A Difficult Choice

Doc didn't c me bt saw nurse insted, they already given me usual injection 4 bloodclots - 1 that have been havin al wk, but he asked em giv me notha 1 much stronga! So just had that, gdnite mum + sleep wel, love Middle Son X.

I deciphered my 23 year old son's text speak with a frown instead of my usual wry smile. It was 10.30, on a Saturday evening, in the third week of March and I was concerned about my middle son, who had been admitted to the trauma unit of the local hospital almost a week ago. I wondered what the stronger injection could be. Perhaps one of the hospital doctors had finally taken the initiative to administer some treatment for the suspected blood clot in my son's right calf, instead of waiting for the results of an ultrasound scan, which wouldn't take place until Monday. There was no doubt that my middle son's pain had worsened since the scan had been requested on Friday morning, so it would surely have been a logical step to take.

Half an hour later, I lay in bed on my back, my novel discarded on the bedside table, staring at a 3 stranded cobweb, which had formed between the ceiling and the light shade. I mulled over the events of the past few weeks, not yet ready to turn out the light and settle down to sleep. 4 weeks previously, my 84 year old father had been admitted into hospital, at short notice, to have his right hip replaced. I had travelled up to my parents' house, in the Midlands, the day before he was admitted, so that I could look after my mother whilst my father was away. She was unable to manage alone due to her failing sight and occasional confusion.

After the operation, my father had suffered from low blood pressure and his wound had been slow to heal, so he had spent 3 weeks in hospital altogether. The Saturday before my father's discharge, my husband had travelled up to my parents' house to stay the night and at 6.40 am on the Sunday morning, our peaceful sleep had suddenly been disturbed by a telephone call from our middle son, to let us know that he was in A & E, awaiting an x-ray, because of a suspected broken leg. By mid afternoon, one of the hospital doctors had decided that Middle Son needed to have an operation the following day and would have to stay in hospital for at least a week. Shortly after hearing the news, my husband had left for the hospital, whilst I had remained with my mother, so my only contact with my son, over the next few days, had been by text.

My father had been discharged from hospital the next day and, after a kind offer from Student Son to take over my duties at my parents' house for a few days, I had finally been able to visit my middle son on the Wednesday after his admission into hospital. In fact, after visiting my son and seeing his x-ray, I had felt much worse. I had realised that my family hadn't fully disclosed the extent of the damage to my middle son's leg and it had occurred to me, for the first time, that he might not regain full use of it. I had become even more upset the following evening, when my son had found himself inexplicably suffering increasing and unbearable pain in his broken leg.

I returned to the present once more, my gaze falling upon my bag, packed and ready by the side of the bed, in case I needed to stay with my parents for a further week, after our Mother's Day visit, the next day. I hoped that it wouldn't be necessary, but I needed to assess the situation, once we arrived and to check with my student son, to see how well my parents had coped whilst he had been staying with them. I sighed, reaching out for my book, once more, succeeding, this time, in concentrating upon the plot long enough for my eyelids to grow heavy with sleep.

Mother's Day was a rather odd occasion, in the circumstances. I saw none of my sons in the morning. My eldest son and his girlfriend had visited the previous day, as my husband and I were anticipating a hectic Mother's Day visiting our relatives in different parts of the country. We intended to have lunch with my mother-in-law and my husband's family, in Staffordshire and then an evening meal with my parents in the West Midlands. My husband rang the hospital before we set off to enquire about Middle Son's condition and the Sister confirmed that the stronger injections being administered to him were clot busting injections, so we felt relieved that some action was finally being taken to try and deal with the problem in his calf.

We spent a couple of hours with my husband's family and then continued to my parents' house, as planned. My father was feeling very relieved to be without pain for the first time in 2 1/2 years. His wound had almost healed and he had managed a visit to the local supermarket without any major problem. Student Son reported that he felt that my mother and father were managing well and would be able to cope by themselves. When I told my parents that I was willing to stay another week, if they needed me, I could see that my mother would have preferred me to stay, although she stipulated that I should return home, so that I could be near to my middle son.

After a hurried meal, with my parents, I helped to load Student Son's belongings into the car with a heavy heart. I had decided to return home, but it had been a very difficult decision to make. I knew that my mother had become used to having me around and that she would miss my company and support. When everything was packed away in the car, we said our goodbyes, the slamming of the car doors confirming the finality of my decision. When we reached the main road, I leaned out of the window and caught one last glimpse of my parents framed in their front doorway, illuminated by the light behind them. I raised my hand as we headed off into the night, weeping silently under cover of the darkness, because of the decision I'd had to make.

Christmas Ramblings

I managed to write my Christmas cards yesterday. I can't send one to you lot, of course, but, if I could, I would send this one:

It's a lovely card, isn't it? I bought my cards from Oxfam again, this year. There were 3 different views in the boxes I bought. I have used up the one type, entirely, but the other one looked like this:

Anyway, I've written my cards, so that's another tick on my Christmas list. Only another 2 million things to do before Christmas, then. Nearly there!

Every year, when Christmas looms, I am reminded of the things I intended to do during the current year, or of the things I started, but which remain unfinished. I habitually whip myself into a frenzy, during the month of December, trying to finish off everything I've started during the previous months, as well as doing all of the usual Christmassy things, like buying presents, writing cards and putting up decorations.

I won't bore you by going into details of all of the things I need to get done, before Christmas. I'm sure that you each have you own interminable lists, and have no desire to hear about mine.

The Christmas day arrangements are worrying me, a little, this year. For the last few years, I have had Christmas dinner prepared for my immediate family, by 1 pm. By 3.30 pm, everything has been cleared away, the dishwasher has been loaded and we have been on the way up to the Midlands, to pick up my aunt and then have tea with my parents. It has tended to be a busy, but organised day.

