tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78748478951125339542024-03-05T14:38:41.106+02:00It all happened on my way to 84Incidents from my life - some happy, some funny, some sad - but not boringBiddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07790561611449442215noreply@blogger.comBlogger86125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7874847895112533954.post-21358510891557352452011-01-14T12:43:00.004+02:002011-01-14T12:43:00.186+02:0086. Alpha course and what now?So, in May 2010, I reached 84. My travelling days were over and, if the fortune teller was to be believed, my time was almost up. I needed just one more adventure before departing this life. Then a dear friend, Angela Robinson, asked me if I would like to attend an Alpha course which, for anyone not acquainted with it, is a series of talks on Christianity. It was being held at the Helderberg Christian Church, a “Happy Clappy” Church; the kind that I had always regarded as being noisy and over the top. No way would I ever be seen waving my arms in the air, jigging around and shouting “Praise be to Jesus”, while hugging everyone in sight. And, just as no-one else should ever tell me “It cannot be done”, I should never say “never!”<br />
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The Helderberg Christian Church building is huge, with many rooms. The structure is basic, without an altar, stained glass window or wooden cross in sight. There are two regular pastors, Wesley and Gary, who preach wearing tee shirts and jeans, and there are occasional visiting preachers. Wesley plays guitar and has the perfect voice for singing hymns of praise. He is great fun and could have been a great stand-up comedian! Gary, a Londoner, often laughs at himself, which is a trait I like. Numerous talented youngsters play musical instruments and sing in the choir, and the congregation cuts across racial, social and economic boundaries.<br />
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This is a working Church and anyone is welcome to attend the services, but if you want to become a member you had better be prepared to work for it. This is not a Church where you file out at the end of the service on Sunday, to the sombre sounds of the organ, shake hands with the vicar and go home. There is much work to be done in Africa.<br />
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But, to return to the Alpha Course. There were nine people in our group, a very mixed combination. My friend Angela, an attractive bubbly 45 plus grandmother; Paul, a very good looking young husband and father with a lovely personality; Doug, late fifties, a very devout and knowledgeable Christian; Elaine, a mid-fifties frail care nurse, always cheerful, but with hidden sadness; Susie, mid fifties, who runs a landscape gardening business with her husband; a newly wed Indian couple, one a Christian one a Moslem; Mary, the only black member, a domestic worker in her late fifties; and myself. So you see, we were a mixed bunch.<br />
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On arriving at the Church we were offered iced fruit juice, and then we moved into the second largest hall where we were seated at our group table, beautifully decorated with coloured napkins, flowers and candles. At each meeting we were presented with an excellent meal, prepared in the huge kitchen and brought in by a team of hard working servers. The meals, for which one could make a donation or not, were followed by some songs of praise, then a talk or a video, recorded at meetings held by Nicky Gumbol. After that our group sat in a circle and discussed the subject of the evening's talk. Then we were served with tea and coffee and went home leaving the servers to clear up! It must have been after ten o’clock before everyone left.<br />
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It was after the first meeting that I decided to attend the Sunday service, and what an experience that was! The congregation, including children, probably numbered around six hundred. I was greeted at the door, hugged and made to feel very welcome, the atmosphere was so – loving. The first half hour of the service was taken up with the band, and singing. Very loud! People were walking in and out, children were running around and at one point a crowd of them climbed up on to the stage to sing and dance as well. After the music the children left to attend their own classes which were being held in other rooms. <br />
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Gary’s sermon was riveting, and not once did I wonder what I was going to have for lunch, or whether or not I liked that woman’s dress! We prayed and, for the first time in my life, I did not feel self conscious or fraudulent. The congregation seemed to be as one and joyful in their love of the Lord.<br />
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About three weeks later, there was a full Saturday Alpha, with morning coffee and cake, a very good lunch, afternoon tea and more snacks. Hungry lot, these wanna-be Christians! After lunch a delightful, a young black Zimbabwean preacher spoke to us and then asked if anyone wished to invite the Holy Spirit into his/her life. We prayed, and the young man went on talking about feeling the Holy Spirit entering into our bodies. Sceptics may call it auto-suggestion, or hypnosis, but I truly felt something happening and, to my surprise, I stood up ready to be blessed. Fortunately I did not have to walk to the front before thousands of arm waving people who had already been saved, because it was a small hall and I was already sitting in the front row! Some of us cried, and comforted each other.<br />
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For the following three days I walked round in a sort of euphoria, quite happy to tell my very Christian friends that I had found the Holy Spirit at last! They were all delighted, saying they had known it was only a matter of time, and that they had been praying for me for years! I truly cannot explain what happened but, for the first time in my life, I felt I was not alone any more. Afterwards I said to Angela who had brought me there, “I owe you – big time!”<br />
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I am told that life is a series of tests that the Lord sets for us to see how we cope and to build our characters. As I look back over this story it seems that I have been well and truly “tested”. If only I had known that I could have asked for help at the same time, my life could have been easier. But, I often had the feeling that there was “something out there” and I am certain that sometimes I received help without asking.<br />
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And so, as I come to the end of the road, I think to myself; “yes Lord, you have surely tested me and honestly, I did my best.” Do I see You smiling and nodding Your head? I now read my bible and earnestly pray daily that, on the day of judgement, You will rule in my favour! Amen.<br />
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So, my story, “It All Happened On My Way To 84” is finished. Piggy wig is still ticking as I approach 85. I will miss blogging you all, and wonder how I can now spend that time. Any suggestions? <br />
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Farewell, and may God bless us all. <br />
Biddy.Biddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07790561611449442215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7874847895112533954.post-59523500140432782362011-01-13T20:30:00.001+02:002011-01-13T20:30:00.315+02:0085. FranceMaureen and Peter moved to France and suggested that I join them. The climate was mild and the area virtually crime free, so I decided to go there for a trial period. Maureen made a punishing round trip to Charles de Gaulle airport to meet me and escort me back to the little farming area in Normandy where they were living. I think she was travelling and waiting around for at least twelve hours altogether. Paris may be wonderful for lovers in the Springtime, but it was no fun for an eighty two year old granny dragging a heavy suitcase, albeit on wheels. We dragged it on and off the airport bus, along crowded streets which were being dug up all over the place, and up the stairs to the railway station which was dirty and uncomfortable with very few benches on which to sit. Maureen bought us two paper cups of undrinkable coffee and we managed to find a seat where we roosted while sipping. I looked in vain for a smart, chic Parisian! Most of the people did not even look clean. It was a horrid place full of dull, drab people. I think the train journey lasted about two hours and, fortunately, the train was clean, fast and comfortable.<br />
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We eventually arrived Maureen’s house which was situated in a village called le Bourge in Normandy. There were probably twenty houses in the village, a church, a school and the Marie’s office. Every little village has its own Mayor who is King! Nothing is done without the Mayor’s knowledge and permission. The Mayor of le Bourge was a wonderful character whom you will hear more about later. The charming little house, which faced on to a quiet country road, had a small walled enclosed garden at the back. The wall separated the house from the little church and its graveyard of which I had a great view from my bedroom window. The church bell chimed on the hour from seven in the morning until seven at night and at 7.00 a.m., noon and 7.00 p.m. it chimed a particular sequence of chimes, numbering over one hundred in all, which called those working in the fields to pray the Angelus. Previous owners had sold the house because the chiming bell drove the wife nearly mad. I found the chimes quite reassuring.<br />
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The church was only used for funeral services and burials, the graveyard housing about one hundred departed villagers with room for a hundred or so more. Considering their healthy life style, the average life span of the locals was fairly short. <br />
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The village had a handy-man called Bruno and when I asked what he did I was told “everything”. And that was so. His many responsibilities included keeping the graveyard neat and tidy, doing all repair work, laying gravel where needed and putting sand on the roads when it snowed. He worked very hard and was not controlled by any union. Of course he knew everybody and everything, and could get you anything you needed. He liked his wine! With many smiles and much miming, I was able to inform him that I came from South Africa near Cape Town.<br />
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Coming from South Africa, where I clutch my handbag and hide my money in my bra when I go out, the relaxed atmosphere of le Bourge took some getting used to. I was looking over my shoulder, as usual, when Maureen said “You don’t need to hang on to your bag, Biddy, you are in France now.” The only time the locals lock their cars and houses is during the tourist season, when there are strangers around. I enjoyed sitting in the Supermarket watching the shoppers, mostly farming people whose families had been connected for generations, greeting each other with kisses on both cheeks. Until puberty the children are only kissed on one cheek, and I don’t think it matters which one.<br />
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Generally speaking, the population were an unattractive lot, but that might be caused by a certain amount of interbreeding. But, let me hasten to add, they were friendly, cheerful and self confident. They knew who they were and where they belonged. They did not have one child in Australia, another in America and everlasting clouds of indecision hanging over their heads wondering, do we stay or do we go and how can we afford the Medical Aid and Pharmacy bills; and who will Jacob Zuma marry next? Everyone appeared to be so relaxed. And I learned to control my “check out” impatience because everyone stopped for a chat as their groceries were put through the machine. It was not unusual for the cashier to leave her post in order to kiss the customer at the check-out on both cheeks!<br />
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Lunch is almost a sacred event for the French. Everything, except the restaurants, closes from twelve ‘til two Monday to Friday, and no offices of any importance open at all on Mondays. On Sunday morning the butchers and bakers in the village take it in turns to open, a Frenchman cannot be expected to face a day without his fresh bread and fresh meat. The confectionery and patisseries were stuff that drools are made of, but I was not served one decent cup of coffee. Many thousand English people live in France, they seem to have a delightful social life, and if I were half of a couple I would like to live there too. I sampled the medical system, which is very relaxed. Maureen’s doctor was a French Canadian woman who spoke English, which meant she had many English patients. I booked an appointment to see her and there was no receptionist or book-keeper around at the time and so, at the end of the consultation, I simply paid her, in cash, over the desk.<br />
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Maureen and Peter had suggested that I live with them, and I was very tempted. The medical system was very good, and almost free for an English pensioner. At my last annual check up I had been told that my porcine aortic heart valve was “calcifying” and that I would not be able to withstand further open heart surgery. However, there was a new procedure being used in America and France, which enabled valves to be replaced without getting out the Black and Decker.<br />
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We visited a friend who was recovering from a quadruple bypass. After ten days in hospital he was now “enjoying” six weeks recuperation, at the expense of the French government medical system. This ‘recuperation’ included daily physiotherapy, lectures and occupational therapy, in a rehabilitation unit set in beautiful grounds next to a golf course, beside a lake. To the French, food is of prime importance and our friend was served a generous continental breakfast, a splendid five course luncheon and a five course dinner! Avocado pear and prawns was not unusual for a starter! By the time our friend was discharged he could walk five miles with ease.<br />
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I registered with the French Medical system, intending to see a cardiologist as soon as my papers were through. But, unexpectedly, Maureen and Peter decided to sell their house and return to England, so it was pointless my making any long term medical plans. Meanwhile, back in South Africa, the new, still risky procedure had been carried out on three patients who had all survived. Unfortunately, it later transpired that I was not a suitable candidate for this op, so I must just make the most of every day and hope piggy wig will keep going a while longer. But, back to France!<br />
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Every year the Mayor gives a Christmas party for the “ancients” (French for oldies) in the area, which is paid for out of the Mayor’s fund. Mo and Peter were invited invited to attend, and so was I, but I would have to pay for my lunch as I was not yet a registered resident. At the appointed time we arrived at the restaurant and joined those who had just arrived, everyone greeting everyone with the customary kisses on cheeks, friends and strangers alike. I managed to say “ma nom est Cynsia, (the French do not pronounce th) je suis la soeur de Madam Comley.” For which I was rewarded with huge smiles and “Mais oui, mais oui,” and more kisses on the cheeks. That spelling is probably all up to maggots, but I don’t have a French/English dictionary and this is all more than my computer spell check can handle.<br />
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We had arrived at the restaurant at noon and only left at five o’clock. I cannot remember how many courses were served, but the portions were very large, accompanied by lots of bread. The French have a delightful custom, which I saw copied in the homes of English friends we visited, whereby a little dish of lemon sorbet was served before the main course, to clear the palate. For my own taste, forget the pork chops, just bring on more sorbet! All during this Christmas luncheon, men would stand up and tell funny stories and the Mayor made three speeches in which he greeted new comers and visitors to the village. I could not understand any of the jokes, nor a word spoken by the mayor, but I laughed and clapped along with everyone else. Then we were handed song sheets, but as Frere Jacque was not included in the titles I was unable to join in.<br />
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There is a particularly evil drink that is brewed from apples and not sold commercially. It is clear white in colour, about 120% proof and laced with gunpowder. It should be used with caution and diluted with water, like Ouzo. I drank some neat and I think the hair on my head grew an inch in ten seconds. Driving through the lanes I could see plastic sheets spread under the apple trees to collect the fruit as it dropped. These droppings are then collected in piles in the fields and left to do their worst. There is some rivalry in the villages as to which family makes the most lethal brew. Devonshire cider is mothers’ milk in comparison.<br />
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Across the road lived a family with about eight children. Large families are encouraged in France and after delivering a fourth child the mother is given a medal. The child allowances are so high that neither the father nor the mother worked, their job being to bring up the children. I think the dad did “a bit on the side”, work I mean. They lived in a small house and the front yard would have done Steptoe and Son proud. But, the children were lovely, polite and friendly. Two more families lived in that row with two children a piece, all lovely kids. At Halloween they came to the door Trick or Treating, with other children from the village, and at Christmas one of the Dads came round wearing a Father Christmas costume. I was getting to like France more and more and began playing French language tapes in my bedroom.<br />
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The walks in the area were lovely. When some of the railway lines were closed, the French Government had them covered over with compacted earth and made them into cycle tracks and walk ways. These walks were safe and delightful, bordered by lovely trees and hedges, through open farm land. Maureen carried a whistle which she used to call her two Boarder Terriers to heel and one day she blew it and a huge herd of cattle came pounding across the field to the fence. It was quite unnerving. There was a wild cat that lived along one of our walks and she would always suddenly appear and join us. The dogs were so excited to see her and they played games together until she had been given her daily treat and then she would disappear back into the undergrowth.<br />
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Unfortunately, it was not all fun and roses for Maureen and Peter. They were trying to get things done which was very difficult when they could not make themselves understood. At least one English woman was making a fortune as an interpreter. People paid her a monthly retainer to be on call, or she could be paid by the hour. The one time Peter consulted her she messed up their whole telephone system and it took weeks to put it right. Maureen is a very well organised person who likes everything to run smoothly and work! The constant hassles, the inability to communicate, the lack of an English Library, the loneliness and the absence of the charity work she had so enjoyed doing in England was causing some distress. And, she hated driving on the wrong side of the road! Also, they had not been made aware of the laws regarding ownership of land and property in France, which were very complicated and restrictive. Property could only be left to the children, no matter how delinquent or far away they may be. When one partner died the survivor would need the permission of the deceased’s son or daughter to stay in the home! The only way round this law would be for Mo and Peter to get divorced and remarry under a special contract. Those property laws were one of the reasons for all the deserted, dilapidated farms and buildings one sees in France. The heirs are not interested in the property and yet it cannot be sold.<br />
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Normandy is steeped in History and I was thrilled to see the Bayeux Tapestries. I was unable to see the graves of the English and German soldiers, but we did visit the American cemetery and that was awesome. It is situated on the cliffs above the Normandy beaches where many, many thousands of men were killed. I wondered if the marked crosses actually had the right remains buried under them. The landings had been a disaster because of incorrect intelligence; some paratroopers actually drowned in waterlogged fields, trapped under their parashoots, while others were accidentally dropped into the sea. The Germans knew the landings were about to happen and were sitting at the top of the cliffs, waiting for them.<br />
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The German cemetery, which I glimpsed from the highway, is surrounded by trees, one for every soldier buried there. But I must not get “wound up” on the subject of war, just to say that the Normandy beaches and the cemeteries filled me with sadness and despair. Standing at every cross I could see the parents, wives and children of those men.<br />
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Maureen and Peter's house was sold and they were about to return to England, and so, having been away for six months, I returned to Somerset Oaks.Biddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07790561611449442215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7874847895112533954.post-85628600542841726112011-01-12T20:30:00.007+02:002011-01-12T20:30:00.227+02:0084. Food PoisoningThe day after we sailed away from Moscow I became ill with the most terrible tummy upset. I managed to get into the shower/toilet and my whole body exploded! I crawled into the shower fully dressed, turned on the water as hard as it would go and tried to clean myself, my clothes and the bathroom. It wasn't easy because I did not have any cleaning materials and I kept passing out. Because I had not appeared at dinner, one of the passengers from my table came to see if I was alright, which I definitely was not. Very late that night the ship's doctor, escorted by a tour guide, came to see me and it was difficult trying to describe my symptoms, medical history, medication etc., to someone who spoke not a word of English and looked a lot like Mussolini! He handed me one pill and later brought down the most ghastly medicine for me to drink, but I would have drunk anything to get better. He called twice a day for three days each time bringing me one pill and a draft of gunk. This upset meant that I missed three trips ashore, but on emerging from my cabin, I found that about 60% of the passengers and crew had been ill. We were a very grey looking lot. Later I handed the Doctor his envelope!<br />
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I did stagger ashore to see two churches that I particularly wanted to visit. They were onion domed, plain unguilded wood; the large one was for summer use and the tiny one for the winter. Both were built without using one single nail; they were held together with only wooden pegs. The churches were so unique that they were maintained by the World Heritage Trust and the notices on the information boards were written in several languages.<br />
