Ever since I've had children, I've worried about the over sexualisation of modern kids, particularly as mine are girls. From the barbies, they get when they're four, to the crop tops & short shorts that they're marketed when they're nine, to the teen mags which promote an image of female beauty which is stick insect thin, and all about encouraging men, girls these days are in some ways worse off then I was in my youth. At least we understood there was a male patriarchy we had to overcome (although I refuse to subscribe to Germaine Greer's idea that women have no idea how much men hate them). But my children? They have vague notions of what feminism, is and think they are equal to men, and yet as they enter their teen years, I think they are more vulnerable to exploitation then we ever were. Depressing but true...
There are a number of reasons for this. First is the prevailing attitude that sex is something you do next. I noted with relief last year that all no 1's friends were quite put off by the notion that they were going to be "legal" on their next birthdays. But inevitably, they have picked up boyfriends since then, and in a rather depressing leap, all appear to have decided that once they are legal, that's what they'll do. Like taking GSCEs, hit 16, tick the Had Sex box. Now I am not saying they are necessarily wrong to do this, if they are in a consensual loving situation, but for a lot of these girls, it's their first boyfriend, who may not be around very long, and I find it a bit sad. Whatever happened to a bit of fumbling and experimentation in the back seat of the cinema? Which, apparently is now the LAST place you would snog your boyfriend, that would be embarrassing. Instead, people seem to get up to all sorts in the bushes in the local park.Sleazy or what?
Now you might say, twas ever thus, teens have and will always experiment with sex at this age, and it is only my innate prudishness and my tiger mother instinct making me uneasy. And to a degree you would be right. But what HAS changed since my day, and not, do I think for the better, is that girls are under more pressure then ever to have sex with boys. At 13/14, I know of girls who have been "fingered", had oral sex, and even in some instances gone the whole way, because the boys they are with expect that that's what they should be doing. Not only that, girls that young are already shaving their pubic hair, because (as I was told in no uncertain terms, it's really gross not to, and everyone else is doing it). Why? I said, because boys want you to? That, and TOWIE, where apparently the majority of the cast, go out to get waxed and get "verjazzled" - ie, have what the urban dictionary defines as giving: " the female genitals a sparkly makeover with crystals so as to enhance their appearance." (gay guys, get perjazzled. Yuk.). At least no 2's response to that is, "ergh, I wouldn't want anyone touching my fanny.", but the overall message that you need to even be thinking about anything like that their age, is one, I frankly find depressing.
The other distinct difference, between now and when I was young, and this is crucial, is the ease at which boys as young as eleven have access to porn via the internet. Now, again, there is nothing new under the sun. At Spouse's school, there was a stack of porn mags stolen by various boys from their dads, hidden in one of the classroom cupboards, and passed round under the desk in lessons. When Spouse got to Epsom College, he was such a fount of knowledge, he made money out of his superior status. The difference now, though is, the sort of mags he was looking at were tame compared to what is available online. Forget parental controls, any savvy techie kid worth their salt can override them, and have access to a world they will barely understand, where women are sex objects, and there just to give pleasure to men. No wonder the 13 year old boys my daughter knows expect the girls they meet to be up for it, and are disappointed when they're not. They have no real understanding of how things develop organically and how sex fits into relationships. Not only are they too immature, and nature is making them want sex all the time anyway, the images they are getting via the computer screen are totally distorting their view of it, and more importantly their view on girls.
I was relieved at the end of this discussion to discover my daughters understand the power of saying no, and I have emphasized it to them again, but jeez, how incredibly sad that at their ages they should have to worry about this stuff, on top of all the other crap that goes on in their lives. I don't want them to be naive, but experiencing an innocent burgeoning of love which doesn't necessarily have to include sex, and does let them keep their self respect isn't too much to ask, surely?
On the upside, no 1 is progressing so slowly with her recently obtained boyfriend, I don't think I need worry about that kind of thing for at least a year, and yesterday no 4 informed me that her older sister has banned her from reading the next book in the Cherub series (her current favourite reading.) Why? I said, is it rude? She looked embarrassed and said yes. Do you not want to find about rude things, yet? I asked. No, she said firmly. I don't EVER want to know about that.
What a relief. At least the ten year olds are still innocent...
Tuesday, May 01, 2012
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Some thoughts about Shakespeare's birthday... or a literary kind of post
Oh dear. This blog is in danger of becoming a dead blog, deceased, no more. I am not quite sure why, but I suspect Twitter is partially to blame. However, I do occasionally have things to say that require more then 140 characters, so the blog is here to stay, and I will sporadically keep posting...
It seems of late I have been spending a lot of time doing things of a literary nature. Which is fine by me. Literary things being my life blood as it were. However, with the constraints of family life, I don't get as much time for indulging my literary leanings (apart from the writing of course) as much as I would like.
Anyway in the last week, I have had plenty of opportunities to indulge myself, which has been just fine and dandy with me & it being Shakespeare's birthday week as it were, seemed like a good opportunity to blog about them too.
So last week, saw me at the London Book Fair. I try to go every year, but since they've changed the venue from Olympia to Earl's Court, the date has also changed, and now it invariably ends up in the Easter holidays, so I missed it last year.
The London Book Fair is were the great and the good of UK publishing meet their counterparts from around the world & strike up those amazing 6 figure deals you're always reading about in the papers. The first time I went, around twenty years ago, I was working for Scholastic and spent two days working my rocks off on their stand, meeting & greeting people. It was fun, hard work, but in the main entertaining. And luckily I didn't draw the short straw like my colleague who had the unenviable task of wandering round the Fair dressed as Postman Pat. In those days, LBF as it's known was more, well, parochial then it is now, and dare I say it, slightly more relaxed. Now it's very very shiny & a recent innovation, particularly with the advent of POD, self publishing and the ability to download your entire oeuvre onto Kindle is that authors now turn out in their droves. In my day, you hardly saw an author at the Fair, which was ever so slightly odd, considering it's all ABOUT THEM, but it was seen more as an opportunity to do business deals & sign contracts, whereas now promoting your author by actually having them there and getting them to meet potential publishers is actually seen as a good thing.
When I was first freelance, I used to go along to catch up on the gossip of my mates in publishing, as I missed the business badly when I was at home with small children (truth be told, though I LOVE writing, I still miss it.). And it was also an opportunity to make new contacts, and get work. Nowadays, I have less need for that, and usually pop in for lunch with my agent (and this year my editor), who tends to apologise for dragging me up there. Apologise? I say, WHAT ON EARTH FOR?
The truth is, that for people who are actually there on proper business, LBF is bloody hard work, but for hangers on like I am now, it's a jolly day out (I don't get many of those), an opportunity to get the feel of how the business is at the moment (thriving I'd say, despite the perennial gloom and doom about technology bringing about the death of books - which has been predicted pretty much constantly in the 24years I've been knocking around this business), and a chance to meet up with friends old and new. Because despite the fact that it is shinier and busier then it used to be, it's also still small enough to bump into people. So within minutes of being there, I'd run into my old sales director, and when going to meet my lovely author friends Kate Harrison and Jill Mansell, I bumped into an ex colleague and good friend whom I haven't seen forever. I had a great and informative lunch with my agent and editor, and was disappointed to have to tear myself away at 2.15 because I had to do the school run.
I had originally intended to go for two days this year, as I wanted to meet another friend who was around on the Wednesday. I'd also planned to stay longer on at least one evening, so I could meet up with more people I knew (disappointingly I missed a tweet up on Tuesday, and despite waving at lovely Danuta Kean across a coffee table, had no time to chat.) Memo to self, don't leave it till the last moment next year...
However, as I said, I've been having a very literary time of it of late, sooo, I had to hoof it from the book fair, to not only go home and do my mother thing, and cook tea for everyone, but hare off to the girls' school with eldest to see Carol Ann Duffy who some genius teacher had persuaded to come and do a talk. It's not every day you get to meet a Poet Laureate. And in fact, Carol Ann Duffy was my first (and probably last). I LOVE her poems, particularly the ones in The World's Wife, and although initially I thought she might not be that great at reading them aloud (not all poets are), once she was in her stride, she was absolutely mesmerising. I was particularly entranced by some of the poems from her recent collection, The Bees. The funniest one was a poem entitled Mrs Schofield's GSCE written in response to the preposterous banning of one of Carol Ann Duffy's poems as being an incitement to kids to take up knife crime, instead of understanding the true meaning of the poem, namely to bring kids out of poverty via education, so they WON'T get involved in knife crime. As she said to the Guardian, the best response for a poet, is to write a poem.
But the two poems that stood out for both no 1 and I were two of the most personal: about the death of Carol Ann Duffy's mother, Water and the very touching and beautiful Premonitions. Water begins with her talking about filling up a glass of water in a hospice cup and giving it to her mother, linking it with the times her mother gave her water as a child, and now she does the same for her own daughter. Given what we have recently experienced a family, it couldn't fail to strike a chord. But Premonitions, just blew me away. In it, the poet imagines getting to know her mother backwards, so at her death she is a total stranger. Oh dear god, how that poem could have been written for mil. She talks about the birds singing (we drove over to the hospice at midnight the day Rosemarie died, and I have never heard such a loud dawn chorus); imagines the wheelchair and commode disappearing, talks of her "unenglish" accent, and towards the end of the poem remembers her mother in front of the magnolia tree. In their house in Wallington, my in laws had a magnificent magnolia tree, and every year in spring, I think of it. I suppose, that's the universality of poetry, but it was comforting none the less.
Not only were the poems and the reading wonderful, I was really impressed with Carol Ann Duffy's good humour and interest in us when we came to get our books signed. She chatted for longer then she needed to, and seemed genuinely interested in no 1's choice of career. It was a fabulous experience, and not one you get very often on a rainy evening in a school hall.
Last Wednesday dawned, and with it my first proper foray into creative writing teaching, which was my other excuse for not getting to LBF that day. I've just volunteered to take part in enrichment activities at youngest's school, so now find myself teaching seven 7-10 year olds about writing for the next six weeks. My idea is simply to try and get them to express themselves. Oh, the incredible DULLNESS of writing in the National Curriculum, the most prescriptive way of teaching writing I have ever come across. Not the teachers' fault, but dear god, these poor kids have every scrap of creativity drummed out of them, as they are obliged to write stories following the same plan. So when I suggested they just write what they like, they were a) enthusiastic and b) baffled. I kick started them off by reading them some poems (Daffodils/Tiger Tiger/Father William), to see where that took their imaginations. A lot of them chose to use pictures to tell their stories, but one bright spark produced a wonderful concrete poem inspired by Tiger Tiger. The boys then moved onto the computer games that inspired them, so there were a lot of things being blown up/goblins/zombies in their stories, but hey, at least they were creating stuff... This week I'm planning to play them some music, so it will be interesting to see where that takes us...
My literary day finished with book club at my house, which was fun, but sadly true to form I hadn't finished the books we'd chosen. Normally, I am too busy, but this time it was because my kindle had died. I am now in possession of a a new Kindle (thank you Amazon), and am playing catch up...