This year, my son and his girlfriend have invited the 4 of us (my husband, my other 2 sons and me) to have Christmas dinner at their house, along with son's girlfriend's mother and brother. This is great, but it does mean that I won't have any control over the time everything will be ready! I have asked them, politely, whether they would mind preparing dinner early and they don't mind, but I can see that there is potential for things to go wrong. I am determined to bite my tongue, if they do!

I am an only child, so I like to see my parents on Christmas day. I don't like to think of them being alone at Christmas and they are in their 80s, so I don't know how many more Christmases we have left to spend together. I have been more than happy, over the past few years, to put in the extra effort needed, so that I can be with my parents on Christmas day, but I do feel a little guilty about asking my son and his girlfriend to do the same thing. I know that I won't be able to relax properly this year, until we are leaving my son's house on Christmas day, to travel up to the Midlands. My parents won't mind if we are a little late, but my aunt gets more and more difficult, as she get older and I know that she will get 'arsey' if she has to sit around waiting. She now lives by herself, however, so I don't want her to be alone on Christmas day, either.

It makes me look back, somewhat nostalgically, to less complicated times, when my children were young and my parents used to travel down from the Midlands to stay with us for a week or so, over the Christmas period. They were the best Christmases of my whole life, I think and we were all particularly sad, when my parents were no longer able to cope with the journey, even when we picked them up in the car.

I hope that you all have simple, relaxing plans for the Christmas period. If you are in the fortunate position of having a young family and hale and hearty parents, remember not to take these special Christmas times for granted. They are all too short and things will change before you know it.

I must go into town, now, to post my cards and buy something for tea. If I wait a little longer, the queue at the post office will probably reach my side gate, so that I can join it and shuffle the usual 10 minute walk into the High Street, whilst whingeing and complaining about the Christmas rush etc. I like to keep up the old British traditions, so I think that I may well do that. If I'm lucky I might find a 'nice, young man' to chat to whilst I am shuffling. Fingers crossed!

The Shirt With The Hole

'What can we get you for your birthday, then, dad?' enquired eldest son, as we enjoyed an early, celebratory meal in a nearby pub' restaurant.

'Just a card,' replied my husband. 'I know that you haven't got much spare cash, at the moment and I don't want you to waste your money on me.'

'We will get you something, though,' said eldest son's girlfriend, 'so you might as well tell us what you'd like.'

I took advantage of the short pause in the conversation and said to my eldest son, with a wicked smile, 'Your father needs a polo shirt, without a hole in it.' My husband tutted and looked visibly annoyed for a few seconds. I wasn't surprised at my sons' subsequent reactions, as the men in my family have a habit of sticking together.

'Oh, don't tell me! Has dad been going out looking less than perfect?' said my eldest son with mock exaggeration.

'Oh, no!' joined in youngest son. 'Has dad been going out with holes in his clothes? Shock, horror!'

They laughed and I laughed, but I continued with mock haughtiness, as soon as they had quietened down, 'I never go out with holes in my clothes. I have standards. I expect the same from your father!' We all laughed once more and the conversation moved on.

I don't mind them teasing me, but there is no basis for it, because I've never been in the habit of telling my husband what to wear. In the 32 years since our marriage, in spite of having to bite my lip, on several occasions, I've only criticised the clothes that my husband has decided to wear on 2 recent occasions.

My husband has never taken much interest in clothes, but he has always found short sleeved polo shirts particularly comfortable to wear and has been an avid collector since about 1976. They are his most favoured garment. He buys new ones, but he never throws an old one away. He will wear the same polo shirt to go out, as he wore a couple of weeks before, to cut the hedge and dig the garden. Joseph's amazing old technicolour dreamcoat could have been inspired by the myriad of colours in his collection and, if I laid them end to end, they would probably go twice around the earth's circumference. 2 of them have been the proud recipients of a telegram from the Queen.

It doesn't matter if they are faded, shrunken and stiff from age, or misshapen, they remain as beautiful to him, as the day he first set eyes on them. I sometimes wonder whether it is the same soft focus vision, which has stopped him swapping me for a younger model. I may give my own optician the boot and start visiting his.

A few months ago, my husband and I were going out for the day and I noticed that the polo shirt he was wearing had a small hole in it. When I pointed it out, he looked irritated, but went off to change it. The next time he did the same thing, I didn't say anything, as we were only going to the shops, but, after that occasion, I stopped ironing his very old polo shirts, in the hope that it would persuade him to keep them for working around the house.

The next time I noticed him donning one of his old, creased polo shirts, I pointed out that I was no longer ironing those particular shirts, because they were too scruffy and I suggested that he should buy a couple of new ones to keep solely for going out. After the conversation in the pub' a couple of nights ago, I'm relieved to say that he has finally taken the hint and we are going polo shirt shopping at the weekend! Yay! We know how to live!

I don't care how much I am teased about my attitude, I won't be changing my opinion. I don't have many clothes, these days and I am often to be found in jeans, but my clothes are always ironed, clean and respectable. I wear old clothes around the house and for gardening etc, but I keep some decent clothes for going out. I never look scruffy, when I go out with my husband and I expect the same standards from him.

What about you? What's your opinion? Do you think that I've made too much fuss about a hole in a shirt? Would you object if your husband wanted to go out with holes in his clothes, where it wasn't fashionable to have them? Do you try to look smart, when going out, or do you not think it's so important, nowadays?

The Legacy

This post is continued from the last, published on 12 November 2008.

The rumpus continued. From the grandson there was a bit of 'Don't you push my sister!' From the youngest daughter there was a lot of 'I'm not having a door slammed in my face!' From the eldest daughter, there was a little of 'Don't you tell me how to bring up my children!' Both sisters were rude to each other. The youngest was rude to my aunt. The youngest sister shouted that she was going home. My husband turned to me, smirked and remarked that no one could go anywhere until he had moved his car. A few minutes' silence ensued, then my youngest cousin came into the living room and sweetly asked my husband whether he would mind moving his car. It was a change of tone worthy of a Bafta.

