it was 20 years ago today

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I must be getting on a bit; the years are going by more quickly, old man. I’m still singing along. Still crazy after all these years.

retiring to the Ritz- can you do it?

The old man wasn’t one to be conventional. He was proud to have been denounced from the pulpit for having the cheek to cause a local election rather than simply allow the nationalist and unionist cabals to nominate ‘their’ councillors. On being warned that this behaviour meant he’d never get a council house, he said that wasn’t a concern, he’d be buying his own house. The gall. A working class lad? Getting to the grammar school must have given him airs above his station. Buying his own house- whatever next?

Many years later, the patient in the next bed in the regional cancer centre (but originally from the same town) said to him “I haven’t met you before, but I know who you are. You’re the first person I ever heard of who bought a house.”

In the intervening years, he’d taken promotion and moved away from his home town- a short distance, but a big step. He refused further promotion- why would he move from the far edge of the region, to be closer to the bosses, 80 miles away? He loved his life and his family- the wee boat, a stray dog, the delights of Donegal. He stopped being politically active as the local situation became more, not less, sectarian, but he stayed a Labour supporter. I wonder how he’d have coped with Blair and ‘New Labour’?

My political education at home was anti Thatcher. As an adult, none of her policies was to change my mind. She was strong and driven, a commanding figure. A figure who did not believe in society. Everyone for themselves. Individual responsibilty; no social contract.

I don’t agree with that. I believe we are all better off in a society. We have a responsibilty to others, and they to us. We need housing, food, warmth, security, health provision, education. We all need support sometime.

Mrs Thatcher died yesterday. She was an enormously divisive character, and we’ll be seeing many more programmes about her ‘legacy’, her not-state-but-full-of-pomp-and-ceremony funeral. I’m avoiding most of it.

However, my head has been spinning at how the very wealthy insulate themselves from the real world. When the old man was dying, he was at home, with nurse vists. Herself’s needs were not small- she moved to a nursing home after a series of home adaptations failed to keep up with the pace of her degenerative illness. Mrs Thatcher, who hadn’t been a public figure for about 10 years- a frail, 87 year old with dementia, who’d had strokes- lived in a hotel rather than manage the stairs. By hotel, I don’t mean a cheap and functional chain. The woman lived at The Ritz.

I’m struggling with this, although I’m not surprised. If one can afford to live in such luxury, why not?

I just wish everyone struggling with stairs, dementia, or needing full time care had a choice; that they could access appropriate care in a timely manner, in a place that suits them and their family.

That’s not the case now, and it won’t be the case as long as there is no concept of society. Individual responsibilty and a social contract should not be exclusive. We do need to look after ourselves and each other as best we can.

We’ll never all be able to live at the Ritz, but we could reduce homelessness. We won’t be able to provide private nursing care for each individual, but quality nursing for everyone who needs it should not be beyond us. Not everyone will choose a wee boat on Lough Erne, but everyone should have an opportunity to nourish their soul, through access to libraries, museums, parks, leisure centres, decent public transport, events. A more equitable society would be good for all of us.

Unfortunately, Dave and his mates are part of Thatcher’s legacy. We have work to be doing.

oldies- singalong time

a song on the radio transported me back in time this morning.

sing with a smile on your face

sing with warmth and enthusiasm.

sing for my oldies

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it doesn’t take much

It happens all too often. I just have to hear of, or more likely read of, someone I know sitting with a dying parent and woosh, I’m right back there.

I’m back in the long, long days and nights. I’m back with the kindness and love of family, friends and total strangers. I’m back, despairing.

I feel the tension of late night drives, and having to make the phone calls that nobody wants to receive. I learned to ask for help. I learned the value of a clean t shirt, or a towel. I learned to sleep anywhere.

Warm words, hugs and endless chatting are invaluable. They help us through the horror.

Then we have to learn to get on, ourselves.

We have to learn how to be who we are in the new world.

We have to remember the hugs and laughs and the people who made us who we are.

Somedays, I’m uplifted by that. Somedays, I feel reminded of my place in the world and I’m warmed, enveloped in the remembered love of my parents.

Today I’m just a bit lost.

Resurrection by Vladimir Holan

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Is it true that after this life of ours

we shall one day be awakened by a

terrifying clamour of trumpets?

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Forgive me, God,

but I console myself that the beginning

and resurrection of all of us dead

will simply be announced by the crowing of a cock.

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After that we will remain

lying down a while.

The first to get up will be mother.

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We’ll hear her, quietly

laying the fire, quietly putting

the kettle on the stove and

cosily taking the teapot out of the cupboard.

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We’ll be home once more.

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