Posters

Going down to London for a meeting, the M11 motorway signs had a new message: "Freight destined for the EU may require new paperwork after 1 November". Perhaps they know something the rest of the country doesn't yet? Just when I thought it was safe to go back to the news (see Let my People Go!), the courts have decided the government does not have the right to prorogue parliament and start a new session. Perhaps they would like to use the law to choose when we hold an election? Maybe even change the result if they don't like the incoming political party? No doubt the judges would like to make the laws instead of merely interpreting them! The whole system has entered Never-Never Land, and I now live in hope for Peter Pan to fly through the window and lead us by the hand out of this mess. Nothing else can save us but a magic miracle. M-A has sent a lovely picture of a pub-sign that sums it all up.

On the tube in London I saw another poster that gets my vote for the worst advertisement of the year. The heading is completely negative, and takes up so much room there is no room for a strap-line to draw people in, and the descriptive text is so small anyone wanting to read it would have to press against the knees of the person sitting below. I have no idea what the product is, and could not make it out from the width of a tube train. I used to help with writing adverts for pharmaceutical products, and a much better title might be: "This is revolutionary", with a strap line to suggest the target audience or give a hint of what they're selling.

Worst advert of the year?

On a lighter note, at the meeting the big boss has asked me to represent him at a series of bid-defence meetings where three companies are pitching for a multi-million pound contract. His email specified: "Please make your [medical] opinions known to the study team. You have an important voice - don't be shy." At last, someone has recognised I have an important voice - though I had always hoped it would be the voice of my poetry (see Exile Poetry) rather than for pharmaceutical development.

At the Hairstylist

My regular stylist, Paula, was away when I got to D'Fine this morning for a trim before London, so I ended up with Amber, the youngest stylist, waif-like and the face of a nymph, who still lives with her father in the house in which she was born. On either side sat people talking about the most important things in their lives - themselves. On one side the man boasted of how important he was, and the responsibility of his job (unspecified).  On the other, a woman gave a detailed account of her thyroid, its management and problems. When it was time for her to pay, she said she would have to "wait for my husband to come, as he has the money. Men!" Her hairdresser was Kelly, who has had many misfortunes of her own but didn't broadcast them, "Yeh, who'd have them?" she agreed. The obvious answer was only too clear - the only ones who'd have them were the ones they got, though Kelly is lovely and her husband decorated Edwin's bedroom and is fine. She is forced to make polite conversation by her position, but wouldn't it be great if she could say what she really felt.

During the session, a uniformed man came in waving a technical bit of kit, and saying he'd come to check all the electricals and was surprised no one was expecting him, as he'd made an appointment. He then proceeded to pull out all the plugs one by one and push them into his tester. He pulled out Amber's plug half way through my beard trim, leaving it dead in her hand, then satisfied he attached a green sticker and moved on. Finally, needing his form signing, he asked who was in charge. Paula being away, no one seemed eager to act in her place, but then the eldest stylist said she guessed it must be her and signed his chittie.

Getting home, our neighbours were in the drive, Linda waving a car pressure hose and David watching in his wheelchair. Until his stroke, he always used to maintain the cars and was getting frustrated trying to instruct Linda, with only one arm to wave and limited vocalisation,. But he is certainly improving and I could understand many of his words, though at critical moments one can see him reaching for a word in his mind, yet unable to get it out through his mouth. It must be so frustrating, for he clearly understands what is said to him. In some ways, his position is like the hairstylists, who know what they would like to say but are blocked by societal norms from expressing it.

Meetings and partings

Surely meetings are the bane of business life. Today I had four, of which one could have been done by email questions, and another was just listening, my presence swelling the huge number of participants. This may feed the egos of the organisers, but does nothing to feed the soul. One company I work for even has meetings about meetings - pre-meeting meetings to decide what will be on the agenda, and post-meeting meetings to discuss how the meeting went and if it met its objectives. The only plus is that they are all attended from home, where I can enjoy a cup of tea and a Mars bar, rather than wasting still more time travelling, or walking down endless corridors.

Now the weather has turned toward winter, and the first cold spell has arrived. The swallows have already deserted us early this year – though there did seem many fewer than in previous years even at the height of summer – and the holly is thick with berries, a sure sign of a harsh winter to come. I sit under a thick blanket, a certain sign of my age. When we lived in Saltburn, we used to laugh at soft southerners who wrapped up when they visited, but even Lucy who still lives "up North", and who should be used to such weather, says she is hugging a hot-water-bottle.

