmas dinner for one. His wife had walked out, and his own mother helped her pack up the things and move them out. She went off with a new man, drained his bank account so he couldn't reinsure his van for work, and took his name off the school mailing list to prevent him ever attending things involving his children. Definitely a candidate for Alan's SAD (Society-for-Acrimonious-Divorce). 

Sam is good at topping stories. Ann mentioned a friend of hers who had a strong odour, whom they used to call Bo. She thought it was a compliment referring to Bo Derek, even when her work mates left antiperspirants and talcum powder in her drawer. But Sam found one of his work mates shaving in his wing mirror. Another candidate for SAD, his wife had also thrown him out (the mate, not Sam), and he was having to sleep in his car. He smelt so bad he was banned from the bookmakers!

Please add any comments if 2018 has a special memory for you too

Mail to: grandad.john@2from.com

Empty Chairs

Empty Chairs

Christmas,
a time to remember
a time for those who are gone,
and those who cannot be here –
those familiar dear faces,
with the now vacant chairs
we miss those we have loved –
the absent and dead.
So raise glass with a tear
"God please keep them safe
those who cannot be here."

Annie Elliott

Asked if I ever had a hero, someone I looked up to in my youth, someone admired, I usually say no. I had one or two 'good' teachers, who taught well and whose lessons have stayed with me. One especially was the English teacher at Caludon Castle School, Mr Bennett, who gave me a love for Milton, but none were inspirational as role models. I had no school-boy 'crushes', I did not admire the athletic ones or the high achievers, for each one of us has some gift – why should one be favoured over another? But some people I did admire more than others: Victor Daniels who gave me my first freelance work, with huge encouragement; Sir Allen McClay, founder of Galen Pharmaceuticals and Almac Sciences, who took me on board as a pharmaceutical medic in 2003, and with whose companies I have worked ever since; but both these men are now dead.

Now too, we hear the news that Sister Wendy has died today. She I never met, but only admired from afar for her television series on art. The Sunday Times slated her once in a review, calling her an "old bat-like figure, fixated on Freudian imagery', to which I wrote a vigorous defense. The letter was published, and I had a treasured reply from Sister Wendy saying my words "assuaged the hurt". I thought that was a lovely phrase, and assuaged was a word I never used, but is now for ever associated with her memory. Alas, she stopped broadcasting after the criticism, for she was genuinely modest, and retreated to her caravan in the grounds of her Norfolk nunnery.

Another word I learnt, probably when I was but eight or nine years old, was from The Eagle, when Captain Dan Dare told Digby to press three buttons "simultaneously". This was a word never used in our household, or by any of my friends, and I had to look it up. I think this as much as Milton was the foundation of my love for our English language, its wonderful vocabulary and rich rhythms.

I think most of my heroes, even now, are fictional: people like Sky Masterson in Guys and Dolls. He was everything I admired: a true professional and the best at the job he loved; loyal, trustworthy and honest. Even his enemies said he never told a lie; and even at the risk of losing his greatest bet, he won it with guts and integrity. A true hero.

Happy Christmas, and Peace Throughout the World

Ann on Christmas Day 2018

Happy Christmas!

Happy Christmas Day to all, and an especially happy Christmas to darling Ann, for all her support throughout the year, her special strength and nursing care over the last few months, and who acts as unpaid editor for these jottings.

This year, we have a Gay Pride Christmas Tree, chosen specially by Edwin, to celebrate human rights throughout the world (my interpretation!)

The burning witch within is well alight now - yesterday was my 14th treatment with DXT, with six to go. The burning is evident from the pain and dribbling, but at least it has a purpose. In Starbucks afterwards, someone rushed forward and gave Edwin a massive hug, while Edwin tried desperately to remember who it was. He was the former manager of Costa in Haverhill, where Edwin had been a regular customer. He'd been moved to Brighton but was now back running Starbucks in Addenbrooke's. "Get Edwin an extra grande latte with caramel shots," he ordered, "and charge it to the manager's account." Edwin didn't like to say that he also wanted a second drink and food for two, so we ended up having our snack at Costa. On the way home, we stopped at Wandlebury to walk the dogs. It was warm, bright and clean in the clear woods, and wonderful to take the fresh air after the stuffy treatment rooms of Addenbrooke's.

Edwin then told another 'story. A post-grad friend of his is currently doing some teaching, when a friend of hers requested that she accompany her to the STD clinic. Walking in, she was certain she would be confronted by a room full of her own students. Far from embarrassed, she told Edwin she would just be impressed by how mature her students were, and how sensible to be careful of their health.

Christmas

Today,
is His day,
named for Him,
A day of remembrance
for his Father's gift,
not wrapped up
in pretty paper and string.
I will stop for a moment
to remember Him.

Annie Elliott

At Christmas, it is time to remember empty places at the table. There are so many now (though some of them are missed for the wrong reasons, and with pleasure rather than sadness.) The Great X is determined to come and see me and will visit on my birthday. For the first time in 41 years, Lucy will not see her mother over Christmas, and the Great X will not be with her grandchildren. It is at Christmas that we especially miss our loved ones: parents, brothers, sisters, children. We remember the old times, the times past. We remember the fractures and disagreements. Following divorce from the Great X, each year on this one day, I felt torn from the children one inevitably leaves behind with divorce. For years afterwards, Christmas day was always a day of depression for me, and I could only slink off to bed in the afternoons. I still miss them, of course, the memory of their youth and happiness, captured in my book "The Magic Quilty". But now I go to bed not from depression – for they are fully grown with children of their own – but from illness. This year, alas, I feel too sick to take delight in food or chocolate, but the memories survive. May God bless them every one!

Drones over Gatwick

The news for the past few days has been filled with pictures of tired travellers frustrated by a single bit of plastic waste polluting the sky above Gatwick Airport. The police have arrested one couple, although it is now claimed they may have had good alibis and are released from suspicion.

Drone spotted near Gatwick?

Yet one drone was supposed to have circled the control tower to taunt the ATC people working up there. For all the hoo-hah, we have not seen one picture released showing the drone. Are there no cameras amongst these people? Usually we are overwhelmed by these poor quality pixelated pictures. Indeed, one story is claiming there was no drone! It was all in the imagination of the public!

Either way, even assuming the story is true, and the police do eventually parade someone without an alibi, we are told that "it is not terrorism", and the culprit(s) will only get short sentences. If the perpetrators were crying to their god as they brought disruption to the skies, they would have been accused and prosecuted as terrorists. The crime should be on the deed, not the religion or creed of the perpetrator, therefore it is the deed itself that should be deemed terrorism, even though the perpetrators may prove to be white environmentalists. The ultimate disruption to our integrated way of life is the same; the consequences for tens of thousands of travellers is the same chaos. Let the punishment be the same. These are terrorists, and shall be brought down, as they brought down so many flights. We are fortunate indeed that there has yet been no life lost from drones. The warnings are in place – let us trust that the responses are equally ready.