If it's all the same to you.....

I have never much liked New Year's Eve. I think this may stem from one year I spent New Year's Eve with my parents at their local pub. 


This was usually a good event - a lock-in for regulars after the itinerant revellers had staggered off to somewhere hipper (if, indeed 'hip' can really be applied to anywhere in my home town). As kids, my sister and I were allowed to stay upstairs in the landlords' flat until the time it became a private party, at which point we were allowed down into the bar and my sister demonstrated a preternatural talent as a  barmaid, with a speed and accuracy on the optics which belied her tender age and stood her in good stead in adult life.  This, despite levels of cigarette smoke that would would today be declared a biohazard, seemed impossibly grown-up and we loved it.


As I got older, though, I would rather have been out with friends of my own age, although my parents would never have stood for that - their view (with which I now concur) is that getting used to social drinking in a safe environment was better than being allowed out god-knows-where unsupervised. As a result, I did the usual teenage thing of grumping my way through the whole night. Midnight came and a drunk I had never met grabbed me, attempted a slobbery snog and promptly threw up over my right shoulder. That rather settled my attitude to New Year's Eve and from that point on (somewhere in the late 1970s) I've always been decidedly 'ho-hum' about the whole thing.


That's not to say that I've never celebrated it - there have been some years where spending the evening with good friends has been a delight, but that's the key - it should always be with people you know and care about. The thought of dragging myself into a crowded city centre bar just to spend the evening with a bunch of drunks simply doesn't appeal.


In recent years, the demands of kids has meant that we both stay home and watch the glittering Novemberfest that is Jools' Hootenanny. Even this seems to be subject to a law of diminishing returns, with guests who are possibly the least interesting they could muster (with honourable exceptions, of course). Over the last couple of years, the girls have joined us at midnight (they were usually still awake anyway), which does at least mean that the family is together for the turn of the year. Sometimes we get a phone call from my octogenarian parents (if they haven't given up and got an early night) and my sister's fibromyalgia now prevents her from a) drinking very much b) going out revelling c) guaranteeing to be awake at midnight - although that's not to say she won't be awake at 3am, 4am or 5am, having been dropping with fatigue at 8.30pm. We get calls from a couple of our oldest friends, after which we head for bed, seldom drunk enough to worry about a hangover in the morning.


What bugs me about New Year, though, is the continual triumph of hope over experience that has us all saying things like "let's hope it's better than the last one!". I'm essentially a fairly optimistic and practical person, hard-headed enough to sort my problems out and fight my corner when needed. This year, though, I simply cannot remember a time when I've dreaded the thought of the following twelve months more. True, we can never know what the future will bring, but of the things I know are coming our way, none of them are good. Our family income will be hit by a double whammy; my partner's pay being downgraded (he doesn't deal directly with the public, you see, so he's one of those awful "back office" types we are all supposed to deride) and frozen (again). And then there's the financial penalty we'll pay on our tax credits for our selfish lifestyle choice of having a disabled child without the foresight to ensure that she was severely disabled. The utter cruelty of a government which chooses to reduce financial support for the "not disabled enough" while simultaneously removing all other support structures is utterly breathtaking. For this reason, I won't, if it's all the same to you, be wishing anyone empty platitudes about better times ahead. For the vast majority of us, 2012 is going to be dire, and my profound wish is that we all come through it as unscathed as possible. Those of you on my Facebook Friends List and my Twitter buddies are all wonderful people and I wish the best to all of you - just don't ask me to dance around any fountains spouting rubbish about next year being fab!


 My dad's usual new year greeting is "Duck! Here comes another one!" This year, more than ever, he's captured the zeitgeist.

#asdmornings: When a Tweet's not long enough....

We had anticipated some problems this morning. We knew that she was not happy about doing Food Tech because she hadn't done last week's class and had therefore not made the puff pastry. The suggestion that she could take in some ready made stuff went down badly. Similarly, she's narky about not being "allowed" to do PE, despite several weeks where despite the best efforts of all concerned she has either refused to take part or has refused to leave the PE building afterwards, to a point where they have arranged alternative provision for this lesson while the school is still a building site (the logistics of getting the girls to PE currently involves leaving the premises by the front gate and walking around 2 sides of the perimeter to get to the PE Dept.).