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The about-face the Russian’s had made since the Communists were overthrown and foreigners invited in was quite extraordinary. The palaces and churches were being rebuilt from photographs and paintings, the original buildings having been totally destroyed, and that was why they were so bright and shiny. Millions of Rubles were being spent on rebuilding and hundreds of kilos of gold leaf made with which to cover the statues and pillars. The furniture, paintings and statues were originals but the buildings had an air of Disneyland about them. <br />
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I could not begin to describe the paintings and artwork in St. Petersburg; better you look for a book in the library, or search google. But there was one item I must mention and that was a piece made out of green jasper , in the shape of an enormous bird bath which dwarfed me as I stood beside it. It took 14 years to produce and when it was finished in 1850 it was transported to St. Petersburg on carts drawn by 160 horses!<br />
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When the remains of the last Czar and his family were discovered and eventually returned to St. Petersburg, they were entombed in the cathedral of Saint Peter and Saint Paul, in a specially built chapel next to all the other Czars and, along side of them, laid the faithful servants who were killed with them. In 1988 Dignitaries worldwide collected for the special service of dedication. Also in the cathedral was a large display of photographs of all the Romanoff's known to still be living. <br />
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I was interested to know how all the candles were lit in the dozens of chandeliers that hung from the ceilings of the great ball rooms. It seemed to me that when the servants got around to lighting the last candle the first would be burnt out! Apparently, the candlewicks in each chandelier were all connected by a thin oil soaked thread. One servant was stationed at each chandelier and, on a given order, the end of each thread was lit and the flames spread rapidly to all the candles at once. It must have been quite a sight.<br />
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Russia is bigger than United States, Canada and Mexico put together. It crosses eleven time zones and is the world’s largest producer of diamonds, iron ore and oil (they pump 12 million barrels a day and in 1980 three million barrels a day were exported). They are the second largest producer of coal and gold in the world, and they have the largest resource of natural gas. Three hundred and sixty eight million cubic meters of timber are felled and dressed every year. Their resources in Siberia are largely untapped and unknown because of the dramatic weather where fifty degrees below freezing is regarded as a mild day! The supports on which the houses are built are made of metal and filled with oil to prevent them cracking in the cold.<br />
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The artwork for sale in the markets, apart from the usual kitch, was beautifully made, especially the amber jewelry, a Russian specialty. I was enthralled by the panels covering the walls of the Amber Room in the Winter Palace. These had been removed piece by piece during the war, moved to safety and had only recently been reconstructed; unfortunately one panel had been “lost” and had to be reproduced. Originally all the houses, buildings and churches were built of wood, which was plentiful, and it was Peter the Great who imported French and Italian styles of architecture and employed engineers from Scotland. At one time, there was a large settlement of European builders and craftsmen in St. Petersberg. <br />
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We visited a market where fresh produce was sold. I have never seen such an array of beautiful, colourful, high quality fruits, vegetables and flowers. Everyone looked so healthy and jolly. Helen had asked me to buy her a set of Russian dolls and the one I bought her contained forty inner dolls, the last being about the size of thumbnail. Unfortunately I bought it on the boat, about the second day out, and later saw much better ones on shore, but I had no luggage space for any more. Talks and entertainments were given on board, as we sailed down the rivers and through the lakes. As in other countries, some of the lakes are man made and it was not unusual to see a church steeple protruding from the middle of an expanse of water so navigating must have been a bit tricky. I thoroughly enjoyed sitting on deck, watching as we passed the villages with their little wooden houses and the fishermen sitting at the side of the river. It was difficult to imagine that, in a couple of month’s time, all that would be frozen over. <br />
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Considering that religion was banned under Communist rule it was surprising how many churches were still standing with the ancient icons and paintings on the walls, although I don’t think services are held in them. In three of the churches we visited, groups of men - usually four - were singing religious chants very beautifully, and I bought a couple of CDs which are very calming and soporific. The singers were not part of a church choir, but a nice tourist attraction. <br />
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Amongst all the glories of Russia, one lasting impression was the lack of public toilet facilities. The charge for the use of a clean facility in a building could be up to R20.00. Portable street toilets, with an attendant in charge, cost R10.00. The only free toilet we found, late one night, was as bad as any I have found anywhere. It was only outclassed with the toilets at the Colosseum in Rome!<br />
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In spite of the toilets, and being ill for three days with food poisoning, the visit to Russia was the most memorable and brilliant experience of my life. I would recommend it to anyone but advise them to take along a large picnic hamper and several gallons of pure water. <br />
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Arriving back in England I needed something very special to top that trip and I found it in Carlisle, in the shape of Emily, my first great grand child. What a little “bobby-dazzler”, as Tom would say.Biddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07790561611449442215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7874847895112533954.post-36398315921342990362011-01-11T21:00:00.002+02:002011-01-11T21:00:02.449+02:0083. Moscow to St.PetersbergIt was August 2006, and a year since our lovely visit to Bali. My eightieth birthday had passed and time was racing by. Nearly forty years ago a medium had told me that I would live to be eighty four and although the women in my family generally lived well into their nineties, they had probably been healthier than I am. So every day must count. But, count how? Every morning I vow to be tidier, work harder, be kinder, get thinner, to nag myself less and to tackle the long list of “things to be done”, which is endless. When I complained to a wise man once, when Tom was very ill, that I seemed unable to cope he said, “No matter how much you fret and worry you can only do one thing at a time. Focus on that one thing, do it and forget about all the other things, they must take their turn.” It was good advice. I should take it.<br />
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Should I try harder every day to earn a seat in the stalls on “the other side”? What and who is over there? My friends generally are very knowledgeable about the Bible; they attend church, study and pray, what is more, they have faith. But none of them really know what is in store for us. It would be nice to be able to put right at least some of the wrongs I have done, but that would probably take another lifetime! I once wrote down all the things I could remember doing, or not doing, that were wrong or hurtful and then, as far as possible, put a monetary value on each incident. Saying “Hail Mary’s” would have been cheaper, but I figured I would not be here long enough to say them all. And anyway, I am not a Catholic so it probably would not have worked. The sum total was considerable, and I paid it off in monthly installments, secretly, to ordinary people in need. In a silly way, I hoped their pleasure at receiving an unexpected gift would fly out into the atmosphere and help negate the unhappiness I had caused. All sounds rather daft, but it helped put the sad stuff behind me. I now do this every New Year, instead of making and breaking New Year’s resolutions, and my misdeeds must now be decreased in accordance with my shrinking income. I am a stickler for paying my accounts.<br />
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Mysteries and secrets intrigue me. I want to know more about nature, tribal customs, magnetic forces, geopathic stress lines, the paranormal, all things one cannot see and touch. And I find history fascinating, all the millions of people who have gone before us and left their mark in some infinitesimal way. One day soon I will be history, and it will not matter at all that I died on a bad hair day, twenty pounds overweight with chipped fingernails and untidy cupboards. Where is all this leading to? Ah, yes, well I decided to stop being introspective, to cease worrying about things I don’t understand and to have an adventure. And that preamble was my way of trying to justify my decision to go to Russia, on a cruise of the lakes and rivers between Moscow and St. Petersburg.<br />
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Yes, I know I said that I would not go on another holiday, not fly on another plane and not board another boat, but this boat would not be on the ocean and we would be getting off every day to see different places. The medium had also told me that in my last incarnation I had been a peasant! Maybe a Russian peasant, who knows? <br />
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“You will love it!” I was told by people who had done the same cruise. I really wanted to see Red Square, the Winter Palace, the cathedrals, the gold painted onion domes and all the wonderful treasures that had, somehow, survived the Russian Revolution and the Second World War. The brochure in the Travel Agent’s office was very colorful and seductive. The tour startedat Heathrow and, on the way back, I would be able to visit my sisters, Jane was also now living in England, and best of all I could see my first great grand daughter, the beautiful Emily.<br />
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The flight from Cape Town was due to leave on the day of a big terrorist scare. Security was tight and my nice little transparent plastic carrier bag was confiscated and replaced with an ordinary plastic bag. There was a possibility that the plane might not take off, but fortunately it did and we endured the usual hours in a zero comfort zone. The following morning Heathrow was chaotic and I was so grateful to be an “assisted passenger”. My sister Jane, being terribly independent at eighty eight although only partially sighted, refuses to be an assisted passenger, preferring to get lost, to lose her luggage and nearly miss her connection, rather than sit in a wheelchair. I say this concession is the only advantage to being over eighty, and I do not object to being wheeled down long walkways and up and down lifts by someone who knows where they are going. I also like being whizzed through immigration and customs.<br />
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My luggage had been booked through from Cape Town to Moscow and so my assistant was able to wheel me through all the highways and byways of the airport and transfer me onto a bus which took me to another terminal, where I was met and taken straight to a little lounge reserved for assisted passengers. The ground hostess greeted me, and apologized because the plane for Moscow would be twenty minutes late taking off! Was that all? Two people who were on my SAA flight, had not checked their luggage right through, and were delayed so long claiming and clearing their cases that they missed the flight and were four days late joining the trip. Two other happy holiday makers lost their luggage completely and had to borrow clothes from fellow shipmates, which was difficult because one of them was very large! When I returned to Heathrow two weeks later, unclaimed suitcases were stacked in huge piles waiting to be reunited with their owners who, by now, were probably scattered throughout the world! Being an assisted passenger is the closest I will ever get to being treated like Royalty! <br />
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Going through security my book, the newspaper given to me by the hostess in the waiting lounge, and my ball point pen were taken from me. I wonder what happens to all those confiscated ball point pens. There is something I would like the security experts to explain to me. Why did they confiscate my eyebrow tweezers, because they represented a sharp object and were therefore dangerous, but allowed me to purchase a bottle in the duty free shop, take it on board as hand luggage where it could be smashed, thus providing me with a very dangerous weapon indeed! Taking away our pens meant that we could not complete the immigration forms required while airborne. I could have written mine in blood but I had nothing sharp! The crew had no pens to lend us, which I thought strange, but somehow, one of the passengers did have a Parker, and so this was passed round the cabin. <br />
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Russia is about four time zones away from England and so, by the clocks at least, it took something like eight hours to get there and twenty minutes to get back! Perhaps that is the secret of eternal youth; if you keep going backwards you will never grow old. Counting the very early breakfast served before arriving in London, we seemed to eat a breakfast every time we passed through a time zone. Most peculiar. Moscow airport was a madhouse and I was pleased to be in a wheelchair. The tall, very thin young man in charge of me did not speak a word of English (why should he?) but he took my passport with much smiling and we went straight to the head of all the queues. In the arrivals hall we found the tour guide who asked us to stay there with the other members of our party, while she waited, holding a board on the end of a pole, for the rest of her flock. The board had “Peter The Great” written on it in large letters and, during the days and tours that followed I learned not to lose sight of it. I was very grateful for the wheel chair because there were no seats or benches in the hall, and two hours passed before the tour guide gave up on her lost passengers and collected us. Despite going into one of my foreign language mime acts, my escort had refused to leave me to wait alone, but I did not know if he was afraid of losing me or the wheelchair. And so I sat and waited and observed. The first thing I noticed about the Russian men was their shoes; they wore the longest winkle pickers I have ever seen, the tips extending a good four inches beyond the foot. Looking very smart, young men wearing uniforms walked around in polished boots and, like my escort, they were just boys, and the high fronted hats made them look even taller. They were not at all threatening, in spite of the guns in their holsters; they could have been just playing soldiers. The women wore very high heels and very tight skirts, and they were all slim, well dressed and pretty. Everyone was very pale, but I would imagine there are few sun tanned Russians around.<br />
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The day was sunny and hot. Why did I think it always snowed in Russia? I had seen many Russian plays where the sun shone and now, beside me, was a florist's kiosk full of beautiful flowers. I could not do a financial conversion, but they seemed to be expensive because people tended to buy just one rose.<br />
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The tour guide, having given up on her lost passengers (which pleased the rest of the party because they were tired of standing) I was signed for and handed over like a package. My escort was more than happy with his gratuity, the tourist season lasts barely four months and every ruble counts. The drive from the airport to the boat was depressing. Hundred of residential tower blocks about twenty stories high filled the skyline, grey and bleak, with flaking paintwork, and generally the balconies were full of washing and rubbish with, occasionally a plant pot or two. In fact, the place screamed POVERTY and overcrowding. In some of the buildings one could see four different types of window frame which indicated the financial standing of the occupants, rotting wood, solid wood, brown plastic or white plastic. There were very few trees in sight but hundreds of hoardings, some home-made, some industrial and, naturally, the wording was all in Russian. Now, I can usually make a little sense out of French or German, but the Russian alphabet, like Arabic, is incomprehensible to me and nowhere did a European language appear as an option. One hardly needs a caption for Coca-Cola or Kentucky Fried Chicken!<br />
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In contrast to the tower blocks, the Government and University Buildings, monuments and statues were beautiful. Unlike other countries where past dictators are pulled down from their pedestals, in Russia not all the statues of Lenin and Stalin have been removed because they were considered to be part of Russian history. In fact one tour guide joked, as we were looking at a statue of Lenin, that it was appropriate that his right hand was pointing towards the prison. I later saw many lovely parks in Moscow and people walked through them even quite late at night. It must be a way of escaping from those awful high rise buildings. It is surprising that so much money and effort is spent on growing all the beautiful flowers that can be enjoyed for such a short time each year. The tourist season in Russia lasts only three - four months, for the rest of the year the rivers and lakes are frozen or freezing so nothing moves. I guess there were about two hundred cruise ships doing the Moscow to St. Petersburg to Moscow route, averaging two to three hundred passengers each. The Cruises lasted for fifteen days, so each boat completes about eight trips a year. It is a very short season and I wonder if they go somewhere else during the winter. The crewmembers, cooks, dining room staff and tour guides must find alternative work during the winter. We had four resident tour guides on board, pretty girls - university students - who spoke excellent English, and local guides joined us on the coaches for some specialised tours. One of our guides told us that both her parents were doctors, but that their salaries were so poor they relied on the “envelopes” patients gave them to keep up any standard of living. I did not work out how the envelopes worked, whether they bought early appointments, or medication or preferential treatment - I don’t know. <br />
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My cabin was basic in the extreme, a double bed pushed against the wall, a small cupboard that was full of extra bedding with no room to hang clothes, and a tiny fridge. No chair, table or desk. There was also a very small shower cubicle, hand basin and toilet with instructions not to flush ANY paper down the loo. The water was not for drinking, or even for brushing ones teeth, and bottled water was very expensive on board. We quickly learned to buy bottled water on shore.<br />
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The Cruisers would be docked five or six deep and we had to walk through other ships to reach the landing stage. My impression was that the German and French ships were superior to “Peter the Great”. The majority of our passengers were Canadians, members of an oldies touring club, I was seated at a table with five Canadians, two middle aged ladies and a father with two grown up daughters. They were all good company. Meals, apart from self serve breakfasts, were awful and it was embarrassing when so many plates were handed back to the waitress with the food untouched. We were served a great deal of very boney, unrecognisable fish which I suspected was caught as we went along! They were quite disgusting. The waitresses were very pretty, charming and wore traditional costumes and we were served with a free glass of - I'm not sure what, probably vodka, bur I am not qualified to comment.<br />
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The trip lasted fifteen days, three days in Moscow, four days in St. Petersburg and the rest cruising down rivers and across lakes, stopping off at little villages en route. Everywhere was packed with tourists, a large number being Chinese, or maybe Mongolian. Tours through museums and palaces had to be booked and timed, and we were monitored. In some places we were given covers for our shoes to protect the floors, which was a very good idea. On our first day out we went into Moscow to see Red Square, the Kremlin and the Armory. The “Red” in Red Square had nothing to do with the colour of communism, red means beautiful. The Square has been in use since the 13th century and was Moscow's gathering place for all state and religious festivals and was also used as a market place and the venue for executions. It is 1100. ft long and 230 ft wide but looks much larger. I had not booked for a tour of the Armory because I do not like guns and stuff, but the Armory actually housed the most magnificent museum of jewels, a collection, which was started in the 14th century, so I really missed a treat. Some tours were part of the “package” and some were extra.<br />
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Since 1547, all the tsars of Russia had been crowned in Moscow with a magnificent diamond, ruby and pearl crown and regalia, which I saw in another museum. The number of diamonds in this crown should have been blinding but, probably because of the old fashioned cut of the diamonds and the fact that they needed cleaning, the display was disappointingly dull.<br />
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I had expected to see one or two official Ladas being driven across Red Square, but I didn't. The roads around the city were jammed with traffic, everything from Beetles to Mercedes. The big car mystery is how people can afford them on such poor wages, and where did the drivers park their vehicles? Riding in the coach one day, over half an hour out of town, we passed a large area where there were hundreds of shacks. For a minute, I thought it was an informal settlement, but the guide told me that those were all garages. Muscovites take a bus from their flats to the garages, take their car out for the day, return it to the garage and take a bus back home!<br />
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Russia is probably the greatest treasure trove in the world, and it is amazing how much survived the war. As the Germans were about to invade Stalingrad, trains were loaded with treasures which were sent to Siberia to be hidden, but not everything got away and the amount of treasure later looted or destroyed is unknown. Oh dear! This could develop into a book about Russia, the most fascinating country I have ever visited. <br />
