Life Laundry 2: The Legend Continues

Back in 2018, I posted about the mammoth task of clearing my parents' house before and after their death At the end of this, I said something about starting to make a clearance of our own house, which had accumulated 25 years' worth of clutter. It didn't help that we had imported the whole of my parents' 700-strong book collection, which my partner was intending to sift through and dispose of. This was not helped at all by his habit of storing old newspapers (for later reading) in the cellar. He'd been doing this since our daughter was born in 1998, and showed little sign that he had ever read any of them. 

In 2012, it had looked like this:

He did, to be fair, make a start on clearance - every fortnight, our blue bin was filled with a few more, but it barely scratched the surface. 

By 2014, it was a bit tidier, but no less full:

The thousand-plus VHS tapes on the shelves were sifted out to landfill (very much not recyclable).

Then came 2020 and lockdown which, although it afforded sorting time, meant it was quite tricky going anywhere to get rid of things in bulk. Mostly, it was a question of moving stuff around and around, taking out a few items each time.

And then, in 2022, P got ill, and died in the November of that year, less than 6 months after a cancer diagnosis. Which left me - grief and adjustment to widowhood aside - with a huge physical problem lurking in the basement. These were a few photos I took in late 2022, before I shut the door on the cellar for a while.

After some months, I ventured down there again - in part because I felt the need to do something constructive with my time (in addition to working full time and taking over the role of primary carer to two disabled adult children), something where I would see a tangible result. After a discussion with the kids, we decided it would be good to re-purpose the space (which is huge - former servant's quarters) as a craft area, as both of them do a lot of sewing, drawing, miniature model-making, etc, which tends to take over the house. P's old VHS shelving would hold all their materials and the addition of some work tables would allow them to work on projects without having to pack everything away. So, in the Spring of 2023, I made a start, and by May I had cleared a lot of the papers/magazines and was in a position to start going through mum and dad's books:

Look. Floor!

At least the piles were now hip-height rather than as tall as me...

Mum and dad's books, still in the same boxes we brought them here in 2016

More floor...

I was even able to reclaim enough floor space to set up a desk so I could catalogue the books and work out what to do with them.

The VHS tapes were long gone, so I could move the books on to the shelving, along with P's (almost) complete set of Sight and Sound magazine from 1991-2022. I really didn't want to simply recycle these, so I put out a few feelers and was able to donate them to Manchester Film & TV School, where a new generation of film lovers can now make use of them. They very kindly sent me a photo of them in their new home, along with a plaque acknowledging the donation. This was quite emotional, as P and I met through Manchester University Film Society.

By July 2023, I'd made sufficient in-roads into the newspaper archive and book collection to start on the other side of the room, which wasn't looking as clever:

Under there somewhere is a drop-leaf table that came with the house 30+ years ago and which housed film magazines, kids primary school art work (they're both now in their 20s), my dad's old printer, two obsolete iMacs and scores of sample CDs from Uncut magazine from the early 2000s. By October, I'd cleared some of it, but in December of that year there was a bit of a hiatus when we ended up offering temporary accommodation to a homeless young person. It is not, I hasten to add, a habitable space, but better than the streets. 

Not much clearance happened in 2024 (apart from the occasional trip to the tip) but in January of this year, I decided to go for a final push. Having recently taken early retirement, I no longer had to squeeze all activity into evenings and weekends which made things much easier. I bought some heavy duty racking on which to put my daughters sewing materials and made a concerted effort to clear the space so it could actually be used. 

There are still some bits to go to the tip, but all the newspapers are now gone, as are all the books (donated where possible) and I now have an almost clear floor area. I have also learned to use the wide-angled lens on my camera phone...

The last major job was to put up the racking and the second work table (cat for scale):

And now, we have a functioning work space, over a decade after we first said "We should do something about the clutter in the cellar." I'm going to get an electrician in to put in some additional power points and better lighting, but it's usable, so I may be able to reclaim the dining room table from my daughter's sewing machine.

I think I may just make myself a cup of tea now.

The Problem with Young People Today Is....

Imagine for a minute that you are a child born in 2000 to parents in secure public sector employment, with access to (subsidised) pre-school childcare. Your primary school benefits from a Building Schools for the Future renovation.