This week of course, we've had the Bard's birthday, which was the nominated day for the second World Book Night. I have to fess up to saying that last year I was a tad cynical about WBN, but when it actually happened it looked such a hoot, I was kicking myself for not getting involved. So this year, I was delighted to get the opportunity to take part, in a wonderful event organised by Surrey Libraries at Guildford Library, in which 30 local authors chatted to any person enthusiastic enough about books to want to come in and talk about them. And enthusiastic they certainly were. I shared a table with two other authors, Adrienne Dines a fantastic Irish author I know) and Zara Davies, who was new to me, but was equally interesting and fun. The evening was billed from 7.30-midnight, and thanks to a combination of motherly duties (I hadn't quite finished cooking tea, oops), bad weather and Guildford's thoroughly confusing one way system, I arrived a couple of minutes before the event kicked off (sorry about that chaps), and was fairly sure that everyone would have gone home by 11pm. But amazingly, not only did all these wonderful people trek out on a rainy Monday night, but they all STAYED. So we left at midnight after all.
It was a really fun event, I met lots of aspiring authors, several published authors, and most importantly, READERS, people from all walks of life who are so interested and keen on books, they are prepared to give up a whole evening to talk about them. It was a very sound reminder of why us creative types do what we do, and how important our audiences actually are. I basked in reflected glory when one lady mentioned she liked historical writer Elizabeth Chadwick, and I mentioned she's a writing buddy, and Adrienne and I did our best to push Marian Keyes as being not the light fluffy read people seem to erroneously think. Highlight of the evening for me (but probably not her) was meeting Richard Hammond's mum, as his dad was there promoting a book of his own - well I have to do something to impress the kids these days...
All in all it was a great evening, and reminded me of why I got involved in this business in the first place. I don't get to do enough things like that in my daily life anymore, but boy when I get the opportunity to, is it fodder for my soul.
But now, sadly, it's back to reality. I have a book to rewrite (of which more in a later post) & a creative writing class to plan. So Adios Amigos, and Happy Birthday to Bill. He's half the reason I do this, you know...
It seems of late I have been spending a lot of time doing things of a literary nature. Which is fine by me. Literary things being my life blood as it were. However, with the constraints of family life, I don't get as much time for indulging my literary leanings (apart from the writing of course) as much as I would like.
Anyway in the last week, I have had plenty of opportunities to indulge myself, which has been just fine and dandy with me & it being Shakespeare's birthday week as it were, seemed like a good opportunity to blog about them too.
So last week, saw me at the London Book Fair. I try to go every year, but since they've changed the venue from Olympia to Earl's Court, the date has also changed, and now it invariably ends up in the Easter holidays, so I missed it last year.
The London Book Fair is were the great and the good of UK publishing meet their counterparts from around the world & strike up those amazing 6 figure deals you're always reading about in the papers. The first time I went, around twenty years ago, I was working for Scholastic and spent two days working my rocks off on their stand, meeting & greeting people. It was fun, hard work, but in the main entertaining. And luckily I didn't draw the short straw like my colleague who had the unenviable task of wandering round the Fair dressed as Postman Pat. In those days, LBF as it's known was more, well, parochial then it is now, and dare I say it, slightly more relaxed. Now it's very very shiny & a recent innovation, particularly with the advent of POD, self publishing and the ability to download your entire oeuvre onto Kindle is that authors now turn out in their droves. In my day, you hardly saw an author at the Fair, which was ever so slightly odd, considering it's all ABOUT THEM, but it was seen more as an opportunity to do business deals & sign contracts, whereas now promoting your author by actually having them there and getting them to meet potential publishers is actually seen as a good thing.
When I was first freelance, I used to go along to catch up on the gossip of my mates in publishing, as I missed the business badly when I was at home with small children (truth be told, though I LOVE writing, I still miss it.). And it was also an opportunity to make new contacts, and get work. Nowadays, I have less need for that, and usually pop in for lunch with my agent (and this year my editor), who tends to apologise for dragging me up there. Apologise? I say, WHAT ON EARTH FOR?
The truth is, that for people who are actually there on proper business, LBF is bloody hard work, but for hangers on like I am now, it's a jolly day out (I don't get many of those), an opportunity to get the feel of how the business is at the moment (thriving I'd say, despite the perennial gloom and doom about technology bringing about the death of books - which has been predicted pretty much constantly in the 24years I've been knocking around this business), and a chance to meet up with friends old and new. Because despite the fact that it is shinier and busier then it used to be, it's also still small enough to bump into people. So within minutes of being there, I'd run into my old sales director, and when going to meet my lovely author friends Kate Harrison and Jill Mansell, I bumped into an ex colleague and good friend whom I haven't seen forever. I had a great and informative lunch with my agent and editor, and was disappointed to have to tear myself away at 2.15 because I had to do the school run.
I had originally intended to go for two days this year, as I wanted to meet another friend who was around on the Wednesday. I'd also planned to stay longer on at least one evening, so I could meet up with more people I knew (disappointingly I missed a tweet up on Tuesday, and despite waving at lovely Danuta Kean across a coffee table, had no time to chat.) Memo to self, don't leave it till the last moment next year...
However, as I said, I've been having a very literary time of it of late, sooo, I had to hoof it from the book fair, to not only go home and do my mother thing, and cook tea for everyone, but hare off to the girls' school with eldest to see Carol Ann Duffy who some genius teacher had persuaded to come and do a talk. It's not every day you get to meet a Poet Laureate. And in fact, Carol Ann Duffy was my first (and probably last). I LOVE her poems, particularly the ones in The World's Wife, and although initially I thought she might not be that great at reading them aloud (not all poets are), once she was in her stride, she was absolutely mesmerising. I was particularly entranced by some of the poems from her recent collection, The Bees. The funniest one was a poem entitled Mrs Schofield's GSCE written in response to the preposterous banning of one of Carol Ann Duffy's poems as being an incitement to kids to take up knife crime, instead of understanding the true meaning of the poem, namely to bring kids out of poverty via education, so they WON'T get involved in knife crime. As she said to the Guardian, the best response for a poet, is to write a poem.
But the two poems that stood out for both no 1 and I were two of the most personal: about the death of Carol Ann Duffy's mother, Water and the very touching and beautiful Premonitions. Water begins with her talking about filling up a glass of water in a hospice cup and giving it to her mother, linking it with the times her mother gave her water as a child, and now she does the same for her own daughter. Given what we have recently experienced a family, it couldn't fail to strike a chord. But Premonitions, just blew me away. In it, the poet imagines getting to know her mother backwards, so at her death she is a total stranger. Oh dear god, how that poem could have been written for mil. She talks about the birds singing (we drove over to the hospice at midnight the day Rosemarie died, and I have never heard such a loud dawn chorus); imagines the wheelchair and commode disappearing, talks of her "unenglish" accent, and towards the end of the poem remembers her mother in front of the magnolia tree. In their house in Wallington, my in laws had a magnificent magnolia tree, and every year in spring, I think of it. I suppose, that's the universality of poetry, but it was comforting none the less.
Not only were the poems and the reading wonderful, I was really impressed with Carol Ann Duffy's good humour and interest in us when we came to get our books signed. She chatted for longer then she needed to, and seemed genuinely interested in no 1's choice of career. It was a fabulous experience, and not one you get very often on a rainy evening in a school hall.
Last Wednesday dawned, and with it my first proper foray into creative writing teaching, which was my other excuse for not getting to LBF that day. I've just volunteered to take part in enrichment activities at youngest's school, so now find myself teaching seven 7-10 year olds about writing for the next six weeks. My idea is simply to try and get them to express themselves. Oh, the incredible DULLNESS of writing in the National Curriculum, the most prescriptive way of teaching writing I have ever come across. Not the teachers' fault, but dear god, these poor kids have every scrap of creativity drummed out of them, as they are obliged to write stories following the same plan. So when I suggested they just write what they like, they were a) enthusiastic and b) baffled. I kick started them off by reading them some poems (Daffodils/Tiger Tiger/Father William), to see where that took their imaginations. A lot of them chose to use pictures to tell their stories, but one bright spark produced a wonderful concrete poem inspired by Tiger Tiger. The boys then moved onto the computer games that inspired them, so there were a lot of things being blown up/goblins/zombies in their stories, but hey, at least they were creating stuff... This week I'm planning to play them some music, so it will be interesting to see where that takes us...
My literary day finished with book club at my house, which was fun, but sadly true to form I hadn't finished the books we'd chosen. Normally, I am too busy, but this time it was because my kindle had died. I am now in possession of a a new Kindle (thank you Amazon), and am playing catch up...
This week of course, we've had the Bard's birthday, which was the nominated day for the second World Book Night. I have to fess up to saying that last year I was a tad cynical about WBN, but when it actually happened it looked such a hoot, I was kicking myself for not getting involved. So this year, I was delighted to get the opportunity to take part, in a wonderful event organised by Surrey Libraries at Guildford Library, in which 30 local authors chatted to any person enthusiastic enough about books to want to come in and talk about them. And enthusiastic they certainly were. I shared a table with two other authors, Adrienne Dines a fantastic Irish author I know) and Zara Davies, who was new to me, but was equally interesting and fun. The evening was billed from 7.30-midnight, and thanks to a combination of motherly duties (I hadn't quite finished cooking tea, oops), bad weather and Guildford's thoroughly confusing one way system, I arrived a couple of minutes before the event kicked off (sorry about that chaps), and was fairly sure that everyone would have gone home by 11pm. But amazingly, not only did all these wonderful people trek out on a rainy Monday night, but they all STAYED. So we left at midnight after all.
It was a really fun event, I met lots of aspiring authors, several published authors, and most importantly, READERS, people from all walks of life who are so interested and keen on books, they are prepared to give up a whole evening to talk about them. It was a very sound reminder of why us creative types do what we do, and how important our audiences actually are. I basked in reflected glory when one lady mentioned she liked historical writer Elizabeth Chadwick, and I mentioned she's a writing buddy, and Adrienne and I did our best to push Marian Keyes as being not the light fluffy read people seem to erroneously think. Highlight of the evening for me (but probably not her) was meeting Richard Hammond's mum, as his dad was there promoting a book of his own - well I have to do something to impress the kids these days...
All in all it was a great evening, and reminded me of why I got involved in this business in the first place. I don't get to do enough things like that in my daily life anymore, but boy when I get the opportunity to, is it fodder for my soul.
But now, sadly, it's back to reality. I have a book to rewrite (of which more in a later post) & a creative writing class to plan. So Adios Amigos, and Happy Birthday to Bill. He's half the reason I do this, you know...
Sunday, March 18, 2012
A blog for mother's day
First an apology. I think this is the longest I've ever gone without blogging. Partly because I have been caught up trying to finish my latest wip, This Christmas (a follow up to Last Christmas if you're interested), which I delivered hideously late at the start of last week, and also partly because I've found writing intensely difficult over the last few months. I really wanted to write a piece celebrating my mother in law's life, but I've found it impossible to get my thoughts together in any kind of coherent manner. For someone who always wants to write down every single experience I have, it's been a weird feeling, but in the early days after Rosemarie's death I was so wrung out and exhausted, the effort of writing was completely beyond me. However, Spring is sprung, I've finally hit my deadline, and today seems a good day to marshall my thoughts together.
So here goes...