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But before we leave Moscow, I must just tell you about the Moscow underground railway. You may have seen photographs of the special stations with crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceilings, pictures in mosaic tiles and the magnificent, life size bronze statues of “the workers”. But the afternoon we toured the underground there must have been a million Russians going home at the end of the day. We were not the only group of tourists trying desperately not to lose sight of our guide amongst the thousands of commuters. Guides all carried boards, or things on the top of poles, everything from teddy bears to huge sunflowers, ours was Peter the Great. Suddenly I saw our board being carried along by the crowd and onto a train and I knew that if I lost sight of it I would be completely lost, so I pushed through the crowds with all my strength and got squashed in the closing doors and was quite bruised!Biddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07790561611449442215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7874847895112533954.post-87563185002188680072011-01-10T12:02:00.001+02:002011-01-11T12:12:20.873+02:0082. BaliA few months later Tony telephoned me and said “We are going to Bali for ten days, why don’t you come with us?” It had been three years since I vowed never again to travel overseas on holiday, but I really needed a break from Elaine, and this holiday would be different because I would not be travelling alone, and Bali would be unlike any other place I had visited before. And, indeed it was. The flight to Singapore was extremely comfortable, Singapore airlines are a cut above all the rest, and Tony did all the organising. There was a small mix up about my reservation on the onward flight from Singapore to Bali, but that was sorted out and later I received a lovely wooden box containing a huge candle as an apology from the airline! If that were the policy on British Airways I would buy shares in a candle making factory! The Airport at Singapore was amazing, spotlessly clean, orchids everywhere and the customs and immigration desks had bowls of sweets for the taking.<br />
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The hotel in Bali was magnificent, set in beautiful grounds which stretched right down to the beach. The atmosphere was cool, calm and restful and the weather was perfect; we seemed to be surrounded by trickling water and thousands of orchids. The hotel staff members were tiny, pretty and smiling and the girls wore long, slim colourful dresses made out of light brocade and their thick, black hair was combed back into rolls and adorned with flowers. The whole setting was like a Hollywood movie. The food? I have never seen the like before or since and the presentation was a feast for the eyes with carvings made out of fruit or ice or butter. Every kind of food I could imagine was offered, and many delicacies I had never seen before. And the display of deserts made me wish I had four stomachs instead of one, and it was all included in the price of the package. The only thing guests were required to pay for was drinks, other than fruit juice. If one wished to eat when the main dining room was closed, there were two other dining rooms where a more limited choice of food was available. It was piglet’s paradise! <br />
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Entertainment was also provided. One evening we listened to an excellent female singer who would sing almost anything on request, another evening we watched a troupe of dancers performing the traditional neck jerking Bali dances, and then the members of staff performed for us, very energetically after a hard days work. But the very best entertainment of all was the children’s evening. There was a circus training school in the grounds of the hotel were, every day, the children were taught how to work on a trapeze, how to tumble and perform acrobatics, it was a wonderful opportunity for them to enjoy themselves doing something quite different and they just loved it. They must have worked very hard because the final evening performance was a sheer delight. One little girl, who was obviously a trained gymnast, gave a spectacular performance on the trapeze. I applauded until my hands were sore. <br />
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There did not seem to be many children around, and that may have been because the beaches on our side of the island were not sandy and so were unsuitable for paddling, or playing, but the swimming pool at the hotel was huge. There were hotels all along the beach but it was sad to see one enormous building standing empty and uncompleted. The tourist trade had been so badly affected by a couple of terrorists’ bombings that the hotel’s developers had withdrawn. Our one trip into the town of Bali was not a great success because hawkers clung to us like limpets and made walking very difficult and unpleasant and we were pleased to return to the hotel. <br />
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The porters and drivers at the hotel were not allowed to tout for trade among the guests, but with little side remarks about “my brother who has a mini bus” deals were made. Thus a leisurely tour of the island was arranged; the tour had to be almost at walking pace because the roads were absolutely jammed with thousands of motor scooters. I remembered saying, in Bulawayo, that I could not take Jeni and Juliea to the doctor’s on my Honda scooter, but these Hondas were laden with husband, wife, a couple of kids, shopping and household goods. Traders carried all their stock of vegetables, or whatever, in huge panniers fixed all round their scooters. Some drivers wore crash helmets, others wore turbans. It was a kaleidoscope of colour, accompanied but a thousand motor horns. I was fascinated by the parade. <br />
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Everywhere people carried offerings of flowers to be laid at special places. The driver explained that because there were so many festivals in Bali, at least one a week, businesses had to employ migrant workers or nothing would ever get done! There is no doubt that Bali is a very poor island which relies mainly on tourists for revenue. Although there are hundreds of rice paddies, in fact the whole countryside seems to consist of rice paddies, they only grow enough for their own needs, there is nothing left to export. Rice is even grown in terraces on the hillsides.<br />
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We had lunch at a restaurant high up on a mountain, overlooking an inactive volcano - well, it last erupted in 1963 so it could go off again at any time. The food in the restaurant compared poorly to that at the hotel, and traders blocked the entrance, pushing and shoving so much I just wanted to escape into the bus. Jeni did not escape until she had bought, for me, a hand made chess set; My 92 year old neighbour at Somerset Oaks was teaching me to play chess, but I was not at all good at it. The Balinese revere animals so it was surprising to see so many mangy stray dogs on the roads. Dog collars and dog licences were unknown and, since the islanders eat mainly rice and vegetables with a little fish, the dogs probably never eat meat. Dog food would be much too expensive for them to buy. <br />
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The carved figures and carved furniture on sale were beautiful, but far too large and heavy to take back by air, but they could be ordered and shipped. But most of the island consisted of rice paddies and the one, dormant volcano. And we saw monkeys, hundreds of monkeys for whom we bought bananas. The monkeys in the monkey forest are sacred and may not be touched. It is a tragedy that terrorist activities deterred people from visiting Bali; the surfing was among the best in the world. Of course my opinion is based only on the hotel in which we stayed, but the service was outstanding, and the little people so pretty and polite.<br />
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The day we were due to leave I enquired at the reception desk about the procedure for handing out gratuities, only to be told “Thank you very much, but gratuities are not accepted!” So, all inclusive really meant just that. On the journey back we stayed overnight in Singapore but the stay was too short to visit the places I would have liked to see. Again, the hotel was magnificent and the breakfast outstanding. To the Indonesians, the presentation of food is an art form, but outside the hotel ugly MacDonald’s and Kentucky Fried Chicken franchises were packed with young people eating chunks of fried food out of cardboard boxes! <br />
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We wandered round some lovely shops and markets but the clothes were all very small, I don’t think the racks had ever held a size 18! How I wished that Tom had been stationed in Singapore instead of Egypt.Biddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07790561611449442215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7874847895112533954.post-5293141774574353022011-01-07T09:18:00.000+02:002011-01-07T09:18:52.386+02:0081. Helen's weddingTwo years previously Granddaughter Helen had met Michael, in Milton Keynes, and they now decided to marry. To the delight of us all, they chose to be married in South Africa in a dear little chapel in the Drakensburg Mountains. The chapel stands in the grounds of the Cathedral Peak Hotel in Natal, a favourite venue for weddings. Michael’s Parents, Helen and Oz came from England together with Juliea, Maureen and six other friends. Jane, who was still living in Zimbabwe at the time, came too. Of course Jeni, Tony, young Tom and Bronwyn, his fiancé, were there and, having been declared fit to fly, I was there too.<br />
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The drive from Johannesburg to the hotel took over four hours, but the scenery through Kwa Zulu Natal was beautiful and we passed through many small rural villages with clusters of little rondavals built with bricks made from cow dung and straw, and covered with thatched roofs. Picturesque no doubt, but how on earth do they survive there, with just a few cattle and no vegetation in sight? It must be bitterly cold in winter. Two pictures remain crystal clear in my memory from that drive. The first was seeing ten sparkling white nappies on a clothes line, blowing in the wind outside a rondaval which stood on a dusty, barren patch of ground. I wondered how far the mother had carried the water to wash the nappies, where in that deserted area, did she buy the washing powder, and how did she find the money to pay for it? The picture would have made a wonderful washing powder advertisement. The second picture was that of a little boy wearing the minimum of clothing, driving his herd of goats with a stick, chatting away on his cell phone! Who could he have been talking to? Another little boy who could not afford to go to school but could afford a cell phone? Those are the sort of questions that always interest me. I am intrigued by the logistics of things.<br />
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Cathedral Peak Hotel is built among the mountain peaks, and the guest rooms are built on about four terraces above the hotel. My room was located on the very top terrace and I did not think I would manage to climb up that high, but I did. The views were spectacular. At the breakfast buffet table we not only met a lady from Milton Keynes where Helen and Mike lived, but her husband had served in the Rhodesian army at the same time as Tony! A couple I spoke to in the foyer lived in Bangor, Northern Ireland where we had lived. All these meetings up a mountain in Africa!<br />
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The bride was beautiful, the wedding ceremony was beautiful, the scenery was beautiful, all the guests were beautiful, I had survived major heart surgery and life was beautifulBiddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07790561611449442215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7874847895112533954.post-18983564303105612322011-01-06T21:29:00.000+02:002011-01-06T21:29:14.119+02:0080. Recovery and more about ElaineThe recovery period was long and slow, and I was now very aware of my mortality. Maureen came over from the U.K. to look after me for a few weeks and then Jeni arrived and we enjoyed some very relaxed time together. <br />
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Each day I walked a little further and, on my post-op six week check up I was declared fit, having made “a remarkable recovery”. For the time being, the amount of attention I could give Elaine had to be reduced drastically, although I still attended to her accounts, nurses' wages and so on. Assuming that Elaine would outlive me (there was nothing much wrong with her physically) there would be nobody to take over her affairs when I “snuffed it”, as Tom used to say. I was also very concerned about Elaine's mind, which seemed to be deteriorating. She needed full time care and I could not provide it. Going into “frail care” is literally the last but one move off the planet, to be avoided at all costs, and persuading Elaine to move, away from all her books, would be difficult. But a long term plan had to be made.<br />
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Two years later she did move into Robari, supposedly for a trial run, while I was away somewhere. It was a terrible period of adjustment, and when I returned she was in a very distressed state and had forgotten all about her flat and Somerset Oaks.<br />
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I visited her daily, reading her episodes from the journal she had kept during one of her trips overseas and even, at one time, read stories from “Winnie the Poo” one of her favourite books. I wheeled her over to the coffee shop for “naughty cakes” and to my house for lunch, but she no longer recognised Somerset Oaks as the place where she had once lived and where she still owned a flat. And so I decided that, while I still had POA, I would sell the flat so that she would have enough money to pay the charges of the home and also to hire additional private nursing. <br />
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Clearing out Elaine’s flat, was a monumental task. Her valuable books on ancient Greece and Ancient Rome, which took two hours to pack and load, filled a Combie van and were taken by the University of Cape Town. Scrap paper and stationery went to schools, car loads of clothes were given to Hospice, workmen in the complex took anything left outside the front door and somehow everything was given away. Disposing of some items was very hard, for instance, her school reports since the age of six, her mother’s Black Magic chocolate/sewing box and an ancient chocolate Easter rabbit given to her unknown years ago, and kept in the refrigerator. Once cleaned and repainted, and with the agreement of her lawyer, who carried out the transaction, the flat was sold. <br />
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The next step was to advise the lawyer that, because of my age and state of health, and Elaine’s state of mind, it was no longer practical, or even safe, for me to continue holding the Power of Attorney. How could I go about relinquishing it? This was when I wished I had never accepted the responsibility in the first place. What a performance! I was told that it was my responsibility to apply to the High Court for a curator to be appointed, by a judge, who would act on her behalf. The cost of the application was about R72 000.00 which, fortunately, Elaine was able to pay. I had to make a four page sworn affidavit, we had psychiatric reports, medical reports and goodness knows how many other reports. I wonder now what would have happened to her if there had been no Power of Attorney. Someone would have had to appoint someone, and I could not do it because I was not her next of kin! The application was eventually approved by the Judge and Elaine’s lawyer was appointed Curator. The use of the Power of Attorney and curator is so open to abuse that it is frightening, but I had chosen the most reputable legal practice in the town and that was all I could do.<br />
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Shortly afterwards Elaine failed to recognise me. She had frequently told people that I was “The love of her life” and I believe that to be true but, after six exhausting years, it was time to let go.Biddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07790561611449442215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7874847895112533954.post-4109385185950844452011-01-05T22:37:00.000+02:002011-01-05T22:37:17.754+02:0079. Back in the land of the living - almostThe feeding tube is removed and they say it is time for me to eat normally. They are winding the bed up and placing a dish of jelly on the table before me. I laugh at my feeble attempts to lift the spoon. I cannot even make contact with the jelly, let alone eat it, so they feed me like a baby and the nurse is telling me that I have been receiving intensive care for five, disorientated, heavily sedated days, but now they are going to move me to the cardiac ward. She says it will be quieter there and I should get a good night’s rest after the previous noisy night.<br />
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<i>So, she knows how much I was disturbed by the undertakers and the dead people, the knitting, the blood and the chiming battery clocks. I want to know if the baby’s heart got away in time, but maybe it is better not to ask. She obviously knows that I know about the strange stuff that has been happening, maybe if I keep quiet they won’t kill me after all. It will be a relief to get away from the morticians, the cobwebs and the nurse who will not give me the blood I need. “They” may not believe me about the cobwebs, but as soon as I am discharged and well enough, I will buy a fluffy coloured hand mop, creep back into the Intensive Care Unit, collect the cobwebby stuff on the mop and then send it for analyses. If I am right then the place will be condemned and shut down. </i><br />
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</i><br />
<i>To add to my discomfort, somewhere in the hospital someone is playing “Sweet Georgia Brown” on a Hi Fi, very loud. That really is unacceptable. My bed is being pushed right through a wall from the Intensive Care Unit into a private room. This is very strange, beds cannot be pushed through walls! Oh dear! I am sobbing, and the two nurses are holding my hands, one is being particularly gentle and loving. I plead with her to tell everyone that I am not mad. Look, I can count the lights set into the ceiling, I can describe the pattern on the hall carpet, and I am not going insane. But, please, please make them stop playing “Sweet Georgia Brown”. Later I am put into the armchair again. A young nurse comes in and I again complain about the noisy music. She tells me it is coming from the male patient in the next room, so I give her a pair of headphones that I have brought in with me and ask her to take them to him. She returns with them saying that he already has a pair. “Well, why doesn’t he damn well use them?” I shout.</i><br />
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</i><br />
<i>The saga of the music continues throughout that day and possibly the following day too. I am hysterical. I hear my surgeon telling the nursing staff that the man making the noise is a friend of his and he will not tell him to stop. If I do not like it, I can be moved further down the corridor, but I know that will not help because “Sweet Georgia Brown” is everywhere. I tell one of the nurses that I have come here to rest and if Dr. van Zyl cares more about the entertainment of his friends that the comfort of his patients, then he does not deserve to be a doctor! </i><br />
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</i><br />
<i>A friend telephones and, quite lucidly, I complain to her about the loud music and she agrees that it should not be allowed. Another friend phones to ask if he can visit me. I agree on condition that he insists on seeing the hospital manager when he arrives, to see if he can get the music turned off. I again complain to a nurse who tells me, despairingly, that there is no music playing. I glare at her and shout “What is the matter with you, girl. Are you deaf or just stupid?” Is this really me speaking? I would never normally talk to anyone like that.</i><br />
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<i>The cot sides have been put up on my bed. I try to sit up but overbalance and become trapped against them. I pick up anything I can reach and throw it feebly at the door to try to attract attention, but no-body comes. Finally, with some incredible effort, I climb over the cot sides, hospital gown flapping exposing my naked rear, and crawl cross the floor towards the corridor, intent on finding the music player and removing the masculine parts of his anatomy. At this point two nurses arrive and I am captured and placed in the armchair. I hear one nurse say that perhaps they should call Dr. van Zyl. I grab her arm and hiss, “If you bring Dr. van Zyl in here I will take you to court!”</i><br />
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</i><br />
<i>Across the hall I can see the good doctor in a bed. I hope he is going to have surgery and I hope it hurts. During the night his wife arrives and they have an argument because he wants to return to America where he feels safe and at home, while his wife wants to remain in South Africa. They have a young son, about six or seven years old, and the doctor gets dressed, takes the boy outside to the car park where I hear him say, “Now, act like a big boy. You don’t want people to think you are a baby. I am going to put you in the car for a while, and here is a blanket to keep you warm”. Back in the ward the argument continues with his wife asking him how he could treat his son like that. The following morning I sit in the armchair, glaring viciously across the corridor at Dr. van Zyl, determined to sue him for neglecting his patient and being cruel to that poor little boy. But it isn’t Dr. Van Zyl, it is another man who wonders why I am glaring at him.</i><br />
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</i><br />
<i>In the middle of the night I ask the nurse to phone my friend, John Manners, and ask him to come to the hospital. Too many frightening things have been happening and I feel in need of protection. Outside the rain falls in torrents, there is a howling gale blowing but I sit in the armchair all night waiting for John to come. Somehow I know they never called him, it is all part of the plot against me. I go back to bed and sleep. </i><br />
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When I awake the music has stopped. A woman has replaced Dr. van Zyl in the bed across the hall. With a nurse assisting me I can make a wobbly journey to the bathroom on my own and I feel a little bit hungry. Doctors make their rounds and I no longer plan to sue Dr. van Zyl who, I am told, does not have a little boy nor does he plan to live in America. He tells me that he replaced my stuffed up aortic valve with a tissue valve (i.e. part of a pig) and that I am making an excellent recovery. Pity about the pig, I always did like a bit of ham but now eating ham would be almost cannibalistic.<br />
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The nurse I called deaf and stupid is back on duty and I am able to apologise for my rudeness to her. My intellect tells me that all the strange happenings were really caused by five hours under anaesthetic followed by five days under heavy sedation. However, in my memory everything I have related is vivid and true and, at the time, no one could persuade me otherwise. <br />