As soon as my cousin had left, we comforted my aunt, in the kitchen, whilst we made some tea. (Woohoo, a cup of tea, at last!) My other cousin and her 2 children eventually joined us, in the living room, for a few sandwiches and snacks and we all tried to recover from the stresses and strains of the day. It was a day of tragedy and of comedy. In the end, in spite of the seriousness of the situation, we had to laugh.

Apparently, my younger cousin had reproached her niece and nephew, as she blamed them for the fact that her sister was returning home, to the Midlands, earlier than my younger cousin had hoped. She had pushed her niece, who had slammed the bedroom door in her face and the whole thing had escalated from there.

The oldest sister and her family had travelled down, from the Midlands, on the previous Tuesday morning and were intending to leave on the Saturday, mainly because the teenage children had engagements that they didn't want to miss. My younger cousin was annoyed because, for the first few days after her father's death, she had been left to support her mother and deal with the funeral arrangements alone. Paradoxically, it seemed that she was also suffering some pangs of jealousy, since the arrival of other members of the family, because her mother was no longer solely reliant on her.

The younger sister lived close by, was in the throes of a divorce and had a 5 year old daughter, who was 'a bit of a handful', by all accounts. I had a certain amount of empathy for my younger cousin. My aunt is unable to drive, so when my uncle had become too ill to drive himself to and from the hospital (a 50 mile round trip), the responsibility had fallen on my cousin. My aunt hadn't even been able to shop without her help, because the nearest supermarket was a few miles away.

My older cousin resented the fact that her parents had been persuaded by her sister to leave the Midlands. She felt abandoned and that her sister had deliberately sought to isolate and exclude her. I had more empathy with my older cousin, because I felt that her younger sister had been manipulative and controlling. The younger sister had moved from the Midlands, to the seaside, a few years ago, after getting a temporary job. She had eventually married a local man and had a child. When her marriage had broken down, she had persuaded my aunt and uncle to move to a house close to her.

As my aunt looked back on her own life, a disturbing pattern began to emerge. Her mother (my maternal grandmother) had died after giving birth to her. My grandfather had remarried, but his new wife had refused to take on all 3 of his children. She accepted the 2 older children, (my mother and my other aunt) but the aunt relating the story was handed over, as a baby, to be brought up by a maiden aunt.

My aunt explained how she was often hit so hard in the face, by her aunt, that her nose bled. She was dragged around the house by her hair and hit across the back of her legs with a walking stick. On a few occasions, my late uncle had been physically abusive, during the first couple of years of their marriage and mentally abusive up until the end of his life. He was jealous and possessive. She wasn't allowed to have regular contact with friends and relations after her marriage and sometimes, she wasn't even allowed to speak to anyone on the telephone.

When they moved to the seaside, my uncle chose a house, in a small town, with no proper bus service. Once again, my aunt was isolated and under his control. From the limited contact I had had with the family, and from the remarks I had heard during the argument, after the funeral, I suspected that my aunt's youngest daughter had inherited my uncle's possessive and controlling nature. There seemed to be every possibility that she was stepping into his shoes.

My uncle purposely left no will. He kept my aunt in ignorance about his financial affairs and the running of the house. He bragged that he wasn't short of money, even though the family assured him that they had no interest in it, because it didn't seem to have made him a happy man. They loved him, in spite of his faults. It seems that he may have been prone to exaggeration, in some respects, however. It appears that he may not have left a great deal of money, but he may have left some other sort of legacy, instead.

My aunt understands the potential dangers of the situation in which she now finds herself. She wants a relationship with her youngest daughter, but she doesn't want, or need, another tyrant in her life. She intends to move to a smaller house, in a more suitable area, as soon as the market improves. I suggested that she should make enquiries about joining some sort of local club, or voluntary group, so that she would have an opportunity of making some friends and wouldn't then be totally reliant on her daughter for company.

To a certain extent, my aunt is finally free to make some sort of life for herself. I can only hope that, after so many years of bullying and isolation, that she has the courage to take advantage of the opportunities presented to her.

After The Funeral

After my late uncle's funeral service and interment, my husband and I drove to my aunt's house. It was a journey of just a few minutes, by car, so we had hardly any chance to recover from the effects of the chill wind, which had been blowing forcefully across the churchyard. In the near distance, we glimpsed the sea sparkling in the autumn sunshine, as we turned into the cul de sac, where my aunt now lived.

There were 2 cars already parked on the drive, presumably belonging to my aunt's 2 daughters, so we parked behind them, on the road. My aunt opened the front door, leading the way into the living room, as she expressed her gratitude to us for taking the time and trouble to attend her late husband's funeral.

My aunt and uncle had moved to this small seaside town a few months ago, after a lot of persuasion from their youngest daughter, who had wanted them to live closer to her. My uncle had been 77 years old, at the the time of the move and suffered a heart attack 2 weeks before they were due to leave. Shortly after they moved, he had discovered that he was suffering from cancer and they had since bitterly regretted leaving the home, which had been theirs, ever since they had first been married.

We walked into the living room, but almost as soon as we sat on the sofa, we heard the sounds of some sort of disturbance coming from the direction of the hall. There was some scuffling, a few shrieks and the sound of a door slamming. I realised that there was some sort of altercation taking place between my late uncle's 2 daughters and the eldest daughter's 2 teenage children, a girl aged 19 and a boy aged 16. My aunt hurried out in to the hall to see what was happening.

We began to feel rather awkward, uncomfortable and embarrassed. We wondered whether we should leave, but I didn't want to abandon my aunt. We decided to wait a while, but not to interfere, unless it was absolutely necessary.

I sighed, as I considered the gigantic effort we had made to get to the funeral. My husband had arranged a day's holiday for the day of the funeral, rescheduled his doctor's appointment and asked his young female assistant to set up and take charge of his stand, at an exhibition, which was taking place in London. Last Thursday, the day before the funeral, after our evening meal, we had packed a few things and set off for a Travel Lodge in Devon. After a journey of 3 1/2 hours on a dark, windy, rainy night, we finally arrived at midnight, having lost our way on only one occasion.