Rosemarie was quite unlike anyone I have ever met. She was without doubt one of the kindest, most considerate people I have known in my life, but with a steely determination which meant that she could be quietly manipulative at times about getting her own way. When I first met her, I found this aspect of her personality somewhat overwhelming. Whereas my parents were relatively laid back about what we were up to at any given time (frankly with eight children I think that was the only sane choice), my parents in law seemed to want to know every intimate detail of our lives in a way I found hideously intrusive. It's a question of style and what you're used to (I know my other half finds my family equally baffling at times), but the one thing that was always clear was from the moment we got engaged, Rosemarie welcomed me into her family and treated me like the daughter she'd never had. Sometimes this could have unintentionally hilarious consequences: for the first few Christmases of my married life I was indundated with clothes which I'd politely accept and hide away in the cupboard. (I still have a set of lacy knickers which I can't quite bring myself to wear, nor to throw away). My mother in law had many virtues but a high sense of fashion wasn't among them. She always bought quality, but her idea of what would suit a young woman of 24 and mine were shall we say, at variance. On our first trip to Germany, her sister Gisi who lives in a home out there, was clearing away a load of clothes, which we duly took back home. I and my then sister in law spent a wretched afternoon politely refusing item of clothing after item of clothing as being not quite what we'd wear (though Gisi, it has to be said was stylish in her time, but the clothes we were choosing were already about 30 years out of date). "Oh what a shame!" Rosemarie said after each item of clothing had been dismissed, "And it's such good quality!"
Such good quality... was something of a catchphrase. When we cleared out her flat just after Christmas, we found clothes she clearly hadn't worn since the 70s, but the quality was exceptionally good. Having understood her a bit better by then, I now realise that growing up as she did on a farming estate, where her clothes were made for her by the local dressmaker, and a girl would still store up good quality tableclothes and linen for her trousseau, Rosemarie must have been in a permanent state of bafflement of as to why such things aren't valued now. Sadly most of what we found that was left from those days is no use to anyone today, although we couldn't bear to throw out some linen napkins with her intials embroidered onto them; a link to a far off, nearly forgotten time, when things were made to last.
Over the early years of my marriage, I often felt frustration mixed with affection for Rosemarie. She always tried too hard it seemed to me; she was always affectionate, but for a buttoned up Brit, a little too touchy feely. There were times when I felt she thought I could be looking after her precious son more often. And moments of high tension, like the time she decided to wash our bedclothes when we were away on holiday. Anyone else would have known that was a no no, but Rosemarie was genuinely trying to help, and would have been hurt to know how intrusive I found it. So of course, I couldn't tell her. I often wished she would just step back a little so we could get on better.
Once the children came along that tension increased. If I heard it once, I heard it a thousand times, that her sons never had a dirty nappy. By dint of holding them over a potty when they'd been fed, these perfect babies made her life spectacularly easy. It is hard to accept that you're not being subliminally criticised, when you get told this constantly. Except, I'm not sure that she was. Her memory was no doubt slightly skewed and she had rose tinted coloured memories of her sons' infanthoods, but I also think now she was genuinely trying to help. Me being a new, slightly over sensitive mother took exception to this. Probably rightly. No one likes being told how to do it by their mother in law, especially when you know she means so well. I'm sure at times Rosemarie was as baffled by me, as I was by her, but even so there was affection on both sides, as much as bewilderment about the stance the other had taken. And of course, a shared love for her son, which makes for a bond in itself.
Our relationship changed forever in February 1997. Up until this point, my inlaws had been living in the family home in Wallington. Rosemarie had cared for her own mother in law till her death in 1991, and had by then been suffering from the benign essential tremor which blighted her later years, for a decade or more. She had given up driving, and relied on Roger to do all the shopping, being unable to make the walk into Wallington on her own. In their mid seventies, we always imagined that Roger would have to care for her. But then, Roger had a massive stroke, and was rushed to St Helier hospital, where we were all summoned to what we thought at the time was going to be his death bed. As it happened, despite being given a very poor chance of survival, Roger proved made of sterner stuff, and after two weeks in a coma came round, and slowly fought his way back to reasonable (if never again good) health. Poor Rosemarie was all at sea. For starters, as was the way in marriages for her generation, Roger did all the paperwork, and she had no idea how to run the finances. And then, there was the day to day management of the house, which was now to big and impractical for two old people of increasing infirmity. It became clear that they were going to have to sell the house, which is how we found ourselves several months later having both of them to stay while the flat we had found for them up the road was being decorated.
Rosemarie cared for Roger for the next six years. Being Rosemarie she did it with a cheerfulness and determination, which belied the difficulties involved. Roger could have had carers four times a day, but she wouldn't have that, so she would still help him get up in the morning, never went to bed till he was settled for the evening (dearly as I loved Fil, he could be terribly selfish, and was never comfortable in bed, so slept in a chair all night. Part of Rosemarie's daily routine involved putting his feet up for the night - before which point she couldn't sleep). I really don't know how she did it without killing him, quite frankly. The demands of caring for him, when her own condition was worsening would have sent anyone else demented, and yet the only time I ever saw her lose it was just before the end, when we managed to get her some respite care. The night before he died, remarkably she managed to get him to and from the loo on her own, not once, but several times. Spouse and I could never work out how she did it, but somehow she did.
At the time of Fil's death, our children were still very young, and I am sure they were the main thing that kept Rosemarie going during that difficult period. It was the only time I ever saw her downhearted. I saw her cry often; she was an emotional person, who cried when anything upset her, but always had the ability to snap herself out of it. But after Fil died, she sat at our dining room table weeping, unable to see a cheerful future for herself. Our wise GP prescribed antidepressants, which saw her through until a point when her innate happiness returned.
Because, at heart, Rosemarie was a very happy person. She took pleasure in the simple things in life: playing ball with her grandchildren - even if she couldn't run round the garden with them, but would have to play catch from a sitting position; being thrilled with their achievements large and small; struggling for years to come to their shows, their Christmas fairs, and carol concerts - and even when she could attend no longer, loving to see the programmes of the shows they'd been in; and being thrilled to become a great granny aged 81.
Rosemarie was widowed at 78, and already used a pusher to walk with. Plus she was living several miles away from all her friends. Unlike my mother who was widowed much younger, and was therefore fit enough to make a single life for herself, Rosemarie's options as a widow were much more limited. And yet, being her, she as ever made the best of it.
For years she would go into town in a taxi, getting out at the Nat West where the staff all knew her, drawing her money out, then tottering around our local shopping centre with her walker (which she referred to as her steel horse), before returning to the bank, where the bank staff who all loved her (like anyone who had anything to do with her - all the carers, the nurses and doctors fell in love with Rosemarie), would order a taxi to take her home.
She used to take herself off into the park, making sure she got her daily walk in, to keep herself fit. Even though it took her an age to get in and out of her flat (which had an inconvenient step, which wasn't easy to negotiate with a walker), she would make herself go out. As time went on and she became more infirm, this became harder for her to manage, and for the last two years, she was obliged to stay inside, unless we were able to take her out ourselves. For someone as at home with nature as she was, this must have been a huge trial. And yet again, she never complained. But relished the opportunities to spend sunny afternoons in our garden, when we'd come and pick her up in her wheelchair, and take her down the road. Again, Rosemarie took pleasure in the little things, like watching her son plant potatoes, or her granddaughter aloft on the roof of the shed Spouse built a couple of years ago, or being given the guinea pig to hold by no 4. (I think she was nearly as distraught as the children were when we had to have the rabbit put down last year.)
And so Rosemarie's life continued, becoming incremently more and more difficult. Where she had managed completely alone, three years ago it became clear she couldn't cope without help, so to begin with she had a carer once a day. Cooking was becoming a liability, so I used to cook double quantities of everything and furnish her with pies and stews, which she was still able to heat up herself. Then that September, she had a fall. Ironically, the only time she ever pushed her community alarm the damned thing didn't work, and to our horror, she spent the whole night on the floor. When she was found the next day by the carer, the ambulance men had to break in and turn her oven off. "Do you know, Jules," she said to me when we were sitting in casualty, "it must have been misty last night, as there was a fog in the hall." She still hadn't realised her quiche had nearly burnt the flat down.
We thought then, that we were going to lose her. She spent the best part of four months in and out of hospital, at one time, so confused we wondered if she'd ever become coherent again. But remarkably, she pulled herself together, and got home where she now had carers four times a day, and meals on wheels delivered daily. For the next year, before she was diagnosed with leukaemia last May, she and we had a special and blessed time, when we could enjoy each other's company and be grateful she was still with us.
I've talked alot about how things were when I first knew Rosemarie. But the last few years of her life obliterated any tension an irritation that may have been between us. I looked after her a great deal. Filling in when carers weren't able to get in, or were late turning up in the mornings, taking her to all her appointments, writing all her Christmas cards for her (an annual ritual which involved me consuming ALOT of red wine), sitting in the last year watching ITV3 with her in the afternoons; holding her hand in reassurance during yet another hospital visit. I'm sorry she had to suffer with all the indignities of old age, and the pain she had to endure, but I'm not sorry we became close because of it. It has been one of the greatest privileges of my life to be so close to her at the end, and to have helped, her I hope, in some small part cope with her suffering.
Rosemarie taught me what it was to love and be loved; to hope when hope seems fruitless, to keep going when there seems little point. She was the kindest of people, the happiest of people. I was so lucky she was my second Mum. My life was the richer for having her in it, and so much the poorer now.
RIP Mil, I'll never forget youxxx
So here goes...
Rosemarie was quite unlike anyone I have ever met. She was without doubt one of the kindest, most considerate people I have known in my life, but with a steely determination which meant that she could be quietly manipulative at times about getting her own way. When I first met her, I found this aspect of her personality somewhat overwhelming. Whereas my parents were relatively laid back about what we were up to at any given time (frankly with eight children I think that was the only sane choice), my parents in law seemed to want to know every intimate detail of our lives in a way I found hideously intrusive. It's a question of style and what you're used to (I know my other half finds my family equally baffling at times), but the one thing that was always clear was from the moment we got engaged, Rosemarie welcomed me into her family and treated me like the daughter she'd never had. Sometimes this could have unintentionally hilarious consequences: for the first few Christmases of my married life I was indundated with clothes which I'd politely accept and hide away in the cupboard. (I still have a set of lacy knickers which I can't quite bring myself to wear, nor to throw away). My mother in law had many virtues but a high sense of fashion wasn't among them. She always bought quality, but her idea of what would suit a young woman of 24 and mine were shall we say, at variance. On our first trip to Germany, her sister Gisi who lives in a home out there, was clearing away a load of clothes, which we duly took back home. I and my then sister in law spent a wretched afternoon politely refusing item of clothing after item of clothing as being not quite what we'd wear (though Gisi, it has to be said was stylish in her time, but the clothes we were choosing were already about 30 years out of date). "Oh what a shame!" Rosemarie said after each item of clothing had been dismissed, "And it's such good quality!"
Such good quality... was something of a catchphrase. When we cleared out her flat just after Christmas, we found clothes she clearly hadn't worn since the 70s, but the quality was exceptionally good. Having understood her a bit better by then, I now realise that growing up as she did on a farming estate, where her clothes were made for her by the local dressmaker, and a girl would still store up good quality tableclothes and linen for her trousseau, Rosemarie must have been in a permanent state of bafflement of as to why such things aren't valued now. Sadly most of what we found that was left from those days is no use to anyone today, although we couldn't bear to throw out some linen napkins with her intials embroidered onto them; a link to a far off, nearly forgotten time, when things were made to last.
Over the early years of my marriage, I often felt frustration mixed with affection for Rosemarie. She always tried too hard it seemed to me; she was always affectionate, but for a buttoned up Brit, a little too touchy feely. There were times when I felt she thought I could be looking after her precious son more often. And moments of high tension, like the time she decided to wash our bedclothes when we were away on holiday. Anyone else would have known that was a no no, but Rosemarie was genuinely trying to help, and would have been hurt to know how intrusive I found it. So of course, I couldn't tell her. I often wished she would just step back a little so we could get on better.