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The lesson I learned from this experience is that patients should be comforted and reassured while hallucinating. Agree and sympathise them, for what they are seeing and hearing is as real to them as reality is to you, and telling them that they are just imagining things only adds to their confusion and torment. The helplessness I experienced, lying in that bed, unable to move, was like something out of a horror movie.<br />
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Was it worth all the money and the discomfort? It seems they ‘nearly lost me’ on the table, but I made it, or rather the medical team did, and that was over five years ago. And in those five years I have had many adventures, have played with three beautiful great grandchildren, and grown even closer to Tommy and Jeni, so yes it was worth it.Biddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07790561611449442215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7874847895112533954.post-16785932452034940942011-01-04T22:50:00.000+02:002011-01-04T22:50:24.860+02:0078. Heart surgeryThen something unexpected happened. A specialist I was consulting about something examined me under anaesthetic and after the examination he advised that I see a cardiologist immediately. This advice surprised me, but not nearly as much as the cardiologist’s opinion that I needed to have my aortic valve replaced as soon as possible. “And, if I do not agree to this procedure?” I asked him. “The Aortic Valve is almost closed. You will probably be in a wheel chair within three months and will die drowning in your own body fluids.” Nice one! A carer, of sorts, was hired to look after Elaine and ten days later my rib cage was opened with a Black and Decker saw and a porcine valve inserted into my heart. Pity about the pig.<br />
<br />
There is nothing as blissful as ignorance! And I was certainly ignorant about open heart surgery. When I said to the receptionist, with a big smile, “Sure, next Wednesday will do.” I had no idea that my rib cage would be sawn open, all my blood would be pumped out and put in a storage tank to keep warm and that I would all but die on the table. With fifteen surgical procedures behind me, plus the removal of two in-growing toenails and giving birth twice, I had complete confidence in my powers of recovery. But this recovery was different and I can only tell it how I saw it! <br />
<br />
After a sleep that seemed like eternity, I awoke in a strange world. Something had happened to me but, for the moment, I could not think what it was. Then a voice echoing from far away drifted through the haze, “Mrs. Winter! Are you awake?” A reluctant “Erm" came from somewhere in my head. “Open your eyes. Come on, Mrs.Winter. Open your eyes”. Through the mist I thought “if someone would remove the glue from my eyelids I would!” With a tremendous effort I half opened my right eye and gave another grunt. All I wanted to do was sleep. Other voices joined the first one but I could not understand the strange words they were saying. Of course I could not, they were speaking in Afrikaans. “You can go back to sleep now.” That was English; that I could understand, and I gladly obeyed. The feeding tube, catheter, drips, drains, cuffs etc., were taking care of all my bodily functions so I could just lie there. I was no longer in charge.<br />
<br />
<i>Hours, days passed, I had no idea of time. There were two clocks on the walls of the Intensive Care ward, I could see them clearly now. They were driving me crazy because they chimed on the hour, and every quarter of an hour, which I thought most unreasonable and unnecessary in a hospital ward. The most irritating part was that on some quarter hours they chimed the hours. How could a clock chime twelve times when it was a quarter past two? Another puzzling thing was that these were battery operated clocks, like my kitchen clock at home, and they should not chime. I made a mental note to complain about the clocks later.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>The chiming clocks were only one of the strange phenomena that occurred during the next five days. A cooler box appears on the nurse’s desk, covered in labels. It contains the heart of a baby which has to be transported urgently, by air, for another baby. I become quite agitated, because the longer the box is kept on the desk the less chance there is of the transplant being successful, but the box just stays there. An elderly man in a scruffy raincoat appears at the nurses’ desk. His wife has just been admitted and he keeps scrounging cups of tea. He comes into the ward quite a lot and the nurses are a bit fed-up with him, especially when he complains that the mixture of Ensure (a food supplement drink) made up for his wife is too thick and rich. A strange woman, who has just brought a friend in for admission, is sitting at the end of my bed where my nurse should be. She is drinking tea and reading a magazine. I would love a cup of tea and I try to call out, but I must be invisible; it seems no-one can see or hear me!</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>What I find most disturbing is the regular appearance of two morticians. They wear black suits and white shirts and frequently wash their hands at the basin. About six of them appear in pairs, sometimes they are black, sometimes coloured and sometimes white. They are very serious looking and scrupulous in their hand washing. There must have been several deaths that day because the bodies are on stretchers lining the corridor, waiting to be wheeled away. I am wide-awake but think it would be dangerous for “them” to know that I know what is going on. So I feign sleep, and watch these happenings through squinted eyes. My life could be in danger.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>I want to talk to the lady in the bed next to mine, but the curtains are always closed round her and she does not wish to speak to me. The physiotherapist, who has lost his patience with me because I cannot blow into the breathing machine correctly, often goes behind those curtains with one of the young nurses, to blow into the machine. Of course, when they use the machine it is filled with oxygen and something else, so they expand their lungs and get high at the same time.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>Someone just died in the bed in the corner. It is obscured from my view by a cupboard, but I can see the white haired head of the husband bowed quietly in prayer. He is very tall and his head can be seen above the cupboard. I watch him for a very long time and he never moves. Now I focus properly and I can see that his “head” is, in fact, a roll of white toilet paper, which has been placed on top of the cupboard. No one is praying for the poor, dead person.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>The walls and doors around me are covered with a strange material, it is black and the texture resembles heavy black cobwebs, while the patterns look like the membrane that covers the heart. This material begins to move away from the doors and takes on the shapes of heads and bodies. I mention this to a nurse who assures me that there is nothing on the doors and walls. How can she not see them? In answer to my questions about the shapes another nurse says “My dear, I would not be surprised at anything you see down here!” Far from making me nervous, this statement reassures me that I am not imagining things.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>I don’t like or trust the nurse who is looking after me, she sits at the end of my bed knitting a large sweater and spends a great deal of time discussing the size of it with another nurse. She is not watching me, like she is supposed to, and I begin to panic. “I want Dr. Chipps to come”. I cry. “What for?” asks the knitter. “Because I am afraid, I am dying.” “No, you are not dying.” She snaps. She does not reassure me nicely by explaining that I am hooked up to all these machines which indicate that I am O.K.; or that she will call Dr. Chipps if there is any sign that I am in danger. I am very frightened and her rough assurance does nothing to calm me.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>I know that my life is in danger because my nurse has a plastic pouch of blood plasma hanging round her neck, which does not appear to impede her knitting, and that blood is for me, I am dying and she won’t hook it up. Blood is very precious and she is waiting until she is certain that I will die without it before she will give it to me. On the other hand, perhaps she really wants me to die, after all, I am only a useless old woman. What is it, day or night? I cannot tell. There are no meal times, no doctor’s rounds, no one is doing anything for me. I am just drifting in and out of sleep. I must lie on my back, which I hate, my back aches and I just long to turn on my side</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>An abundance of the cobwebby stuff appears before me now. It is taking on the shape of books, and there is also a very fine light baby’s shawl suspended from the ceiling with words crocheted into the pattern. The titles printed on the spines of the books are blurred, but the author’s name is clearly mine. I try to lift one down, but it dissolves into dust in my hand. Is this the library of books I should have written and never did?</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>They help me out of bed and into an armchair, my tubes are draped all over it. Two women I do not recognise have come into the ward and I watch them washing their hands. Oh, horrors, they have come to see me, in spite of my instructions that I do not want anyone to see me like this. Without even greeting them, I tell them, in graphic Olde English, to go away, they smile in an odd sort of way, and drift out of the ward without their feet touching the ground. The beast with the breathing machine has arrived, I don’t want that beastly mask on my face and in my mouth; he is holding my nose so I am beating him with my fists. What if I do get pneumonia and die who cares, I am more than half dead already. Roll on tomorrow!</i>Biddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07790561611449442215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7874847895112533954.post-55480250593245258092011-01-04T11:54:00.000+02:002011-01-04T11:54:25.513+02:0077. Getting to know herElaine’s flat would have been a perfect subject for an episode of the “How clean is your house?” reality show, and was an obvious fire hazard. Cigarette burns formed black patterns on the carpet around the desk where she used to sit in the days when there was space to do so. The carpet at the side of her bed was burnt, there were burns on her bedding and night attire and on most surfaces. Sometimes there would be a cigarette smouldering in the bathroom, another in the kitchen plus the one in the ash tray at the side of her bed. If one paper had caught alight the fire would have spread in minutes. It was not acceptable and the responsibility of “doing something about Elaine” seemed to have fallen on my shoulders. <br />
We sat on the bed and looked at photographs of Elaine as a gunner on Robin Island during the war and pictures of her taking part in the London Victory Parade after the war. She had been chosen, with a few other women, to represent the South African Women’s Services at the Victory Parade, it was a huge honour and the highlight of her life. There were a great many photographs of her Army days. We looked at pictures of her representing her school in a hockey team; dozens more of holidays spent in Greece, where she studied archaeology; photographs of herself smartly dressed, attending business dinners with her associates. I realised that, sitting beside me was a highly intelligent woman who had held a position equal to that of a Bank Manager in her professional life, who was a dedicated student of ancient Greece and Rome and, I suspected, an unfulfilled lesbian. Elaine was an only child, unmarried with absolutely no kith or kin in the world. Her two great friends since school days had both recently died leaving her quite bereft. She was one of the kindest, sweetest, most generous women I had ever met and I liked her.<br />
<br />
Friends said that I was suffering from the “empty wheel chair syndrome”. Tom had died almost a year before, I had sorted out all the official business that comes with death, moved house and travelled around for three months and now needed something to fill my life again. At least that is what they told me. Possibly so, and certainly within a year Elaine was barely able to walk more than a few yards and had to be pushed around in a wheel chair. Quite soon, my entire life revolved around her, to the point where I was bathing her, taking meals to her on a tray, attending to her accounts, in fact doing more for her than I ever did for Tom. It was very exhausting, and everyone said I was crazy, but she had no one else who cared about her, so I was IT. The only thing she would not allow me to do for her was clear up all the mess. In fact the sound of a piece of paper being torn up seemed to cause her actual pain and distress.<br />
<br />
I replaced the shredded curtains with some non-shredded of my own, but she pined for the old ones so, after removing the linings, I washed them, replaced the running tape along the top and put them back. The strange thing was that she was not a mean or miserly person. She would have given me anything and frequently offered me money, which I refused. Some people thought she was wealthy but that was not so.<br />
<br />
There is a children’s home in Somerset West called ‘Cotlands’, which cares for abandoned children, orphans, babies with aids and other problems, and I talked to Elaine about their need for money. She wanted to make a donation but I suggested that, instead of her giving money, she donate the contents of two boxes of souvenirs and gifts she had brought back from Greece and was not likely to use or give away. I would ask other residents for items and we could hold a sale and give the proceeds to Cotlands. She happily agreed and the sale raised almost R2 000,00 with which I bought nappies, teething powders, feeding bottles and other baby stuff, which were displayed in the club so that everyone could see what they had helped buy. Elaine had attended the sale and actually bought back several of her own things!<br />
<br />
I would draw money for Elaine whenever she asked, far more than I felt she needed. She was so generous that in one month she gave to the woman who later came to bathe her, more than her own month’s pension! That was when I suggested that, in future, I handle her money. In fact she wanted me to hold her Power of Attorney which necessitated trips to the bank and visits to lawyers. <br />
<br />
I organised a filing system and discovered two years’ unsubmitted tax returns and reminders, plus several “Dear Madam unless” letters. Among her papers was a luggage label, with a piece of string looped through it, on which was written, and I tell you no lie. “To flush the toilet pull the chain towards you and pull down sharply” This must have referred to an overhead flusher in a bathroom left behind at least twenty years ago. Most of her clothing was too big for her, and was held together with safety pins and needed to be repaired. She refused to be parted from an all-in-one corselet, but I did persuade her to hand in her small firearm, which required three visits to the police station. In fact I had dug myself into a big hole out of which there was no escape. I allowed her to become completely dependant on me, and had only myself to blame. <br />
<br />
At first Elaine would come to my place for meals, in fact spent most of her days here, but gradually she left her flat less and less, I could not wheel her in a chair down the ramp because she was too heavy for me. The time came she no longer left her bed, other than to go to the bathroom, and one day I realised that four years had passed, and I was feeling very tired.Biddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07790561611449442215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7874847895112533954.post-19826981998064773662011-01-03T19:47:00.000+02:002011-01-03T19:47:02.567+02:0076. Elaine and Somerset OaksThis section is not particularly amusing, but no story about me would be complete without a chunk about Elaine. Just to explain the set up here: I live in a lovely retirement village, where everyone is over the age of fifty five but still active, at least they had to be when they first moved in. There is no frail care centre, but we have a club house, a dining room, a bowling green, a croquet lawn and a pristine swimming pool. There are one hundred and forty eight units here, set in lovely gardens, ranging from double storey townhouses to one room flats. A river runs alongside the property which, alas, had to be fenced and barbed wired to keep out the naughty people. From time to time, ugly, grey river crabs make their way into my flat, are captured and gently returned to the river. Guinea Foul, Egyptian Geese, doves, other birds and squirrels abound as do moles. It is amazing what damage a tiny creature such as a mole can do to the lawns. Snakes lurk in the wooded areas, so I am told but, fortunately for my blood pressure, I have never seen one. We have residents who are keen gardeners and keep the area round their units filled with flowers and shrubs and the non gardeners, like myself, who barely manage to maintain a couple of hanging baskets.<br />
Ten minutes walk away two super markets compete for our custom, while at least eight pharmacists do a roaring trade in Warfarin and blood pressure pills, this area being the Mecca of the W.R.D. (Wealthy, Retired and Decrepit). Somerset West snuggles beneath the Hottentots-Holland Range of mountains, which change colour from prehistoric grey to breathtakingly brilliant orange according to the light. In winter snow can be seen up there, but in summer, too often, fires rage. Ask Google to show you “Somerset Oaks, Somerset West, South Africa” and you will find us.<br />
<br />
About 190 people live here, the number varies from day to day depending on whether or not the club house flag is at half mast. It is not often at half mast because we are a hardy lot, being over ninety is not uncommon and there are plenty of over eighty year olds, like myself. Living in this retirement complex does not make one feel old, it just makes one determined to outlive one’s neighbour. My neighbour is a ninety three year old wartime submarine commander, who does his own laundry and walks to the shops every day. He is immaculate in his dress and manners and his house is much tidier than mine, so I have a lot to live up to. Needless to say, the women outnumber the men at least ten to one. Why is it that men on their own tend to lock themselves away, while widows embrace each other and seem to enjoy life?<br />
<br />
Here at the Oaks we love parties, any excuse to put up a notice stating the occasion followed by the magic words, “Wine and cool drink will be provided. Please bring a plate of eats.” And eats are brought like you have never seen!<br />
<br />
The complex is run by a Committee of Trustees elected by residents at the Annual General Punch Up. Their job is to ensure that everything is run according to the rules set out in the Sectional Titles Act and House Rules, while at the same time, trying to keep everyone entertained and happy. Not an easy task. These rules are made for the comfort and security of everyone living in the complex. If you are not familiar with this Act do not worry about it, but the unpaid work carried out by the Trustees is arduous and, for the most part, thankless. You know the old saying, you can please some of the people some of the time blah, blah and more blah. I only mention this because the act states that every unit must be kept reasonably clean and must not form a health or safety hazard to others. If the Trustees have good enough reason to think that a unit does not conform to these rules the Chairman has the right, after giving the owner forty eight hours notice, to inspect the premises. To my knowledge this has never been done at Somerset Oaks although there have been some units that were decidedly suspect.<br />
<br />
I was Club Trustee at the time, when someone asked me “Have you ever spoken to that little old lady who walks almost bent in half?” I replied in the negative. “Well, she has a wonderful sense of humour! When I asked her if I could carry her shopping bags for her she said ‘Thank you very much, but they aren’t really that heavy, my back is naturally curved this way’”. To be my friend, the number one requirement is a sense of humour. People who cannot laugh at the world and, even more importantly, at themselves had better stay out of my space for, as sure as God made stand-up comedians, I will offend them before too long. The name of this little old lady was Elaine and she was to dominate my life for the next six years. <br />
<br />
Elaine was eighty two when we became acquainted. She was a heavy smoker and I sometimes sat outside the clubhouse with her after lunch, so that she could smoke while we chatted. What I did not know during those early days was that she was a compulsive hoarder who lived in total chaos. Then one of the residents said to me, “I see you are friendly with Elaine. Do you think you could get her to do something about her flat?” “In what way?” I asked. “Well, the outside is a disgrace, the Body Corporate should not allow her to keep such a mess there, and the inside is awful”. <br />
<br />
That afternoon I walked over to Elaine’s block, climbed the stairs and there, alongside her front door, was a stack of cardboard boxes, and a rusty broken plastic weave garden chair. Three long thin benches of varying heights were stacked behind each other, covered with flower pots containing plants is varying stages of death and decay. The two metal plant stands by the front door housed straggly geraniums, their stalks desperately reaching out for water. I took a deep breath and knocked on the door which was opened a crack and then, on recognising me, Elaine opened it wide and I was invited in. It was an invitation I would have done well to refuse. “Come in, come in and sit down”. Elaine transferred a pile of books from the bed to the floor and I sat down, or rather tried to but the mattress was so old and bent that I kept slipping on to the floor alongside the books. She apologised for the mess and said she was ashamed for me to see it like that, as if due warning and ten minutes with a feather duster could have put it all right. <br />
<br />
The flat comprised an entrance hall leading to a large room with a little balcony, a small kitchen and a bathroom. Elaine had lived and chain smoked in this room for over twenty years and it had never been redecorated. Everything was stained dark brown and there was a large bulge in the ceiling, evidence of a leak in the roof which had been repaired but not repainted. A small strip of carpet leading from the front door to the bed was clear, but that was all. The bed was covered with books and papers, and the three broken chairs were invisible under masses of clothes. One wall was filled from floor to ceiling with bookshelves and books. There were suitcases, cardboard boxes, projection screens, photographic slides, a radiogram, a chest of drawers and a huge office desk, also covered with books and papers. The curtain linings hung in shreds. In the kitchen there was barely room to stand in front of the sink because the floor was littered with empty cereal boxes and shopping bags and the soles of my shoes stuck to the plastic tiles. Later I found a large tin which had once contained pie apples, the apple pieces had dried out and become stones which rattled when the tin was shaken. <br />
<br />