In 2009 one of those parents is outsourced and subsequently made redundant, so the household income drops markedly.

In 2010, just as you are about to go to high school, the Coalition comes to power, and Austerity begins (history notes that we were not, in fact, "all in it together").

In 2014, you come out as trans and initially face hostility from one parent (they got better). At about the same time, your other parent is made redundant, and for a few months, the family is held together by goodwill and tax credits until one of them gets temporary work.

In 2016, the country holds a referendum on EU membership. There is talk of allowing 16 yr olds a vote which, even if it hadn't been knocked back, would still not have allowed you a say because the vote was a week before your birthday. Thanks to a lazy and lacklustre campaign by the Remain side, the country inflicts terminal damage on itself. In the same month, you lose both maternal grandparents within 10 days of each other - in the middle of your GCSEs.

You are already under CAMHS due to the mental health issues that have emerged, and which continue to grow over the coming years.

You get into 6^th form college, but the EMA which might once have helped you was taken away by Michael Gove a few years ago, as being “too expensive” (ie, Capita were being paid a fortune to administer it instead of local authorities doing it) and "poorly targetted" (a maximum of £30 a week, and only paid on 100% attendance, so hard to claim fraudulently). 

In 2017, a snap election is called, so you are still too young to have a say. However, for the first time in your lifetime there is a real alternative - and some hope - on offer (sabotaged, you later discover, from within).

In 2018, you age out of CAMHS support, with no referral to Adult Services, so your mental health gets worse. You obtain a university place, but without that support in place, you struggle to maintain it.

At the same time, your remaining grandparent is diagnosed with dementia and admitted to residential care. Your parents are now dealing with your sibling's additional needs and visiting the grandparent at the other end of the country, as well as your physical and mental health. As a result of which, they miss things...

In 2019, yet another election, in which you now can take part, but Brexit populism, more internal sabotage (including a future PM and his People's Vote) put the kybosh on the possibility of a change of government.

You drop out of university in early 2020 due to worsening mental health, only to find yourself in lockdown for most of the year. You apply for PIP. You wait. When you enquire, they've lost your application.

In 2021 your mental health hits crisis point. Even after emergency admissions, it still takes most of the year to get an assessment and a formal diagnosis.

In 2022 you finally get some proper therapy. In June, you also get the news that your father has terminal cancer. In November, you lose him.

You put in another PIP application in 2022. It takes 18 months, a lever arch file full of evidence and a tribunal to get a backdated award, during which time your physical health had deteriorated, but which can’t be taken into account at appeal/tribunal. This process takes longer than it took your father to be investigated, diagnosed, treated and die of cancer.

In 2023 you start to get your education back on track and get a place on an Access Course at a local college. You ace it, despite chronic pain and fatigue arising from your diagnosed incurable physical health conditions

In 2024, another election, with the promise of "change." No-one tells you that this will be change for the worse, but there you go. A Secretary of State for Health & Social Care who thinks mental health conditions are "overdiagnosed", gleefully taunts the Tories about having gone further with cuts than they did and is openly transphobic, enacting the widely-discredited Cass Review in opposition to almost every other government and world experts on gender-affirming care; a Secretary of State for Work and Pensions who thinks the best way to support disabled people is to remove their benefits (and seemingly, doesn't understand the benefits she's cutting). A Chancellor who knows the cost of everything and the value of nothing and petulantly sticks to her made-up fiscal rules like Violet Elizabeth Bott rather than consider any alternatives even when the super-rich beg her to tax them more, and a weak Prime Minister who has no vision or political philosophy and is swayed by all the worst people (up to and including Trump). 

You also commence a new university course, this time with excellent DSA support, which makes a real difference (don't let's get on to travelling while disabled, though, where you can't travel to university from your local station due to lack of step-free access, and where definitions of a "dropped kerb" vary crossing by crossing).

And so now, after nearly a quarter of a century on the planet, you’re surviving despite, rather than because of, the governments in your lifetime.

Your parents did their best, but with an older sibling with significant additional needs, they missed the signs of your autism and ADHD, which is why these are only diagnosed in adulthood.