The only rays of sunshine through the constant drizzle outside the window are that: Bercow has resigned before he was forced out, and Boris has prorogued parliament, so  for several weeks we shall be spared the constant traumas to the senses of this fractured government. I am currently reading A Confederacy of Dunces, but the characters therein are but shallow shells to the real life dunces claiming to represent us and trying to plot our future by steering us onto the rocks of disaster. Let us trust that Britain will truely be great, and come through this storm to triumph. It is the mast to which I cling to try and survive the mental wreckage.

Peaky Blinders and the lost past

I shall not bore people with an account of the camper-vans we have continued to see. Suffice to say we have travelled many miles but are still looking. They are too old, or too high a mileage, or have a poor layout, or are too expensive, or are too rough and noisy on the road. I never thought a choice could be so hard or protracted, but like so much in life there are pluses and minuses, and they seem to balance each other to the point where, like Buridan’s ass, we can't make up our minds. We must therefore leave it for a while, and let our minds settle.

Next week promises to be busy. Ann's friend Sylvia is coming up, but booked the wrong day when I will be working in London, so Ann will have to meet her alone. On Friday, another friend, a German I worked with in the Netherlands, is coming to London and wants to meet up. I don't think he has visited Cambridge yet, so we may be able to entice him to get the train up rather than me go down to London again.

Downstairs, Ann is watching Peaky Blinders. I try to avoid these films of violence, having seen as much blood and gore as I ever wish to see in real life, so I have left her in peace over a cup of tea. The series is set in Birmingham, with many of Ann's old haunts from when she lived there, so that's another reason for her to watch. I don't think I have seen any film or television play set in Coventry, the home of my youth, but if there were one I would not want to watch it for that reason. I couldn't wait to leave the place, and have never felt any urge to return. Once, Coventry was the engineering centre of England, with a myriad of different car manufacturers that read like a roll-call of famous vintages: Alvis, Armstrong Siddeley, Daimler, Hillman, Humber, Lanchester, Lea-Francis, Singer, Standard, Sunbeam-Talbot and Triumph.  In the late '50s and early '60s, the UK had the world's second largest car-making industry and was the world's leading car exporter. They used to say that somewhere in those backstreets would be someone who could make anything that anyone could dream up. Even our school had a fully equipped engineering department with professional lathes, milling machines and metal-working equipment the equal of any, where we learnt the skills of technical drawing, welding, riveting and foundry work. Now Jaguar is the only one left, and they are owned by Tata Motors with engines that were built by Ford. Health and safety have long since stopped children using such violent and dangerous equipment, and all those streets could show is a whole string of closed down factories and lost talent.

Let my people go!

I have kept my resolution not to watch any news broadcasts on radio or TV, since the collapse of democracy at the hands of the Brexit saboteurs (see In-memory-of-death), but it has proved impossible to escape it completely, as news headlines flash up on my phone or from the newspaper stands, or Ann mentions that "Now even Boris's brother has stabbed him and left him for dead". So despite my blood pressure rising inexorably with mounting anger and frustration, I will address a few words on it further.

Parliament and the "Lords" (God rot them) have flung all tradition and precedent asunder to crawl from their rocks to challenge the people's will. Boris alone seems to be fighting for us, and it is surely a lonely battle. Now he threatens to ignore this new law - a law made against all popular will - and may refuse to ask for a Brexit extension. However, my tuppenny suggestion is that he should go to Brussels, and give them the message, "I have been told to demand an extension." Then, having followed the unpopular will of the very vocal but unrepresentative rabble, he can add the deeper message:

"If you do grant this extension, we will continue to fight bitterly as we sit in limbo. I and the British MEPs – who mostly support Brexit – shall use every power we have in Brussels as to thwart all legislation and budget planning. We shall be leaving the EU, come hell or high-water, and if I am frustrated this time from doing so, then as soon as I have the power to call a general election I shall work with all the power I can command, along with Nigel Farage, to obtain a commanding majority in parliament. I will return as Prime Minister, and this time there will be no deal. Therefore your wisest act now is to Let My People Go!"