The following morning, we had risen early, munched through our 'breakfast in a bag' and driven for another 1 1/2 hours to arrive at the church at 10.35 am. We were the only members of the family, who had been willing and able to cope with the length of the journey, so we had sat alone for 25 minutes, until my aunt arrived with her 2 daughters and 2 grandchildren at 11 am. We had struggled valiantly with 2 hymns, neither of which were familiar and supported the family at the graveside, as the coffin was lowered into the grave. After a short rest at my aunt's house, we had a journey of at least 5 hours to look forward to, as were driving to my parents house, in the Midlands, to spend the night. My husband had another exhibition to attend, in Birmingham, on the Saturday morning.

The shouting and swearing from the hall cut into my thoughts as it became louder and more intense. We wondered, vaguely, whether there would be any chance of getting a cup of tea, before we had to leave.............

To be continued

The Empty Nest

The traffic was heavy and fast-moving along the busy road, as we slowed to turn into the arboretum. The gravel crunched beneath the tyres, as we drove through the tall, black, wrought iron, double gates into a contrasting world of peace and tranquility. It had been several years since we had last visited the arboretum and the large, stately cedar, situated close to the entrance was a forgotten, but welcome sight.

We parked the car and then headed in the direction of the old cedar tree, looking forward to the first sightings of peacocks and bluebells. I watched our 3 young sons, running ahead, chasing each other around the cedar's ample trunk. The peacocks' calls echoed all around us, as we walked towards the bluebell dell, and the boys continued to run in front, laughing and calling to one another. They bent down low, to run in and out of the accommodating, natural dens, formed by numerous, spreading, glossy-leaved rhododendrons. They hid behind large, reddish-brown, velvety trunks of giant sequoia and jumped out, in eager anticipation, whilst we were still nowhere near.

Eventually, in a grassy, sunny clearing, we came across a peacock, displaying its bejewelled tail, and even our young, excited sons stopped short, in awe of the exotic bird, slowly turning and shaking its glorious feathers. When we reached the magical, bluebell dell they were, once again, brought to a halt, by the enchanting sea of brilliant blue, which lay before them, still and undisturbed, bathed in dappled shade. We sat, for a few short minutes, on a nearby bench, whilst our 3 young boys ran to and fro, along the path in front of us, marvelling at their inexhaustible supplies of energy. Slowly, we walked back towards the large cedar, with the boys still running in front, stopping only occasionally, to pick up the odd fir cone from the ground.

In the car, once more, as we neared the wrought iron gates, I opened the window, to gaze past the large cedar. In the distance, I caught glimpses of our 3 young sons, still chasing each other around the tall, imposing trees. Their laughter was drowned by the mournful cries of the peacocks, cries which rose above the tallest branches, to escape into the clear, blue, vacant skies. I glanced into the empty back seat of the car, as we approached the busy main road, and I knew, in my heart, that my young family was lost to me, forever.

Crazy Sunday!

Last Sunday morning, when my alarm woke me from my deep and wonderful sleep, I re-set it and snuggled down for an extra half an hour's stolen slumber. My husband and I were supposed to be taking my student son back to uni(versity) after the Easter break, but, when I had gone to bed the previous night, student son still hadn't returned from his evening out, so I suspected that he would remain in a comatose condition for a few more hours, yet.

At 8am, I woke with a start, as I remembered that middle son needed to go to work and he also hadn't been at home, when I had gone to bed last night. I checked his bedroom and the rest of the house, but he was nowhere to be found. My mind wandered, as I considered the difficulties of sharing house and home with a grown up family, who could not yet afford homes of their own. My 2 eldest sons were aged 25 and 23, so they were mostly free to come and go as they pleased and they led their own lives. I didn't wait up for them, if they were late home after an evening out, but they knew that if they spontaneously decided to spend the night elsewhere, they were supposed to text or ring, either the same night, or the next morning. After all, I needed to know when to call out the emergency services, organise the dragging of local rivers and canals, and when to alert the Prime Minister and Interpol.

It was possible, of course, that middle son had told my husband that he hadn't intended to come home last night, but had forgotten to tell me. It was another problem that we sometimes encountered, because, to a certain extent, as an adult family, we tended to resemble 'ships that passed in the night'. I didn't feel that it was any longer fair, or practical, to demand that we all met up for at least one meal a week. There were conflicting working hours, friends, girlfriends and other engagements to be taken into account. We met up whenever it was possible. It had to suffice. Group conversations, involving the whole family, were a rarity, but bewildering conversations between 2 family members were inevitably quite common, such as the one I had with my eldest son during the past week:

'Where's younger brother?' asked eldest son. 'I haven't heard his music for a couple of days.'

'He's on an outward bound course, this week' I replied. 'It's to do with his new job.'

'Has he got a new job? When did he start that, then?' eldest son enquired.

'A couple of weeks ago' I replied.

'Does he not work for the well-known High Street store, where he could get 30% discount off cds, DVDs and video games, any more, then?' asked eldest son, with a hint of rising panic in his voice.

'He's still working there at weekends' I answered.

Eldest son audibly heaved a sigh of relief and said somewhat grumpily as he left the room, 'Nobody tells me anything around here!'

My husband didn't know where middle son was, either, so I considered the possibilities:

1. He could be lying in the gutter, somewhere.
2. He could be in hospital.
3. He could be at the police station.
4. He could be at a friend's house.

I hoped that he wasn't lying in the gutter anywhere, because it could mean that his mobile 'phone had been stolen and I would have to expend a fair amount of energy, walking the streets in search of him. The nearest A & E departments were actually quite close and would require less effort to reach, than the local police 'lock-up'. Then again, if one of the police officers happened to be driving out in this direction, he/she might be kind enough to drop off middle son, after his night in the cells. I would then be free to indulge in my usual Sunday morning pastime of relaxing in my comfy armchair, enjoying a cup of caffeine and watching BBC 24 hour news, on Sky Tv. I shook myself out of my reverie, guiltily dismissing my uncharitable thoughts.