That’s my son, and he’s not untypical of young people of his generation.

 

So please... Labour ministers, MPs and random ill-informed middle-aged men and women on the internet: DON'T YOU FUCKING DARE tell me young people lack resilience/are lazy/don't want to work/are taking the mickey/are over-diagnosed. It's a bloody miracle they've made it this far into the 21st century!

The young people I know are endlessly resilient in the face of unprecedented attacks from politicians and the Not Yet Disabled general public. They are a traumatised generation, stunted by austerity, disrupted by Covid, their futures diminished by Brexit and their survival by climate change.

The one glimmer of hope they had that things could ever be different was extinguished by the very people who are now in charge. Everything in their lives is adversarial, and they are constantly criticised for things beyond their control. No wonder they're suffering from poor mental health.

 

Adventures in Politics

This was originally posted in 2015, but seems relevant again at the moment.

“There are copies of candidate statements available. Can you return them at the end of the meeting, to save on copying for other meetings?” said the officiating party representative. There was no need – the pile remained untouched and un-read at the end of the meeting.

It was no surprise that others had ambitions for our ward – that became clear when the recently-victorious candidate failed to thank any of her campaign team but managed to name-check a couple of people from outside the ward at her victory party.

One of the criticisms our opponents threw at us for years was that our candidates weren't local – that they didn't live in the ward and until selection had little or nothing to do with it. For the 2015 campaign, the branch had two strong potential candidates from within the ward. Both with experience in campaigning and local activism, who were (or had been) union reps, school governors, local authority workers; who knew the area, whose children were educated in the local state schools, who had demonstrated commitment to the branch and to the campaigns of previous candidates. The branch was newly-energised, with a core group of dedicated members who regularly attended branch meetings, strong distribution networks for leafleting and a mission to engage with all sections of the local community, in one of the most diverse wards in the city.

“Local Labour party members select their local candidates within the party’s rules and guidelines. Those wishing to become Labour councillors are interviewed by an independent assessment team.”

Selection is a two stage process: shortlisting enables branch members to decide who to invite for interview (based on their candidate statements), and the selection meeting interviews all those shortlisted before voting for a candidate.

The shortlisting meeting had been booked at a local community centre, and all branch members were invited to attend. They were reminded that membership cards would be required on the night, to establish eligibility to vote. The shortlisting meeting is often the first opportunity ordinary members get to assess the capabilities of prospective councillors.

When the regular members arrived, they found that the meeting had been moved to a larger room than the normal one used for branch meetings and the AGM, and a sea of unfamiliar faces were already seated some 20 minutes before the meeting was due to start. There were two party officials present as observers but it was felt, as the Chair and Secretary were both potential candidates, that one of those observers should chair the meeting instead.

The procedure for the meeting was explained, membership cards checked (although some people were 'vouched for', having not brought their membership cards, despite this being clearly requested in advance) and it was agreed that the two potential in-ward candidates present would leave the room once the nomination process was due to start.

At this point, someone from the floor asked that any shortlist be restricted to just two names. The chair explained that the size of any shortlist was something that could determined once all nominations had been received. The two local potential candidates then left the meeting.

A total of 5 nominations were made; the two local candidates and three from outside the ward. At this point the size of the shortlist would normally be determined before discussing the merits of the nominated candidates and voting to determine which should go forward to selection. The proposal for a two person shortlist was voted on and accepted (without, apparently, any discussion of the rationale behind it) and the meeting then proceeded to a secret ballot; no discussion of the candidates' merits, just the vote.

A few minutes later, the meeting broke up. Two out-of-area candidates had been selected for interview; one of them, the person who'd been “thanked” by our new councillor....

Regular, active members, those who had been out knocking on doors and delivering leaflets in all weathers, were visibly upset at the outcome. That with two good local candidates to choose from, they had again been landed with an outsider. The one big campaign issue that could have been neutralised immediately (“You don't live here!”) would now once again be a fight campaigners would have to have before even starting on policy differences.

And this had been done on the basis of the votes of people who had never involved themselves with the branch, had never joined in campaigns, but had simply turned up to vote one one occasion, without any discussion of alternative candidates and seemingly no wish to hear what the other 3 nominees might have to say to them at the selection meeting. Notably, few of them have been seen since.