Still, I heard her alarm go off at 6.45am and when I went in at 7am, she was awake and cheerful. "5 minutes" I said and went off to try and encourage her younger sister to engage with "morning."

By 7.30am, her mood had changed and she was refusing to get up. I warned her sister that she might have to walk up to school (it's cold but dry and not the end of the world not to have a lift), and that she'd need to be ready to leave by 8.00am.

At 7.57am, M complained that she also wanted to walk to school with her sister (despite still being in bed). Younger sister (and this is where it starts kicking off) complains that she didn't know she'd got to walk. This appears to trigger something and M then chases her down the stairs and we end up with YS locking herself in the downstairs toilet for protection, with M barring any exit therefrom. Eventually, YS ventures out and puts her blazer and winter coat on, but realises she can't put her shoes on as they're in the kitchen where M is hovering....

I try to encourage M away from her sister, but as she storms past (throwing stuff on the kitchen floor in the process) she pushes her, full strength, into the coat pegs in the hall. and heads back to her room, slamming the door and knocking more paint off the door frame as she does so.

Tears (YS's and mine) and a hug, and I bundle YS out of the house, and go into the living room to phone school to warn them that M is in meltdown and to request that they don't give YS a late mark, as she has been physically unable to leave the house before 8.15am. As I'm on the phone, I hear the merry ratchet-ing sound of the Chubb key on the outside of the living room door being locked behind me (a security measure we put in years ago when we had four break-ins in as many years, coincidentally the last time the Tories were in charge of law and order).  Can hear the sound of things being thrown around, but no idea what. At this point, YS appears at the living room window. In her earlier panic, she has accidentally picked up her sister's blazer rather than her own. I negotiate, through a locked door, for M to let her sister in and exchange it for the right blazer without causing her sister any physical pain. I think I can gauge her mood from peering through the small crack in the woodwork (this one not of her creation!), but have to hope that I've called it right.

Blazer-exchange seems to go off without major injury and YS scuttles off to school.  I then phone OH who, very sensibly, had left the house for work at 7.10am so he at least knows there is a problem. Offers to come home and let me out, but this seems unwise - the last thing a public sector worker needs at the moment is to be perceived as not being 100% productive. Also phone school, and we agree that it's unlikely I'll get her in, but that I will keep them posted

During the course of these conversations, M disappears upstairs, returning fully dressed for school and announces she's going to go in on foot. She then opens the front door, realises it's only just above freezing and asks for a lift. I try to phone school to warn them of this unexpected development, but can't get through, so I drive her there and phone them from the car park. I walk her to Reception, but her route to her classroom is blocked by a class of girls assembled to make the trek over to the PE building, so we lurk in the foyer until the way is clear. She then goes down to her classroom without a further murmur and appears in a perfectly good mood.

I am acutely aware, as I talk to members of staff and her support team, that I haven't yet had a chance to wash or clean my teeth and my hair is in need of a wash. Still, living with autism means that your sense of social embarrassment diminishes as you do what it takes to get by, and at least I'm not still in pyjamas!

Today was a fairly major version of the pre-school meltdown, but they're far from uncommon. I can never be sure what reception I will get when I go in at 7am, and it can often take 50 minutes to persuade her to get up (while trying to get the 11 year old sorted at the same time), to not wear the same shirt 3 days in a row, to have to judge how serious she is when she says, "if you make me go in I'll misbehave." Mixed in with the autism are the teenage hormones which would make life difficult anyway, but unlike the teenage hormones, there is every likelihood that a measure of this behaviour will remain into adulthood. Part of it is pure manipulation (she behaved better yesterday and was rewarded by being allowed to make peppermint creams and coconut ice for the end of term party), but once the manipulation has started, she doesn't always have the ability to stop it.

Autism is an unfairly invisible disability. Those who know her slightly, and have never encountered her in full meltdown see - quite rightly - what a lovely child she can be, but have no concept of what it's like trying to cope with the mercurial changes in temperament. They see that she is resourceful and resilient, but not that she can only do it sometimes - and there'e no predicting when she won't be able to.

