With teacher training days attached on either end-different schools, different days, of course- the half term break in our house is lasting almost a fortnight. (Feel for Spurs Fan who just got two days, despite working much harder at school than either of his children.)
We’ve had two days of dancing competitions, lots of transfer test practise, Hallowe’en pumpkins and dressing up, a trip into town to queue up outside the fancy dress shop, building with sugar cubes at the museum, fast food, a cold, cold, cold trip to the caravan, a lot of sleeping, and some filming.
Not a bit wonder I’m tired.
Oh, sorry, bloggy buddies, do you want more? Detail? Information? Pictures?
Enough of the sweetness, speccy. Filming?
Some months ago I gave a talk at an event run by RCGP. There were doctors and palliative care workers, people living with illness, researchers and volunteers. My talky bit was partly personal- about Herself and how we coped with her illness, partly wider issues of living with rare disease. Done and dusted. Everything I have to say said. Job done.
Until an email arrived a few weeks ago… Would I be prepared to talk on film about some of the issues? There’d be other talking heads. I’d only have to make two or three points. Big mouth strikes again. That pesky mother of mine, finally succeeding in pushing me out of my comfort zone. She’s laughing in the ether, happy that I remembered to put the make up on and iron the frock.
By Friday morning I was practically hyperventilating. Who will get to see this? Why did I say yes? Is it too late to opt out? Eeek.
I burbled on. The film maker wanted several ‘takes’ of my answers. If only I could remember what I’d just said…
I’ll let you know when it’s on YouTube. Jake may make a sneaky appearance, so we’re bound to go viral.
Our beaches do not have civilised promenades for Sunday Best or Boy Racers.
They are not for posing on in our skimpies.
Our beaches are windy and wild. Any posing is done by people well wrapped up in long wetsuits, maybe with hats and gloves.
So who in their right mind washes their hair before going to visit the wind and the salt and the sand?
Ah, you noticed they key phrase…
A woman currently experiencing some challenges to her mental health. Who has either forgotten to bring the tablets-again- or has OD and taken them all at once. (Spurs Fan thinks this may the explanation for bouncy, singy car charades.)
So here we are. Cold and wrapped up on the beach. The hair will be in a dreadful state by the time we get back to the crumbly caravan on the hill, but in the meantime I’m proving the value of Herself’s refrain “Wash you hair and you’ll feel better.”
Isn’t it annoying when your mother is right?
(The similarities are incredible)
The younger one didn’t know him now. He had loved and supported her when she was a child and a growing woman. She played and cuddled and loved. The joys, the distress and the uncertainties- he’d been there for them all. He’d felt her grow. He’d dried the tears. He made her secure and comfortable. When she was ready, she moved on and away.
Her children don’t need him. They are far away, and they have their own. He’s glad to see them, and their cousins. They come to visit and they bounce and laugh and hug, but they don’t know him. Not like she did, once.
The older woman knew him. She always had. She’d given him to her daughter, over 40 years ago. When he was needed he was there for them. Always. Where else would he be? What else could he do? These were his people.
The older woman lost her health; her mobility, her vision, her speech. He was in the living room, the bedroom, the nursing home. Where she was, he was. One day, she reached round for him. She managed to whisper his name. ‘Peter.’
Her daughter paused, arms full. A name from the past. She remembered it all. She thought of him, for the first time in years. The women held him, and each other, united in their memories, needing the comfort and support.
They were all on a new path. There was still joy and laughter, but great distress and many tears. He was much needed.
Peter: a name given to generations of family pillows.
From January 2012. Written in response to the Write on Edge prompt: personification.