One Thing and Then Another

There have been a lot of changes in my life over the past couple of years. The last time I remember when things were "normal" - or normal for me, anyway! - was when Stephen and I went on holiday with my parents to the Lake District in June 2006.

I wrote a blog post - an early one - about it.

I posted a photo of my mother reading the paper in the cottage where we were staying, and the Communist asleep on the sofa next to her.

On that holiday I took lots of photos, including one of the Communist sitting in one of his favourite spots in the stunning Duddon valley:

Here's the view he was looking at:

I knew, even when I wrote the posts about that holiday, that one day I'd be looking back and thinking - as I'm thinking now - that it seemed so ordinary, and now it's gone forever.

The Communist is dead, of course. My mother now has a broken shoulder, which will probably heal, but may take a long time, and which may change her life for ever. Until last week, she could swim half a mile without any problem - she'll probably never be able to again.

I'm not a pessimist, I'm a cup half full kind of person. I know - of COURSE I know - that there are many, many people having a worse time than we've had over the past few years.

And some of the things that have happened have been wonderful, of course.

But sometimes I think - oh, I'm so fed up of the bad ones. I don't know how people bear them. I don't know how I do, and I don't know if I can. I always think of myself as very resilient - - well, I'm fed up of it. I'm fed up of having to be.

The Strange Incident of the Long Ginger Plait

I've just been reading Silverback's most enjoyable blog where he has posted a rather scary video of a woman footballer, Liz Lambert, committing an interesting range of assaults on other players. At one point she grabs one girl's hair and uses it to hurl her to the floor.

It looks truly terrible. Send the woman off! Send her to jail! - - ah, yes, all very well, but I have to confess to you I once did a somewhat similar thing myself.

Mind you, I was only ten at the time. And games hadn't even started yet - we were all lined up outside in our PE kit on the playground waiting to start athletics on the field.

Though, in my case, the word "athletic" was not appropriate, for I wasn't very athletic. All I could do was swim and there wasn't any water on the playing field. I couldn't run very well and I certainly couldn't jump. I am sure that I was a big disappointment to my mother who excelled at all sports.

I was good at the classroom stuff though, in general. And because I wore glasses and was always reading and generally worked hard at it all, the word "Swot" was sometimes directed at me. Not often, because it was quite a swotty school and I had quite a few swotty friends. Usually it didn't bother me.

But that day, Karen Pegg, with her one long ginger plait and her skinny runner's legs was standing in front of me, and decided to talk to her Horrid Friend next to me about how Daphne in the row behind behind was such a swot, and was teacher's pet, and had glasses, and frizzy hair (also true by the way - hated it then and still hate it now) and couldn't run to save her life.

And that time it really got to me. I never tried to be teacher's pet - I just got on with my work because you got a lot less hassle at school that way.

So I did the only possible thing. Which was to grab Karen Pegg's long ginger plait, which reached down to her waist, and then pull it as hard as possible. Which was really very, very hard. Because I wasn't any good at running, but my ancestors were Eastern European peasants, and I was - and am! - quite strong.

Karen screamed like a girl. Which, let's face it, she was. Though a rather spiteful one. She screamed and screamed. I think it must have hurt a lot.

The teacher came. "She - - she - - she pulled my plait!" sobbed Karen.

"She did, Miss," said Karen's Horrid Friend whose name I forget (I can still picture her face though).

"Who did?" asked the teacher. "Who pulled your plait?"

"Daphne did, Miss," chorused Karen and Horrid Friend together.

The teacher, bewildered, looked at Swotty Teacher's Pet Daphne, who was standing in the row behind, engrossed in the book she carried everywhere, as usual, with her other-worldly expression as she remained in her imaginary world, away from the realities of Physical Education.

"Don't be ridiculous, girls," said Teacher. "Daphne would never do a horrible thing like that. She's always very well-behaved. How dare you make up such a terrible story?"

"But, Miss - - "

"That's enough! I don't want to hear another word. Now let's go down onto the playing field, shall we?"

Swotty Teacher's Pet Daphne quietly put her book in her pocket and followed the others onto the field.

But, of course, a lot of time has passed since then. Who knows where Karen Pegg is now? Ah, well, we were only children then. And, Karen, if by any chance you're reading this, I feel it's time to say something to you about this incident.