Her sister, as many 11 year olds do, tends to overreact to perceived slights and unfairness. She hasn't yet learned the coping strategy of quietly ignoring the extreme provocation in the interests of self-preservation. That will come with maturity, but it's a lot to ask of her.

It's days like this where I wonder how I am ever going to find work that will enable me to combine caring with gainful employment. I'm reasonably intelligent, a good administrator, even ran a team of 30+ people at one time. At the moment, though, there is no prospect of me being able to go out to work on a full time basis. Childcare for secondary-aged children is patchy, so realistically, I'd be looking at term time only and, with the issues we face on a regular basis, it could really do with being something home-based and flexible.  You're no use to an employer if you are constantly having to rush off and sort out a crisis (with my former management hat on, I know that's the case) and with employee's rights being stripped away, I don't think I'd last long in the conventional work environment, do you?

Which is why, on days like these, I so appreciate politicians and unelected 'representatives' voting to reduce the support I receive through tax credits by 50%. Makes me feel truly valued.

#N30

Huge love and support for all my friends and former colleagues on strike today. Yesterday's Autumn Statement proved that the coalition won't be happy until it's returned us all to the Victorian era, where support for the poor and needy is dependent on the partisan sympathy of the elite (welcome back, the "undeserving poor") and where working people have no security or protection. 

I supported those in the private sector whose pensions were raided, whose schemes were shut down or made much worse; just because I wasn't immediately affected didn't mean that I sat there thinking, "I'm alright, Jack, I've got my nice public sector pension waiting for me." (which is the corrollory of some of the "Well, I haven't got a decent pension, so why should you have one?" comments I've been hearing recently).

In case no-one noticed, the public sector unions were prevented from taking action in support of you because of the "reforms" of the last Tory government. Sorry.

Today's action may be primarily about pensions, but it's about so much more. Snuck out yesterday was the abandonment of the TUPE regulations which (allegedly) offer protection to terms and conditions of public sector workers whose jobs are transferred to a private provider. Those of my former colleagues involved in the Learner Support debacle will know that the TUPE regulations aren't worth much, but they are a small buffer against exploitation. 

On transfer from the council, we were denied permission to retain our local government pensions, which now sit there as deferred benefits until we're 65 - sorry, 66 - no, sorry 67......... We can do nothing to help ourselves on this one - we can't even agree to the government's terms and contribute more for longer and get less - we just have to sit tight and hope that too many current members don't pull out of the scheme and make it unsustainable. 

Within a year of transferring out, I found myself demoted as part of a "restructure", the catch-all way for TUPE to be undermined. Within two years of transfer, I'd been paid off to make room for some more call centre staff (mostly unemployed graduates, with loans to pay off) on minimum wage. I relied on UNISON to make sure I didn't get ripped off as part of this process (as I had a few years earlier, when the council had ignored the fact that workplace bullying had driven me off sick and tried to instigate capability procedings against me (the bully, you might wish to note, was eventually sacked for inappropriate behaviour in a completely unrelated set of circumstances). 

For these reasons, if no others, I am fully behind today's action. The union protected me when I was vulnerable, so I have a duty to support those who are still vulnerable.

If the private sector (and by this, I mean ordinary workers in the private sector, not the so-called "wealth creators) has lost out in pay/pensions, etc over the last 30 years, it's because it has become de-unionised. Like the young women who describe themselves as "post-feminist" and then decry the fact that they are still discriminated against, many people towards the end of the 20th century convinced themselves that unions were an anachronism; that we had won all the battles. In the good times, this was a persuasive argument, although in hindsight it was clearly wrong.

My great-grandfather, a master baker, was sacked for suggesting that he and his fellow workers should be paid for the extra shifts they were asked to put in to provide the Navy with bread for the fleet putting in at Dover. My  (Tory) father worked all his life in the private sector, but was a member - and steward - of his staff association (GMB-linked, if I remember rightly). He knew that if you didn't have representation, you were vulnerable.

It is perfectly clear now, that the battles are far from won. The coalition is intent on wrecking civil society, and returning us to the conditions that made Dickens so "righteously indignant" (the same righteous indignation that Michael Gove, without a hint of irony, so admires!). Instead of support from the state, all but the independently wealthy will have to rely on the goodwill of charities (Job Centres are already referring people to food banks) and corporations.

