First Christmas without you...

Musical curve-ball on the South Bank

First Christmas without a loved one? Here were my thoughts a few months after Dad died. It does get a bit easier, with time. But the key's thinking about the memories and real gifts loved ones leave you. Anyway....five years on...hope this helps.


I knew I`d hear it sooner or later.

And there it was. Pumping out of a crackly speaker from one of the festive stalls on the South Bank in London. "Have yourself a merry little Christmas"--Dad`s favourite song. It's seven months since he died; and so we're heading fast towards the first Christmas without him. He used to shed a tear when he heard it. And even though Alzheimer's caught him; changed him; challenged him to remember even his daughters' names, he'd still smile when he recognised that tune.

Still; hearing it was a bit of a punch in the heart, and so, at lunchtime, in the middle of the Millennium Bridge, I found myself in tears. Luckily, the keen winter wind was leaving everyone with smarting eyes and runny noses.... so I guess I got away with it.

But maybe you've felt it too? The first anniversary, birthday, New Year celebration without someone you've loved so much...someone who's been such a central part of your life? I've found myself smiling at cards he might have liked; touching soft, warm jumpers that would have kept him cosy.

High in the Himalayas

I decided I could wallow in sadness, linger longer over my loss this Christmas, think about gifts unexchanged. Or focus on the gifts that will always be there. We've just cleared his house, so there are plenty of reminders. Detailed travel itineraries for royal trips to Tonga, San Francisco,the Congo, Mustique,Tasmania, Nepal. Just the mention of those faraway places excited me as a small child; filled me with wonder about what he'd find. And so my hunger for travel was born.

Then there are books...everywhere. Boxes and boxes have gone to charities across Kent. Yet there are still piles of the ones I couldn't part with on the stairs, under tables, on top of groaning bookshelves. The classics. More

travel. Grammar. Quotations. And poetry. Wordsworth, Masefield, a collection of Burns with a lock of blonde hair between two pages. The joy of learning, and, for the young man who'd left school and gone down the mines at 14, a hunger to read; nurtured as soon as my sister and I could turn a page. Another gift forever. Letters talk of his kindness; his selflessness. Press cuttings report his bravery at 24. More valuable traits to treasure.

Harrow and Wealdstone hero

Oh.....and the hats. How we laughed as Dad--the 'inconspicuous' royalty protection officer in a top hat-- made it to the middle of the shot on a Telegraph front page. And he laughed at himself too--always a good thing to be able to do. But was fiercely proud of his job, and its responsibilities. Check. And check.

Top hat and gun. *Blending in*

Anyway, just as I'd got over the London tears, the song came galloping back last night, at a Christmas concert. Thoughts of Dad filled my head. They insisted we all joined in. And so I sang along.....smiling, this time, at sweet memories of a big, strong, brave man, and the incredibly precious gifts he left us with. Including, as I fumbled for a 'just in case' tissue,being in touch with your 'softie' side. Which was OK for him. And is OK for his daughters :)

Happy Christmas xx

Travelling: the next generation. Avec hat...

PS: And yep; I got to Tonga. And San Francisco. And more. Read about life, four years later, on 2emptynesters.com

Ian Sheppard retweeted you

21m:

First Christmas without you http://www.lovemymondays.blogspot.co.uk  #Alzheimers #London #ChristmasSongs @getyourwigleon #bereavement

2. Geoff Rodgers ‏@ge0_ff  9m9 minutes ago

   @janemcintyre12 Nicely written blog young lady. In some traditions one is "allowed" to grieve for a year, so that all annual events 1/2

   Geoff Rodgers ‏@ge0_ff  7m7 minutes ago

   @janemcintyre12 are passed & reviewed for the future with the significance of the involvement of the deceased, holding onto the good!

Tarahoulford ‏@Tarahoulford  15m15 minutes ago

@janemcintyre12 A Very touching read.We have our first year Anniversary tomorrow. X

Helen Burnop retweeted you

Jonathan and Doreen favorited your Tweet#MusicDrUK and 3 others retweeted you

Carla Boulton ‏@naughtymutt  4h4 hours ago

@janemcintyre12 @alzheimersuk @getyourwigleon aah that's lovely x Onwards with great memories

   

Lexie Rogers, Diana Newnham and Rich Smith retweeted you.