Once the children came along that tension increased. If I heard it once, I heard it a thousand times, that her sons never had a dirty nappy. By dint of holding them over a potty when they'd been fed, these perfect babies made her life spectacularly easy. It is hard to accept that you're not being subliminally criticised, when you get told this constantly. Except, I'm not sure that she was. Her memory was no doubt slightly skewed and she had rose tinted coloured memories of her sons' infanthoods, but I also think now she was genuinely trying to help. Me being a new, slightly over sensitive mother took exception to this. Probably rightly. No one likes being told how to do it by their mother in law, especially when you know she means so well. I'm sure at times Rosemarie was as baffled by me, as I was by her, but even so there was affection on both sides, as much as bewilderment about the stance the other had taken. And of course, a shared love for her son, which makes for a bond in itself.
Our relationship changed forever in February 1997. Up until this point, my inlaws had been living in the family home in Wallington. Rosemarie had cared for her own mother in law till her death in 1991, and had by then been suffering from the benign essential tremor which blighted her later years, for a decade or more. She had given up driving, and relied on Roger to do all the shopping, being unable to make the walk into Wallington on her own. In their mid seventies, we always imagined that Roger would have to care for her. But then, Roger had a massive stroke, and was rushed to St Helier hospital, where we were all summoned to what we thought at the time was going to be his death bed. As it happened, despite being given a very poor chance of survival, Roger proved made of sterner stuff, and after two weeks in a coma came round, and slowly fought his way back to reasonable (if never again good) health. Poor Rosemarie was all at sea. For starters, as was the way in marriages for her generation, Roger did all the paperwork, and she had no idea how to run the finances. And then, there was the day to day management of the house, which was now to big and impractical for two old people of increasing infirmity. It became clear that they were going to have to sell the house, which is how we found ourselves several months later having both of them to stay while the flat we had found for them up the road was being decorated.
Rosemarie cared for Roger for the next six years. Being Rosemarie she did it with a cheerfulness and determination, which belied the difficulties involved. Roger could have had carers four times a day, but she wouldn't have that, so she would still help him get up in the morning, never went to bed till he was settled for the evening (dearly as I loved Fil, he could be terribly selfish, and was never comfortable in bed, so slept in a chair all night. Part of Rosemarie's daily routine involved putting his feet up for the night - before which point she couldn't sleep). I really don't know how she did it without killing him, quite frankly. The demands of caring for him, when her own condition was worsening would have sent anyone else demented, and yet the only time I ever saw her lose it was just before the end, when we managed to get her some respite care. The night before he died, remarkably she managed to get him to and from the loo on her own, not once, but several times. Spouse and I could never work out how she did it, but somehow she did.
At the time of Fil's death, our children were still very young, and I am sure they were the main thing that kept Rosemarie going during that difficult period. It was the only time I ever saw her downhearted. I saw her cry often; she was an emotional person, who cried when anything upset her, but always had the ability to snap herself out of it. But after Fil died, she sat at our dining room table weeping, unable to see a cheerful future for herself. Our wise GP prescribed antidepressants, which saw her through until a point when her innate happiness returned.
Because, at heart, Rosemarie was a very happy person. She took pleasure in the simple things in life: playing ball with her grandchildren - even if she couldn't run round the garden with them, but would have to play catch from a sitting position; being thrilled with their achievements large and small; struggling for years to come to their shows, their Christmas fairs, and carol concerts - and even when she could attend no longer, loving to see the programmes of the shows they'd been in; and being thrilled to become a great granny aged 81.
Rosemarie was widowed at 78, and already used a pusher to walk with. Plus she was living several miles away from all her friends. Unlike my mother who was widowed much younger, and was therefore fit enough to make a single life for herself, Rosemarie's options as a widow were much more limited. And yet, being her, she as ever made the best of it.
For years she would go into town in a taxi, getting out at the Nat West where the staff all knew her, drawing her money out, then tottering around our local shopping centre with her walker (which she referred to as her steel horse), before returning to the bank, where the bank staff who all loved her (like anyone who had anything to do with her - all the carers, the nurses and doctors fell in love with Rosemarie), would order a taxi to take her home.
She used to take herself off into the park, making sure she got her daily walk in, to keep herself fit. Even though it took her an age to get in and out of her flat (which had an inconvenient step, which wasn't easy to negotiate with a walker), she would make herself go out. As time went on and she became more infirm, this became harder for her to manage, and for the last two years, she was obliged to stay inside, unless we were able to take her out ourselves. For someone as at home with nature as she was, this must have been a huge trial. And yet again, she never complained. But relished the opportunities to spend sunny afternoons in our garden, when we'd come and pick her up in her wheelchair, and take her down the road. Again, Rosemarie took pleasure in the little things, like watching her son plant potatoes, or her granddaughter aloft on the roof of the shed Spouse built a couple of years ago, or being given the guinea pig to hold by no 4. (I think she was nearly as distraught as the children were when we had to have the rabbit put down last year.)
And so Rosemarie's life continued, becoming incremently more and more difficult. Where she had managed completely alone, three years ago it became clear she couldn't cope without help, so to begin with she had a carer once a day. Cooking was becoming a liability, so I used to cook double quantities of everything and furnish her with pies and stews, which she was still able to heat up herself. Then that September, she had a fall. Ironically, the only time she ever pushed her community alarm the damned thing didn't work, and to our horror, she spent the whole night on the floor. When she was found the next day by the carer, the ambulance men had to break in and turn her oven off. "Do you know, Jules," she said to me when we were sitting in casualty, "it must have been misty last night, as there was a fog in the hall." She still hadn't realised her quiche had nearly burnt the flat down.
We thought then, that we were going to lose her. She spent the best part of four months in and out of hospital, at one time, so confused we wondered if she'd ever become coherent again. But remarkably, she pulled herself together, and got home where she now had carers four times a day, and meals on wheels delivered daily. For the next year, before she was diagnosed with leukaemia last May, she and we had a special and blessed time, when we could enjoy each other's company and be grateful she was still with us.
I've talked alot about how things were when I first knew Rosemarie. But the last few years of her life obliterated any tension an irritation that may have been between us. I looked after her a great deal. Filling in when carers weren't able to get in, or were late turning up in the mornings, taking her to all her appointments, writing all her Christmas cards for her (an annual ritual which involved me consuming ALOT of red wine), sitting in the last year watching ITV3 with her in the afternoons; holding her hand in reassurance during yet another hospital visit. I'm sorry she had to suffer with all the indignities of old age, and the pain she had to endure, but I'm not sorry we became close because of it. It has been one of the greatest privileges of my life to be so close to her at the end, and to have helped, her I hope, in some small part cope with her suffering.
Rosemarie taught me what it was to love and be loved; to hope when hope seems fruitless, to keep going when there seems little point. She was the kindest of people, the happiest of people. I was so lucky she was my second Mum. My life was the richer for having her in it, and so much the poorer now.
RIP Mil, I'll never forget youxxx
Friday, January 06, 2012
In praise of a beautiful lady
When I first joined the Romantic Novelist's Association umpteen years ago, I was at home with two very small children, working as a freelance editor and attempting to write in my pitifully meagre spare time. For the first year I was a member, I don't think I had email, and I certainly didn't have any contact with any other members of the RNA. But that all changed when I was invited to join what was then known as the RNA cyber chapter, an email group open to all members of the RNA. There I found a whole host of welcoming, lovely writers, who were happy to give advice, help and support to a newbie like me.
Among those writers, one was to turn into a very good friend. Not being a Mills and Boon reader (that is not to knock the genre, romantic fiction is a very broad church and M&B just isn't my particular cup of tea), it took me an embarrassingly long time to realise that the lovely Penny Halsall who took time out to give me advice and offered to critique my work, was in fact none other then Penny Jordan a best selling Harlequin author of quite staggering proportions. Her output, dedication and commitment to her trade was second to none, and her well deserved success in her chosen field could have meant she was snooty and overbearing with wannabes like me. But Penny wasn't like that. She was modest and self effacing and loved to help fellow writers on the path to publication. And she certainly helped me.
Some time later, I was invited to join another email group of which Penny was a member, consisting of writers at different stage of publication, who all support one another in our daily lives. There Penny was a great support to us all, always quick with sympathy if anyone had a problem, ever ready to give advice one asked. She was also uproariously funny, and many of her posts made me laugh out loud.
During this period, I was struggling to keep on top of being a mum, still editing, trying to be a writer and coping with my elderly inlaws. There were many points at which I despaired and nearly gave up. Penny was one among several people who persuaded me to keep going. Her thoughtful and honest appraisals of my writing helped me to hone and perfect my skills. And when the new Avon list started, it was Penny who suggested to me that I try there. Without that nudge, I might not be where I am today, and I will always be grateful to her for that.
As is often the case with email friends, I didn't actually get to meet Penny until a couple of years ago, when I encountered an incredibly glamorous woman at the Harper Collins party, surrounded by friends, who greeted me like a long lost friend. Although it was the only time we met, I felt like I had known her forever.
Like a lot of us, I was aware that Penny had some health problems, but she always played them down, so until last week I had no idea she was seriously ill. Typically generous to the last, she sent me messages of support through my own travails with Rosemarie, without once dropping a hint of her own condition.
It was a huge body blow to hear how ill she was, and then to discover she had passed away so quickly after that, but knowing I am not alone in grieving her loss, is helping. And knowing that I was privileged enough to have had her support and love all these years is a huge boost at a difficult time.
RIP Lovely lady, you will be sadly missed, and not just by me.
Among those writers, one was to turn into a very good friend. Not being a Mills and Boon reader (that is not to knock the genre, romantic fiction is a very broad church and M&B just isn't my particular cup of tea), it took me an embarrassingly long time to realise that the lovely Penny Halsall who took time out to give me advice and offered to critique my work, was in fact none other then Penny Jordan a best selling Harlequin author of quite staggering proportions. Her output, dedication and commitment to her trade was second to none, and her well deserved success in her chosen field could have meant she was snooty and overbearing with wannabes like me. But Penny wasn't like that. She was modest and self effacing and loved to help fellow writers on the path to publication. And she certainly helped me.
Some time later, I was invited to join another email group of which Penny was a member, consisting of writers at different stage of publication, who all support one another in our daily lives. There Penny was a great support to us all, always quick with sympathy if anyone had a problem, ever ready to give advice one asked. She was also uproariously funny, and many of her posts made me laugh out loud.
During this period, I was struggling to keep on top of being a mum, still editing, trying to be a writer and coping with my elderly inlaws. There were many points at which I despaired and nearly gave up. Penny was one among several people who persuaded me to keep going. Her thoughtful and honest appraisals of my writing helped me to hone and perfect my skills. And when the new Avon list started, it was Penny who suggested to me that I try there. Without that nudge, I might not be where I am today, and I will always be grateful to her for that.
As is often the case with email friends, I didn't actually get to meet Penny until a couple of years ago, when I encountered an incredibly glamorous woman at the Harper Collins party, surrounded by friends, who greeted me like a long lost friend. Although it was the only time we met, I felt like I had known her forever.
Like a lot of us, I was aware that Penny had some health problems, but she always played them down, so until last week I had no idea she was seriously ill. Typically generous to the last, she sent me messages of support through my own travails with Rosemarie, without once dropping a hint of her own condition.
It was a huge body blow to hear how ill she was, and then to discover she had passed away so quickly after that, but knowing I am not alone in grieving her loss, is helping. And knowing that I was privileged enough to have had her support and love all these years is a huge boost at a difficult time.
RIP Lovely lady, you will be sadly missed, and not just by me.
Wednesday, January 04, 2012
Happy New Year!