Instead of being run by elected, accountable local authorities, schools will be privatised (and make no mistake, that's what academy status is) and run by unaccountable private 'sponsors', many of which seem to have a (sometimes dubious) religious background. that's bad news for those of us who do not want our children indoctrinated and who welcomed the transfer of state education provision from church to state.

The NHS, widely found by independent studies to be one of the most cost-effective health systems in the world, is being sold off to Lansley's business associates, at anenormous cost in "restructuring"

For those who think public sectors are overpaid/lazy/do non-jobs, etc, or that it costs 'too much' to run local councils, just watch how much more it costs once council services are handed to the outsourcing corporations. And this doesn't go on wages for the staff, it goes to senior managers and shareholders. Capita is making healthy profits in the midst of the worst austerity in (almost) living memory, on the back of its multiple government contracts. And this at a time when hundreds of small (private) businesses are struggling to keep afloat (especially if they relied on council contracts for their business!).

The difference between the laissez faire economies of the industrial revolution and today, though, is that those who made enormous fortunes out of their workforce at least had some level of guilt about it and used philanthropy to redress the balance a little. Today, the multimillionaires see no reason why they should give anything back. Hell, they don't even pay the tax they're supposed to contribute! Laissez-faire, too, meant that governments, largely, did not intervene - this government is actively promoting the looting of the public sector.

So today, I am not merely supporting my colleagues in the public sector, but hoping that this action, supported by 60-70% of the public (when was the last time a public sector strike had that level of support?), will show that the people of this country are not the apathetic, unthinking consumerist drones the coalition believe and hope them to be. It is not public vs private, it is the super-rich vs the rest of us. This is looking increasingly like Class War - the rich really hate us, don't they?

Getting Through

Having a conversation yesterday morning about the upcoming 'Austerity Christmas' we're going to have.


My eldest daughter has high-functioning autism (not an Asperger's diagnosis, but she has no learning difficulties other than the anxiety/behavioural issues which prevent her accessing the curriculum on a regular basis). She's almost 14, and capable of quite sophisticated and nuanced discussions about current affairs (apart from those times when all we can elicit from her is a torrent of expletives and slamming doors when we say something she doesn't agree with*).


We discussed with her the fact that I have given up work to ensure that she can maintain her mainstream education, which has pretty much halved the family income over the last 2 years, and that with her dad employed by a local authority, our one income has been frozen for the same period. Next year, he will also lose several thousand pounds due to a job evaluation which downgraded him because he doesn't "deal with the public", which is clearly more important than, say, collating all the data which ensures the authority draws down the correct funding (Me, I'd have thought both functions have equal value, but that's what happens when local authorities buy in to the 'service economy' model - style over substance). As a result, we told her, we will have to be a lot more careful with our expenditure.


M: "You need to get a job, mum"


Me: "I'm trying to get a job, but there aren't that many around and I can't get a job if I'm going to be called out on a regular basis because there's a crisis at school. I'm no good to an employer if I'm always having to take time off or leave work at short notice. It needs to be something that's home-based, so I can work around you, and it needs to be term-time only, as there's no viable childcare."


M: "Well, I'll start to behave, then."


Me: "But you can't always help your behaviour; it's your autism, and it's unpredictable. 


[We did both work full-time during her primary school career, and it nearly broke us. Despite a family-friendly employer and remarkably supportive managers - at least before I was outsourced to the private sector - it was incredibly difficult to sustain. I came to hate Caller ID - seeing the school's number come up brought me out in a cold sweat. It still does, but at least now I don't have to go cap in hand to a boss and ask for permission to disappear - again.]


OH: "There have only been 3 days in the last 2 years when your mum hasn't been available, and on 2 of those, I've had a call from school and have had to leave work to come and take you home. Do you see why it's so difficult for mum to find a suitable job?"


She didn't. Sometimes it's like trying to have a reasoned argument with a government minister.


Hey! Maybe instead of stacking shelves in Tesco on unpaid workfare, there's a future job opportunity for her as an ATOS assessor - she has at least as much knowledge of her medical/psychological condition as they do and has the necessary rigidity of thinking. She probably has too much empathy, though.