The most likely scenario was that middle son had stayed at someone's house. He was due to start work at 10am and needed an hour's travelling time. If I texted him at 8.20am, it would serve the dual purpose of waking him and assuring me that he was alright. He would, hopefully, have enough time to walk home, shower and still arrive at work on time. There was also the possibility that he had forgotten to put his watch forward an hour, which served to fully convince me that I definitely needed to text him at 8.20am.

I interrupted my breakfast to text middle son and remind him of the time. He rang almost immediately and told me, in a voice thick with sleep, that he didn't have to be at work until 11am and that he had stayed at his relatively new girlfriend's house the previous night. He thanked me, most politely, in the circumstances, I felt, and said that he would see me shortly. I remembered, rather belatedly, that for the last 12 months, he had regularly started work at 10am on a Saturday and 11am on a Sunday. Oops!

I showered and dressed, then remembered that student son had brought home his bedclothes, from his room, to be washed. I had washed them with the rest of our bedclothes and now they were all mixed up together, in the airing cupboard. With sinking heart, I realised, that I needed to try and recover them. I tentatively opened the cupboard door and, the speed with which the contents leapt out and overpowered me, took my breath away. A fitted sheet adorned my head, draped at a rather rakish angle over my right eye, whilst pillowcases and duvet covers clung around my ankles. It was glaringly obvious that I'd been blessed with none of the organisational skills of Anthea Turner.

I picked up a duvet cover and clutched it to my chest, gazing, eyes unfocused, as I inwardly bemoaned the fact that there were no decent cupboards in our house. The previous occupants had knocked out the one under the stairs. We had small kitchen cupboards, a few fitted wardrobes and 2 double beds with drawers, but that was the limit. At one time, I had kept the bedclothes in the drawers under the beds, but I had now filled up the drawers with other crap, so the bedclothes had to be stuffed into the airing cupboard.

I thought enviously of the 2 bedroomed house into which my parents had moved a few years ago. It had 3 walk-in double cupboards and 4 walk-in single cupboards. It must have been designed by a woman. When they moved, after 50 years of living in the same house, my parents got rid of possessions, which they later wished they had kept and kept things for which they had no need. They resolved never, to collect and store crap, ever again, but 5 years later, they have been 100% successful in filling their precious, enviable and significantly spacious cupboards with more crap. I definitely needed more cupboards, so that I could store more crap!

I forced my self to concentrate on the matter in hand and began sorting through the fitted sheets. I couldn't tell the doubles from the singles, as usual. The pale blue singles wouldn't fit student son's extra deep mattress, so he needed the darker blue, or perhaps it was the other way around? Sheets, pillowcases and duvet covers flew through the air in all directions, as I resolved to buy all of my bedclothes from John Lewis in future. They pandered to their spatially-challenged, or disorganised customers, in the most delightful way, by labelling their fitted sheets 'double' and 'single'. Awesome! I wondered whether they labelled their socks 'left' and 'right'.

I finally found student son's bedclothes and put them in his bedroom, ready for him to pack. I kicked his bed and shook the headboard, but he still didn't stir. We would be late leaving if he didn't wake up soon. After a long week of deliberation, we had decided that we would leave the house at 10am to take student son back to uni(versity). I had excelled all previous efforts by being ready to leave at 10.30am, but student son was still nowhere near ready. He had been out until 4am, apparently and didn't seem to be in any hurry to pack and leave the house.

When I reminded him that we'd originally intended to leave at 10am, he claimed that we'd never told him we intended to leave at that time and, when I thought back, I realised that he was right! My husband and I had agreed the time between ourselves, completely forgetting that he hadn't been present at the time!

We had some lunch and finally left home at about 3.30pm, after agreeing that we would have a pub' meal, before returning home. The journey was uneventful, but when we arrived at student son's accommodation, I remarked upon the peace and quiet. There were hardly any cars in the car park. No-one was wandering around with 2 months' dirty washing, trying to remember the exact location of the launderette, or staggering around, arms piled high with lager and crisps, trying to recall the exact location of last night's party. 'Everyone else has another 2 weeks' holiday' explained student son. 'It's only the students on my course, who had to return, today.

There are about 10 blocks of student flats on the site where student son lives. We were surprised to discover that he would be virtually alone in his block for the next 2 weeks. There would inevitably be a few international students scattered around the site and there would be some other students, from his learning group, in the neighbouring block, but he would remain alone on his floor, as far as we could tell. Apparently, student son had told his brother that he would be alone for 2 weeks, but had forgotten to mention it to us and, suddenly, we understood why he'd been in no particular hurry to return!

I've spoken with him, on a few occasions, during the past week and he has had no problems with his isolation, except for a few odd noises now and again, which could always be blamed on other students, when there were other students in the neighbouring rooms.

A narrow corridor runs outside his room and leading off it, there are 6 other student rooms, a kitchen, sluice, 2 toilets and a shower room. There are locked doors at both ends of the corridor, for which each student has a key. Student son informed me, during one of our telephone conversations, that he had been enjoying the freedom of wandering naked between the shower and his bedroom, whilst there was no-one else around. I opened my mouth with the intention of pointing out that he should be careful of the cleaners, who continued to work throughout the holidays, albeit in a limited capacity. I suddenly changed my mind, however, and clamped my mouth firmly shut. After all, it would be a grave error of judgement on my part, to risk depriving myself of potentially amusing material for any future blogs!

The Enchanted Castle

Once upon a time, when my sons were very young, they believed that we lived in an enchanted castle, inhabited by beautiful young fairies, who performed the daily tasks necessary in order to keep everyone well-fed and comfortable, for no financial reward. They were under the impression that we had one fairy to keep the castle spic and span, several to tend the castle grounds, another to cook, another to wash and iron, another to shop and several more to keep the castle in reasonable decorative order. One day, I explained that, in fact, there was only one rather bitter, ugly, not-so-young fairy who multi-tasked and, as they grew older, they slowly began to understand that the bitter, ugly, not-so-young fairy and I were one and the same person.