Thanks to life spiralling quite spectacularly out of control in the months leading up to Christmas, I have I know, been a very poor blogger in the last little while. I'm crap at keeping New Year's Resolutions, but I hope to keep the one about blogging more often. Well I can hardly blog, less then I did last year...
Anyway, if anyone is still out there, a Happy New Year to you all, and I hope you had a lovely Christmas.
This year, ours was a time of mixed blessings, as my lovely mother in law finally passed away in the early hours of December 23. Being Rosemarie, she took care to leave us just before the festive season so our plans weren't spoiled, and even giving the boys time to get to the funeral director's on the Friday. She departed with the minimum of fuss, so though we were called to her bedside, she'd gone before we got there, and we entered her room to the sounds of Radio 3 which had been playing all that week in the background. I would have liked to have been there, but one of the many wise and wonderful nurses at the hospice told me that she thinks these things are meant to be, and as Rosemarie knew we were coming, I can only assume she wanted to go in her own good time.
I have spent the last week or so planning to write a piece about her, but then I heard last Friday, that a very dear writing friend, Penny Jordan was ill with cancer. Sadly she too passed away on New Year's Eve, and I am not alone in mourning her loss. So if you'll bear with me, my next two posts are going to be tributes to two women I loved dearly, remarkable in their own different ways.
I am hoping for better things from 2012...
In the meantime a Happy New Year to you all, and may it bring you all the joys and good things you desire and deserve.
Anyway, if anyone is still out there, a Happy New Year to you all, and I hope you had a lovely Christmas.
This year, ours was a time of mixed blessings, as my lovely mother in law finally passed away in the early hours of December 23. Being Rosemarie, she took care to leave us just before the festive season so our plans weren't spoiled, and even giving the boys time to get to the funeral director's on the Friday. She departed with the minimum of fuss, so though we were called to her bedside, she'd gone before we got there, and we entered her room to the sounds of Radio 3 which had been playing all that week in the background. I would have liked to have been there, but one of the many wise and wonderful nurses at the hospice told me that she thinks these things are meant to be, and as Rosemarie knew we were coming, I can only assume she wanted to go in her own good time.
I have spent the last week or so planning to write a piece about her, but then I heard last Friday, that a very dear writing friend, Penny Jordan was ill with cancer. Sadly she too passed away on New Year's Eve, and I am not alone in mourning her loss. So if you'll bear with me, my next two posts are going to be tributes to two women I loved dearly, remarkable in their own different ways.
I am hoping for better things from 2012...
In the meantime a Happy New Year to you all, and may it bring you all the joys and good things you desire and deserve.
Wednesday, November 09, 2011
New temporary blog
For a long long time I have wanted to write down the story of aged mil's life, and I haven't been able to work out how to do it. After my post yesterday I suddenly had the inspiration, that I could do it in a series of vignettes, and tell her story in snapshots, the way she's told me. I may in private also right some of the stuff going on at the moment alongside, I may not, but for now, I'm putting her stories here:
http://storiesfromagedmil.blogspot.com
I hope you like them.
http://storiesfromagedmil.blogspot.com
I hope you like them.
Tuesday, November 08, 2011
When my mother in law met Louis Armstrong
My life is a bit surreal at the moment to say the least. A bit of me wants to write about what is going on, and more of me wants to keep it private, so instead, I thought I'd share with you some of my mother in law's amazing stories from the war.
Rosemarie grew up on an estate called Isenschnibbe on the outskirts of a small mediaeval town called Gardelegen, about two hours drive west of Berlin. Her father was an estate manager who ran Isenschnibbe for the Prince of Lippot Detmolt, who thanks to the war, never came to visit. So her father, Walter was a man of great importance in the town, being in charge of all the estate workers.
At the end of the war, Gardelegen was eventually handed over to the Russians, but first of all the Americans took over Isenschnibbe. And the two Major Generals in charge got on famously with Rosemarie's family. As she had learnt English at school, Rosemarie was often required to translate.
One day, one of the Major Generals came to Rosemarie's parents to invite them to a concert. Louis Armstrong and his band were going to entertain the troops. I'm not sure how long they stayed, but Rosemarie couldn't believe the lavishness of the event- Louis Armstrong was flown over from the States, roses were flown up from Rome, for a family who lived off the land and wasted nothing, it seemed the height of waste, luxury and extravagance.
What was Louis Armstrong like I ask? Nice, says mil - but that's what she always says, everyone is nice to mil - they all were. And we enjoyed listening to him play. For several Christmases afterwards, he wrote to Rosemarie's mother. We still have copies of those cards.
So you liked him? I say. Oh yes, says mil, shutting her eyes and going back to sleep. He was tip top, very nice. It was lovely.
Rosemarie grew up on an estate called Isenschnibbe on the outskirts of a small mediaeval town called Gardelegen, about two hours drive west of Berlin. Her father was an estate manager who ran Isenschnibbe for the Prince of Lippot Detmolt, who thanks to the war, never came to visit. So her father, Walter was a man of great importance in the town, being in charge of all the estate workers.
At the end of the war, Gardelegen was eventually handed over to the Russians, but first of all the Americans took over Isenschnibbe. And the two Major Generals in charge got on famously with Rosemarie's family. As she had learnt English at school, Rosemarie was often required to translate.
One day, one of the Major Generals came to Rosemarie's parents to invite them to a concert. Louis Armstrong and his band were going to entertain the troops. I'm not sure how long they stayed, but Rosemarie couldn't believe the lavishness of the event- Louis Armstrong was flown over from the States, roses were flown up from Rome, for a family who lived off the land and wasted nothing, it seemed the height of waste, luxury and extravagance.
What was Louis Armstrong like I ask? Nice, says mil - but that's what she always says, everyone is nice to mil - they all were. And we enjoyed listening to him play. For several Christmases afterwards, he wrote to Rosemarie's mother. We still have copies of those cards.
So you liked him? I say. Oh yes, says mil, shutting her eyes and going back to sleep. He was tip top, very nice. It was lovely.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Oh the shame...
This blog is beginning to be the least written in the world. I am sorry. But life has just been exceptionally manic of late. Aged mil has been in hospital (again ugh). I won't go into grisly details, suffice to say that the latest report on care of the elderly in NHS hospitals chimed totally in with our experience. And this time I did write to complain... There was one health care assistant who was very very lucky not to get thumped, but somehow I restrained myself...
Having said that, not all the staff were bad, and the ones who were good stood out like beacons of luminosity. I was particularly grateful to a health care assistant who actually offered me a cup of tea, which is pretty much unheard of. The junior doctors on the ward she ended up on were delightful, as were the sisters in charge. It was just a shame she had to endure five days of misery in the wretched Clinical Assessment Unit, aka the dumping ground for people in A&E to stop them blocking up the corridors. There is no consistency of care there, and precious little evidence that anyone actually cares. The best people we met there were two young trainees, and they weren't even training to be nurses, but paramedics:-)
Having managed to get her out of there (my mother in law has the strongest will of anyone I have ever met, and made herself practise walking so much that her mobility improved immensely quickly), she hasn't been that great since, and as a result of one weekend where we were away (Bruges, for a belated 20 wedding anniversary treat, two years late. And yes, very nice thank you, I may even get round to blogging it some day.), and she was very poorly, and last week when she succumbed to an infection and was so ill she could barely stand, we made the decision to move her in with us. So yesterday, bil, sil and I packed her stuff up and then bil manfully carried mattresses etc down the road, while we settled her in, and then with Spouse got the rest of the bedframe on top of the car roofrack. This morning she was most surprised by her bed. "Oh, it's like the one I have in the flat," she said, Er, yes... that's because it is the one you have in the flat.
We don't know how much longer she's got, we don't know if we will be able to manage, and it may be eventually we have to let her go into a hospice, but for now, it's a great relief to have her under our roof and know she is safe.
But net result is, I am a tad busy, and probably won't be posting much. But will do my best to at least get some pictures of Bruges up here anyway...
Having said that, not all the staff were bad, and the ones who were good stood out like beacons of luminosity. I was particularly grateful to a health care assistant who actually offered me a cup of tea, which is pretty much unheard of. The junior doctors on the ward she ended up on were delightful, as were the sisters in charge. It was just a shame she had to endure five days of misery in the wretched Clinical Assessment Unit, aka the dumping ground for people in A&E to stop them blocking up the corridors. There is no consistency of care there, and precious little evidence that anyone actually cares. The best people we met there were two young trainees, and they weren't even training to be nurses, but paramedics:-)
Having managed to get her out of there (my mother in law has the strongest will of anyone I have ever met, and made herself practise walking so much that her mobility improved immensely quickly), she hasn't been that great since, and as a result of one weekend where we were away (Bruges, for a belated 20 wedding anniversary treat, two years late. And yes, very nice thank you, I may even get round to blogging it some day.), and she was very poorly, and last week when she succumbed to an infection and was so ill she could barely stand, we made the decision to move her in with us. So yesterday, bil, sil and I packed her stuff up and then bil manfully carried mattresses etc down the road, while we settled her in, and then with Spouse got the rest of the bedframe on top of the car roofrack. This morning she was most surprised by her bed. "Oh, it's like the one I have in the flat," she said, Er, yes... that's because it is the one you have in the flat.
We don't know how much longer she's got, we don't know if we will be able to manage, and it may be eventually we have to let her go into a hospice, but for now, it's a great relief to have her under our roof and know she is safe.
But net result is, I am a tad busy, and probably won't be posting much. But will do my best to at least get some pictures of Bruges up here anyway...
Thursday, September 22, 2011
And two months later...
... and she still hasn't posted. Not even about Dr Who. Shame on me....
I don't really have any excuses, just a general lack of focus/time. Will try and do better.
And the news from my summer was, that we had a lovely lazy time in Spain, and then came back and had a slightly less lovely, less lazy time thanks to teens testing boundaries. But all is well nowish...
Also had a very lovely time at the end of the holidays climbing the Shropshire hills in readiness for writing the next oeuvre, in which I return to Hope Christmas. I've cheesily entitled it This Christmas, and yes, I think there is going to be Next Christmas too. Couldn't resist.
It's taking me a while to get my Hope Christmas mojo back, but thanks to an eureka moment in the swimming pool earlier in the week, I think I'm getting there.
Which is just as well as I have a deadline of just before Christmas.
Better get on then, hadn't I?
In other news we are now officially in exam land and will be for the next decade ish as no 1 takes GSCEs this year (how did that happen, exactly? She was a baby a minute ago), no 2 chooses GSCEs, and I am trying to make sure that no 3 doesn't feel left out as her important Year 7 settling in period gets overhshadowed by her big sisters. I feel like a whirligig. Where's Hermione's time turning machine when you need it?
I don't really have any excuses, just a general lack of focus/time. Will try and do better.
And the news from my summer was, that we had a lovely lazy time in Spain, and then came back and had a slightly less lovely, less lazy time thanks to teens testing boundaries. But all is well nowish...
Also had a very lovely time at the end of the holidays climbing the Shropshire hills in readiness for writing the next oeuvre, in which I return to Hope Christmas. I've cheesily entitled it This Christmas, and yes, I think there is going to be Next Christmas too. Couldn't resist.
It's taking me a while to get my Hope Christmas mojo back, but thanks to an eureka moment in the swimming pool earlier in the week, I think I'm getting there.
Which is just as well as I have a deadline of just before Christmas.
Better get on then, hadn't I?