Lexie Rogers ‏@lexierogers  42m42 minutes ago

@janemcintyre12 <3 jane="" p="" said="" well="" xx="">

Diana Newnham ‏@DiNewnham  44m44 minutes agoSouth West, England

@janemcintyre12 you have done him justice xx

Rich Smith ‏@ReCycledRich  2h2 hours ago

@janemcintyre12 Beautifully written. And will chime with so many.

Nonny James ‏@nonny_james  2h2 hours ago

@janemcintyre12 For obvious reasons I have not read it...yet

Sharon McGuinness ‏@SharonMcG1971  2h2 hours ago

@janemcintyre12 It may be hormones or incipient cold but you’ve just made me cry. And I mean that in the nicest possible way! *hugs*

About a bench...

I was rushing through my favourite bit of London the other day--the stunning `square mile`. Here, magnificent historic, architectural gems like St Paul`s Cathedral rub broad, stone shoulders with gleaming new kids on the block--full of bankers, lawyers, movers, shakers. And at lunchtime, some escape their sparkling towers,time-travelling two blocks and a couple of centuries to squares like the little hideaway off St Dunstan`s Hill.

You can see them heading for the benches with their sandwiches, lingering over lattes...longing for a few moments` peace and respite from office pressures, for some thinking time alone. There are lunchtime lovers, too; touching, whispering; earnest and certain that their city bench, for just a few moments, makes them invisible. It`s their space; their little `table for two` in the cosiest spot any maitre d`could muster.

If it`s you on the bench, you can just watch the world go by. I still try and stop in Trafalgar Square en route to Charing Cross; watching tourists getting ticked off for trying to tame the lions, or leaning too close to the still-icy fountain water on scorching summer days. I remember standing, as a four year old, covered with pigeons; their tiny claws digging into my head; beaks pecking at the bought seed in my hand-- I didn`t really enjoy it, but mum had paid for the stuff from the bloke on the corner-- it`s what you did on a day out. In New York, we sat munching hot dogs on a bench in Central Park, feeling as much a part of the Big Apple as Carrie; then joined the throngs in Times Square, watching the snaking queues at the ticket booths; each tourist already part of their own Broadway show.

In most cities around the world, a bench can be the only place you have to sleep--one step up from the street; and every person rushing past with somewhere to go is a cruel reminder that you`ve hit rock bottom. In Shropshire, Jim Hawkins uses the simplest of devices...sitting on a bench in a different location each week..to collect and record stories from anyone who cares to stop and share theirs. It`s uncomplicated, brilliant radio.

So that`s it really. You can`t beat watching the world go by from a well placed bench and wondering about all the secrets it keeps. And it doesn`t cost a dime.

The best things in life...

....are often free. From heartfelt gestures to the simplest sights and sounds --all of them can make your day.

For me: love, family, friends, good health, a clear blue sky or the sun on my skin are the kind of `free` things that prove life`s worth living.The sound of Shropshire church bells ringing out on a still, cold, wintry night, or the view from one of the county`s beautiful hills on a clear day are pretty special, too.

So too, are kindness, smiles, laughing about nothing in particular with friends or loved ones until my jaws ache, feeling sand between my toes during a day at the beach, or sinking into a warm, candlelit bubble bath when I get home.

And more recently for me, that sense of achievement and surge of energy after finishing a four or five mile walk or run..makes me feel a million dollars, even if I look like a panting wreck. And no gym fees!

Anyway,back to kind gestures-- we just got home to find in our porch a little jar of crab apple jelly, and a bag of courgettes.

They were from Mary-down-the-lane.

She`d popped a bag of runner beans and a couple of courgettes round last week. In return, we picked her some cooking apples, along with some damsons and crab apples, and left them by her door. Today`s beautifully labelled jar was our reward.

We`re now turning some of her veg, and leftovers in the fridge, into home made soup for tonight, and more for the freezer. All `free`, but more than that, a lovely gesture of neighbourly friendship. Juliet (pictured below picking some cooking apples) has reminded me that we need to check out Jack Monroe`s website again--top recipes, for not much outlay.