By the front door stood a stack of The Times Literary Supplements going back fifteen years and a piece of rolled up carpet which housed six umbrellas and a walking stick. On a piece of string extended across the bath hung plastic, inflated coat hangers which would be just right for drying woollens on and, when deflated, packed flat in the bottom of a suitcase for travelling. The little balcony contained two rusty, folding garden chairs with rotted canvas seats, a wooden table that had discarded its green paint, and another stack of Times Literary Supplements. In the grey plant troughs the geraniums had long ago given up the fight for life and been smothered by wild grass. On the table, stood a box of snail bait intended to kill the snails that had already died of starvation. The view from the balcony was magnificent.Biddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07790561611449442215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7874847895112533954.post-1571230218240761982011-01-03T18:50:00.001+02:002011-01-03T18:50:00.426+02:0075. Isle of IschiaThe transportation arrangements so far had been very good and so I was rather confused when, on disembarking from the ferry, I was set upon by about six taxi drivers all trying to play tug of war with my suitcase, while assuring me that they were my driver. Their little go-carts with fabric tops did not look like tour operator vehicles. The official driver eventually came to my rescue and drove me to the hotel set high up on a cliff top. The woman who welcomed me spoke very little English, but showed me to my room. It was one up from a broom cupboard. The single bed was pushed up against a wall, behind the door. There was not enough space to open my suitcase on the floor, and there ware barely enough room to walk to the miniature shower, nor to open the single door which led to the “balcony” which boasted one pot of dead geraniums. Complaining is not something I do with much confidence, but ten days in this box was not acceptable. I found the lady in charge and with much miming and gesticulations, indicated that I was far from happy with the accommodation. As we were now “out of season” they offered me a spacious, double bedroom with a veranda large enough to take a plastic chair, which I gladly accepted, at no extra charge. Unlike most hotels there was no coffee and tea making equipment in the rooms, all beverages had to be paid for, especially the bottled water! Strange, when you think of it, in big hotels one can collect ice from ice making machines located in the passages. Is this made with bottled water? If not, then one must assume that the water is fit to drink.<br />
After unpacking I strolled through the hotel and out on to a roof garden. A swimming pool sparkled in the sunshine but the wind was much too cold for swimming. I had my second encounter with a large, scruffy mountain dog. I don’t think the poor thing ever got the chance to climb a mountain. I found a sheltered corner and read until dinner time 1930 hours. There were twenty four guests in the dining room, none of whom spoke English. The tour operator did not know her products, because Ischia is a favourite island among Germans and Italians and the Don Pedro entertains very few English visitors. Once more I felt isolated and thought of the coach load of jolly holiday makers at the airport who were probably even now laughing and drinking in some jolly beach front hotel.<br />
<br />
I was prepared to eat spaghetti, I like spaghetti served with some delicious sauce. It is as well I liked spaghetti! Of the cuisine, I will say no more. Of the guests, we all smiled a lot. Walking through the little town I thought to try a little non spaghetti dish. I pointed at something on the menu and was brought a plate of chips. From then on I found it safer to buy food I could see and indicate, like chocolate cake and ice cream.<br />
<br />
The little harbour lay about three miles down a steep hill from the hotel and about six miles back uphill, or so it seemed, but it was a constant source of entertainment and interest, there was so much to watch. Observing people manoeuvring their vehicles on and off ferries is always good for a laugh. The expressions on the faces of the drivers suggests that they all expect to land in the water, and the relief when they find themselves and their cars on dry land is a joy to see. The narrow side streets sheltering novelty shops, boutiques and jewellers could have been in any sea side town anywhere on the Mediterranean. The bus companies offered day tickets that enable passengers to ascend and alight as often as they wish for the day, which is very convenient for the visitor, but I did not work this out until my last day. It was disappointing that I could not visit the castle and convent, but I had to fit in my obligatory three days sick in bed, without which no holiday of mine is complete! Access to the Castle and the convent, situated on a little promontory, is via a bridge. Ischia has a very long and violent history with the ruling powers constantly changing. The Castle had many dungeons and still housed ancient instruments of torture. Just my idea of fun!<br />
<br />
In the grounds of the convent there is a bench where deceased nuns would be seated to be eaten by crows, or whatever, until only the skeleton was left. I cannot say whether or not they were still wearing their habits, but I would hope so. And on the subject of death, the deceased inhabitants of Ischia are buried for only six years, after which their remains are exhumed, 'condensed' and placed in caskets to be removed elsewhere. The island is too rocky and too small to allow room for cemeteries. The same applies in Tenerife where the remains of the deceased are placed in small, long boxes which are then fitted into a wall with name plates, rather like rows of private safes in a bank vault. Much tidier than graves with fallen, moss covered tombstones and dead potted plants. The practical, but catholically unacceptable, solution is cremation. <br />
<br />
Peaceful, natural death intrigues me. The first time I saw someone die I was sitting in a hospital ward with my sister, Maureen, holding the hand of her dying husband. The nurse pronounced him dead and made a note of the time on the chart that hung over the end of his bed. As we stood up to leave I looked at my sister and asked “Is that it, then?” What did I expect? Not a chorus of angels, or a bright light carrying his soul away to another plain, but something. Just, “Goodbye George, sorry I won’t see you tomorrow!” Well, at least it prepared me for Tom’s departure. One of Tom’s funny comments, which he used to say in his mock cockney accent was, “What’s it awl abaat I asks yer? What’s it awl abaat”. Yes, indeed, Tom. What is it all about?<br />
<br />
The home of the late Sir William Walton is on Ischia. The gardens, called Garden Mortella, which took twenty years to complete, were carved out of a quarry and are extraordinary. One must climb quite high up to see the layout to advantage. Displayed in the gift shop were some delightful tea pots, a nice gift of Italian pottery to take back to Jeni for her collection. I turned the pot over and saw Made in China. Thanks a lot, but no thanks! Sir William probably wrote more patriotic music than any other composer, and in the museum at Mortella one can watch a movie in which he talks about his life. Lady Walton, a rather exotic Argentinean, was still alive at the time of my visit and used to walk in the gardens and talk to the visitors. She died in March 2010. The house, gardens, museum and small concert hall are part of a music foundation of which Prince Charles is a Patron but, in spite of all Mortella’s Britishness, the teapot was made in China.<br />
<br />
On my last morning at Don Pedro, I helped myself to some cereal and bread and jam from the dining room and was outside waiting for the taxi by 0730 hrs. At the docks I decided to travel in style on the hydrofoil, and sat below deck in a comfortable arm chair. Naples Airport was a disaster zone. Too many all inclusive holidays end on a Friday and there were only two counters open to deal with everyone. At least two hundred people stood in the security check queue before me and I was carrying my handbag, glasses, shawl, boarding pass and passport. I refuse to carry cabin luggage on board. My innocent granny image must have slipped because, as I finally went through the check point, I was told to take my shoes off and go back through the x-ray machine bit. This I did, but in the confusion of trying to find somewhere to sit to put my shoes back on, I lost my glasses. I did not realise they were gone until after I had gone through passport control and there was no way I would fight my way back through that rabble.<br />
<br />
Hundreds of women in the departure lounge and only three toilets available! I will say one thing for the Italians; their boarding system is to be commended. Passengers are called forward by seat booking number so that those seated at the rear go first until those nearest the pilot get on last. That really does make boarding more orderly. “This will definitely be my last holiday” I muttered to myself. If romantic Italy could not produce the younger lover predicted for me, I might as well return home to my two faithful ninety two year old admirers.Biddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07790561611449442215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7874847895112533954.post-12787941650746116062010-12-31T18:47:00.001+02:002010-12-31T18:47:00.329+02:0074. Italian holidayThe journey from Milford Haven back to Milton Keynes was uneventful. I now realised that the length of time I had planned to be away from South Africa was <em>too</em> long and I did not know how to keep myself occupied. A chilly October morning is not the safest time to gaze into the window of Thomas Cook Travel, especially with a couple of weeks to kill before returning home. Visions of beautiful bodies on golden beaches throwing oversized beach balls to one another teased my eyes. I missed the African sunshine which creates a type of warmth that goes right through to the marrow of ones bones. <br />
<br />
Tom, Jeni and I had spent a disastrous camping holiday in Italy long ago. Disastrous because, many years later, Tom developed a nasty “thing” on his nose which the medics could not identify. At first it was treated as a rodent (gnawing) ulcer which was removed by plastic surgery, but still the problem persisted until half his face was disfigured. After much questioning about where in the world he had served and travelled, it was discovered that the very camping site we had used, just a ferry ride from Venice, was the tail end of the region inhabited by a particularly nasty parasite. This insect infects humans and animals, and many men infected while serving in these specific areas during the war had died as a result. In fact there are 60 000 known deaths recorded annually. Tom had been bitten and the infection had lain dormant for years. Gruesome it was, and the treatment required was so drastic that it nearly killed him. The disease is called Leichmaniasis, after Dr.Leichman who had isolated it, and a great deal of information is available about it on the Internet <br />
<br />
During this same holiday Jeni and I had visited Rome and the Vatican City, Tom preferring to laze back on the camping site being bitten by parasites. The extreme wealth of the Catholic Church has always bothered me. Visiting a little church in Tenerife once I saw, under a glass dome, a small statue of the Madonna. Diamond rings hung from her fingers, strings of pearls were draped around her neck and gold watches lay at her feet. She looked highly embarrassed and very uncomfortable. The glass, the statue and the jewels were dull and dirty. A bent little old woman in worn black clothes came and made the customary bob towards the altar, then paid for a candle and knelt to pray, her feet were bare. My instinct was to smash the glass dome, sell the jewellery and get the poor old lady to a chiropractor and buy her some decent shoes.<br />
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I don’t think it is possible to count the wealth contained within The Vatican. The thousands of unread books behind locked glass doors must contain all the wisdom in the world and they should be translated and published for all to read and not locked away. The ceiling of the Sistine chapel had not yet been restored when we were there, but even so its beauty was dazzling. The treasures in the Vatican must be preserved for all time as works of art; it is the cost of the pomp that bothers me. It is so far removed from Christ and his example of simplicity. It is the above the theatrical extravaganza I associate with the Coronation, the Trooping of the Colour and the opening of parliament. Jeni’s bottom was pinched in the Vatican. It was the venue, not the assault that surprised her. Florence was cleaning up after disastrous floods when we visited one church. A priest walking up and down rattling a box for donations reminded me of a Father Christmas standing outside a departmental store in New York in December. Of course I will give a donation, magnificent historical buildings cost a lot to maintain, but I will give it discreetly, and on my way out, not to some portly priest rattling a box under my nose.<br />
<br />
But all that had happened many years ago and was forgotten, and the girl on the poster did not look as if she had been bitten by anything more lethal than the bronzed Adonis waiting to catch the ball. She was having a lovely time; the sun was shining, so why not give Italy another chance.<br />
<br />
The travel clerk assured me that the Don Pedro on the island of Ischia was very popular. The brochure was printed in English; there were beautiful views with dinner, bed and breakfast offered at a reasonable, all inclusive rate. What I have found in my travels is that the most expensive, essential item is bottled drinking water, especially in hotels where there is no other source of supply. At my grandson’s wedding I drank only water, thinking to keep the bar costs down, only to find that the most expensive item on the final account was bottled water, and I bet a pound to a penny that much of the water charged for came out of the tap. Every hotel should have its own water filter system and water should be free. But, to return to Italy.<br />
<br />
The Italians had organised a general strike to commence at 0900 hrs on the day of our scheduled arrival in Naples, the Pilot wished to arrive before the airport closed and so the flight was brought forward by two hours and we boarded at 0400 – repeat 0400 hrs. I don’t think I have been up and awake that early since the children were weaned. Breakfast was served at 0500 hrs. Unlike other nauseating airline breakfasts, this one was extremely good. At 0500 hrs. most self respecting stomachs would be daunted by the sight of vegetarian sausage, omelette, potato, tomato and savoury sauce, brown roll with butter and marmalade, blueberry muffin, peach melba yoghurt and coffee, but my stomach is not easily daunted. It works on the theory that there is no such thing as bad food, only badly cooked food. Oh! I forgot the orange juice. Fortunately the weather was clear and there was no turbulence!<br />
<br />
We landed gently and afterwards, with immigration and customs all behind me, I was surprised to see all the other jolly holiday makers from the plane, getting on to one coach, leaving me behind. Did they know something I did not? Apparently so. After a while a Charlie Chaplain look-a-like greeted me with “Signor Winter?” I nodded. “You will please to come with me?” So I was the only passenger going to the Don Pedro. I wonder where all those other folk were going. Charlie stowed my case in the back of the minicab while I climbed into the front. As we drove off, I enquired where the slot for my seat belt was located. Taking both hands off the steering wheel and waving them in the air he said, “Ah, do not worry, in Italy it does not matter.” It might not have mattered to the Italians but it mattered to me. I clung to the dashboard and my seat and almost to the driver. His only concern was to get me to the docks and the ferry boat before 0900 hrs. My only concern was to arrive there alive. Although it seemed that all the drivers were madmen they were in fact very skilful, because as Charlie told me “Here there are no rules!” No rules indeed, only very loud motor horns. One would expect every car to look like entrants in a stock car race, after the race has been completed, but they were surprisingly dent free. <br />
<br />
There were two types of ferry boats, the upmarket Hydrofoil which reached Ischia in fifty minutes, and the rusty old tub waiting for me which takes the best part of two hours and has no below deck seating. The clock struck nine as the ferry pulled out of the harbour and away from the General Strike. The coastline was quite lovely and we passed lots of pretty islands and a huge American aircraft carrier. The sea was choppy, the wind fierce and very cold and the deck was like a roller coaster. Mercifully, my 0500hrs breakfast stayed firmly anchored. The most interesting passenger was a big black scruffy canine who fought a valiant battle to stay upright on the rolling deck, capitulated and anchored himself behind wooden bench. People commute between Ischia and Naples daily and the ferries run as frequently as a No.14 bus. There was a snack bar on board and I made the mistake of ordering an Espresso coffee, which turned out to be about 100 mls of black sludge in the bottom of the smallest paper cup I have ever seen. Why did I think that Espresso was drinkable with frothy stuff on top? Well, we learn something every day.Biddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07790561611449442215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7874847895112533954.post-26561103242819350372010-12-30T18:42:00.001+02:002010-12-30T18:42:00.209+02:0073. Milford HavenThe journey to Milford Haven should have been pretty straightforward. Tommy (my son) was to meet me in Milford Haven where we would be joined by the few remaining members of Tom’s family for the scattering of Tom’s ashes. At Bristol the train indicator showed that the next train due was for Milford Haven and, sure enough, it stopped at the platform and in the driver’s front window was a board marked “Milford Haven”.<br />
<br />
There were the usual announcements made by someone whose adenoids had been forcibly removed, so that his voice would be suitable for making inaudible announcements through poor loudspeakers, but as everyone was pushing and shoving and climbing over me and my luggage, I just dragged myself aboard. Half an hour later the ticket inspector checking tickets looked at mine and said “You shouldn’t be on this train. This train is going to Manchester”. “But the board on the front showed Milford Haven” I replied, once my jaw had resumed its usual position. “I can’t help that. Didn’t you hear my announcement? You should have listened; it was for your benefit.” I was beginning to feel like part of a comic double act. “Yes, I did hear some sort of garbled message, but I did not take any notice since the board ------What shall I do now?” “Well, you’ll have to get off at Abergaveny, go back to Bristol and start again from there.” Since only two carriages had been uncoupled at Bristol, and since there was the possibility that one or more of the passengers in those carriages might have been hard of hearing, I thought it might not have been too much for the conductor to have gone through the two carriages before leaving Bristol to check the tickets. <br />
There must have been some radio communication between trains because an oncoming train and this train made an unscheduled stop so that I could transfer back to Bristol. The Ticket Inspector must have regretted his abruptness with an old lady because he picked up my case and hurried with it over the bridge and checked that I was alright before rushing back over the bridge to his own train. The new train was packed with university students on their way to Bristol University. There was not an inch of space for my suitcase in the luggage area and no one, but no one, tried to assist me. Finally I asked a very large student occupying two seats and oblivious to the world outside his walkman, to please move over so that I could sit down. A carriage full of uncouth youth. The youth responsible for our future. Oh, I am so lucky to be in my eighties!<br />
<br />
When Tommy had made reservations for us via the Internet to stay at The Kings Arms, he had no idea that this was situated at the end of Point Street, where Tom was born and lived until he left to join the RAF. Nor did he know that this was where his father had drunk his first pint, and the many more that followed it. Trawler men would gather at The Kings Arms to talk about catches and life in general, after spending weeks at sea. The life of a fisherman was extremely hard and the wages meagre, especially if the weather and the catch had been bad and the bonus poor. Before the Japanese and other factory ships plundered the seas, the trawlers would go out for up to three weeks at a time, the men spending eight hours on deck, four hours sleeping, never changing their clothes, with barely time to eat. I used to wonder why Tom’s father sat at the table with his forearms wrapped around his plate of food. Then I realised that it was the habit at sea, to stop the plate from slipping away as the ship rolled. Between trips all the men wanted to do was bathe, drink and sleep with their wives. <br />
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Life for the women was also very hard, there was barely enough money to feed the children and kit them out for school. Fortunately there was always plenty of free fish to eat, in fact at one time there were no fish shops in Milford, and frozen fish was unknown. Wages were much higher during the war, but then so were the risks. Superstition decreed that the wives never washed bed linen, or clothes on the day the men went back to the sea, because it was thought that they were washing all trace of the men away and they might not return.<br />
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It is not surprising that Tom had no idea how to be a domesticated husband and father; he never had a role model to follow. I never knew Tom’s mother, she died shortly after we met, but I am told that she was a very kind, gentle woman but, strangely, Tom never spoke of her. I always had the feeling that he found talking about the family difficult, he and his father were in no way close.<br />
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The row of fishermen’s cottages where Tom was born, and the little corner store, had been demolished some years before, and nothing had been built in the space. It felt strange, standing on the flattened rubble that had once been his home; along the back wall could be seen the remains of the old fireplaces. This was the place to which Tom had brought me as a bride fifty six years ago. Milford Haven was now a depressed area, the once busy fish market had gone, the trawlers had gone and the life had gone out of the docks. There was now little fresh fish available, the housewives had to buy frozen packets in the supermarket. Believe me, it tastes nothing like the fish that came fresh off the trawlers.<br />