For a branch without a sitting councillor (which was in itself contentious, as the incumbent was not included on the panel of candidates, effectively de-selected by the party without reference to the branch who originally selected him, and whose appeal to the NEC was still pending on the night of the meeting), it would not have been unreasonable to have interviewed all five nominated candidates. While no rules had actually been broken, the selection was conducted in an unethical (and yet clumsily obvious) way. Active members had been left in no doubt that their hard work and commitment counted for nothing, and they would simply be given a favoured candidate for whom they were expected to campaign.

Nor was this the first year in which this had happened. When selection took place for 2014 candidates, the branch again had two candidates from within the ward (both male), but it was declared an all women shortlist (not that there is anything wrong with those). The branch was also the very last to hold its selection meeting, so the shortlist voted on by the branch diminished as other candidates got selected until on the night, there was only one remaining candidate to be interviewed. When this was questioned from the floor, the response was that if the branch did not make a 'selection', a candidate would be imposed.

The two local candidates in this case (the branch Chair and Secretary, don't forget) were not, and have never been, formally notified of the outcome of the meeting. Not that they had failed to be shortlisted, nor the names of those who had. As branch members, they should have been invited back into the meeting to discuss the final agenda points (timing of speeches, questions to be asked of candidates, etc for the selection meeting next week) but they were not, and were left outside until the meeting broke up. No commiserations from the two councillors present, both of whose election campaigns had been reliant on these people's hard work and enthusiasm. A very shabby way to treat good people. And if they treat their own activists with such contempt, one has to query what they think of the local electorate?

The party 'machine' had been used before the shortlisting to try and preclude one of the in-ward candidates from standing, on the grounds that he had a substantive job within the local authority. It had to be pointed out to them that under the rules a) local authority employees were entitled to stand as long as they resigned at the point of nomination (this has also, on occasion, been extended to resigning if elected) and that b) the person in question had disclosed his employment status at the initial panel interview without it being questioned. The machine then cranked up a gear, with a story being circulated that the other in-ward candidate had stood down from the process prior to shortlisting, an (incorrect) fact that was happily passed around the party.

After the selection, relations between the elected councillors and the branch executive worsened considerably. Laughable appeals for 'unity' which appeared to mean the branch supporting councillors' actions without question, failure to respond to reasonable requests for information, while accusing branch officers of inaction (when the officer in question was on holiday) regarding councillor actions/activities, discussing a significant issue about a branch officer privately with another officer on a matter which affected the branch more widely, seemingly appointing a campaign manager without reference to the Executive Committee and arranging a campaign meeting at 24 hours' notice during August, when most of the EC were unable to attend. There was also a (hastily withdrawn) threat from the CLP to suspend the branch for questioning councillors' actions, with the accusation that the branch was “trying to impose its will” on the councillors. A formal complaint to the party about the conduct of one of those involved has not given any response some sixteen months after it was made.

The smears continued. The first branch meeting of the autumn was held at a new venue, but some people turning up at the old one were told that it had been cancelled as 'trouble' was expected. Only mischief-making possibly, but deeply unprofessional. The next leaflet omitted the sitting-but-deselected councillor (whose term of office did not run out until May 2015) from the 'team' contact list, effectively air-brushing him from the branch.

In the next few months, both the branch chair and secretary resigned; a branch fundraiser attracted only about 15 people; activists stopped going out on the doorstep. By the time of the AGM, it was felt necessary to put forward a motion declaring that the branch had “complete confidence in its councillors and candidate” which, in itself suggested there might be a problem.

This is not an isolated case. There are reports of similar things happening all over the country. The Labour Party has many fine, committed activists, but increasingly, they were not being given the chance to serve their communities. It is a profoundly worrying trend and will ultimately do harm to a party already accused of ignoring its core vote and parachuting candidates into seats with which they have no connection.

In the last 24 hours, there have been news stories about muslim women being prevented from standing as candidates. Sadly, this is all too credible, despite the party's reassurances as to the robustness of the selection system. This system can be, and is, played to the advantage of the party machine. And it's not just muslim women, but all women (and some men) whose faces don't fit, for whatever reason.