* On re-reading this post, I think she could also have a career as a politician - that sounds very much like Cameron response.

Dear Cold Caller...

My partner is employed in the public sector and is about to lose £4000 per annum due to Job Evaluation, in addition to the 2 year pay freeze which was imposed on council workers when the banking crisis hit, which means the two years' pay protection he was entitled to was effectively wiped out.  That's if they don't have to make compulsory redundancies.


I was TUPE'd out of the public sector and subsequently made redundant, since which time I have been a full time carer for our autistic teenager. My chances of obtaining work which will fit around these family circumstances is low. Believe me, I've been looking, but not many employers are keen to take you on when you can get called away at a moment's notice because of a crisis.


So, although we're delighted you're in our area, unless you are offering your will-writing service/solar panel installation/ loft insulation/uPVC fascias and soffits for free, I'm afraid we really can't take you up on your kind offers.


Oh, and our Windows operating system isn't running slowly, because we're on Mac.


Thank you for thinking of us, though.

We'll Miss it When it's Gone....

After a text book pregnancy, I went into labour at 1am on Thursday 12 February 1998. Our birth plan had been for labour to start at home and for me to transfer to hospital for the birth. Our midwife was called out and did an examination, at which point it was discovered that the baby's umbilical cord was lodged round her neck, so as a precaution I was taken straight in to the hospital. After an uncomfortable night on the ward, I was taken to the birthing room in the morning and my partner and I spent the day waiting for the labour to progress. Not much happened over the course of the day, so on the Friday morning  they decided to induce.


When at midnight I still wasn't in established labour, they decided that if no progress had been made by morning, an emergency C-section would be needed. 


And so, at lunchtime on Saturday 14 February, our daughter finally arrived, looking pink and beautiful. Actually, a little pinker than we were expecting, due to a sizeable birth mark which covered most of the left half of her face and skull. She was a good weight, though, and all the necessary checks were done to pronounce her fit and healthy. My exhausted partner, who'd stayed with me throughout and who only had my old pullover to wear (it had been unseasonably warm, and he'd come into the hospital wearing only a T shirt and jeans), went home to get some well-earned rest.


The next day, she appeared a little jaundiced, so we were moved to a side room with a light-box and she 'sun-bathed' to reduce the jaundice. Staff came and went, pronounced her beautiful and assured us that the birth mark would fade in time. On her second night on the planet, a junior doctor came to visit me late at night to say that he had been doing some research and thought it possible that the birth mark was indicative of a rare but serious neurological condition called Sturge Weber Syndrome. After the trauma of a 3 day labour, this was not what I wanted to hear (especially in a lonely hospital room, on my own, late at night). 


The next day, she underwent X rays, and we were visited by the Chief Consultant to explain the condition, which could present as anything from - well, very little to very severe developmental problems, epilepsy, glaucoma, hemiplaegia (weakness on one side of the body), learning difficulties, etc.  Diagnosis couldn't be confirmed fully without further investigation and we were assured that she would be monitored closely.


After a week of sun treatment, we took her home and started life as a family. She had a CAT scan at two months, and was seen quarterly by a consultant at the Eye Hospital to make sure that the glaucoma would be spotted if it arose. Developmentally, she was fine, hitting the milestones on target and doing pretty well. Of course, we jumped at the slightest twitch, in  case it was the epilepsy kicking in, but she was fine and we made arrangements for me to go back to work, and arranging for a place for her at our local children's (later SureStart) centre.


A week before she was due to start nursery at 6 months old, I visited my sister in Shropshire. On the way back in the baby seat, my daughter seemed distressed, but I put it down to her picking up on my stress levels navigating the M6 in rush hour.


The next morning she was clearly unwell; listless, unfocused. We called our GP, who told us to bring her in. As we arrived, he ushered us in past a queue of waiting patients, examined her and said that she appeared to be post-ictal and suggested we took her in to the hospital. She was admitted as an in-patient and during the course of the day had more seizures. It took us a week to get her stabilised on phenobarbitone and carbamazapene, but she made a good recovery and started nursery only a week behind schedule. She also sat up for the first time while in the hospital, so clearly the seizures where not affecting her development.