In other news we are now officially in exam land and will be for the next decade ish as no 1 takes GSCEs this year (how did that happen, exactly? She was a baby a minute ago), no 2 chooses GSCEs, and I am trying to make sure that no 3 doesn't feel left out as her important Year 7 settling in period gets overhshadowed by her big sisters. I feel like a whirligig. Where's Hermione's time turning machine when you need it?
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Oh dear...
Have been terribly remiss and not posted for ages, because life has been end of term manic, and there just isn't enough time in the day...
So in the first window of opportunity I've had all week, I just wanted to say, that I have had so much fun at all the events I've been doing. The Bromley Literary Festival was a hoot, and I met lots of lovely other writers, plus having the added bonus of popping in for a coffee with the lovely Medium Rob and his wife, whose brilliantTV blog The Medium Is Not Enough, which I read avidly.
I also had an hilarious time signing books in Redhill and Sutton on one of the rainiest days of the year. This was an advantage in Redhill Waterstone's which is in a shopping mall, but less of one in Sutton, which isn't. At Redhill I shamelessly bribed small children with chocolate so their mums felt obliged to buy copies of The Summer Season, but the good folk of Sutton were seemingly unbribable. Some of the responses I had include: No: I only read non fiction; my wife doesn't read and I don't like those kinds of books; and, my favourite: I don't buy books.
Despite their best attempts to thwart me and no 4 (who'd joined me doling out choccies), I did amazingly manage to sell some books, and was hugely supported by the lovely staff in both shops.
I wound up with the event at Cadogan Hall, which turned out to be an intimate gathering, but hugely enjoyable nonetheless. People were either being tremendously polite, or were genuinely interested, and so asked lots of fascinating questions. I also had the opportunity to meet a couple of Twitter/blogging friends, Sarah Salway and Sara Sheridan (who gave a fascinating talk about adventurers in the nineteenth century and researching historical fiction.)
All in all it's been a lot of fun. But now I have to disappear into my other job, as oh yes, the children are home. It's going to be a long long summer....
So in the first window of opportunity I've had all week, I just wanted to say, that I have had so much fun at all the events I've been doing. The Bromley Literary Festival was a hoot, and I met lots of lovely other writers, plus having the added bonus of popping in for a coffee with the lovely Medium Rob and his wife, whose brilliantTV blog The Medium Is Not Enough, which I read avidly.
I also had an hilarious time signing books in Redhill and Sutton on one of the rainiest days of the year. This was an advantage in Redhill Waterstone's which is in a shopping mall, but less of one in Sutton, which isn't. At Redhill I shamelessly bribed small children with chocolate so their mums felt obliged to buy copies of The Summer Season, but the good folk of Sutton were seemingly unbribable. Some of the responses I had include: No: I only read non fiction; my wife doesn't read and I don't like those kinds of books; and, my favourite: I don't buy books.
Despite their best attempts to thwart me and no 4 (who'd joined me doling out choccies), I did amazingly manage to sell some books, and was hugely supported by the lovely staff in both shops.
I wound up with the event at Cadogan Hall, which turned out to be an intimate gathering, but hugely enjoyable nonetheless. People were either being tremendously polite, or were genuinely interested, and so asked lots of fascinating questions. I also had the opportunity to meet a couple of Twitter/blogging friends, Sarah Salway and Sara Sheridan (who gave a fascinating talk about adventurers in the nineteenth century and researching historical fiction.)
All in all it's been a lot of fun. But now I have to disappear into my other job, as oh yes, the children are home. It's going to be a long long summer....
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Out to Lunch at Cadogan Hall...
If perchance, you would like to come and see me talk at Cadogan Hall, next Thursday, 21 July at 11.15am, followed by the lovely Sara Sheridan at 1pm, could you possibly email:
outtolunch@cadoganhall.com to confirm, as they need to know numbers. It's free, you know, and I'm scooting off from daughter's leaving assembly especially to be there, so how can you resist?
outtolunch@cadoganhall.com to confirm, as they need to know numbers. It's free, you know, and I'm scooting off from daughter's leaving assembly especially to be there, so how can you resist?
Friday, July 08, 2011
WOOHOO!!
Finally got my lovely shiny new website up and running. Well, I haven't the lovely Aimee Fry at The AuthorWorks did all the hard work and was very patient in the face of much technical difficulty.
Here it is.
www.juliawilliamsauthor.com
You can listen to all my soundtracks AND everything...
Also while I'm here, anyone in the Redhill/Sutton area, am signing copies of The Summer Season at Redhill Waterstone's on 16th July at 11am and Sutton Waterstone's on 16th July at 1.30pm. If you're in the area, do come and call!
And a reminder that I will be at Cadogan Hall on 21 July talking about writing and editing from 11.15am -12pm. Do come if you can!
http://www.cadoganhall.com/outtolunch/
Here it is.
www.juliawilliamsauthor.com
You can listen to all my soundtracks AND everything...
Also while I'm here, anyone in the Redhill/Sutton area, am signing copies of The Summer Season at Redhill Waterstone's on 16th July at 11am and Sutton Waterstone's on 16th July at 1.30pm. If you're in the area, do come and call!
And a reminder that I will be at Cadogan Hall on 21 July talking about writing and editing from 11.15am -12pm. Do come if you can!
http://www.cadoganhall.com/outtolunch/
Wednesday, July 06, 2011
Squeeing all the way to Hollywood...
Rather late in the day, am squeeing loudly for my lovely friend Marie Phillips, whose, fabulous book Gods Behaving Badly (and if you haven't read it, WHY NOT?) is going to be made into a film. With an awesome cast. Tremendously exciting. Although I don't think I could be as excited about it as Marie obviously:
http://www.mariephillips.co.uk/post/7280618697/gods-behaving-badly-the-movie#disqus_thread
http://www.hollywoodreporter.com/news/christopher-walken-alicia-silverstone-cast-208128?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=feed&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+thr%2Ffilm+%28The+Hollywood+Reporter+-+Movies%29
Couldn't have happened to a nicer person. And can't wait to see the film. Christopher Walken as ZEUS. My gods... GENIUS casting.
http://www.mariephillips.co.uk/post/7280618697/gods-behaving-badly-the-movie#disqus_thread
http://www.hollywoodreporter.com/news/christopher-walken-alicia-silverstone-cast-208128?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=feed&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+thr%2Ffilm+%28The+Hollywood+Reporter+-+Movies%29
Couldn't have happened to a nicer person. And can't wait to see the film. Christopher Walken as ZEUS. My gods... GENIUS casting.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Bromley Literary Festival
Just a reminder that I will be on the Ladies Who Love Panel at the Bromley Literary Festival on Saturday, 2-3.30pm, Bromley Library Hall, along with Dorothy Koomson, Juliet Archer and Victoria Fox.
You can also attend a fabulous workshop by my brilliant RNA chums, Sue Moorcroft and Christina Courtenay, all about Romantic Heroes. Well worth it!
For more details, go here:
http://bromleylitfest.co.uk/
(Tediously links don't seem to work on my blog and I can't figure out why, sorry about that!)
You can also attend a fabulous workshop by my brilliant RNA chums, Sue Moorcroft and Christina Courtenay, all about Romantic Heroes. Well worth it!
For more details, go here:
http://bromleylitfest.co.uk/
(Tediously links don't seem to work on my blog and I can't figure out why, sorry about that!)
Monday, June 13, 2011
The Summer Season
Look what I got in the post on Saturday? Doesn't it look lovely?
With thanks as ever to the marvellous Avon team who miraculously pulled this out of the bag given the author's by the skin-of-your-teeth deadlining. Especially the designer whom I think you'll agree has done a lovely job.
Books will be available in the shops on 23 June I believe, but I expect you can buy them in Amazon already.
And I will be taking part in a panel discussing Chick Lit at The Bromley Literary Festival on 25 June at 3pm, 4th Floor Bromley Central Library and on 21 July you can hear me talk about being an author/editor at Cadogan Hall as part of their Out to Lunch free lunchtime concerts. Details here: http://www.cadoganhall.com/outtolunch/
Do come along and say hi if you're in the area!
With thanks as ever to the marvellous Avon team who miraculously pulled this out of the bag given the author's by the skin-of-your-teeth deadlining. Especially the designer whom I think you'll agree has done a lovely job.
Books will be available in the shops on 23 June I believe, but I expect you can buy them in Amazon already.
And I will be taking part in a panel discussing Chick Lit at The Bromley Literary Festival on 25 June at 3pm, 4th Floor Bromley Central Library and on 21 July you can hear me talk about being an author/editor at Cadogan Hall as part of their Out to Lunch free lunchtime concerts. Details here: http://www.cadoganhall.com/outtolunch/
Do come along and say hi if you're in the area!
Friday, May 27, 2011
And a rider, to my previous post...
I had meant to link it to this excellent article by Dr Max Pemberton who writes a column in the Daily Telegraph, which I think sums up the problems at the heart of the NHS.
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/health/8526344/Finger-on-the-Pulse-Max-Pemberton.html
I am in favour of reform, and it is not all about cost cutting. Some of the things I talked about in my blog post can be done without spending money. For a start, patient b who was sent home from hospital before Christmas would have possibly saved the NHS a considerable amount of money if the patient had been kept there till better, and not wasted two ambulances coming out needlessly. I agree with Max Pemberton that the business model is a flawed one. (I have similar feelings about education). I have always worked in the commercial sector and while aghast occasionally at some of the ways the public sector seems to work, I don't think business and health are a happy mix. A wealthy nation is also a healthy and educated nation. If we keep people well and educate them properly, business can flourish. That shouldn't mean an open cheque book, but neither should it mean health and education are shoe horned into adopting business practices that don't make any sense and don't promote the needs of the patients/pupils.
I am also deeply aware that the majority of the staff working in the NHS are overworked, often underpaid and dedicated to what they do. But to give you one small example of where things are going wrong, let me tell you this story, which happened to us only last week.
Mil has recently needed to go to hospital on a regular basis for blood transfusions. Last week we were told she had to be ready for 8am (entailing a carer coming in at 7 to help her get ready), as she needed to be in the hospital by 9am for a blood test prior to having the transfusion. I would have taken her, but had the school run to do. I was slightly anxious about how the transport people would cope with her, so I dropped the kids off and got back to her flat at 8.45 to discover no sign of the transport. They eventually turned up at 9.45 and seemed surprised to learn they needed to push mil onto the ambulance in her wheelchair (this is a private company outsourced by the hospital, NOT the brilliant ambulance crews we have met on several occasions). The person pushing her seemed never to have used a wheelchair before and kept getting it stuck over the threshold of her doorway. We eventually arrived at the hospital at 10 am, so it was 12.30 before mil could have any blood (it takes time to make the blood up). She required two units of blood, which take 2 hours per unit. The earliest was getting away was 4.30pm. I had to shoot off for the school run so bil stayed with her. He reported that transport turned up at 3.40, twenty minutes before they were booked, and the attitude pretty much was if she doesn't go now, she doesn't get a lift home. Apparently if you are booked one way, you have to be booked the other, so bil wasn't allowed to do it himself. The result was she didn't have the second bag of blood. HOW can it be that transport dictate the treatment patients receive? This is a clear case of the tale wagging the dog.
On a more positive note the staff at the haemotology unit where she is being seen are uniformly excellent, but they agree with me that dragging an 86 year old, very infirm lady in in this manner once a week is not ideal. Nobody it appears is looking at the whole picture. And I am sure this is not unique to mil's situation.
I am reminded somehow of a powerful piece of thundering rhetoric in one of my favourite Dicken's novels, Bleak House. When the road sweeper, Jo dies in poverty, in shocking circumstances and Dickens launches into a rant about the inherent wrongness of his death.