Of course, there's a right of appeal. But when no actual rules are broken (just twisted to within an inch of snapping), what would be the point? As many of us have discovered, complaints disappear into a black hole. And, as we're always being told, party unity is important, so why would 'ordinary' members want to cause embarrassment?

Suggesting that other political parties don't have ways of influencing candidate selection would be naive. Other parties may  be "worse". But I expect better of the Labour Party. Members have had enough of 'keeping quiet' for the good of the party. This is wrong, and we shouldn't have been putting up with it. 

Access

 My son is an ambulatory wheelchair user. He's about to start university, and today we travelled into central Manchester for his Disabled Students Allowance (DSA) assessment, to determine what equipment and support he needs to succeed while he's there. It was a refreshing change, after years of dealing with the DWP on behalf of two disabled children/young adults, to encounter an assessor who understood their brief and whose objective was to find the right tools and recommend them. All in all, quite a postive day.

Getting to the assessment centre, though, was another matter. I didn't want to drive into central Manchester (there are too many stealth bus lanes and closed-to-ordinary-traffic roads these days aimed at trapping the unwary occasional traveller to our fair city in its penalty traffic camera system) but we have an integrated public transport system and it's only three miles, so this shouldn't have been a problem.

We couldn't go by train because Levenshulme still has no disabled access (I've lived here nearly 40 years and it's been promised for pretty much all that time). If you look closely at this lovely print by my friend Paul Magrs, you'll see the problem. No matter that disabled people and parents with prams can't actually get from the street to the ticket office or platforms - as our councillor told us, we have a lovely new mural to enjoy to raise morale!

My son's not keen on buses which, while fairly plentiful, can be tricky to get on and off, even where the suspension can be dropped to street level (he could do a whole separate blog post about the trials of getting around by bus) and the audible disgruntlement of some of the travelling public make it a less than pleasurable experience.

His favoured mode of transport is the Metrolink system, which has good accessibility and which has a stop about 2-3 minutes walk/wheel from the assessment centre, so Plan A was drive the 3.5 miles to East Didsbury metrolink, park and get the tram into town. 

We got to East Didsbury to find NO parking spaces (Note to Offspring: apply for that Blue Badge before you go to uni) so we had to devise a Plan B, which was to drive all the way back past home and another 3 miles into the city centre to park near that light-sapping place that replaced the old BBC studios on Oxford Road (Circle Square). This was about a ten minute walk/wheel from the assessment centre, with a light uphill incline, but nothing like the hills in Leeds where he will be studying. 

Gentle reader, if you are not disabled you may never have noticed the appalling quality of dropped kerbs in the centre of this "world class city" - they either aren't dropped enough, or too much (so that puddles form in them) or the surrounding tarmac is so poorly maintained that any advantage to dropping a kerb is lost. My son is fit enough to do a mini-wheelie to get himself over the initial bump of a not-quite-dropped-enough kerb, but many wheelchair users could not. We can understand (if not be happy about) the paltry 10 functional dropped kerbs of the 38 he had to navigate other week while taking part in Levenshulme Pride - after all, it's "only the suburbs" and there's no money - but the Manchester is allegedly one of the country's major urban centres, one of the flattest cities in the country and we love it to bits, but really - this is the state of just one the kerbs that has been made 'accessible' (all of that cracked tactile paving was loose and unstable).

So why are they so bad? Does the council just chuck the contract at the cheapest bidder? Do they not do any inspections of the work to see if it's actually fit for pupose? Maybe it's just that until and unless you experience them as a wheelchair user, they probably look lovely.

We're both taking part in the Manchester Pride march this weekend, so will keep you posted on how we get on!

And so, Another Eulogy

Having already written, delivered and published eulogies for my parents and my partner, I thought it only right to add that of my late mother in law, who died last month. Whatever pretensions I may ever have had as a writer (ie, none) this would not have been my chosen specialist area.

Pamela Joan New 1934 - 2023 

This is the eulogy I never expected to have to give. Ordinarily, it would have fallen to Paul, the son Pam loved so much, but sadly he’s no longer with us, so I am hoping that I can do both of them justice today. Please forgive me if I have forgotten or missed anything about Pam, whom I was fortunate enough to know for 35 years.