And it's this.

Daphne Ten Points, Karen No Points, HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

It's Big And Purple

I was working in Rusholme, which I think is part of Greater Manchester, this morning. I didn't like it much. After a while even Normanton was beginning to seem rather attractive in comparison, and that's saying something, believe me.

Sorry, any Normanton or Rusholme readers. Sorry that you live in such horrible places.

Anyway, back I came, and then it was very busy in the office, and Mum came over to say hello, and I said I'd go over when things had quietened down a bit.

So I went over and looked at the arm with the broken shoulder - the right arm - and a very strange thing had happened to her hand. Whereas before it had looked much as usual, ie tiny, it now was hugely swollen and nearly the size of a usually-sized person's hand. My mother, of course, is tiny with size two and a half feet and tiny hands too.

Anyway, her hand was now huge. And purple. I didn't like the look of it.

I rang the Intermediate Care Team to see if the hand was expected to look like a purple ball. They said they'd send someone to look at it.

The Intermediate Care Team are great - they came to see The Communist for a while before he became too ill. They've been helping my mother get washed and dressed, and prepare meals, and get undressed again. They are all warm and friendly, with excellent communication skills, and they make you feel very cared-for.

So tonight they sent a nurse along with the usual helper, and the nurse explained that this swelling was because of having to keep the arm still, and she showed Mum how to move the arm to exercise it and to stop the elbow from stiffening, whilst not allowing the shoulder to move, as that needs to be kept still in order to heal.

They were patient and kind and Mum loves having them there.

The NHS gets a lot of stick and yes, there are lots of things that could be improved. But this service is excellent and not as well-known as it should be. Hurrah for the Intermediate Care Team.

Beside the Seaside

Wandering around Tenby last weekend, I came across a number of things that I liked for different reasons, and here are some of them:

The name on a boat: (for anyone abroad who doesn't know, the Severn is a river)

A lifebelt on an old wall:

A pub all ready for Hallowe'en:

Another cheery-looking pub:

A very old post-box:

and an exhibit currently in preparation at Silent World Aquarium:

Hurrah for the seaside!

In a Cafe in Rhydypennau

I know most of the good cafes on the way from Tenby to Leeds. On the way back from Tenby we were sitting in the Pennau Crafts and Coffee Shop which has lots of interesting things to look at and delicious home-made food.

I bought some Bara Brith (a kind of delicious Welsh fruit loaf) which enabled me to greet our Welsh actor on Monday and offer him some of it with a short burst of Welsh: "Bore da! Bara Brith?"

(Bore da is Good Day. Very educational, this blog. Unless you're Gareth's mum, who is a fluent Welsh speaker and might well be reading this!)

In one of those strange mixtures of English and Welsh, the cafe's address is Rhydypennau, Bow Street, Aberystwyth, Ceredigion, North Wales. The "Bow Street" bit always seems very incongruous to me.

I noticed a couple come in and sit at the table next to ours.

I instantly recognised the woman, even though I haven't seen her since about 1983. I went to her wedding, in Norwich. She was marrying Stephen's brother David.

She's very distinctive-looking anyway - very small with long, dark hair - and I'm totally certain it was her.

I wondered whether to speak to her. I started thinking of the ways the conversation might go, and I didn't think I liked them.

David is now married to someone else and has two children: they live near Norwich but we haven't seen them for probably seven years. No rift, no row - - we just haven't. Stephen and his brother have never been close and we're never exactly passing through Norwich - is anyone?

So I thought - well, she's with this man, who could be a friend, or a partner, or a husband - - but he might not know that she was ever married to David.

The marriage ended, of course - - perhaps she might not want to be reminded of it.

I decided not to speak to her, though part of me wanted to. At the checkout we stood next to each other and there wasn't a glimmer of recognition when I stood right in front of her.

People always recognise me, even when they haven't seen me for years. Decades, sometimes. Because I've lived round here for most of my life, I've met many of the people in this part of Leeds at various times. They come up to me in the street. "Ah, hello Daphne," they say, as if we've met very recently "how's your mum? Kenneth really enjoyed being in her class."