It makes you wonder though, how much more we could do for each other, trading the fruit and vegetables in our gardens or allotments, baking a cake in return for mowing a lawn; swapping our skills. I know these schemes already exist in many communities. No money changes hands. Does that happen where you live?

The Freecycle and Freegle movement works along similar lines. Not only do they provide a fantastic way to keep your unwanted goods out of landfill, they provide subscribers with all kinds of home items that they`d otherwise have to pay for. We`ve passed on beds, tables, a Hostess trolley, shelves, magazines,clothes, children`s bikes and toys and a couple of sofas in recent years.And we`ve bid for, and received some useful rugs, a cupboard, a couple of dining chairs and some deckchairs in return. What a brilliant scheme!

I`m going to London soon... travelling on £6 tickets (available to all ages)--a fraction of how much they`d normally cost me-- and some of my accommodation is going to be completely free. While I`m there, I`m going to be finding out just whether it`s possible to do London `on the cheap`. From food, to family attractions, to transport, to sampling the capital`s culture.

If you have any ideas, let me know, and I`ll tell you how I get on.

In the meantime....the soup smells delicious. Thanks Mary, and Juliet, and Jack. I`ll go and give it a stir......

COMMENTS:

Ironbridge_AAC Nige ‏@IronbridgeAAC19m

@janemcintyre12 in this materialistic world we live in often overlooked :)

Jake Snr ‏@JakeSnr12m

@janemcintyre12 the skills bank idea never took off in #Lightmoor; but we does has a Games Bank where kids can borrow outdoor games for free

....and.....JUMP!!!

............there`s something about September. I`ve already said that I`m ready for autumn: love the colours, the plump fruit ripening in the garden; the chill in the air that means log fires aren`t far away.

But I reckon the anticipation and the excitement of a new school year stay with you, however old you are.

Maybe that feeling is heightened in this house, with a 16 year old starting sixth form college, making new friends and studying her chosen subjects in more depth. That`s a big step. But her older sister`s at a crossroads too. She has a good degree under her belt; some amazing work experience on both sides of the pond, and now it`s time for her to find a job in London. (Sooner, rather than later, please, as her first rent cheque`s due this week.) She`s home for a few more days, scouring the job ads, composing applications, making decisions...like thousands of other new graduates.

It`s a very different world from when I left journalism college at 19. I had three interviews to work on three different papers, and got offered a job on each of them. These days it`s a virtual rugby scrum for jobs. You have to stand out--but you don`t want to seem pushy. And you have to be prepared to make compromises. All I hope is that the people she`s applying to work for, have the courtesy to send some kind of reply. It must be so soul destroying to hear nothing back.

So. That`s both daughters facing new starts, and in a similar way, six months on from asking to leave my producer`s job at the BBC (with some money for my back pocket, ta.....) I`ve been through a crossroads too. But now, every day, I`m free to choose to do what I like, when I like. And I`ve never been happier. I`m writing (oh...did I tell you about the three book plots I have in my head? Only a matter of time before at least one of them`s in print. Honest .) I`m also running, travelling, walking on the beach, reading, chilling, visiting my dad while he can still remember who I am.....and laughing lots, too. I know I`m lucky, but I`ve also been through some turbulent times to get here.

Only this morning I heard from two friends--one whom I`ve known for many years, and one I know through social media but who I like to think of as a friend , on Twitter. Both of them say they`re not content with their lot. They`re considering taking a drastic turn.

I know it`s easier said than done, and you have to be able to eat and to pay for the roof over your head, and support your children. But if you can survive--then just follow your heart. Only you know if your job or your circumstances or the people around you are making you unhappy. If they are....then ...double check your parachute....have faith in yourself ...and jump.

Better to try it...than look back and wish.

Good as gold; whiter than white

Seeing all the fabulous London scenes on television during the Olympics has reminded me how much I love the place.

So, inspired by the prospect of a trip at someone else`s expense, and fired up by the athletes` quest for success, I`ve just entered a competition to win a night in a `top hotel`in the capital.

I have a blitz on competition entries from time to time. I can`t say I`ve been as lucky as my Auntie Marjorie. She scooped dozens of prizes, from handbags to holidays. And all kinds of kitchen appliances.