Pam was born on 30 December 1934 in Wincanton, the only child of Frank and Gladys. The family lived on Mill Street in the town, although they stayed in touch with their extended families in Nailsea, Yatton and Clevedon. They were frequent visitors to Nailsea, where Frank’s family had lived for generations, and she was especially fond of her aunt Hilda, who ran West End Stores. She also had many cousins on the Payne side of the family, some of whom are with us today.

In 1956, Pam married local lad Ronald New and the couple moved to Bristol, where Ron worked for the GPO (later to become British Telecom). In 1965, they adopted a son, Paul, and the family made their home in Headley Park, in a home with one of the finest views of the city.

When Paul was very young Pam worked part time, temping, but in later years she joined Royal Mail Customer Services, from where she retired with 20 years’ service. After her retirement she kept active, volunteering with the WRVS at Bristol Royal Infirmary for several years.

I first met Pam in 1988 – Paul and I had met at Manchester University, and he took me by train to meet his mother and to show me his home city. At Stafford station he spotted a fruit machine in need of emptying and hopped off the train, leaving me potentially heading for a city I’d never been to and trying to locate a woman I had never met!

Thankfully, he made the train connection and I met Pam, thus starting a relationship which lasted until her recent death. Pam’s mother Gladys was by this time in a care home in Clevedon, having been diagnosed with the same dementia which Pam subsequently developed. Pam made weekly visits from Bristol to Clevedon to visit her, initially on her moped and later in her little Fiesta – it was only after she moved to Nailsea that I realised quite what the journey ‘up over Failand’ entailed on a moped! Paul and I visited as often as we could for the ten years Gladys lived at the Belmont care home in Clevedon and as a result, I was fortunate to meet most of the extended Payne family at family parties prior to Gladys’ death in 1996.

When she and Ron divorced in 1981, Pam had started to indulge her passion for foreign travel – firstly with Paul and later with Brian Evans, the man who was to be her partner and constant companion for 30 years. Together they visited all parts of the globe and had many tales to tell of cruises and excursions.

Her retirement allowed her to continue this, and to make frequent visits to Manchester to see her grandchildren Megan and Josh grow up. She also had the benefit of additional ‘grandchildren’ in Aneurin and Huw, Brian’s grandsons, who were just across the Pennines in Leeds. Meg and Josh were extremely fond of ‘Uncle Brian’ and we were all deeply saddened when he was diagnosed with cancer. Pam spent much of the time that he was ill caring for him in his home at Whitchurch (they always maintained separate homes) and after his death, she returned to Headley Park only to find that it no longer felt like ‘home’ and so began a new chapter in her life.

At the age of 77, she upped sticks and moved back to Nailsea, where most of her family hailed from. The Bakers had been resident in the West End of Nailsea for generations and she and I were able to piece together much of the family history, thanks to Aunty Hilda’s role as custodian of family documents and photos. It is Pam’s wish to have her ashes interred in the family plot at Holy Trinity church where her grandmother Annie, grandfather Charley and Hilda all rest. 

The move was the best move she could have made at that time. She was very happy in her bungalow on Ashton Crescent, and she was also close to several of her cousins. She attended Holy Trinity and became active in social events there. Her cousin Brenda and her husband Dave were always at hand when Pam needed help and we are so grateful for their love and support when we were so far away.

In 2018, her memory started to fail and she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease. Unable to continue to live independently, she moved into residential care at Silver Trees Care Home in Nailsea, where she continued to have fun, make friends and have a very good quality of life for several more years. Meg, Josh and I are extremely grateful to all the staff there who made her time with them so rewarding, and for the kindness and support they have shown us as a family over the last year when we were dealing with Paul’s illness and our grief after his death.

She remained unaware of the tragically early death of her beloved son almost a year ago. I consulted family members and we all agreed that it was kinder not to tell her, as it would have been terribly upsetting for her to no good purpose. Her memories of him, while they remained, will have been of a devoted and loving son, who cared for her in her failing health as she had done for her mother. The children and I have done our best over the last eleven months to continue this legacy on his behalf, and I hope we have done him proud.