Dead, your Majesty. Dead, my lords and gentlemen. Dead, right reverends and wrong reverends of every order. Dead, men and women, born with heavenly compassion in your hearts. And dying thus around us every day.
I think, if Dickens were alive today, he'd be tempted to say the same about the elderly dying in our hospitals, don't you?
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/health/8526344/Finger-on-the-Pulse-Max-Pemberton.html
I am in favour of reform, and it is not all about cost cutting. Some of the things I talked about in my blog post can be done without spending money. For a start, patient b who was sent home from hospital before Christmas would have possibly saved the NHS a considerable amount of money if the patient had been kept there till better, and not wasted two ambulances coming out needlessly. I agree with Max Pemberton that the business model is a flawed one. (I have similar feelings about education). I have always worked in the commercial sector and while aghast occasionally at some of the ways the public sector seems to work, I don't think business and health are a happy mix. A wealthy nation is also a healthy and educated nation. If we keep people well and educate them properly, business can flourish. That shouldn't mean an open cheque book, but neither should it mean health and education are shoe horned into adopting business practices that don't make any sense and don't promote the needs of the patients/pupils.
I am also deeply aware that the majority of the staff working in the NHS are overworked, often underpaid and dedicated to what they do. But to give you one small example of where things are going wrong, let me tell you this story, which happened to us only last week.
Mil has recently needed to go to hospital on a regular basis for blood transfusions. Last week we were told she had to be ready for 8am (entailing a carer coming in at 7 to help her get ready), as she needed to be in the hospital by 9am for a blood test prior to having the transfusion. I would have taken her, but had the school run to do. I was slightly anxious about how the transport people would cope with her, so I dropped the kids off and got back to her flat at 8.45 to discover no sign of the transport. They eventually turned up at 9.45 and seemed surprised to learn they needed to push mil onto the ambulance in her wheelchair (this is a private company outsourced by the hospital, NOT the brilliant ambulance crews we have met on several occasions). The person pushing her seemed never to have used a wheelchair before and kept getting it stuck over the threshold of her doorway. We eventually arrived at the hospital at 10 am, so it was 12.30 before mil could have any blood (it takes time to make the blood up). She required two units of blood, which take 2 hours per unit. The earliest was getting away was 4.30pm. I had to shoot off for the school run so bil stayed with her. He reported that transport turned up at 3.40, twenty minutes before they were booked, and the attitude pretty much was if she doesn't go now, she doesn't get a lift home. Apparently if you are booked one way, you have to be booked the other, so bil wasn't allowed to do it himself. The result was she didn't have the second bag of blood. HOW can it be that transport dictate the treatment patients receive? This is a clear case of the tale wagging the dog.
On a more positive note the staff at the haemotology unit where she is being seen are uniformly excellent, but they agree with me that dragging an 86 year old, very infirm lady in in this manner once a week is not ideal. Nobody it appears is looking at the whole picture. And I am sure this is not unique to mil's situation.
I am reminded somehow of a powerful piece of thundering rhetoric in one of my favourite Dicken's novels, Bleak House. When the road sweeper, Jo dies in poverty, in shocking circumstances and Dickens launches into a rant about the inherent wrongness of his death.
Dead, your Majesty. Dead, my lords and gentlemen. Dead, right reverends and wrong reverends of every order. Dead, men and women, born with heavenly compassion in your hearts. And dying thus around us every day.
I think, if Dickens were alive today, he'd be tempted to say the same about the elderly dying in our hospitals, don't you?
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Care of the Elderly
This is a post I have wanted to write for a very long time. It's something I care about passionately.
I have always been fond of the elderly. As a teenager, I used to visit a local old people's home at school. Having no grandparents of my own, I was endlessly fascinated with the stories they had to tell of lives lived in a world that seemed so different from my own. The downside was the inevitable (it seemed) mental decline of people in care homes. Ladies (they were mainly ladies) who started off relatively sparky and witty ended up demented and forgetful. At fourteen I was unable to cope with this and remember making a vow never to end up old.
At eighteen I spent four months as a volunteer caring for an elderly lady called Janey. She was 87 when I knew her, confined to a wheelchair and needed help with pretty much everything. She was sharp as anything though, and despite our age gap we formed a firm friendship, so much so that I was absolutely devastated when she died 18 months later. It was the first proper experience of loss I felt, and I think I felt it more keenly because, I'd met her so late in her life, she was such a vibrant person, and I would love to have known her better.
Those experiences were a great grounding did I but know for the way my life has panned out in recent years. I have spoken frequently here about my mother in law, now herself approaching 87. She too, is a remarkable woman, with a list of care needs as long as your arm, but a bright and optimistic approach to life which means she copes with every bit of crap that gets thrown at her. Her mind though it wanders occasionally, is pretty much all there, and I am currently in the process of writing down the remarkable story of her youth, which she recalls with vivid clarity.
Up until two years ago, mil had never been to hospital. Ever. But after a succession of falls we found ourselves in a situation where she was in and out of hospital for several months. Today the The Healthcare Ombudsman have published a damning report about care of the elderly in our hospitals. Everything they have reported: lack of help feeding elderly patients, loss of dignity, inability to communicate adequately with the family, chimed in with our hideous hideous experience of having an elderly relative in hospital. On top of that I have been chatting to a friend, whose elderly mother has experienced similar, and another relative on my side of the family was also dismally failed by the system.
In order to protect the identity of the people I am writing about, I am therefore going to give you three case scenarios. All of which have happened in OUR hospitals.
Case 1) An elderly person suffering from life threatening cancer admitted to hospital with renal failure. Remarkably the drugs this person was given pulled them round enough so they were well enough to go home. The patient was delivered home to the spouse, with inadequate provision for their considerable personal needs, in the middle of the heavy snow last winter. Subsequently the patient's 75 yr old spouse & another older relative sat up in the middle of the night caring/cleaning the patient. The District Nurses were "too posh to wash", and decided the snowy conditions rendered it too hazardous to come over, the GP didn't come near the patient and the spouse was at the end of her tether. The patient should NEVER have been sent home without adequate care provision being in place. But it happened.
Case 2) An elderly person was in and out of hospital for many weeks. During the time spent in the local hospital it was nigh on impossible for the family to speak to a consultant to discuss any aspect of care. Information about the patient's needs were repeated endlessly and fruitlessly to staff, and ignored. Often the patient was sitting without a blanket when visitors arrived, usually on a continence mat as little care was taken about toiletting the patient. In time the patient was moved to a community hospital where at least the nurses had time to care properly, but before Christmas there was a clearout and the patient was sent home with a catheter without discussion with the family. Pleas from the family that the patient was simply too ill to come home, as the correct care package wasn't in place were swept aside. As a result the patient was seen by the GP on Christmas Eve, emergency doctor Christmas Day, the District Nurse a few days later, and was readmitted to hospital on January 2.
Case 3) An elderly patient with alzheimers was admitted to a hospital a considerable distance from where they lived. The family tried discuss the care package with the social care team in the hospital and found it impossible. The patient also spent time in a care home before coming home, and wasn't being seen by her own GP, so continuity of care was very difficult. When the patient eventually came home, to the 80+ year old spouse, it was with 20 different medications. None of which the patient or spouse were capable of administering. The carers who were looking after the patient are unable to administer ANY drugs without a dosset box provided by the local chemist's. The system doesn't allow time for those kind of procedures to be in place, when people are sent home, leading to all kinds of difficulties for the family.
On top of those case studies, these are things I have witnessed for myself with other elderly patients, who have been in the same ward as mil at different times.
1) when she was in the first ward where people are sent to be assessed before being placed on a general ward, I saw an elderly man who had had a fall and was in considerable pain, being sent home, where he clearly lived alone, even though he looked in no fit state to care for himself. Not only that he asked the nurse for pain relief, which never seemed to appear. He was groaning so loudly as he got dressed I wanted to go and help him. Perhaps I should have done. No one else did.
2) A lady with cancer shared a ward with her. She was thin as a pin, and also in considerable pain. I talked at length with her daughter, who ironically was a nurse. Do you think she looks ready to go home? she asked me. No, I really really didn't.
3) All the elderly women in the ward mil was in sat on continence mats. A lot of attention was paid to weighing them, measuring their blood pressure and taking their temperature. Ticking boxes in other words. Very little was paid to making sure they had time to go to the toilet/were reminded to do so, and as a consequence many had accidents. That is a basic care need. I was appalled to see the lack of consideration for people. If it was your mum would you want that for her? I longed to ask.
4) A friend reported visiting an elderly lady in our local hospital over the Christmas period. They were short staffed and using agency nurses, who clearly didn't care at all. My friend wasn't given any information about this lady as she wasn't a relative. Repeatedly she requested that this lady was cleaned after she had soiled herself. Such help wasn't forthcoming. In a modern hospital in a civilised country such lack of care is shocking, and makes me fume.
These are not isolated incidents. They happen all the time, to our grandparents, our parents, and eventually, they will happen to us.
The NHS needs serious reform in this area. I'm glad the Healthcare Ombudsman has issued this report. It's long overdue. Please God someone takes notice.
I have always been fond of the elderly. As a teenager, I used to visit a local old people's home at school. Having no grandparents of my own, I was endlessly fascinated with the stories they had to tell of lives lived in a world that seemed so different from my own. The downside was the inevitable (it seemed) mental decline of people in care homes. Ladies (they were mainly ladies) who started off relatively sparky and witty ended up demented and forgetful. At fourteen I was unable to cope with this and remember making a vow never to end up old.
At eighteen I spent four months as a volunteer caring for an elderly lady called Janey. She was 87 when I knew her, confined to a wheelchair and needed help with pretty much everything. She was sharp as anything though, and despite our age gap we formed a firm friendship, so much so that I was absolutely devastated when she died 18 months later. It was the first proper experience of loss I felt, and I think I felt it more keenly because, I'd met her so late in her life, she was such a vibrant person, and I would love to have known her better.
Those experiences were a great grounding did I but know for the way my life has panned out in recent years. I have spoken frequently here about my mother in law, now herself approaching 87. She too, is a remarkable woman, with a list of care needs as long as your arm, but a bright and optimistic approach to life which means she copes with every bit of crap that gets thrown at her. Her mind though it wanders occasionally, is pretty much all there, and I am currently in the process of writing down the remarkable story of her youth, which she recalls with vivid clarity.
Up until two years ago, mil had never been to hospital. Ever. But after a succession of falls we found ourselves in a situation where she was in and out of hospital for several months. Today the The Healthcare Ombudsman have published a damning report about care of the elderly in our hospitals. Everything they have reported: lack of help feeding elderly patients, loss of dignity, inability to communicate adequately with the family, chimed in with our hideous hideous experience of having an elderly relative in hospital. On top of that I have been chatting to a friend, whose elderly mother has experienced similar, and another relative on my side of the family was also dismally failed by the system.
In order to protect the identity of the people I am writing about, I am therefore going to give you three case scenarios. All of which have happened in OUR hospitals.
Case 1) An elderly person suffering from life threatening cancer admitted to hospital with renal failure. Remarkably the drugs this person was given pulled them round enough so they were well enough to go home. The patient was delivered home to the spouse, with inadequate provision for their considerable personal needs, in the middle of the heavy snow last winter. Subsequently the patient's 75 yr old spouse & another older relative sat up in the middle of the night caring/cleaning the patient. The District Nurses were "too posh to wash", and decided the snowy conditions rendered it too hazardous to come over, the GP didn't come near the patient and the spouse was at the end of her tether. The patient should NEVER have been sent home without adequate care provision being in place. But it happened.