To some extent, even though my sons are now grown-up, their beliefs persist that they live in an enchanted castle and that I, as a middle-aged, menopausal fairy, still possess some magic powers.

For instance, according to them, the swing bin in the enchanted kitchen disappears when it is overflowing. I am very fortunate, in that my magic powers enable me to see everything, at all times. Only I can empty the bin, if only I can see it, naturally.

Fresh milk disappears as soon as the milkman puts it down on our enchanted doorstep. One bottle of semi-skimmed will materialise as soon as one son runs out of milk for his breakfast cereal. Unfortunately, as soon as said son has poured out sufficient milk for his needs, the 'fridge disappears and he is unable to put the remains of the bottle inside.

Apparently, as soon as anyone picks up the new toilet roll in the bathroom, the empty toilet roll holder disappears, so the new toilet roll has to sit on the window sill, until the bitter, ugly, old fairy goes in.

Cat sick disappears as soon as it hits the enchanted carpet, but mystically materialises when someone steps in it.

I see dead birds and mice under the dining room table. Oops, sorry, that's not magic, that's sixth sense.

Empty wine bottles disappear as soon as they are placed on the enchanted patio, by the side of our invisible recycling boxes. Any recycling has to be piled up in the castle kitchen, by the rear entrance to the castle grounds. It then renders itself invisible on the enchanted kitchen doormat.

Every time I enter the kitchen of the enchanted castle, the dishwasher materialises, but no-one else has ever seen it, so dirty dishes are piled up on the work surfaces and I am the only one who can load it up and empty it.

My eldest son's laundry basket also materialises, whenever I enter his bedroom, but unfortunately, it has never materialised for him. He has to put his dirty washing in an untidy pile on the landing outside his bedroom door, where it becomes invisible to everyone, unless they trip over it, when it will suddenly appear.

Any old rubbish, which my sons no longer want in their bedrooms, they move into the enchanted garage or shed, in the castle grounds. It then, apparently, turns into ancient treasure and must be protected from the wicked witch, who will take it to the tip if she gets half a chance. Only the wicked witch knows the whereabouts of the tip in the enchanted forest. Should any ancient treasure accidentally fall into her eager hands, a spell will be cast upon the original owner of the treasure, his soul will be torn from his body and his tortuous cries will echo through the aeon's of time into eternity, or so it will seem, anyway.

Now that my sons are grown and poised to venture out alone into the big wide world, I have to find the words to somehow explain to them, that we have only ever lived in a fairly modern house, on the edge of a housing estate and that the bitter, ugly, menopausal fairy, their mom and the wicked witch have only ever been one and the same person. I will also explain that if they look hard enough, they will see many things, that there is nothing scary about the local tip and that it does not lie in the enchanted forest. They are confusing it with a totally different scary place, known as HM Revenue and Customs. This is the place which lies in the middle of the enchanted forest and every grown up knows that they must avoid visiting it, or they will surely be eaten alive and never be heard of, ever again.

I will point out to my sons that the local tip is not a wicked place, anyone can find it by simply following the signposts and that no-one will suffer eternal torment if they decide to get rid of a few broken toys.

One day soon, I will get through to my sons, they will hear the words coming out of my mouth and perhaps, for a short while, we will finally exist in harmony, before they leave to set up their own homes and live happily ever after in riverside apartments. It is a fairy story, remember?

Pardon?

Oddly enough, by Christmas time I had made a miraculous recovery from my devastating mystery illness. No-one was more surprised than me.

So, I have a little catching up to do after my long absence. Cast your mind back to New Year's Eve, if you will. The way in which I spent the day may cause you a little amusement.

My husband's family came to spend some time with us, over New Year - his family consisting of his mother, his younger sister and her husband, plus their son, aged 8. On New Year's Eve most of the members of our combined families fancied a walk, which my husband and I had done in the summer and enjoyed very much. My middle son was working, so could not join in, but my youngest son went along and so did my husband. At the last minute, my eldest son and his girlfriend decided to go too, taking their newly acquired rescue dog.

I opted to keep my mother-in-law company, as always, as she suffers from arthritis and has limited mobility. My husband suggested that she and I should drive out and meet up with them at the pub', about halfway round the walk, the idea being that we would all have a drink, they would continue with the walk and we would drive back to prepare a late buffet lunch.

I duly drove out to the pub' at about 1pm, we both splashed out on a mineral water (I was driving, she was on medication!) and settled down to await the arrival of the walkers. Eventually, my husband and brother-in-law appeared, explaining that they couldn't come in, because dogs were banned from the premises. My mother-in-law could not go to sit outside, because she was afraid that the cold air would cause the return of her neuralgia and I didn't want to leave her on her own, so we continued to sit inside, whilst everyone else sat outside!

My mother-in-law, who is 80 years old and hard of hearing, asked where the walkers were going next. I explained that they had to walk along the road to the church, which I pointed out from the pub' window, across a few fields, through another village, then across some more fields, before being able to return to their cars.

I explained again a few minutes later, when she asked me the same question.

My sister-in-law came in and spent a few minutes with us and so did my youngest son. My husband came in to say that they were all about to leave. He said that they expected to be back home by 4pm. He held up 4 fingers to try to reinforce the meaning for his mother. After they had left, she asked my why my husband had held up 4 fingers. 'He means that they will be back home by about 4pm' I said.

'Where have they got to go?' she asked. I explained once more. She stood up and began to fasten up her coat. I wasn't quite ready to leave. I didn't intend to finish my mineral water, but I fancied a few more sips. I took another swallow, but my mother-in-law was obviously intent on returning to the house and stood waiting expectantly. I explained that I had to visit the ladies' and when I came out, she was already in the car park, heading for the car.