I generally haven't the heart to say "which Kenneth?" I just keep listening and after a while they work out that they last saw me on the day that Kenneth got his new bike when we got the results of the eleven-plus examination.

Slightly worrying really - is it that I look incredibly young for my age? Or is it that I looked about fifty when I was eleven? Either way, people do recognise me.

But this woman in the cafe didn't. Or, perhaps, like me, she had thought of the ways that the conversation might go and was just doing a good job of pretending.

Fade to Grey

To hospital in Leeds today with my mother, who has her arm in a sling and they can't do much else with it. The shoulder should heal itself in about six weeks. Thanks to all for your good wishes - they are much appreciated. The hospital has called in the Intermediate Care Team who will call in several times a day to help with everyday tasks - brilliant!

Before this all happened on Sunday, I had a wonderful wander round all Tenby's lovely beaches on Saturday, and then again yesterday morning before we set off back.

One of the things that I love about Tenby in the summer is all the rich colours and indeed there were still plenty of these about even in early November: here's the harbour on Saturday:

But I've always loved beaches in their winter melancholy - - all greys and browns and silvers - - and so it was this weekend.

Caldey Island from South Beach:

An old boat on South Beach:

North Beach at low tide:

The two lifeboat stations - the old, disused one and the bright new modern one:

The headland at the end of South Beach:

and the long sweep of South Beach, with that headland now in the distance:

But you'll notice I've sneaked a palm tree into my final Winter Melancholy picture. Palm trees are never melancholy - they are always cheery and I love them for that reason.

It's been a bit of a grey weekend, in all senses. But in amongst it all, there were hints of the return of summer.

Broken

The path that we use down to the beach from in Tenby zig-zags down the cliff and is very high and very steep. At this time of the year it's covered with leaves.

So perhaps it wasn't a good idea for an eighty-five year old to trot up and down it three times in one day.


Of course, my mother was fine with it. She was fine walking all over Tenby too, and paddling in the sea. I'd guess she walked five or six miles on Saturday and enjoyed every step.

Then, on Sunday morning, she tripped over a loose shoelace and fell over just outside the hotel, landing on the steps. We were waiting for the AA at the time as a strange warning light had come on on my car - - the AA man has done what he described as a "temporary repair" but I don't really know what he meant, because my mother had fallen over by then and I wasn't giving him my full attention, except he thought it would be fine to drive back to Leeds - and it was.

My mother's nose was bleeding from a cut and her arm was a bit sore, but she seemed fine. I tried to get her to go to hospital in Tenby - - but she has a phobia of hospitals and wouldn't, and she did seem fine, and wanted to come with me to Swansea, where we were going to see a play at lunchtime.

We set off and when we had done a substantial part of the journey, we came to a flood in the road which mean that there was a detour, which meant that I knew we'd never get there in time for the play as we'd been late setting off anyway, but we carried on to Swansea to see the cast who are friends of ours.

And then, in the cafe, waiting for them to come down after the play had finished, my mother suddenly just went very unresponsive - - couldn't hear me - - closed her eyes - - I called an ambulance.

Her blood pressure had dropped suddenly and, when laid on the floor, she came round in a few minutes. This time I gave her no option - she was going to hospital.

But there, out of her comfort zone, she became a bewildered, hysterical eighty-five-year old and it was terrible to see. The staff were doing their best but didn't really know what to do about it and they left it to me and to my friend Sonia who was in the play and came to the hospital (and she was a star!)

An X-ray showed that her shoulder is broken but in the end my mother just refused all treatment and left with her arm in a sling.

As soon as we left the hospital she was restored to her usual chirpy self and now we're back in Leeds. Her broken shoulder isn't hurting too much but she can't really use that arm and I'm taking her to hospital in the morning to get it sorted. I have pointed out to her that neither swimming nor gardening are options for the future unless she does, and she seems resigned to another trip to hospital. I'm not sure how she'll react when she gets there though.

It's been a huge shock to my mother and a shock to me too - - my mother has hardly ever been ill and it made me realise how very difficult it will be if she ever is ill in the future. And she's eighty-five, for goodness' sake - - people do get ill at eighty-five!

My mother is, I know, an exceptionally fit eighty-five year old and it was horrific to see how things could be in the future.

I'll let you know what happens tomorrow.