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Tom’s cousin, John, had written to me suggesting that Tom’s ashes be scattered around Milford Docks where Tom and his friends had played as boys. This was a lovely idea, but what I did not know was that John had arranged for the pilot of the new Coast Guard launch to take us out to sea. I had hoped to do the “scattering” on the 8th of October, our 56th Wedding Anniversary, but the launch could only take us out on the 6th. Nor did I know that another of Tom’s cousins, Adrian, and his wife would drive all the way from Swansea for the occasion. They had not been to Milford for fifty years, and had to return immediately afterwards, so I was very moved by their presence. Tom’s half brother, Jock and his wife Doreen were not fit enough to board the launch but they were driven to the landing stage where they could see us leave and return. Jock has asked if he might hold the box containing Tom’s ashes so that he could say a quiet prayer over them before we left. He was very sad because he had loved his two younger half brothers dearly and both had now died. To cheer him up I had brought for him a bottle of Glenfiddich malt whisky, Tom’s brand of choice, and I had wrapped this in teddy bear gift wrap with a little card on which I had written “To Jock from Tom. Have a drink and smile”. Meanwhile, Doreen was sitting in the back of the car wondering why Tom ashes were wrapped in teddy bear gift wrap but, knowing how Tom loved teddy bears, thought it was a quirk on my part. Not until Tommy handed her the undertakers unwrapped wooden box did she realise that Jock was saying his prayers over a box of whisky. Tom would have been pleased that Jock had got his priorities right!<br />
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The new launch was state of the art, full of complicated technical equipment - radar, radios,etc - and with comfortable seating above and below for about twenty people, so they were equipped for quite a large rescue operation. The pilot eased her away from the dock and we headed out towards the heads. The sea was choppy and the sky overcast. There were ten passengers, everyone was talking about Tom and the mischief the cousins had got up to in the old days, and what had happened to them all in the years between, and the atmosphere was quite light hearted. The pilot asked me if there was any particular place I wanted to stop and I told him I just wanted somewhere far enough out so that the ashes would not be washed ashore. He manoeuvred the launch into the wind and cut the engines. Someone asked if I would like them to say a prayer, and I said that anyone who wished to say a silent prayer might do so. My own private, unspoken words remained in my head. Someone had brought flowers, carnations and chrysanthemums, and as I shook Tom’s ashes into the sea the flowers were thrown in one by one. It was a quiet sad moment. Jeni had been with me when Tom died and now Tommy had travelled from Germany and was standing beside me. I felt very blessed. No Funeral, No Flowers, No Fuss. Sorry, darling, but this was for us!<br />
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John had said that he would like to have a notice put in the local paper about Tom, and this is what they printed. <br />
“MILFORD MAN’S DYING WISH GRANTED. A Milford Man’s dying wish was fulfilled on Sunday 6th October when his ashes were scattered in Milford harbour. Tom Winter was originally from Hakin, but after joining the RAF during the war, he emigrated to South Africa. He died in South Africa recently but his last wish was for his ashes to be scattered near his childhood home in the harbour. His wife travelled the thousands of miles from South Africa by cargo boat, and his son came from Germany for the ceremony. The family would like to thank the Port Authority for taking the family out on tugs to the heads where the ashes were scattered.” <br />
It was a good story but, once again, never believe what you read in the press. Tom did not emigrate to South Africa after the war; he served in the Air Force for over thirty years. Travelling on a cargo boat, not a container ship, sounds as if I had to work my passage because I could not afford the air fare (perhaps they thought I did a bit of stoking) and as far as his dying wishes were concerned, the ashes could have stayed at the crematorium, or gone into the garden to make compost. But it was a good story.<br />
<br />
Tommy and I stayed on for a further week and it felt quite strange being with him, because sometimes I felt that I was with Tom, although they do not look very much alike. But Tommy is big and very huggable, like Tom was in his younger days. It was a very precious week, full of memories of the holidays we had spent in Milford when we were all young. Jock and Doreen both died shortly afterwards, and so the ties with beautiful Pembrokeshire are now broken.Biddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07790561611449442215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7874847895112533954.post-65522044073802294162010-12-29T18:38:00.001+02:002010-12-29T18:38:01.034+02:0072. Getting lost in Milton KeynesI could write a book just about getting lost. One afternoon in Milton Keynes I decided to go for a little walk around the houses to look for the Post Office which I knew was quite near. I spied a lady walking her dog and asked her if she could direct me there and she said that she was going that way, so I joined her. At the post office we parted company, but not before my new found friend had pointed vaguely towards a short cut home! FATAL! “Go down past that hedge until you come to the main road, and then turn left. I don’t know the way well, but it should take you back to the roundabout where we met”. I wanted to cling on to her pleading “Don’t leave me!” but she was gone.<br />
If you have ever been to Milton Keynes you will know that it comprises hundreds of small ‘villages’ all exactly the same and all running into each other. Between every six or so villages a lake is thrown in with a few ducks. All very pretty if you are driving through in a comfortable car, not so pretty if you are hobbling along on sore feet, and I was wearing sandals, not walking shoes. After an hour or so I saw a man cleaning his car and asked if he could direct me. He looked at his road map, pointed in several directions while making the not very comforting remark that “It’s a long way from here.” A South African man would have said “Hop into the car, I’ll take you.” But this was England and maybe people were suspicious and unwilling to jump into people’s cars.<br />
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I kept on walking while the blisters that had formed under the soles of my feet burst and were squishing around in my sandals. I was lost in a deserted jungle of bricks and tarmac. The sound of cars drew me to the motorway where I could see, in the distance, a large shopping centre and a petrol station. Walking now on tiptoes, I defied death by crossing the motor way at a point where no sane pedestrian would venture, and finally reached the petrol station. A young lady kindly telephoned for a taxi which was supposed to arrive in ten minutes. Ninety per cent of the taxies in Milton Keynes were driven by Asians and, half an hour later; a turbaned, bearded man drove in to pick me up. After the incident in Germany when I got lost in the cemetery, I never go out without some form of identification and the address where I am staying, so I handed the driver a card on which was printed Helen’s address. Surprise, surprise! We were only two streets away! I looked at the clock and saw that I had been walking for almost three hours. <br />
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And then, as promised, I returned to the Cotswolds. The Patient, I now realised, was a serious tippler, starting on the gin at around 10.00 hrs and all things considered, I cannot say that I blamed her. She could also be extremely rude and impatient with the staff, though not with me. My first job was to share out the linen, much of which had been ruined through being starched, folded and ironed flat. Over time this causes the threads on the folded edges to dry out and break, so much of the hand embroidered, fine Irish linen was useless. Not many people know that starched linen should be hand folded, not ironed. Many of the pure wool blankets had provided holiday homes for numerous moths and were also spoiled.<br />
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It took three days to sort and divide the library; The Husband had many rare and valuable books inherited from his first wife; lucky man, to have married two rich women. I helped out in the kitchen, kept The Patient amused and generally made myself useful and kept the butter flowing; plenty was needed because the atmosphere was tense. Unfortunately, one evening The Patient was extremely rude to Maureen in my presence, the rebuke was undeserved and uncalled for and I was very embarrassed. Maureen left the room and I followed as soon as was politely possible. She came to my room later and asked me to make some excuse to leave in the morning, two days before my visit was due to end, so that she could walk out at a minutes notice if she deemed it necessary. So, after breakfast I went into The Patient’s room to say my goodbyes. She apologised for her behaviour the previous night, but I said the apology was due to Maureen not to me. She then asked the nurse to bring a packet she had prepared for me. It was a very large, very expensive bottle of perfume. <br />
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Maureen asked The Husband to replace her as soon as possible, and said that she would be leaving at the end of October, when the move was completed, regardless. He then became kindness itself, told her to write herself a glowing reference, said that she could use the car to attend any interviews if necessary and even paid for her to consult a physiotherapist because lifting the patient had caused a great deal of damage to her back. They must have realised that they had treated her very badly, wrecking both her back and her spirit. I think the final insult was that they replaced her with a black Zimbabwean nurse aid, a lazy lump whom they had previously dismissed for stealing, at a higher salary than Maureen had been receiving! There just isn’t any justice.<br />
<br />
Maureen stayed with the Patient until they had moved house before sending an S.O.S.. Helen had just returned from a business trip to Spain, and had driven from Heathrow to Milton Keynes, when the call came, but she got back into her car and drove out to rescue Maureen and all her belongings, including a new mattress. A large car can be very useful sometimes! I cannot remember how long Maureen stayed with Helen, but I think it was well over a year before she found her own place.Biddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07790561611449442215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7874847895112533954.post-58189950726223329122010-12-28T18:34:00.001+02:002010-12-28T21:27:35.731+02:0071. ScotlandDo you remember my writing about Denis Read, the man Tom enlisted with at Lords Cricket Ground in 1942? They were being trained as Air Crew in Canada during the war and I think a good time was had by all there. Stories of unlimited ice cream and apple juice, girls and beer, never told to me by Tom, were later related by Denis. After the war they had served together in the Provost Branch, both eventually becoming Commissioned Officers. Denis had a beautiful speaking voice and used to give the commentary for the RAF Police Dog Display at the Annual Royal Tattoos at Earls Court. After Tom died, Denis was very solicitous with his telephone calls from Scotland and when I told him that I would be in England he invited me to stay with him for a few days.<br />
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Denis had been widowed twice, both wives dying of cancer. I had accepted the invitation with slight trepidation because we had not met in fifteen years and I wondered what we would have in common and what we would talk about. I had joked that we might not recognise each other and that he had better wear a yellow rose and carry a copy of the Times. The plane landed at Edinburgh Airport and there he was, complete with yellow rose and a copy of the Times held rather pointedly in front of him, like a courier with a board. I would have known him anywhere. I was the one who needed the label! We laughed as we greeted each other with a slight hug that was just once removed from a handshake. He was shorter than I remembered but the smile and the voice were unchanged.<br />
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Broughton on Bigger, where Denis lived, was a great deal further from the airport than he had led me to believe and we drove past miles and miles of magnificent scenery. Hundreds of sheep - some dyed with vivid red, yellow and blue - grazed lazily in the fields. This was colour coding with a vengeance, and the sheep were visible even against the hills which were covered in bright, purple heather. Unfortunately, the heather was too far away to pick even a small bunch, but the sun shone down to bless us all. This was John Buchan country where his mother was born and where he spent much of his life. We later visited a church in a village near where Denis lived which had been converted into a centre devoted to John Buchan, the man who became Lord Tweedsmere, Governor of Canada. Many photographs were displayed there, certificates, testimonials, medals and books. He was far more than just the author of “The Forty Nine Steps”. <br />
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Denis was a charming host and his bungalow, set at the bottom of a steep slope, was cosy. I worried about the dangers of that slope in winter, when the path to the front door would be covered in ice. The bathroom was functional with something I envied, a heat controlled geyser which served the shower. I was reminded of the lovely reply made by a very attractive elderly widow when asked why she had never remarried. “My, dear” she replied, “There have been many men with whom I would be happy to share my bed, but never my bathroom!” I agree. Bathrooms and kitchens should never be shared, unless the man is holding a drying up cloth.<br />
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That evening Denis took me to a delightful restaurant where the ceiling was supported by 17th Century smoke blackened wooden beams. “The Bakery”, as it was called, was heavy with history and atmosphere which was reflected in the menu. Rabbit was available. Now I had three memories of rabbit, other than Beatrix Potter’s endearing little creatures; the first memory was of the huge, Australian rabbits I used to buy in Egypt, the second of the night before our wedding when Tom and I went rabbit shooting with the Wing Commander and the third, not quite so funny, was the time when the wife of a farm labourer I knew came to the house in Netheravon and handed me a present. It was a very dead rabbit, complete with head and ears and eyes, and it had not occurred to her that I would be unable to skin the animal. But, money was short and this was food, and I amazed myself by skinning it, mostly with my eyes closed, and making a very fine stew. Even after that gory experience, I still enjoyed rabbit; much preferred the texture to that of chicken. I cannot understand why rabbit is so expensive when it is so easy to grow. <br />
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The following day, Denis drove us to a very unusual theatre in Pitlochry, a two hundred mile round trip away, and a journey only an ardent thespian and generous host would tackle. The theatre is not located in a town but in beautiful park-like grounds with a river running through it where, in the season, salmon swim upstream to spawn and die. There was a salmon catching farm there and we watched the salmon swimming through the running water. Considering we were in Scotland, the weather was perfect. Unfortunately the only matinee programme being performed during my short stay was an Agatha Christie play “The Hollow”, which was entertaining but not memorable. After the show we walked along the river looking for leaping fish bravely trying to swim upstream, but did not see any. We went back to the theatre tea room which was empty by now apart from one lone actor. I thanked him for an enjoyable performance, actors like that, and we got talking. When he learned that I came from South Africa he asked me if I knew Sandra Prinsloo. Well I had seen her on the small screen, she was a fine actress, but I did not know her personally. He said that she had worked with the company while she was visiting her mother in Scotland, and he thought she would not be returning to South Africa. Certainly, I have not seen her on our television screens since that time<br />
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Broughton was a tiny village which one could drive through in thirty seconds at thirty miles an hour. The Post Office opened for a couple of hours in the morning, and doubled as the petrol station. The gardens were full of birds and the air was so clear and clean one could actually smell it. The most striking feature in the village was “Tom’s Garden”, where the owner spends almost all the daylight hours. I would guess it covers about four acres. The first thing we saw from the garden picket fence was the huge flower clock, actually set at the correct time. Standing on a tree stump by the little gate was a tin charity collection box into which visitors were invited to drop a donation. Behind a dusty window, in front of a dirty net curtain, hung a piece of cardboard on which was written the amount of money that had been collected over the years, and the charities to which it had been given. The unchained collecting box was an indication of the character of the village, and the villagers. When the horticulturists from Kirstenbosch Gardens in Cape Town were visiting the Chelsea Flower show, they made a special journey to Scotland to see Tom’s Garden. Tom also grew vegetables and I was delighted when he asked the old lady who was with us, “Aye, Dorothy, would you no like to pick a wee boiling of beans?” <br />
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In the evenings Denis and I sat by the fire, talking about old times, old plays, old RAF Police buddies and his favourite topics, his much loved first wife and his adored little dog who had died recently, and about whom Denis was compiling an album of his life in pictures. Some times Denis just dozed. Towards the end of the visit Denis suggested that, should I ever decide to return to live in England, we might consider sharing a house; strictly platonic of course, and for one moment I thought it might be a good idea, but the moment passed! On Saturday we bade each other a fond farewell after promising that I would return the following year. I was very sad to leave Scotland, the peace, beauty and tranquillity of the land and the people had cleansed my soul and lightened my heart. The departure of the plane was delayed for an hour, so I consoled myself with the biggest double scoop of the most heavenly chocolate ice cream that I have ever tasted, and all was right with the world again.Biddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07790561611449442215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7874847895112533954.post-31480758195639034162010-12-24T09:40:00.001+02:002010-12-24T09:40:00.757+02:0070 The CotswoldsAs we drove home I looked at my little Helen-Melon, my blued-eyed, fair-haired, baby girl and wondered how, barely thirty, she had become this beautiful, sophisticated, successful young woman holding an executive position with Daimler Chrysler!<br />
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I spent two days with her before she drove me over to the Cotswolds to stay with my sister, Maureen. It was a four hour round trip, which I thought was pretty valiant of Helen after a hard days work. And what was Maureen doing in the Cotswolds? Well, I must explain at this point that after George, Maureen’s second husband, had died in Stellenbosch, she had moved from South Africa to the U.K. to work as a carer or companion. She found employment as a housekeeper, secretary, companion and chauffer to a very wealthy woman, hereinafter called The Patient, who lived in the Cotswolds. Also employed in the house was a cook, a one day a week cleaner (totally inadequate), a part time gardener, a doggie walker and a fulltime, live-in nurse. So, properly run and with everyone doing their work conscientiously, it should have been a very nice post. The house was a beautiful 17th century mansion in a village in the Cotswold, set in massive grounds with a tennis court and overlooking farm land as far as the eye could see. There were at least eight bedrooms, servants’ quarters and goodness knows how many other rooms. The property was larger than that of the Marquis of Reading. The problem was that the day after Maureen moved in, The Husband moved out to go and live with his girlfriend in an adjoining village. So, now there was no-one at the top and, as the new girl in the house, Maureen could not start issuing orders.<br />
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On hearing that Maureen’s sister was visiting from South Africa, The Patient had very kindly invited me to stay with them. My guest bedroom had a magnificent view and a huge en-suite bathroom. The Emperor size bed was fitted with hand embroidered pure Irish linen sheets and virgin wool blankets, covered overall with a silk eiderdown. There were priceless ornaments and pictures everywhere. For the first two mornings Maureen brought me a cup of tea, followed by a breakfast tray laid with the very best china. This could not be allowed to continue because Maureen was working very long hours and looked utterly exhausted.<br />
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It was clear that Maureen had been “conned”, or mislead to say the least, because she neither worked the hours agreed, nor did she perform only the duties specified. Sometimes she would be the only person on duty and had to attend to all The Patient’s needs, including lifting this very large, dead weight woman on and off the commode. I noticed that the commode would always be required as soon as the cook, a strapping healthy country woman, had gone off duty. The live-in nurse worked from 9.00 a.m. to 5.00 p.m., was allowed two days off per week and any other time she could sneak out to join her friends in the local. Maureen worked from 7.00 a.m. (letting the dogs out) until The Patient went to bed after 9.00 p.m. When The Patient visited friends for lunch, Maureen had to push her to the car in a wheelchair, get her on board, fold up and lift the wheelchair into the boot, and repeat the procedure three more times. Sometimes she would be offered a sandwich in the hostess’s kitchen while she waited for the lunch party and the game of bridge to finish.<br />
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Maureen did not know that the house had already been sold, to a very famous person – my lips are sealed – and another property had been purchased for The Patient to live in, also in the Cotswolds. Moving would be a mammoth task. The Husband would want everything he could get, household stuff would have to be divided, pictures and valuable furniture would be auctioned, while The Patient sat immobile in her chair. In spite of all this, I was made to feel very welcome and I spent a great deal of time talking to her and she seemed to enjoy my company. I helped sort out and pack some of her books ready for the move, but there would still be the massive library for me to deal with when I returned, for I had promised to do so after a visit I had planned to Scotland.<br />
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The Husband was most extraordinary. Mr. Charming, in artificial chunks, and the cook and cleaner positively swooned when he was around. Although he had officially moved out, he still called almost daily, sometimes eating lunch with The Patient and buying her cheap bottles of wine, while taking the best from the cellar away with him. One lunchtime The Patient fancied a particular vintage wine, so Maureen was told where to find this bottle, and was then instructed to soak the label off the bottle so that it would not be seen in the refrigerator. Considering the money in the family belonged to The Patient and the wine was paid for by her, this subterfuge seemed silly. The Husband would often bring friends to play tennis and would tell Maureen that there was to be no washing on the line when they arrived! The washing line was about half a mile away from the tennis court!<br />