I drove home, not totally relishing the thought of wrestling with the mountain of food we needed to prepare for our late buffet lunch. As I drew up outside the house, about 20 minutes later, my mother-in-law said, with some amazement, 'Oh, they're not back yet, then?'

For Maggie May

I've not been well, you know. It was definitely something more than a cold, which struck me down so ferociously just before Christmas. It was more of a devastating mystery illness. I was so tired that I could not stay awake and I was stricken by a depression which seemed endless.

I didn't see my doctor. What do these youngsters know anyway? My doctor is not much older than my youngest son. What could he have learned in his 5 years at medical school to compare with my lifetime's experience of illness?? He would not have known what was wrong with me. I knew that I had something terminal. I acknowledged that I would be lucky to last until Christmas!

I was most grateful for the sympathy and support I received from my family throughout the period of my suffering, however.

On one occasion, as I lay on the sofa, weak and sweating profusely, my middle son murmured sympathetically 'Mom, could you iron this shirt, ready for tomorrow, please?'

A few days later, as I lay prostrate on the kitchen floor, where I had collapsed on my way to the kettle, my eldest son stepped over me, on his way to the cereal cupboard. 'Have we really run out of cereal?' he asked in a voice full of tenderness and concern.

A few seconds after my son's kind enquiry, I struggled to make myself a cup of tea and dragged myself back across the living room carpet, on one elbow, in the general direction of my temporary invalid's retreat. Clutching the remains of my tea in my trembling hand, I lowered my ravaged body to the refuge of the sofa's soft and all-enveloping embrace. 'They'll miss me when I'm gone' I muttered darkly, as I ruefully surveyed the telling trail of tea stains I had left in my wake, on the neutral-coloured carpet.

Serves 2

My husband always works hard, but during October and November, he tends to be particularly busy attending exhibitions, occasionally on Saturdays, and anywhere in the country. On such days, he may need to set off at 6am or 7am. He can be late home, or he may have to stay overnight. On a normal day, when he is going to the office, he leaves the house at 8am and returns at 7.30pm. It generally takes him an hour to get to work, but it's not unusual for the journey to take longer if there has been a road accident, for example. One morning last week there were 2 road accidents and his journey lasted for 5 hours.

Last Thursday afternoon, my weekly email to my student son was interrupted, when I received a telephone call from a friend I hadn't seen for a while. It was quite late by the time I had caught up with my friend's news and finished my email, but I realised that I would still have to go to the supermarket, as we had nothing for our evening meal. I wasn't feeling well and I suspected that I had man 'flu. It had obviously crossed the species barrier, and now that I had caught it, I finally understood that it was no laughing matter. The colour of my nose could only be compared to that of Rudolph's, and, at my age, I had certainly never expected to be this close to death's door. I decided that it was safer not to drive in my current fragile state. It was a 10 minute walk to the shops. I could drag myself there, and get an ambulance back if necessary.

On arriving at the supermarket, I headed for the fresh fish counter, but suddenly remembered that my husband was meeting some friends for a meal. It occurred to me that I could buy a ready meal for my son and myself. It would be quick and easy to do in my current ailing condition. I glanced around furtively. I couldn't afford to be seen by any of my friends in the process of buying convenience food. The majority of them were already immersed in Christmas food preparation. Some were clearing the supermarket shelves of dried cranberries, after pouring over stuffing recipes in the Good Food Magazine and others were buying nibbed almonds and cognac in anticipation of making Christmas puddings.

I examined the 'as good as eating out' range of ready meals on the chilled food shelf, choosing a poached salmon and pasta dish. My husband disliked salmon, so it was an ideal opportunity for my son and myself to enjoy it in his absence. I picked up a small tin of vegetables and put it in my basket, covering both items with 5 healthy portions of fresh fruit and vegetables, in case I bumped into anyone I knew. After 27 years of living in the South, I was beginning to understand how to fit in here. Never give anyone the opportunity to feel superior. They will always take advantage of it. I made a dash for a checkout manned by no-one I knew and within a few minutes I was heading outside, to be swallowed up by the darkness.

My son and I decided to dispense with formality and we ate our meal, sitting on the sofa, whilst watching our favourite tv programme - That 70s Show. (Hooray for Sky TV!) Naturally, we only watch it when there is nothing good on the History Channel or the National Geographic.

We both agreed that our ready meal was delicious. I perused the cardboard sleeve after we had eaten, wondering which zingy additives had made the food so tasty. I couldn't find any listed, but the red circles on the front of the sleeve, denoted that the meal was high in saturated fat. That explained a few things then.

As we sat on the sofa, chatting, I heard the front door open and realised that my husband had, seemingly, arrived home early. I clapped one hand to my mouth and stared at my son, with mounting horror, mingled with the vaguest tinge of amusement. 'I've got the wrong night!' I said. 'Dad's going out tomorrow night, not tonight!'

Fortunately, my husband saw the funny side of it, or at least he said that he did.

Cables and Leads

A man can never have enough cables and leads, apparently. We have at least a black bin bag and a half, but, quite often, the male members of my household are unable to find the particular cable or lead that they need. At this point, all attention generally turns to me, and a conversation similar to the one below ensues:

'Where is the lead I left in the middle of the dining room table, on the 20th March 2004?' enquires a family member, somewhat accusingly.

'Why do you think I would know?' I ask, playing for time.

'Well, you are the only one who tidies up around here!' replies the male family member, triumphantly.

The trap has been set. He is aware that I will desperately feel the need to say 'I certainly am the only person who ever tidies up around here!' but if I say that, it will be an admission of guilt. I bite back my tempting retort and reply truthfully 'I don't remember seeing it and I don't know where it is. If I had moved it, I would have put it in one of those black bags, or on the shelf under the computer table. Learn to look after your own things' I add in my own defence. 'Don't leave it to me. Put them somewhere safe, if you don't want to lose them.'

Back comes the inevitable reply. 'I do look after my own things. I did put it somewhere safe. I put it in the middle of the dining room table.'