And so it went on for a couple of years. Her seizures, usually partial, came in clusters, usually towards the end of the week when she was tired or when she was unwell and running a temperature. At 3, while on holiday with my parents, she had a major seizure, and her medication was raised in line with her increased body weight.


Shortly afterwards, she embarked on a course of laser treatment to reduce the appearance of her birthmark (see my previous post 10th Anniversary for the background on that), and a year ago decided to discharge herself. The birthmark has not gone completely (and probably would never have done), but is considerably reduced. More importantly, she is confident enough to face the world with it on display.


A few weeks into her school career, it was noticed that she was failing to settle and that her  behaviour could be very erratic. By Year 1 she had a statement of special educational needs and 1:1 support in class. Although she did not appear to have learning difficulties, her learning was being severely impaired by her behaviour, and so the NHS Child Psychology Service was brought in, and we attended parenting courses to help us understand and manage her behaviour. In Year 3, after a particularly severe meltdown, we were referred to a new psychologist who decided to investigate whether, apart from the Sturge Weber diagnosis, there might not be something else going on. After an intensive round of sessions with our daughter and us, looking at every aspect of her life to date, we were given the diagnosis of Autistic Spectrum Disorder. 


I know you are supposed to be devastated when you get this diagnosis and mourn for the child you thought you had. We were just relieved that finally we had an explanation and - if you like - a label (Me, I don't mind labels if it gets us the help she needs). This enabled us to work with the medical and educational authorities to later manage her transition to a mainstream high school.


She had a good start to year 6 and then, on a routine visit to the Eye Hospital, they discovered that she had a choroidal haemangioma, leading to a detached retina. Not the normal, torn retina, but a bleed behind it which had been leaking fluid so that, in the words of the specialist, it was like wallpaper peeling of a damp wall. She was referred to another hospital, and an emergency operation to reattach the retina, with a silicone splint inserted to hold it in place, followed by a course of photodynamic therapy. This failed to reduce the tumour, so she was then referred to another hospital for radiotherapy. This appeared to be successful and on a subsequent visit, it was decided to remove the silicone splint. We had been told that it was likely that little, if any, sight would return, but my feeling was that with the eye still in place (instead of removing it - pretty traumatic for an 11 year old), it was at least possible that there might be some possible treatment in the future which might restore some sight. Unfortunately, the retina detached again and rubeosis developed so her eye is now effectively dead; we still have quarterly check ups to monitor it, in the hope that it can stay in place for as long as possible.


She still sees the psychology service on a regular basis - the problems of being a partially-sighted, autistic  teenager are many and varied - but fortunately, she has been seizure-free since 2001 and has recently been weaned off the medication, so far with no ill effects. She is currently undergoing orthodontic treatment to reduce the uneven appearance of her teeth (also an SWS manifestation). It's a struggle keeping her in mainstream school, but with the input of the medical professionals, we are getting there - just.


The point of this very long piece is to highlight how much interaction she has had with the National Health Service in her short life. She has had world-class treatment from many professionals - treatment that we, on modest public sector salaries, could never have afforded to pay for. I have said many times since she was born, "Thank goodness she wasn't born in America."


Which is why it both breaks my heart to see the NHS being sold off to the medi-vultures by Lansley and his pals, and scares me, too.


What will happen to her in later life, if her eye deteriorates? If her autism prevents her from meaningful (if any) employment and makes her behaviour more challenging as she ages? At the moment, her father and I can fight her corner, but what happens when we're no longer around? 


And make no mistake - if the Health Bill goes through, as it looks like it will - all this superlative care, free at the point of delivery, will go, and people like my daughter face a miserable future.


And that's not even starting in the issue of disability benefits and work.............