Back in the real world, we had a message from Kate, the sister of my long-standing friend Colin, to tell us that his Alzheimer's has advanced and he has developed Parkinsonian symptoms and become violent towards his wife, Ann. His daughter has flown out to Luxembourg to sort things out with a view to getting him into a care home now. Colin is Edwin's godfather, and Edwin and I visited them earlier this year (see Visit to Luxembourg), though he didn't recognise us then. Ann is only tiny, and must be nearly 80. She has coped well until now, but this becomes too much and we can fully understand why he may have to go into a care home.

Meanwhile, life goes on finding us out again this morning test driving yet another van. One we had wanted to see had placed the ad then they went on holiday so we can't view till they're back – how frustrating is that. But then, Edwin also placed an ad to sell his old Apple computer before promptly leaving for Italy! He has had many inquiries, and a young girl of 14 finally came round this morning with her mother and her elder brother, who's 16, as advisor. We ended up having to phone Edwin in Naples to speak to the brother with technical details, but it worked: Edwin agreed a price, and they handed over the readies and took the beast away.

Huntigton's chorea and other problems

Yesterday as most weeks I parked behind the Swan to walk the dogs while Ann went for her hair dressing. A car followed us in, and one of the waitresses got out as I let the dogs out. Byron raced up to her, barking like crazy, and the poor woman visibly jumped in shock, for she hadn't seen him coming. Byron is not aggressive, but is very loud. I then waited in the Swan over a drink and apologised for frightening her.

The restaurant was empty but for one lady sitting alone, who greeted me warmly though I had never seen her before. We began talking, and she explained why she was alone. This was her "respite day", when her husband went for respite care, so to escape the drudgery of cooking she treated herself to lunch out. Her husband used to be an aeronautical engineer and lectured at Cranford, but now has Huntington's chorea, a particularly nasty genetically inherited degeneration of the brain. I knew patients with it in my former career, and just how bad it can be to live with. Now it is possible to predict carriers, but then it was not until it was already manifest in mid-life. One of the medical students I trained with also had a parent with it, and she refused to date anyone or marry in case she too got it and risked passing it on to a child.

The old woman on the table had ordered cod and chips, Unfortunately she flicked a large number of peas onto the carpet, just before the waitress came back in, who promptly trod on them. The woman was clearly embarrased and got down on her knees to clean them up with a napkin.

Today we went chasing across country to see more motor homes. We've not had much luck, but Ann has just seen an advert for another one, so we'll look at that tomorrow and keep hoping.

Edwin called from Naples. He has not had much luck so far. He is on the fifth floor of the apartment block, with a central glass lift to get up to it. There is a charge for the lift, with a slot machine he has to put coins in - surely that must be a first? Then yesterday the toilet lock got stuck (luckily with him outside it, though unlucky if he was desperate), and he had to share with the other occupant. Today he was going to visit the catacombs, but there was a train driver's strike, so he had to visit a church instead. Now we hear that there is to be a BA pilots' strike next week when he is due back, so there may be an enforced extension to his holiday!

In memory of a death

AAAAAEEEEEIIIII!! When on Tuesday a whole swathe of conservative MPs stood with labour to approve a motion against their own government, I knew democracy had died in this country. The bid for freedom has failed and our country is trapped in the eternal cell of the EU. I can no longer listen to the news, it is too depressing. I continue to work virtually full time, and walk the dogs, and listen to music. Last night we watched all the repeats of Extras to try and cheer ourselves up.

4th September

today she died
her voice muted
as is her smile
buried are her odd sayings
almost lost now
recollections rusty
memories musty
not easy to connect
an hour, day, week
when she was near,
she is dead
and now it is as if
she was never here

Annie Elliott 

Ann's new poem is a tribute to her mother, for yesterday marked the anniversary of her death in 1976, so long ago, yet never forgotten. The poem stands, surely, as a testament to all our parents and the friends we have lost. Though memories fade, the trace of the person exists through Ann and MA, the granddaughter Violet never knew, and beyond them through MA's daughters, and before Ann the ancestors we have traced back on the female side for so many generations.

On a lighter note, Edwin left for Italy yesterday for a week in the sun at Naples. He is going Airbnd to an apartment they have rented with a garden roof terrace, where they plan to have cocktails. Because he and Alice will be self-catering, he took a huge packet of gluten-free spaghetti in his luggage. Surely taking pasta to Italy must be the modern version of taking coals to Newcastle.