Competitions were a hard slog in those days, though. You had to research your answers, and then often come up with a `winning tiebreaker slogan` about why you loved the product so much.This took a certain skill, blended with a degree of sycophancy towards the contest`s sponsors. Suss that and you were sorted.

My mum always hoped to emulate her sister`s success. She spent days on a competition run by a washing powder company. A massive, life-changing cash prize was up for grabs. All you had to do was make as many words as you could out of the brand name.

She pored over her task, night after night. And because you had to collect a dozen box tops to send in with your entry, the house soon resembled a laundrette. Really. The sheets were blindingly white. And you couldn`t wear a jumper for more than half a day because she`d whip it off you and stuff it back in the twin-tub.

Weeks later, a branded letter arrived at breakfast time. Mum brought it to the table; hands trembling. It told her she`d won `a share` of £10,000.

Fifty pence, actually.

Fifty pence, because so many people had found precisely the same number of words as she had. She was so disgusted that she ripped up the envelope; cheque and all. We never had that brand in the house again. Moral: read the smallprint.

It didn`t put me off though. I was determined to do better. One day, my geography homework session upstairs started to bore me, so I idled away a couple of hours on a competition in mum`s `Good Housekeeping` magazine.You had to research something about grapes and France. I had my geography textbook upstairs so sorted out the answer, but was still only 14, so whacked in an entry in mum`s name. She came home from work a month later to a crate of vino on the doorstep. Never has a detention for absent geography homework been forgotten so fast.

 More recently I won a weekend away at a lavish hotel near Windsor. Well, Heathrow, really. We wondered why the band was playing so loudly over dinner, until we saw the planes angling up into the sky from the airport every four seconds. Lovely treat , though.

But back to tonight`s competition. It took about half a minute. I mean-the answer was just a sentence away from the question. Like those phone ins on daytime TV. `What letter of the alphabet follows "P" ? ` Oh and it costs how much  to ring up and enter? And did you know there are competition websites where you can pay to get the right answer?

I reckon the prize is all the sweeter when it follows a bit of effort. And on that note, I`m heading back to the telly  to watch more fabulous, brilliant athletes going for gold in London. There`s no luck involved there. Just superb levels of fitness, years of training, and plenty of blood, sweat and tears. Mind you...if they need the name of a good washing powder for that.....

PS.Thanks for dropping by. If you`re on Twitter, could you possibly retweet this? And if you`re not from the UK, could you drop me a note to say where you are? Especially if you`re one of the readers in Latvia or South Korea! Thanks.

Moving stories

When was the last time you moved house?

With the property market still reeling from the recession; you might be quite happy keeping your feet under the table, thanks very much, and ignoring the des res pages in the local paper.

But even when you`ve got no desire to up sticks; sometimes, you end up surrounded by packing cases anyway, helping someone else.

That`s happening this week. And it`s bound to be a moving kind of  moving.

It seems only months ago that we were helping our eldest daughter into her university hall of residence in London. It was a manic day, in many ways. We`d been warned there was `no parking`. So, on double yellows,with wardens watching; we belted up and down three flights of stairs, dozens of times, with a hundred and one boxes,leaving them piled high in the tiniest student room for Juliet to `sort out later`.

Then suddenly, we were on the pavement ; ready to leave. I`d prepared for that moment for 18 years. But when it came to speak, no sound emerged. I could only hug her, try a brave smile, and climb back in the car. Then we were gone; blowing noses noisily up most of the M1.

In fact it was three years ago, and for a while now, `student life` has revolved around an impressive four storey town house in East London (with her own balcony and a view of the Thames. No, I don`t know, either.) She`s had a complete ball,and is heading for a summer`s work at Camp America. So this week, way more stuff than she ever started with, has got to be squashed back in the car and whizzed home to Shropshire for three months. Until she returns to London in September (hopefully with a van driving boyfriend ).

The day`s going to mean seven hours of motorway driving; a huge amout of lifting and shifting, a sizeable pub lunch and more fond, and emotional farewells for the summer (Go away, Brian Hyland, not NOW). But it`s another landmark, isn`t it? And I`m so chuffed that she`s independent and confident enough to head across the pond; negotiate a promotion; and then organise an eight day trip round California after that, solo. Go girl!

Anyway, all this got me thinking about how exciting...aswell as traumatic...moving days can be.