NHS Roll of Honour 1998-2011


St Mary's Hospital for Women and Children, Manchester - Neonatal and Neurological Depts
Manchester Royal Eye Hospital
Manchester Children's Hospital
Manchester Dental Hospital
Manchester Community Paediatric Service
West Point Medical Centre, Levenshulme, Manchester
West Point Dental Centre, Levenshulme, Manchester
Leeds General Infirmary, Dermatology Dept
Child/Adolescent Psychology Service, Winnicott Centre, Manchester
Royal Liverpool University Hospital, St Paul's Eye Centre
Clatterbridge Centre for Oncology, Wirrall


[I'm sure there are others I've forgotten about, too]

Update:

I wrote this some years ago. Sadly, the NHS has been decimated since then, just as we feared. My daughter's physical health is pretty stable these days, but the psychological support she got from CAMHS has, of course, ground to a halt now that she's an adult. So the next time she has extreme anxiety and lands in hospital after taking a potential overdose of over the counter medication, there is likely to be no follow-up. 

My late parents spent their last few days in NHS care - superlative care. Lifelong Tories, they didn't live to see the absolute mess their party has made of what my mother described as "the best thing this country has ever done." I'm so glad they were spared that. As for the rest of us? The more people keep voting for Conservative governments, the quicker we will descend into the barbaric US-style system where one piece of bad luck can land you with bankrupting medical bills. If you value the NHS, you need to vote Labour (and yes, I know New Labour allowed the first fault-line of marketisation to creep in). For your sake and your loved ones. Bugger Brexit - this stuff's more important.

10th Anniversary

We were sitting in the hospital waiting room at Leeds General Infirmary, understandably nervous for M (3), undergoing her first dose of laser treatment under general anaesthetic. The Bob the Builder video on the waiting room TV ended, and the picture reverted to real television, and a newly-emerging news story of a plane crashing into the World Trade Centre. With no visuals, we imagined something a bit like King Kong - a light aircraft gone off course, perhaps? As the afternoon progressed M came out of surgery, and we all sat transfixed as the story developed and she recuperated. Medics came off duty and huddled around the TV rather than go home. 


Away from the two aircraft in New York, reports came in of another plane coming down in rural Pennsylvania, and my thoughts turned to my friends there - the only state where I knew anybody! We were discharged and headed over the our friend's house where we had left the infant J. She'd been in the garden with the children all afternoon and had only just heard that there had "been a plane crash in New York." It seems incredible in these days of 24 hour news and social networking, to think that only a decade ago you could remain unaware of a story for that long.

The journey back across the M62 had the quality of a particularly weird dream. The PM team on the car radio were trying to make sense of what was going on, the UK weather, unlike the clear blue skies of New York, was that oppressive low cloud through which you sense the sun might burst if it only had the courage. I remember it being muggy and uncomfortable, with a strange quality of light as we hit the 'split' section and summit of the motorway. At one point, M decided to extricate herself from her seatbelt and was sitting in the footwell in the rear passenger seats. In rush hour, it was impossible (and dangerous) to stop and re-seat her, so I just had to keep going, with OH coaxing her back to her seat.

The memories are still vivid. The images still powerful. On future trips to LGI I usually went alone with M, but on that day I was grateful I had my family with me - it was no time to be dealing with things on your own.  For my generation, this was probably our JFK moment. I wonder if my children will feel the same dislocation I do about that - old enough to have 'been there' but not old enough to remember it?

The reasons are still disputed, but in essence the attacks (and the response to them) stem from intolerance. Whatever the rights and wrongs of the matter, the British government's decision to get into bed with an oil-hungry, none-too-bright leader of the free world has been catastrophic. It de-railed the social progress which 1997 promised, diminished us internationally; it has made us no safer, while at the same time curtailing civil liberties and stifling dissent. And it's bolstered extremism in all its forms - the 'moralisers' of the Christian right are every bit as dangerous.

So my thoughts today are with all those who lost their lives that day, and those who have suffered as a result since. Just as the UK is being buffeted today by the far-off effects of an Atlantic weather system, so we are all still feeling the after-effects of 9/11.

What gives me hope is that the 3 year old that day is now a thriving teenager who is at ease with her appearance and has elected to discontinue her laser surgery. Now that's a victory.

UPDATE: Another ten years, and we are really no better off. Intolerance, in all its manifestations, is on the increase. Maybe the world did change forever on that day, but not for the better. 

M said this morning, "I've been telling all my friends for a decade that I know where I was on 9/11, even though I was only 3."