Pam’s was a life well lived. From rural Somerset to the Taj Mahal and the Great Wall of China, she was always delighted by the world around her and by those she loved. She was delighted to learn that Megan did indeed “have a boyfriend” (a frequently occurring question) and in the short time he knew her Logan has been a great support to us on trips out and looking after Pam with us.

And while I will now have my birthday back (we were both born on 30 December) it will be especially poignant from now on, as Pam will no longer be there to share it.

 

 

Fathers Day: an Abundance of Care

As this is their first Fathers Day without their dad, here is what my kids felt about him.

Read by Megan at his funeral in December 2022.

Despite his lifelong assertion that “Your mother wanted kids, I wanted cats. I lost.”, Paul was a devoted and incredible father right up until the very end. He was the best dad in the world, though not in the sort of way you reward with a cheesy Poundland mug (though I may have tried a few times!). Those that knew him will know he’s not much of a touchy-feely person, generally leaning away from hugs and avoiding expressing any genuine emotions in a way that people could hear. He always proved his love in other ways -- secretly spending all day on a train to and from Bristol to collect Josh’s beloved cuddly toy that had been left behind after visiting grandma, or letting me punch him because his exaggerated groans of agony would make me laugh until my bad mood went away. He chose not to treat his children like inferiors, always inviting them into the grown-up conversations and giving them the opportunity to try and understand, even if they ended up not doing. He was a man of carefully measured words and carefully considered actions, characteristics that made him perfectly suited to fatherhood even when he (continually, and only half-sarcastically) claimed to have no clue. No declaration of love could ever mean more than a great lover of cinema taking his children to see Happy Feet and, even worse, Mrs Brown's Boys: D'Movie. He was good at using his own experience of (undiagnosed, but agreed by pretty much everyone except him) autism to advocate and encourage Megan and Josh whenever others weren’t sure how to. He indulged plenty of ridiculous things, like a phobia of doors and a desire to take every bus route in Greater Manchester, but he did more than that as well. He was the best at problem-solving and seemed to always know how to work through situations where emotions weren’t the solution. He often claimed that he was getting carers’ allowance without ever doing any caring, but it wasn’t true -- both of his children would agree that much of their continued survival stems from his abundance of care. For all his wonderful acts as a dad, the best thing he ever did was relinquishing his dream of naming a child Colostomy. Paul lives on through a shared phobia of moths, a dark sense of humour, a perpetual willingness to pop to the shops, and all the love and strength he left behind. These words aren’t something he’d necessarily agree with, and he might visibly cringe if he heard them said aloud, but they’re the truth. He was a better father than he ever gave himself credit for.

2022: Review of the Year

“And worse I may be yet: the worst is not
So long as we can say 'This is the worst.”

Shakespeare, King Lear

 I didn't blog at all in 2022. See below for the reasons:

Preface: December 2021

On a pre-Christmas trip to visit my mother in law, the clutch went on our car. It had to be towed back to Manchester from the West Country and no-one could fix it until the new year. When we hired a vehicle for 24 hours to do the last-minute Christmas Eve Stuff that couldn't be done by public transport, the vehicle hire firm accused me of putting a scratch on it (I still dispute this) resulting in a lost deposit.

January: Car Troubles

It took most of the month to find someone who could do the work, either because of being busy or unable to do the more-complex-than-just-a-replacement-clutch job. 4-figure bill in the end.

February: Illness

My partner started to suffer from  reflux-y symptoms. Eventually persuaded him to consult the GP who suspected a hiatus hernia and did tests to rule out "anything more sinister." Referred to hospital for further investigations.

March, April, May: Backlogs

Covid restrictions and associated backlogs meant nothing else happened while meals became more and more difficult until he was on a soup-only diet (although chocolate always stayed down)

June: Hospital

Attended Manchester Royal Infirmary for an endoscopy but couldn't view the stomach due to the discovery of a large tumour in the oesophagus preventing anything non-liquid getting in there (which explained the soup and chocolate). Referred for more scans/tests at MRI, Trafford General and Salford Royal. 
SatNav getting a lot of use

July: Plague

Outcome of scans = yep, definitely cancer. Two options:

• Nasty, long operation, requiring up to a year recovery.
• Chemo

The week he was due to go in to have feeding tub fitted prior to the op, all four of us finally succumbed to Covid (my fault - I went out for one evening) during the deadliest heatwave in living memory.