My sister and I were only four and six when we left our London flat for a brand new life, and a brand new house in Kent. I can still remember touching and smelling the just dried paint, opening and shutting the kitchen cupboards and drawers  that I could reach. We hammered up the stairs to bounce on the beds in our new rooms, and belted back down again and out of the door into our first garden, stepping  gingerly on the still spongey squares of turf , then running to the end to discover our very own conker tree. 

Fast forward twenty years. Several houses later, dad sold up and prepared to move out of suburbia deeper into the Kent countryside, into something smaller. He`d smugly told us he`d barely have to lift a finger, because he`d paid extra for the `wrap n` pack` service.

Nevertheless, my sister and I took the day off work and breezed round to make sure the move was progressing well, armed with a selection of chocolate biscuits, as you do.

Instead of the bustling hive of industry we expected; everything looked frozen. Someone had pressed pause. 

Here`s why.

Outside dad`s, blocking the small cul de sac where he lived, was the sizeable removal van he`d booked. With three brown overcoated men in the driveway, hands on hips. One was shaking his head at us; lost for words.

At the end of the road, that`d be just about twenty metres away, then, engine running, was another, huge removal van--different firm--containing the goods and chattels of the family of four who`d bought dad`s house. He`d assured them that the `wrap n` pack` deal would speed things up, so had advised them when to show up.

Huge miscalculation.

Inside the house....was dad, also with hands on hips, looking perplexed. My sister and I looked around in horror. There, at the kitchen table, was his still steaming mug of tea.Beside it, a fairly full ashtray; one fag still burning bravely on. And; to underline his apparent nonchalance, an open copy of `Police Review`. Beside the table,on the kitchen counter, a not very neat pile of `Police Reviews`; going back five or six years, we reckoned. And a fairly random assortment of mail. You know...bills, flyers; invitations to answer. Further down, on the draining board, a couple of plates and dishes from breakfast, and `one or two` items in the washing up bowl. Upstairs, the damp towels from his morning shower lay draped over the bath, and his dressing gown was hanging on the bathroom door. Beds? Yep; pillows and duvets all still in place.

He`d taken the `wrap n` packers` at their word, and had made virtually no preparation. And with the engine of the van belonging to family 2 still running outside, admitted to us that.... well ....no....he hadn`t really factored in any cleaning time at all.

It was a complete disaster in the making. 

And it took some nifty sprinting between van A and van B , sharp negotiating and mediation skills, several trays of tea , and our entire consignment of biccies before we managed to placate the removal teams and get Dad out; the house cleaned, and family 2 in, before nightfall.

I`m hoping this week`s move will be a little easier on all of us. Even though we`ll have a car boot load (now there`s a thought...trestle table, anyone?) of stuff to `accommodate` when we crawl back home late on Wednesday.

Everyone needs to know their assigned tasks. And after years of perfecting my skill at this; I will avoid all heavy loads....and appoint myself head of beverages and biscuits. And Kleenex.

Wish us luck.

London calling

Shropshire`s a beautiful place to live. We`re so lucky to have access to its hills,lakes,stunning castles and beautiful market towns.And although it`s got its pressures, it always feels like life in the slow lane. In a nice way. So now and again..it`s good to have a shot in the arm of city life too.Even if it`s just to appreciate what you`ve left behind.

I know as soon as I get off the train at Euston tomorrow, my first instinct will be to run. I was born in Ealing, in west London and remember being taken on the tube as a toddler, running down endless subway corridors against the rush of the underground draught if we heard the rumble of the train pulling in at our platform.

At 19 I was commuting from the suburbs to the city to work as a journalist, nearly always running for the 8.08 to Charing Cross, squeezing in to find a seat, then leaping in and out of taxis or trains and sometimes catching planes during my working week. Always against the clock.

Tomorrow there are no meetings. No business courses. No pressures. I booked a ticket ages ago for the Lucian Freud exhibition, so an amble round that is on the cards, then dinner and a show with my eldest daughter who`s studying in London.

On Thursday at Charing Cross station I`ll smirk at the commuters belting across the concourse, and head out against the flow to see Dad in Kent. That`s the plan. So if I`m in your way, or not running quite as fast as you (even though I could....)...then tough luck. I`m taking my time.