Case 2) An elderly person was in and out of hospital for many weeks. During the time spent in the local hospital it was nigh on impossible for the family to speak to a consultant to discuss any aspect of care. Information about the patient's needs were repeated endlessly and fruitlessly to staff, and ignored. Often the patient was sitting without a blanket when visitors arrived, usually on a continence mat as little care was taken about toiletting the patient. In time the patient was moved to a community hospital where at least the nurses had time to care properly, but before Christmas there was a clearout and the patient was sent home with a catheter without discussion with the family. Pleas from the family that the patient was simply too ill to come home, as the correct care package wasn't in place were swept aside. As a result the patient was seen by the GP on Christmas Eve, emergency doctor Christmas Day, the District Nurse a few days later, and was readmitted to hospital on January 2.
Case 3) An elderly patient with alzheimers was admitted to a hospital a considerable distance from where they lived. The family tried discuss the care package with the social care team in the hospital and found it impossible. The patient also spent time in a care home before coming home, and wasn't being seen by her own GP, so continuity of care was very difficult. When the patient eventually came home, to the 80+ year old spouse, it was with 20 different medications. None of which the patient or spouse were capable of administering. The carers who were looking after the patient are unable to administer ANY drugs without a dosset box provided by the local chemist's. The system doesn't allow time for those kind of procedures to be in place, when people are sent home, leading to all kinds of difficulties for the family.
On top of those case studies, these are things I have witnessed for myself with other elderly patients, who have been in the same ward as mil at different times.
1) when she was in the first ward where people are sent to be assessed before being placed on a general ward, I saw an elderly man who had had a fall and was in considerable pain, being sent home, where he clearly lived alone, even though he looked in no fit state to care for himself. Not only that he asked the nurse for pain relief, which never seemed to appear. He was groaning so loudly as he got dressed I wanted to go and help him. Perhaps I should have done. No one else did.
2) A lady with cancer shared a ward with her. She was thin as a pin, and also in considerable pain. I talked at length with her daughter, who ironically was a nurse. Do you think she looks ready to go home? she asked me. No, I really really didn't.
3) All the elderly women in the ward mil was in sat on continence mats. A lot of attention was paid to weighing them, measuring their blood pressure and taking their temperature. Ticking boxes in other words. Very little was paid to making sure they had time to go to the toilet/were reminded to do so, and as a consequence many had accidents. That is a basic care need. I was appalled to see the lack of consideration for people. If it was your mum would you want that for her? I longed to ask.
4) A friend reported visiting an elderly lady in our local hospital over the Christmas period. They were short staffed and using agency nurses, who clearly didn't care at all. My friend wasn't given any information about this lady as she wasn't a relative. Repeatedly she requested that this lady was cleaned after she had soiled herself. Such help wasn't forthcoming. In a modern hospital in a civilised country such lack of care is shocking, and makes me fume.
These are not isolated incidents. They happen all the time, to our grandparents, our parents, and eventually, they will happen to us.
The NHS needs serious reform in this area. I'm glad the Healthcare Ombudsman has issued this report. It's long overdue. Please God someone takes notice.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
That article - again
Oh and here is what a few of my other Romantic Novelist buddies have to say about THAT article.
This is what Romantic Novelists are REALLY like.
Cross? Us?
http://kate-walker.blogspot.com/2011/05/claudia-connell-journalist-of-year-not.html
http://nicolacornick.co.uk/blog/2011/05/this-is-what-a-romantic-novelist-looks-like/
http://www.julie-cohen.com/blog/2011/05/23/whered-i-put-that-damn-support-hose/
http://jan-jones.blogspot.com/2011/05/rna-summer-party-2011.html
http://mortongray.blogspot.com/2011/05/romantic-novelist-protest-blog.html
http://talliroland.blogspot.com/2011/05/sexism-ageism-alive-and-well-in-britain.html
http://paranormalauthors.blogspot.com/2011/05/this-is-what-romantic-novelist-looks.html
http://liz-crump.blogspot.com
And here's what we look like. Not a blue rinse in sight.
http://romanticnovelistsassociationblog.blogspot.com/2011/05/rna-summer-party.html
http://phillipa-ashley.com/blog/2011/05/19/rna-summer-party-pictures/
http://www.romanticnovelistsassociation.org/index.php/activities/photo_gallery/category/rna_summer_party_2011
This is what Romantic Novelists are REALLY like.
Cross? Us?
http://kate-walker.blogspot.com/2011/05/claudia-connell-journalist-of-year-not.html
http://nicolacornick.co.uk/blog/2011/05/this-is-what-a-romantic-novelist-looks-like/
http://www.julie-cohen.com/blog/2011/05/23/whered-i-put-that-damn-support-hose/
http://jan-jones.blogspot.com/2011/05/rna-summer-party-2011.html
http://mortongray.blogspot.com/2011/05/romantic-novelist-protest-blog.html
http://talliroland.blogspot.com/2011/05/sexism-ageism-alive-and-well-in-britain.html
http://paranormalauthors.blogspot.com/2011/05/this-is-what-romantic-novelist-looks.html
http://liz-crump.blogspot.com
And here's what we look like. Not a blue rinse in sight.
http://romanticnovelistsassociationblog.blogspot.com/2011/05/rna-summer-party.html
http://phillipa-ashley.com/blog/2011/05/19/rna-summer-party-pictures/
http://www.romanticnovelistsassociation.org/index.php/activities/photo_gallery/category/rna_summer_party_2011
Monday, May 23, 2011
Following on from my earlier post...
My lovely gorgeous young Romantic Novelist friend, Kate Johnson has come up with a witty internet response to the Daily Fail. Using the hashtag #thisiswhataromanticnovelistlookslike, several us have put our faces on Twitter, FB and our blogs.
So here's mine. I'm sorry to report that I neither have a blue rinse, a twinset, or wear support stockings. I do occasionally wear pearls that my brother gave me, but I think that's allowed.
If you want to see a really lovely young RN, go to Kate's blog and see what she looks like too.
http://etaknosnhoj.blogspot.com/2011/05/this-is-what-romantic-novelist-looks_23.html
So here's mine. I'm sorry to report that I neither have a blue rinse, a twinset, or wear support stockings. I do occasionally wear pearls that my brother gave me, but I think that's allowed.
If you want to see a really lovely young RN, go to Kate's blog and see what she looks like too.
http://etaknosnhoj.blogspot.com/2011/05/this-is-what-romantic-novelist-looks_23.html
A tale of two parties
I went out last week. I know. Rare occurrence, getting away to the Big Smoke. And the reason I went? It was the RNA's Summer Party. Now I have banged on boringly here often enough about how much I love the RNA (Romantic Novelist's Association in case you don't know). Not only is it THE most supportive writing group I belong to, its members are warm, funny, clever, brilliant and I have enjoyed every RNA event I've ever attended. From my very first summer party, which I dragged myself up to, heavily pregnant with no3. That time I knew one person & felt pretty nervous entering a room where clearly everyone knew everyone else. But by the end of the evening thanks to the warmth and friendliness of the people I met, including the amazingly kind Katie Fforde, (already a major seller, taking time out to be nice to a newbie wannabe) I felt really at home. Since then I've got to know most of my RNA chums online, meeting them in the flesh on the all too rare occasions when I can get to a function, and I have a blast every time I do.
So, I set off on Wednesday expecting to: meet friends new and old (check); have a great time (check); network (uncheck, was too busy yacking); have scintillating & sparkling conversations (check); be dazzled by the glamour on display (check); and see the best shoe collection in London (double check).
As expected, I had a really fun night and though I was too busy to take any pics, you can see the full glamour on display(complete with a few shoes) http://romanticnovelistsassociationblog.blogspot.com/2011/05/rna-summer-party.html
So it was some disappointment that I read this ridiculous article in the Daily Mail http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-1389272/The-Blue-Rinse-Bodice-Rippers-In-twin-sets-pearls-meet-ladies-Britains-steamiest-novels.html
OK it's the Daily Mail. We all know what to expect, right? But talk about giving a wrong picture of the event. I didn't spot a single twinset or blue rinse - (though Katie Fforde our outgoing chairman and incoming President has admitted to wearing pearls) - and I find the whole thing so bleedin' patronising towards our older members, many of whom could win a glamorous granny contest hands down. Not only that, she's missed the point about the RNA, which is a hugely broad church - there are people writing chick lit, sagas, historical, M&B - you name it the RNA probably produces it. The old fashioned image of Barbara Cartland dictating steamy scenes to her adoring secretary (hilariously parodied by Matt Lucas in Little Britain) is so far removed from the truth as to be laughable.
The RNA isn't full of batty old ladies writing rude stories, it encompasses women from their twenties, up to their eighties, who write stories about human relationships in all their forms, it provides pleasure to millions of readers and it is very tiresome of the Daily Mail and their ilk to still sneer at us, when frankly romantic fiction is selling in its droves at a time of considerable economic hardship. I have never understood why romantic fiction is sneered at when romantic films are not (the majority of them are written by women, anyone?), but such is sadly the case. But it would be nice for once, if a journalist, who was invited to our party could have for once put away her preconceived ideas and actually looked and listened to the people who were there.
Personally I think she travelled to another dimension where Barbara Cartland has cloned herself and has us all chained to our desks writing books in her honour. She certainly didn't attend the fabulous party I went to. Which is a pity, as she might have learnt something if she had.
So, I set off on Wednesday expecting to: meet friends new and old (check); have a great time (check); network (uncheck, was too busy yacking); have scintillating & sparkling conversations (check); be dazzled by the glamour on display (check); and see the best shoe collection in London (double check).
As expected, I had a really fun night and though I was too busy to take any pics, you can see the full glamour on display(complete with a few shoes) http://romanticnovelistsassociationblog.blogspot.com/2011/05/rna-summer-party.html
So it was some disappointment that I read this ridiculous article in the Daily Mail http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-1389272/The-Blue-Rinse-Bodice-Rippers-In-twin-sets-pearls-meet-ladies-Britains-steamiest-novels.html
OK it's the Daily Mail. We all know what to expect, right? But talk about giving a wrong picture of the event. I didn't spot a single twinset or blue rinse - (though Katie Fforde our outgoing chairman and incoming President has admitted to wearing pearls) - and I find the whole thing so bleedin' patronising towards our older members, many of whom could win a glamorous granny contest hands down. Not only that, she's missed the point about the RNA, which is a hugely broad church - there are people writing chick lit, sagas, historical, M&B - you name it the RNA probably produces it. The old fashioned image of Barbara Cartland dictating steamy scenes to her adoring secretary (hilariously parodied by Matt Lucas in Little Britain) is so far removed from the truth as to be laughable.
The RNA isn't full of batty old ladies writing rude stories, it encompasses women from their twenties, up to their eighties, who write stories about human relationships in all their forms, it provides pleasure to millions of readers and it is very tiresome of the Daily Mail and their ilk to still sneer at us, when frankly romantic fiction is selling in its droves at a time of considerable economic hardship. I have never understood why romantic fiction is sneered at when romantic films are not (the majority of them are written by women, anyone?), but such is sadly the case. But it would be nice for once, if a journalist, who was invited to our party could have for once put away her preconceived ideas and actually looked and listened to the people who were there.
Personally I think she travelled to another dimension where Barbara Cartland has cloned herself and has us all chained to our desks writing books in her honour. She certainly didn't attend the fabulous party I went to. Which is a pity, as she might have learnt something if she had.
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