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We went to see the house into which they would be moving in October. It was awful. Instead of the magnificent views The Patient had enjoyed for years, her new living room and bedroom overlooked a wooden fence. The small, long garden could not be seen from the house, the windows were small, the house dark and there was hardly any wardrobe space. The Patient had cupboards and drawers full of clothes, some even from the time when she was presented at court, and Italian handbags and shoes by the dozen. Just before the move a skip was delivered and all those beautiful things were dumped. How I wished I could wear size 4 shoes. The room alloted to Maureen was miserable. The house was a series of converted cow sheds with no architectural design or character whatever, one can convert anything in the Cotswolds and it will sell for millions. The single garage was situated some way from the house, and the driveways were covered in gravel, over which it would be very difficult to push a wheelchair containing a very heavy weight. An added irritation was the fact that The Patient wanted to keep the cook, who lived at least a half hour drive away, and Maureen would be expected to collect and return her six days a week, including her own day off, an extra two hours driving a day, winter and summer, down country roads. The work load was getting heavier all the time. Not only was Maureen doing the shopping, banking, driving, packing and cooking on cook’s days off, she was doing administrative work for the household as well.<br />
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Probably because much of the furniture, paintings etc., were going to be auctioned at Christies, The Patient wanted to check her jewellery against the insurers’ inventory. There was a large folder containing coloured pictures of all the valuables in the house, including the jewellery, so Maureen brought the jewels down from the safe to be checked. The diamonds, and there were many of them, did not sparkle at all, probably because they had not been worn for years and needed cleaning. There were brooches, ear rings, bracelets and pendants like I have never seen, not even in a jeweller’s window, and the Insurance value was astronomical. It seemed to me there were pieces missing; we could not match everything up with the catalogue. After about an hour, The Patient became tired of playing diamonds so we packed them all away in the safe. There was not one piece I coveted. I considered myself to be richer by far that this sick, rich, abandoned woman who had little control over her life or happiness in it.<br />
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It requires a certain kind of attitude to work for people of The Patient’s social standing and wealth. While not being over familiar, one must accept they are paying the piper and, although The Patient insisted that we be on first name terms, I was on my best behaviour. I can wear many hats, perhaps that was due to my acting experience. Maureen, on the other hand, is quite incapable of insincerity and finds it very difficult to show respect for people she dislikes. She disliked The Patient and The Husband, with good reason. The staff took advantage of The Patient, lazing around and eating any delicacies that friends brought her. I would have thought that cleaning out the deep freeze was the responsibility of the cook but, when I found I could barely open the door, I decided to defrost it. I was reminded of the deep freeze at the B & B in Hampstead. Almost everything had to be thrown away, including a whole fresh salmon. I cannot imagine how that place got cleared out prior to the move. Given three strong workers, and the authority, Maureen and I could have done it, but they must have left a load of rubbish behind. I would like to ask Maureen about the move, but she has closed the door on that part of her life and does not want to talk about it.<br />
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After four days in the Cotswolds, I said goodbye to the Patient with the promise that I would return after my trip to Scotland. Helen collected me and drove me to Luton Airport, from whence I would fly to Edinburgh. Why to Edinburgh? Read on.Biddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07790561611449442215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7874847895112533954.post-76918426697571364932010-12-23T09:35:00.002+02:002010-12-23T09:35:00.104+02:0069. The Container ShipHelen was to be married in England in August and I wanted to attend the nuptials. Several people said to me “You should travel on a container ship, we did and it was such fun. Blah blah blah”. My previous voyages on ocean liners had been dismal experiences, but I was prepared to give sea travel another go. I was fed up with flying cattle steerage on British and South African Airways. The Royal Society for the Protection of Cruelty to Animals would not allow a pig to travel in as little space the airlines allow their passengers. I booked a passage on the SS Winterberg, hoping that the name was a good omen, Winter being my surname. I did not take much luggage since I would be returning by air. <br />
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The driver who collected me from my house had not done his homework and had no idea where the docks were located. He first drove us to the Victoria and Alfred (yes, Alfred not Albert) Waterfront which we circumnavigated several times, stopping frequently to ask anyone who looked remotely intelligent, where the Winterberg was moored. For those of you who not familiar with Cape Town, The Victoria and Alfred is a pleasure / tourist area from whence, on a fine day, one can take a trip out to Robben Island, where Nelson Mandela and other members of the ANC were imprisoned for many years. This unhappy island was, in the past, used to isolate people, criminals and lepers. Now the prison has become a museum and, apart from curators, the only inhabitants are approximately 25 000 rabbits. Perhaps it should be renamed “Bunny Island” <br />
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Eventually I suggested that it might easier to locate the docks, rather than a specific vessel, which, it turned out, were miles away near Cape Town’s industrial area. My instructions were to be at the dock security boom by 1500 hrs. where I would be met by the shipping company’s representative. It was 1530 hrs. with no representative in sight and I was afraid the ship might have sailed without me. Silly me! Ships do not run on time like buses or trains, they sail at the whim of the tide and, as it happened, the ship did not leave until lunch time the following day. My driver was only too happy to offload me at the boom, leaving the guard and me alone on the deserted docks. The guard waved his arms in the air and a minibus appeared, carrying six passengers and little room for me and my luggage but, with much passing of luggage over heads and shuffling around, we all squeezed in and were whisked across the docks to the ship. The other people on the bus were not fellow passengers but the mother and relatives of one of the Winterberg crew members on a visit.<br />
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As there was still nobody around to greet me I left my suitcase, looking small and vulnerable, beside the ships hulk and followed the family up the gangway and into the engine room. The memories of our flight from Egypt that filled my head did not bode well for the trip. Three tin-hatted men, wearing oily overalls, regarded me curiously, and one of them escorted me through the deafeningly noisy engine room into a very uninviting lift, and showed me which button to press. I hoped my luggage would be safe and that the nice mother would find her son. Stepping out of the lift I looked around for signs of life but everywhere was deserted. It was like being on a ghost ship. Then a tall very good looking coloured man appeared, great big wraparound smile exposing perfect teeth, and extended a large fist while saying “I am the Purser. Call me Stan.” My luggage also appeared and then Stan ushered me through several doors and up several flights of stairs until we reached my cabin where he demonstrated, in great detail, the way to work the electric kettle. I told him that I was electric kettle literate, but he looked doubtful.<br />
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The cabin was spacious, two single beds, settee, table, desk, chair, wardrobes, chest of drawers, and a video player which was to be my main companion. A small bar fridge contained a carton of fresh milk and on the table were a bowl of fruit, tea, coffee and a box of biscuits. Ever tried opening a carton of milk with a tea spoon? Thank goodness I had remembered my little Swiss knife set. <br />
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Tentatively I opened the cabin door, and peered down the corridor like a burglar casing the joint, and noted that outside the other cabin doors shoes stood in pairs, unfilled. The two pairs at the door next to mine were of the small variety. From the little brochure on the desk I saw that dinner would not be served until 1900 hrs, and so I made a cup of tea and devoured the top layer of biscuits. After unpacking, I ventured out on deck. Everywhere was deserted. The swimming pool, a square uninviting tank, had a large notice displayed informing passengers that swimming was not allowed at night and passengers must not swim alone. Since I only swim in the dark, and definitely alone, I could repack my swimming costume. Ah! I saw two humans who introduced themselves as Bernard and Valerie Manners, Yorkshire folk now living in Spain. Bernard had previously worked in Port Elizabeth for ten years, and they had boarded the ship in Port Elizabeth after visiting old friends. They told me that other passengers had boarded earlier on the run and had gone ashore to explore the Mother City.<br />
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The view from the top deck was stunning and there, after a forewarning scream or two, I met five more passengers, Gary and Katie Thomas and their three sons, Russell aged 13, Martin aged 6 and five year old Steven. They were all highly intelligent but Steven had a terrible temper and screamed a lot; just the type of kid I’d like to be alone with for twenty four hours!<br />
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Katie and Gary came from Surrey, she made curtains for a living and he was a tiler by trade, although he looked more like a Grammar School teacher. Every year they took the children on an educational holiday. They had been together for twenty years, since they were teenagers, but have never got round to getting married, echoes of “The Darling Buds of May”, they appeared to be good parents and I liked them a lot.<br />
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At dinner I met the last of the passengers, Lynda and Guy who lived in Mexico. He was a big, loud mega rich Texan and Lynda was only fifty but looked sixty; I blamed that on the Texas sunshine, cigarettes and booze. They also were not married, at least not to each other. The Captain and ships officers did not dine with the passengers when the ship was in dock and they were all working. <br />
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Russell behaved well at table although he looked thoroughly miserable, which may be due to the fact that he was left in charge of his two small brothers a lot, was now bored with the cruise and wanted to get back home to his mates. The TWO attacked their food savagely, stabbing the dinner rolls to death with toothpicks and growling over the meal like two starving dogs. I was amazed at how much mess two small boys could make without actually eating anything. I prayed that once we were at sea and the Captain joined us at table, the children would dine early and alone! The food was good.<br />
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Sitting at the bar after dinner, while the TWO raced around the lounge, leaping on and off the furniture, I struck up a conversation with the Texan and Lynda. She talked a bit about “Karma” and “Out of Body Experiences” so I thought we might have some interesting areas of discussion. Lynda told me that I would meet a very nice man, much younger than I. and that I must not push him away because of the difference in our ages but to go for it! Lynda, I am still waiting! Amazing how much clairvoyance can be found at the bottom of a bottle of vodka.<br />
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Alone on the top deck I watched in amazement the incredible organisation and coordination required to unload and load a ship. The loading must obviously coordinate with the unloading. It was all fascinating but it had been a long day so I retired to bed. We were due to sail at about midnight and I wanted to watch the ship leaving port, so I was up and down all night looking out of the porthole. Nothing moved. We eventually departed the following day and I missed the departure because we were all at lunch and did not feel the ship move. <br />
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Breakfast was the usual gastronomic battle field. The TWO liked an excessive amount of sugar with their cereal which worked out at a ratio of 50% sugar in the cereal bowl and 50% on the table cloth. They pointed slices of crispy bacon at each other while shouting “bang, bang”. I noted that their end of the table had been covered with a plastic cloth, no doubt at the request of the sailors in charge of the laundry. Katie and Barry missed breakfast and poor Russell was again in charge, but he had no disciplinary skills.<br />
We were warned that there would be lifeboat drill at 11.00 hrs. and that we must be in our cabins at that time. Stan came and showed me how to put on my life jacket, and as my cabin accommodated two passengers and there was only one lifejacket I wondered if they worked on a 50% survivor rate. I had already inspected the lifeboats and been surprised to see how few passengers they would hold. The boats seemed quite small; the benches had round circles painted on them with numbers on each seat. I stopped eating immediately, fat people would definitely be thrown overboard and two of the numbered spaces at each end were only large enough to take amputees, supposing they could climb the ladder to get into the boat that is. <br />
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We all trooped up on deck and, to add a little realism to the exercise, I had grabbed my blanket shawl and put the seven pieces of fruit from my fruit bowl into a plastic bag, and we waited for ages until we were allocated our places. One of the officers asked if I had any valuables in the plastic bag; I told him that I had my priorities right and that the bag contained food. Then the crew emerged from the boiler room, one VERY fat black man (he would go overboard for a start) and a very pretty, slim blonde girl who would obviously be saved. There were now about forty people present and I made a mental note to bring my Swiss knife with me next time because the fruit would need to be cut into very small pieces.<br />
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Stan, the purser, who seemed to think that this old Granny was his personal responsibility, asked the little blonde who was on the bridge? She told him that it was the Captain. Well, it would be, wouldn’t it? Isn’t he supposed to go down with the ship? Then Stan asked me what I had in the bag. I showed him. He looked at me in surprise and said “We aren’t actually going, you know”. I swear I heard Tom saying “funny woman!’ one of his favourite sayings - not funny-haha, funny-weird. We were dismissed without ever putting a foot into a boat.<br />
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Passengers were requested to remove their shoes before entering the cabins; this was to protect the cabin carpeting from the oil picked up on deck and carried below on the soles of their shoes. So that explained all the pairs of shoes I had seen outside the cabin doors in the corridor. At the time I had thought it unlikely that little boys would put their tackies out to be polished! It was something of a balancing act, trying to undo laces and remove shoes on a rocking ship. Sitting down to do it was easier, but getting up again proved to be something of a challenge.<br />
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Quinton was our cabin steward and barman and also helped out in the dining room. He was the happiest young man I have ever met, his bright blue eyes were always smiling and it was a joy to see him. The other dining room stewards were Clint and Edward, one fat, one thin, and there were two cooks and a galley hand who cooked for the passengers and crew. During a tour of the gleaming stainless steel kitchens I learned that the crew ate the same fare as the passengers and when I complimented them all on the cleanliness of the kitchen the chief cook said “It is more than my life is worth to have a case of food poisoning on board”, so I felt nice and safe. Puddings were not exciting, but the cheeses were lovely and, on the nights that the Captain dined with us, a magnificent stilton was served, so ripe it had to be restrained.<br />
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For my friends who thought that this would be a romantic cruise, I can assure you that Cupid was no sailor, and so I stopped wearing make-up and just became everyone’s granny, including the Captain’s.<br />
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Sometimes I walked around the lower deck, four times round was a mile, but one could not take a brisk walk because there were obstacles everywhere. Steel and electrical cables and iron hoists had to be stepped over carefully. The noise was awful because, apart from the engine and generators, one was walking under the overhang of part of the tower stack of containers. Things creaked! Some of the empty containers must have had large metal balls in them, because as the ship rolled so did the balls, from one side of the container to the other. The ship was a mass of creaking, grinding, throbbing noise and I was pleased to reach the end – sorry, the bow. Here, away from the containers I was standing, arms outstretched, doing my Kate Winslet Titanic impression, when I heard a voice yell, “Wet Paint” I leapt on to the nearest capstan and saw that I was marooned in the middle of a sea of green paint. How was I to know? There were no signs around saying “Wet Paint”. I tip toed across the only unpainted strip and remembered my mother saying “Wherever you go dear, you will always leave your mark.” I don’t think she meant across the deck of the Winterberg! Back in my cabin I noticed that cups and saucers had slid off the table onto the floor and that the cupboard doors and drawers had swung open. One loose drawer opened and closed with the roll of the ship and the curtain across the shower door traversed its runner at the same rate. Quite fascinating.<br />
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Heavy rain kept everyone inside for two days, followed by extremely cold and windy weather. There were plenty of videos and books in the library and everyone seemed to be shut in their cabins viewing or reading. In the library I found a corset ripping, historical romance written by the daughter of the widow Mary from MacDonald Gardens. I looked at the photograph of the author and thought, “It was your mother who, indirectly, is responsible for me being where I am today!” There were enough tables and chairs in the lounge to seat at least sixteen, and other tables where passengers could make jig saw puzzles, or play board games but, apart from meal times and sundowners, the place was always deserted. It is my loss that I do not enjoy sitting at a bar at night after dinner, but alcohol does not agree with me and I am uncomfortable in a room full of people. I felt well and truly “widowed” and not very merry about it. <br />
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The day we docked at Las Palmas for a few hours, I went ashore urgently to buy a pair of eyebrow tweezers because mine had been left at home. I am a strange person, I can carry around twenty pounds of surplus body weight without caring too much, but a hair on my upper lip drives me insane. Do I hear “funny woman” again? Also I needed to cash some traveller’s cheques so that I could hand out gratuities at the end of the voyage, so I disembarked. The Bank was beautiful, not a security guard in sight, no security doors and everyone looked so civilised, in a Spanish sort of way. I wandered round the streets for a while and then found quite by chance, because the building had only one entrance and no windows, the most incredible department store. The ground floor, easily the size of an aircraft hanger, was devoted entirely to jewellery, watches and cosmetics, all lit so extravagantly that one was almost blinded. There were seven floors in all, kitchenware, electrical equipment and toys, everything one could think of. I finally located a pair of modest eyebrow tweezers, some chocolate and a banana split. I sat in the tearoom playing “spot the Brit”. Incredible how easy it was. I watched two women and would swear, even though I could not hear them speak, that they were from Yorkshire.<br />
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Back in the street, taxis were plentiful and, within two minutes of holding my arm up, a taxi stopped. The Purser had given each of us a slip of paper with something written on it in Spanish which we were told to hand to any taxi driver we might hail. I trusted that the card informed the driver where the ship was docked and did not instruct him to take me to the nearest house of ill repute. The man drove like maniac, they all did, and driving on the right hand side of the road made it seem worse. We arrived back in the harbour and I rushed to my cabin and began a plucking session.<br />
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Our next stop was Le Havre, a small, quiet dock with very little traffic. A bus came alongside from the duty free shop but I did not board it as I had enough luggage to worry about. We left Le Havre and reached Rotterdam the following day. And I think Rotterdam was the highlight of the trip for me. We had docked in the early hours of the morning and the cranes were already working when I awoke. From the top deck everything going on at ground level looked totally chaotic, but after I had studied the comings and goings for a while I realised how incredibly organised and interlocked it all was. The whole process of unloading and loading was so skilfully done that I could only explain it with sketches and demonstrations. Gary said he was disappointed to miss the docking and would like to see the departure, which was scheduled for about twelve o’clock. I said I would keep watch and call him when the tugs arrived to tow us away. I spent the entire night, hypnotised by the organisation of it all. Every four hours the dock shut down, all the cranes and ‘horses’ parked along the fence surrounding the loading area and everyone went off. The first time it happened I thought a lightening strike had been called, but it was only for a twenty minute break. It was then I realised that all the transport and equipment was controlled by human beings, before it looked as if the whole place was run by robots.<br />
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By 0500 hrs it was obvious that the ship was not ready to depart and so I went below to get some sleep. We finally left at midday. Sailing out of Rotterdam was a great experience; it took two hours to reach the open sea. We sailed past hundreds of dreary acres of plastic tunnels inside which tomatoes, cucumbers and maybe strawberries grew. We reached Tilbury the following night and I disembarked at 0930 hrs next morning with many hugs from Stan and lots of waves from the crew, they had done us proud! Farewells to the other passengers were friendly and polite, with no promises to write. There had been nobody there that I would wish to meet again.<br />
