Pandemonium

Daily yard exercise, supervised by the dog

Lockdown Week One is nearly over.

My cellmates and I haven’t shivved eachother, although the hierarchy of our isolation wing has been cast into doubt. I think the dog is the Daddy now.

There have been issues. 11-year-old Inmate 1 has slipped on the Coronavirus Home Learning Enthusiasm Scale from ‘slightly keen’ to ‘downright resentful'.

Twenty-one-year-old Inmate 2 (a member of the feared PWS gang, easily recognisable by her distinctive ‘pug in a donut’ tattoo), has added to her repertoire of pandemic-inspired perseveration with new worries added to her ever-increasing list. Top of the current pops is TV listings (a favourite at the best of times, but more pressing now with the prospect of CHANGES TO THE SCHEDULE. We have spent several hours discussing how soaps are made in advance, so will contunue to be aired for some time, especially if they eke out the episodes they have in the can. “But WHEN will Eastenders run out?” my girl pleaded, semi-hysterically, over and over, before finishing with the admission: “I don’t even watch it, Mum.”

The difference in my two fellow incarcerees’ ages and skills has proved a stumbling block. Both need prompting and supervision, which proved difficult when their dad was working for most of the week, leaving me ostensibly in charge on my own (single parents, I bloody salute you, I really do).

I tried to think of jobs the little lags could do for me which can be framed as ‘life skills lessons’. So they cleaned my car, did some washing and drying up, and helped sort out the crap piled up in their bedrooms. Like the corrupt warden in The Shawshank Redemption, I would have had Inmate 1 do my taxes, but as I now have no work and my unusual mish mash of weird agency/PAYE but not PAYE/self-employed jobs mean I am earning f*** all, as opposed to not f***ing much at all, it’s all kind of irrelevant.

Talking of The Shawshank Redemption, do you remember the scene where to alleviate boredom, instil hope, and attempt to broaden the cultural horizons of the downtrodden prisoners, Andy Dufresne played Mozart’s Duettino - Sull’aria, from The Marriage of Figaro, over the tannoy? I'd like to say this inspired me, too. I'd like to say it, but unfortunately, where Andy went high, I went low. I've simply gone for threats, and leapt straight to the nuclear option. My loudspeaker message was simply this: “REMEMBER, I WILL BE CUTTING YOUR HAIR”.

Video: The Mozart scene from The Shawshank Redemption

Pug

It’s my daughter’s 20th birthday today.

That floppy, limp, beautiful scrap of a baby girl has grown up to the grand, towering height of 4ft 10½in, and spent every day of the last two decades making life more full of life.

She opened her presents this morning before her minibus picked her up for college. She was stuffing her mobile phone into her rucksack, her ears - and mine - still ringing from the hearty rendition of Happy Birthday sung to her over 3G by her baritone-voiced friend Kevin.

Another birthday, another day of wonder.

I’m dreading next year, though. 

You see, every year, around her birthday, she talks about having a tattoo. And every year I tell her she needs to wait until she’s at least 21.

I wouldn’t mind so much, if I could be confident of steering her towards something discreet. 

“How about a tiny flower?,” I suggested, “Or the pretty feather from the PWSA UK logo? Something...nice.”

Her response to any suggestions is always a stubborn stare and a firm "No!". But lately there's something else, something specific. A choice. Her choice.

“I want a pug. A pug in a doughnut.”

(The idea for this stinky inking came up on a Google Images search for pug tattoos, for which her cousins will never be forgiven). 

My response? 

“I’d rather buy you both a doughnut and a real pug before I let you get that monstrosity.”

I think she now thinks we’re getting a dog.

Song is The Trumpet Hornpipe (Theme from Captain Pugwash).

Mum

My mum died. 

She went downhill very fast after living with leukaemia symptom-free for nearly three years. 

In the last few months, the disease took its grip and she began to tire. Determined not to spend months going back and forth from the hospital, she opted to stay at home, and while she was well enough, we packed her wheelchair in the car and took her out to the theatre, to the cinema, to the seaside. We had coffees at the pub and Sunday roasts at home. The family bound together tight. 

For the last week, a makeshift rota of her children, grandchildren, and other relatives and friends ensured that she had two of us on hand to help 24 hours a day. The palliative care team quietly and expertly aided and advised.

Mum died in a bed in the front room of the only house she’s ever lived in. The same house in which she was born, grew-up in, and later made her marital home. It happened in the early hours of August 27, two days after her 56th wedding anniversary. My dad, my brother, and my niece were at her bedside. I’d gone home for some sleep, exhausted from helping care for her. I arrived a few seconds too late to see her go, but I’m comforted by the knowledge that Dad was there, I know it was what she had chosen, and I know she wasn’t in pain.

I make sense of things by writing. I can’t easily talk about my emotions, but I can almost always put them down on a page, yet I’m struggling here. I want to tell you about my mum, and how she was, and how I feel, but I can’t. It’s raw, it’s unreal, it’s unfair, it’s too much, and I’m typing and deleting and I can’t find the words. I can’t get it right.

But I can share this.

In the midst of it, towards the end, when I hadn’t slept, and had hardly seen my husband or kids for days, I grabbed an evening at home, and my daughter called me over to sit next to her on the sofa.

“You must watch this, Mum,” she instructed, and pressed play on a episode of Katie Morag, a children’s show about a little girl living on a fictitious Scottish island. 

The action unfolded. I say action, but Katie Morag isn’t exactly Mission Impossible; it’s usually something to do with woolly jumpers and ceilidhs and sheep.

Sure enough, sheep featured heavily in this particular story. I’ll give you a quick precis: Katie’s grandma’s elderly ewe was poorly and Katie was concerned that the sheep would die (spoiler: she didn’t). Cue Granny Island telling Katie about how animals and humans can’t live forever and it’s the circle of life, etc. 

The next scene is at Katie’s bedtime, when her dad is tucking her in and they start talking about her Grandad, who died before she was born. Katie said her Grandad was funny and liked singing songs, but asked her dad how she knew this. Her dad explained she was able to feel like she’d known him because the family still talked about him and shared all their memories of him.

All through this, my girl is looking at me pointedly, then, with a nod of the head, directing my gaze to the telly, then catching my eye and nodding at me again.

“Do you see, Mum?”

Yes, I see, sweetheart.

Song is Mavis Staples - You Are Not Alone

Presentation

It was just a few steps.

My daughter was one of 25 or so pupils who were being honoured at a school presentation evening.

She and I were sitting in the first row, because we’d got there half an hour early. (I’d got the start time wrong because I’d accidentally read last year’s letter on my email instead of this year’s. My girl will definitely harp on about this until, possibly right up to and beyond next year’s event. Sometimes I am an utter idiot).

All sixth form pupils from her special school (with some leavers from last term who had now gone on to college) were getting certificates.

All have special needs of some description. Of many descriptions.

All were getting recognition for passing various courses, from entry level English and Maths, to Land Management, and a plethora of subjects in between.

All of them took a few steps up to the front of the hall to get a handshake, a posh folder, their certificates, and a round of applause. (Well, all except one, who couldn’t cope with standing up in front of a crowd, so was handed it while he hid behind a door).

My girl got a couple of Retail unit awards and an Employability Skills award from her day release college course, plus Gold and Titanium Work Experience certificates, for her continuing placement at a local spa.

She heard her name called, and stood up, awkwardly, shyly. She shook hands with the teacher, smiled for her photo, and clutched her blue folder.

I looked at her face, and the faces of these kids, these kids I’ve seen grow up over the past few years, and I thought about how far they’ve come. 

It was way, way beyond a few steps.

Video is Madness - One Step Beyond