Finally admitted to Salford Royal for feeding tube fitting, during which they discover the stomach (which is needed to create a new oesophagus) also has some 'suspicious cells' meaning the op is now not viable. Stent fitted instead, which means at least he can eat real food again, albeit overcooked and chopped up small.

August: Chemo

First round results in a fair amount of persistent hiccupping and throat restriction, making life very unpleasant and his lovely voice changing (luckily temporary)

September: Car Troubles II: the Legend Continues

Second round leaves him feeling slightly chirpier, with signs it's having some effect.

Then some arsehole of a joyrider takes a corner too fast and totals the car. Lucky it was parked and there were no pedestrians about for him to kill. So sorting out insurance and police report at the same time as attending hospital appointments, which I could have done without.

October: More chemo, more pain

Find another car but by this time he's too weak to walk around the hospital on his own due to backache and persistent cough that's developed so become very familiar with the Uber drivers who do the hospital circuit (some are very good and drive in a way that minimises bumps and swerves for a clearly in-pain customer; others, less so). 

November: All hell breaks loose

Backache/cough prove to be symptoms of the cancer having metastasised at an alarming rate.

10th - visit the Christie for bloods/pre-chemo consultation. Told too ill for chemo and sent home with Oramorph and steroids to try and get fit enough for treatment.

11th - reacts badly to Oramorph, starts seeing things and becoming confused. Macmillan nurse calls emergency ambulance as blood sats drop to mid 60s. Admitted to MRI and taken more or less straight to Resus and put on saline drip, Now not recognising me, being aggressive to staff (proof that something is badly wrong) and hallucinating. Put on saline and wait for a bed on the ward. 

12th (his birthday) moved to the ward; had a comfortable night and I'm told to visit him at 2pm. At 10.30am, get a call to say he's taken a turn for the worse and can the family come in? We arrive about 11am at which point they're still in active treatment phase. No sign he knows we're there or has seen the (very fine) card son has made for him. By 2pm, nothing working, so put on end of life care. Daughter asks to leave at the end of the day and goes home with fiancé (who spent 8 hours sitting in the corridor waiting for her because it was family only and he didn't feel he counted). 

13th Son and I spend all day with him. We are top of the waiting list for a side room anywhere in the hospital (one never becomes available). Pain medication seems to be barely touching him and seems very distracted (am told this is just the body reacting in spasms and he's not as uncomfortable as it looks. At 11pm we're asked to step out for a bit so they can "make him comfortable". We both know what that means and when we return he is, at least, less disordered and seemingly calmer. We wait.

14th - at around ten past midnight he leaves us. Have a verbal altercation with a patient on the ward who has been awful to everyone for the whole time we've been there and chooses that moment to complain about all the noise (my son in tears at the loss of his beloved dad). Tell him in no uncertain terms how unpleasant and obstreperous he has been to the staff and how selfish he is being. Grief certainly focuses the mind!

Go home to sleep, after which lovely neighbour helps me do all the immediate stuff which needs doing. Rest of the month telling people he's died, transferring all the utilities to my name so we actually have heat, light, cooking, etc and arranging a funeral. In Manchester. In December.

December: Grief, Funerals and Christmas

The three of us put together a funeral service which we hope reflects the man he was, led by my oldest friend as the celebrant. Despite his assertion that no-one liked him, many friends and former colleagues come to the service and share wonderful stories about him.

Emotions still a bit wobbly, as everywhere we go reminds us of him. 

Christmas a bit weird but not as bad as we'd feared it might be, Developed some new traditions along with the old.

Marked my 60th birthday as a widow - not something I would have predicted.

I have always hated New Year's Eve and this was especially to be avoided. I think I've succeeded in not wishing anyone a happy new year this time - I wasn't feeling it and had a weird feeling I might bring down a year like the one I've just gone through if I'd wished anyone a happy new year!

So, gentle reader, that is why I didn't post anything in 2022.