When the lead or cable is finally found in someone's car (It has been known.) or drawer, the family member still regards me with some suspicion. He doesn't feel that he could possibly have put it there himself and forgotten. He feels that it was definitely me, who put it wherever, with the unfathomable, but determined, objective that it would never, ever be found again.
Inevitably, by the time the missing cable or lead has been found, a new one has already been purchased.

One of the observations on my lengthy list, relating to the male sex, clearly states that, men are perfectly capable of searching for lost items, but totally incapable of ever finding them, particularly if aforesaid items are surrounded by others of similar shape and size. This could well explain why we have a bin bag and a half of cables and leads in the first place.

Note: A recent blog by p.r (A Day at the Shops) set the above train of thought in motion.

Moving On

We were not at home when our student son arrived, on Friday afternoon for his first weekend visit, after starting university. My husband was working in Birmingham, on Friday and Saturday of last week, so we were staying at my parents' house, in the Midlands.

By the time we arrived home, late Saturday afternoon, student son had already done most of his washing. I wasn't sorry about that, particularly when I found out that it had been his friend Lucy's idea to come home that weekend, so that their respective mothers could do their washing! Student son had first met Lucy when they were attending for interview at another university. They had discovered that they lived quite close to each other, and, by sheer coincidence, had met up again in their tutor group, on their current course.

I dutifully began to help my son with the rest of his washing, drying and ironing, shortly after arriving home and things were back to normal for 24 hours or so. Student son had caught up with his friends on Friday evening, so he spent the remainder of Saturday watching the cricket, football and rugby on the television. I got up early on Sunday morning, so that we could enjoy a roast beef dinner together, before he embarked upon his return journey to university.

All too soon, we were heading for the railway station, in the car, and I began to think back to a couple of weeks ago, when my son had suddenly become anxious, as the time to begin his university course had loomed closer. At one point, he had insisted that he would not go to university unless he passed his driving test, because he wanted to be able to travel home at weekends in his car. I had worried that maybe he wasn't ready to leave home, perhaps he should have worked for a year, or perhaps I had been over-protective, in some way, which had resulted in his sudden loss of confidence. I had become concerned, because he seemed to be looking back, instead of forward, and I had worried that he would be unable to settle.

As it happened, student son had passed driving his test, but had been persuaded to leave his car at home, because of parking difficulties on campus, and, as far as I could tell, he now seemed to be coping very well with life away from home. He appeared to be getting on famously with the other students sharing his kitchen, and was keeping company with Lucy and a second girl in his tutor group.

I came back to the present as we pulled up on the station car park, about 10 minutes before the train was due to leave. We walked over to the front of the station with student son, as he rang Lucy, to check that she was on her way. When she confirmed that she would be arriving shortly, my husband turned to me and asked whether we should wait and meet her.

I asked my son what he wanted us to do, but he shuffled from one foot to the other, and replied that he really didn't mind, one way or the other. I searched his face for some indication of his true feelings on the matter, and I concluded that he wanted to wait for Lucy alone. We gave him a quick hug and I kissed his neck, as he had grown too tall for me to reach his cheek. I looked into his face, as we backed away, preparing to leave. He said goodbye, then, as he turned to look towards the car park entrance, I saw his expression change and I realised, without even looking, that Lucy had arrived. In that instant, as I watched him, watching Lucy, I understood that we were no longer centre stage in his life. We were about to play a smaller part. He was looking forward. He was moving on.

We turned and quickly walked to our car. I glanced over towards the car park entrance, glimpsing a pretty dark-haired girl emerging from a car, and smiling in my son's direction. I hoped that there would be other opportunities to meet Lucy, as soon as my son was ready. We drove out of the car park and merged with the oncoming traffic, without looking back.

Changing Spots

I was re-arranging the throw on the sofa when I heard my middle son return home. "Hello, middle son" I replied to his greeting, as I concentrated on straightening the throw.

"Mom, this is Debbie" he said. I spun round and smiled at the pretty girl, with dark hair, standing shyly in the living room doorway. My suspicions were finally confirmed! I'd had a feeling that he'd been seeing someone special, over the past 2 or 3 weeks or so. His inane grinning over the same period of time, for no particular reason, had been a bit of a giveaway.

A conversation followed, during which it transpired that, Debbie was singing at St Martin's Church, nearby, that evening and middle son had paid £10 for a ticket, so that he could go and watch the performance. "We've picked up a vegetarian pizza, for tea" said middle son, pulling a bit of a face. Debbie couldn't see his expression, from her position standing beside him, both of them facing us. My husband and I exchanged smirks, as the pair of them headed into the kitchen.

Given the choice, our middle carnivore's favourite food would normally be ribs, steak, or mixed grill. Meat feast pizza was one of his favourites, but, as far as I knew, a slice of meat free had never passed his lips.

A while later, as middle son passed through the living room alone, I asked him whether he had enjoyed his first vegetarian pizza. "It wasn't bad, actually" he replied. I glanced at the clock, noticing that there wasn't much time left, for my son and his new girlfriend to get to the church.

"Do you know how to get to St Martin's church?" I asked, innocently, nudging my husband, as we sat side-by-side on the sofa.

"Yes thanks, mom" grinned my middle son, understanding the joke, but refusing to be drawn.

A short while after their departure, my husband looked out of the dining room window, onto our drive, and called to me in amazement. "They've walked!" Sure enough, middle son's car was standing on the drive. Since passing his test 3 years ago, middle son had only ever walked to the 'pub and back. Any other journey, which would normally take 2 minutes or more on foot, necessitated compulsory use of his car.

Several hours later, after an enjoyable evening, son and girlfriend had returned from their outing, and were settling down to watch a DVD in another room. Middle son passed through the living room alone, once more, on his way to make drinks in the kitchen. He was grinning inanely, again, for no particular reason. I raised my eyebrows, put my head on one side, and enquired with a little smile "Was there much fighting in the mosh pit, tonight, then?"