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A taxi took me to the Seamen’s Mission which, contrary to the name, was quite a grand place, and there I awaited the arrival of my granddaughter, Helen. Tilbury is a long way from Milton Keynes where Helen lived, worked and had been attending meetings all morning. She looked absolutely ravishing and was driving a huge Chrysler Voyager which seated seven comfortably, and my luggage was lost in the boot. The drive home was luxurious indeed. Helen first surprised me with the news that the wedding was off. The whole relationship was off! My journey had not been necessary after all! Of course I <em>had</em> brought that small wooden box, with its precious contents - Tom's ashes - destined for Milford Haven, with me.Biddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07790561611449442215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7874847895112533954.post-31889178697850311432010-12-22T20:30:00.001+02:002010-12-22T20:34:50.395+02:0068. Goodbye my loveAt five o’clock on the afternoon of 21st August 2001 Tom was obviously in great pain and in some distress. An Angel appeared from Hospice, I cannot remember who called her, and she attached a morphine patch to Tom’s chest. He got back into bed, closed his eyes, never to open them again. But he talked a lot, mostly about the Royal Air Force, and kept moving his hands in a restless manner. I wondered if I might hear some loving words of farewell. “I love you darling” or maybe “Thank you for looking after me so well” something like I had seen in the movies. But no! <br />
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Tom hoarded things. He never threw anything away, not a piece of string nor a piece of paper. His desk would be covered with newspapers and the only time I could get any of them cleared would be when Sister Lynn was coming to bathe him, and I would shame him into reducing the stack. So I should not have been surprised when his last words to me were “No, Biddy!” “No what, darling?” I asked him. “No, that is this week’s Sunday Times!” To the very end he was protecting his newspaper.<br />
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Jeni was there when, at midnight, Tom’s heart sounded its last beat. I cannot describe the relief I felt as all the years of pain died with him. I wept, but realised that right now there were things to be done. Jeni went to make the necessary phone calls, Maureen drove over from Stellenbosch. Sister White arrived and, with the help of another nurse, bathed him. Then I helped them dress him in his favourite pyjamas made of a teddy imprinted warm fabric that Helen had given him for Christmas. His feet were very cold so I covered them with a pair of warm woollen bed socks that Maureen had knitted for him and, because he always had a handkerchief in his jacket pocket, I tucked into his pocket a handkerchief with a teddy bear embroidered on the corner that Juliea had given him. Tom loved teddy bears and had a large collection, ranging from a big Harrods Millennium Bear down to two tiny bears dressed as a doctor and a nurse. The undertakers would soon arrive and the nurse said she thought it would be better for me to go and sit in the lounge and not see the departure. So I kissed him farewell, wished him a safe journey and, sitting on the settee holding Jeni’s hand, listened to Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto so that we would not hear the “noises off”. Maureen would not leave Tom; she had loved him very much, and awaited the arrival of “the wagon”. How blessed I was to have been able to care for him to the very end and that he was not alone with strangers. <br />
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Long before Tom died he had written down everything I would need to do after his death, who had to be notified, addresses, etc., etc., which, in the event was most helpful. On one page in this book, in large letters, was written “NO FUNERAL, NO FLOWERS, NO FUSS.” And that was the nature of the man; he never wanted to be a bother to anyone and was acutely embarrassed by displays of emotion <br />
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The following day Juliea joined us, so there were four women who loved him dearly, laughing about the things he would do and say, turning out the drawers of his desk, reading some of his funny poems and remembering him with so much love. No Funeral, No Flowers, No Fuss. People thought it strange that there was no funeral, not even a memorial service, but none of the friends who really knew him could be there so there was no point. My greatest hope was that, like a poem he once wrote, he was up there with his old mates enjoying a draft or two.<br />
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Later my dear friend, Jenny, painted a lovely portrait of Tom’s three favourite teddy bears, having a Teddy Bears’ Picnic and that is his tombstone. It is not something to lay flowers on once a year in a cold, windy cemetery, I see it every day, and it makes me smile. The picture will eventually go to Travis, the little great grandson he never saw. <br />
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People think I am quite awful, grieving widows in particular, when I say that every good wife deserves a few years of widowhood! But, I was only seventy five when Tom died, and the women in my family tend to live to a great age, most almost reaching a century, so I had better get a life.<br />
<br />
I sold the flat at Cap D'or, it was much too big for me, and bought a cosy two bedroom unit at Somerset Oaks where the people were very friendly, and there was a nice social club. The new flat needed gutting and refitting, and so while all that was being taken care of I went on holiday.Biddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07790561611449442215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7874847895112533954.post-26578264224302040262010-12-20T11:58:00.000+02:002010-12-20T11:58:16.999+02:0067. Mother moves out.We had been living in the house facing the petrol station for about a year, when mother announced that she was moving into a block of one roomed flats designed for the elderly. Her reason being, that if she moved out we would be free to do whatever we wanted to do, without having to consider her. We could sell the big house and buy something smaller. There were resident nurses in the flats, a dining room and a bus that took the old folk into town to do their shopping. So she moved into Vonke House where she was lonely and isolated because the majority of residents were Afrikaans speaking and rather reserved. Mother, on the other hand, was full of life, very friendly and loved by all who knew her, but for some reason she did not fit in. In fact, one of the people in the dining room complained that she laughed too much! She was smart and pretty and would never admit to her age. In fact Juliea and I were visiting mother; we were in the lift when it was necessary for her to introduce us to someone. She quickly introduced me as her daughter and Jules as her granddaughter, not wanted anyone to think that she was old enough to be this young woman’s Great Grandmother!<br />
<br />
Yes, we did decide to move again, at least I did. We did not need a house with a granny flat and the property was not very secure, from a burglar point of view. I found a beautiful top floor flat in Cap ‘Dor a luxurious block with an elevator and wonderful views. There was a very large master bedroom, with an en suite bathroom; the bedroom was big enough to take an executive size desk for Tom and his television, and it had a lovely view. In fact it was that room which persuaded me to buy the property. Except for George Avenue, the flat was superior to anything we had lived in before, and Tom’s room was so different from his dark, cold little room in MacDonald Gardens where I am sure he would not have survived another winter. In fact, his health improved so much that he served as Chairman of Trustees on the Body Corporate for some time. Mother often spent the weekend with us and we had plenty of visitors; I was involved with a couple of Committees and Clubs and life was pretty good.<br />
<br />
There were some interesting people living in the building, those living in the pent house units were very wealthy, but one man in particular caused both amusement and concern. I will call him Charles. He was a large man, in every way. At eighty his passion and sex drive would have made a rabbit blush. His collection of limited edition, French books of erotica were extremely valuable, if not to my taste. He was attracted to me, and used to buy me gifts, which was somewhat embarrassing. He had lived in France for a while and, after a visit there, brought me back a very expensive gold chain necklace from Monte Carlo which I was loath to accept. But he had a temper and once when I refused a box of chocolates, he threw the box across the room! I did not want the necklace to go that route. He and Tom were on friendly terms and, as Tom never went out, he had no objections to Charles escorting me to the theatre, or even out to lunch. Unfortunately Charles thought that, because Tom had been ill for so many years, I would be grateful to have a relationship with him. But he was so wrong! He was a highly educated and intelligent man and I enjoyed talking to him, but that was all. <br />
<br />
I once visited Charles in hospital where he was wired up to machines, had a catheter inserted and a saline drip in place. I bent over to kiss him on the forehead and he tried to pull me into bed with him. I was laughing so much as I left the ward that people stared at me. Another time he came to my front door wearing bright red lipstick, obviously expecting some sort of reaction, so I told him the colour did not suit him. Later I found the tester lipstick, which he must have stolen from a cosmetic counter, on his dining room table. This man had been a brilliant engineer who had constructed the sewerage tunnel that ran right under Johannesburg and had been decorated for work done for UNESCO. Sadly, he was a very heavy drinker and there would often be three or four glasses of wine standing around the flat so that there was always one to hand. <br />
<br />
The worst episode happened late one night when Charles phoned me, asking for help because some demons were after him. Tom was not happy about my going to the flat alone, he was unable to move far, and I said I could handle the situation. I knocked on the front door which Charles opened wearing only a short vest and brandishing a very dangerous African weapon that looked like a cross between a saber and a hatchet. He was probably having a fit of the DTs. He said he had got out of bed to answer the telephone in the living room and that these “creatures” were all along the hallway floor and he could not get back to his bedroom. I said I did not think the hatchet would be much protection against devils and demons, but I pretended to shoo them out of the way, helped him back into bed, made him a cup of tea and left him, taking the hatchet with me. Next morning he could remember nothing about it.<br />
<br />
Then I thought I had upset him because he said he did not want to see me, and kept himself hidden away for a couple of weeks, saying he was unwell. When I did finally see him his face looked like something hanging in a butchers shop. He had undergone surgery for a complete face lift because he was going on a cruise - supposedly to find a wife! The surgeon who performed the operation should have been struck off for allowing this vulnerable old man to undergo such drastic surgery. His face recovered fairly well and shortly afterwards he entered into a short lived, disastrous marriage; -------- but that is a story in itself. He changed from a generous, good looking lady-killer into a pathetic, lonely old man who died about a year later. His two lovely daughters were very concerned and loyal but I don’t think his two sons, both very well known in their professions, had much respect for him.<br />
<br />
Mother was staying with us for a few days when I took her a cup of tea. She was lying there, wearing her little frilly night cap which held her curlers in place, and said the words I always dreaded hearing, they were “I’ve been thinking!” Whenever mother had been lying in bed “thinking”, I knew that she had some project in mind and there was work in store for me to do, but on this particular morning she exceeded my worst fears. She had been thinking about giving up her little flat and moving into a frail care home in town so that she could walk to the shops. I went to inspect the home and could see only very, very frail old people sitting round the walls, gazing into space. The rooms had no locks, residents used communal bathrooms and toilets and there was no privacy. I begged her not to go there, she would lose her independence, she would not be able to cook the little meals she liked etc. etc. but her mind was made up. Considerable expense was incurred by all our moves, and I knew Gordon’s Removal Company’s telephone number by heart.<br />
<br />
My sister, Maureen was now living in Stellenbosch and so, with her help, new carpeting was laid, TV shelf and TV installed in her new room, we made her as comfortable as possible, sat back and waited. We did not have long to wait. We told her she would hate it and she did. Within three weeks mother decided she wanted to return to her beloved Rhodesia, and so, when she was past ninety she flew back there, leaving me to store and sort out her stuff for shipment later. She did not have the resident’s permit now required, nor anywhere to live, but Jane would sort all that out she said, and Jane did. I only saw her once more, shortly before she died aged ninety eight, brave, feisty and smiling to the end. What a girl!Biddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07790561611449442215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7874847895112533954.post-42385288104436501412010-12-19T18:27:00.000+02:002010-12-19T18:27:38.195+02:0066. Back in the sunshineTom was safely deposited with Beryl and Mac in Kensington, the furniture dispatched and, against all odds, mother’s Residents Permit arrived in the nick of time. So, I bade the English gloom farewell and headed for Johannesburg where I met up with mother.<br />
<br />
Tony had bought me a new end of year, red Opel Rebel for R14 000.00. The boot was a bit small for a folded wheel chair but, as it happened, Tom refused to use the wheelchair ever again. We packed the car and mother got in, eager to begin the longest outing of her life! Tony guided us out to the Cape Town road and waved goodbye. About an hour later we came across a diversion, just my luck. We followed the arrows and, about an hour later, saw Vereeniging on our left, which was odd because it had been on our left coming out of Johannesburg. Hundreds of miles of deserted road lay before and behind us and, as usual, I did not have a road map. Then I saw a car approaching and waved like mad. At that speed it took about half a mile to stop, but I ran towards it. No, we were not headed for Cape Town; we were headed for Johannesburg, the opposite direction. I turned the car round and an hour later we were back at the diversion. Two hours of wasted time and petrol. It was not a good start.<br />
<br />
Driving long distances in the heat, on long empty roads through the desert is very soporific and I had great difficulty staying awake. We would stop and I would try to have a doze, but as soon as we pulled off the road I would be wide awake again. It was most distressing, and dangerous. The figures for accidents caused by drivers falling sleep at the wheel must be very high. We reached Bloemfontein by nightfall and I was anxious to find somewhere to stop over for the night, but all the turnoffs, bright lights and traffic rushing by were confusing. A hotel was signposted, so we turned off the main road and followed the sign, but the hotel was at least five miles from the main road, and when we finally arrived the dining room was closed, and we were so hungry! We left at dawn and drove in haste to the first eatery we could find! By the afternoon of the second day, Somerset West finally came into view, and mother was delighted by what she saw. I drove round and round and managed to find the house but I did not have the keys, so we were unable to go inside. One thing I saw disturbed me. I had asked George to get his builder friend to erect a light car port for me but, between them, they had decided to start building a full garage – without Municipality planning approval. Approval was subsequently refused because the end wall was too near the boundary fence, and I was later told the partially built structure had to be demolished. The problem was solved when the owner of the adjacent property signed an agreement that he was not opposed to the garage encroaching on the boundary line. Wheew!<br />
<br />
We moved into our new house in 1987 and, taking into account the above items 1 to 15, the garage fiasco, and mother’s fussing to get her rooms altered and redecorated first, it was no wonder that Black Dog was laughing his head off while sitting firmly on my shoulder. I was exhausted, irritable and to my shame, not as kind to mother as I should have been, and there were times when she must have regretted her decision to live with us. Unfortunately she could not see that I was having a break down. <br />
<br />
Mother and I used to walk round the area, looking at houses and there was one we quite liked, actually I was just agreeing with her to make conversation. It was not nearly as pretty as the one we were living in, but mother liked it because she could see that the little flat on the side had its own front door. I was in hospital recovering from an operation on my shoulder when mother visited me, bursting with the news that the house we liked was for sale. Tom had been to see it and approved; we could have first option. Had I said anything about wanting to move? Hoping that mother would be happier with her own front door, we agreed to buy it. Blame the decision on the anesthetic. We had only moved in a couple of months when the little petrol pump station in front of us became a full scale BP petrol and service station covered over with a high roof that completely blocked our view of the sea. A small convenience store was added, a video shop and a food takeaway outlet. The food would be eaten by people sitting on the little piece of ground that separated us, and litter would be scattered all around. There were several problems with the house, including rising damp and a sagging roof. <br />
<br />
My migraines were getting worse and if I got out of bed in the morning without a headache it was like a holiday. One morning Tom came upon me crying, he put his arms round me and I told him that I could not go on any longer, feeling the way I did. Living was not worth the effort and I was at the bottom of the bucket. We had been married almost fifty years and he had never realized that I had a problem!<br />
<br />
Patty Duke was one of my favorite actresses and so when I saw her biography in the library, I borrowed it. The book had been written in conjunction with her psychiatrist and some angel must have put my hand on it. Patty had written about her battle with depression, and I could have been reading about myself. I went to see my doctor, who was a very sympathetic man, and told him that I had known for years that there was something wrong with me, something so awful that it filled me with self hatred. Although I did not drink, I could see my father in myself which had caused me, at one time, to turn all the mirrors to the wall. Now that I had read Patty Duke’s book, I thought perhaps I was not such a horrible person, just a sick one. He referred me to a psychiatrist who asked me questions while he placed ticks in little boxes on a piece of paper. After a while he put his pen down and said, “If by the end of these questions I had ticked 12 squares I would have known that you were in trouble. I have already ticked 15 squares and we have not yet finished the questions. You do have a serious problem”. “Can you help me?” I pleaded. “Yes, I think I can”.<br />
<br />
It is a shame that the drug “Prozac” has become an object of humor and derision, because it saved my sanity, if not my life. Three weeks after seeing the psychiatrist I went for a check up. “How are you feeling?” the doctor asked. I replied, “I feel like I think normal people feel.” And that was how I felt for the first time in my adult life – normal. The effort of trying to cover up the condition had been exhausting, now I felt I could start to be myself. That was eighteen years ago, and I have never had a headache, let alone a migraine, since. The Black Dog is dead, long live his mistress!Biddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07790561611449442215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7874847895112533954.post-27807322894291287902010-12-17T22:02:00.000+02:002010-12-17T22:02:30.013+02:0065. Unexpected visitorsAlice and George McGrath had moved from Bulawayo to South Africa and we had not heard from them for some time, so we were surprised when they telephoned to say that they were in England and would like to visit us for a few days. You may remember that George had used his car to drive Jenny to her wedding. I enjoyed having guests because life was pretty dull, so I happy to see them. <br />
<br />
George was a dapper little man, who had piloted Sunderlands during the war. After being demobbed in 1946, and much to his embarrassment, he was spotted by a talent scout and offered work with a modeling agency. Because he had nothing else to do, he decided to go along for the laughs but it became a very lucrative career. He traveled around the world modeling for Norman Hartnell and other famous designers, and also featured in many advertisements for whiskey or any product that required a good looking man wearing a bowler hat, carrying a walking stick and resembling David Niven. Only recently I came across a knitting pattern on which George was modeling the pullover. He also acted in the movies, once with Sammy Davis Jnr. and featured as Elgar in a BBC documentary. George was one of the men who had surprised me with his unsolicited “advances” and who, years later after both Tom and Alice had died, confessed his dream that if we were both widowed would “get together”. Sorry George, no chance! <br />
<br />
Alice was quite the opposite of George, very large, very loud, very outspoken, and very unattractive. A mismatched couple, brought together at the age of sixteen by an overly energetic fumble behind the school bicycle shed. They had three more fumbles making two sons and two daughters, but it was not a marriage made in heaven. Alice was a business woman at heart and resented George paying agents fees for his work, so she started her own, very successful, theatrical agency in London. Not only did she collect her agent’s percentage from George’s fees, she was also able to keep tabs on him because he was very attractive and had an eye for the girls. <br />
<br />
Now, there they were on the doorstep. As soon as Alice stepped through the front door she said “What on earth are you doing in a cold damp, place like this? It will be the death of Tom!” Well, the house was cold and damp because there was no central heating and no open fireplace, but we were very glad to have it thank you very much! “Why on earth don’t you come back to Africa?” I explained as politely as possible that: - <br />
1. I had a very sick husband who needed constant medical attention. <br />
2. We had no money to buy a house in Africa. <br />
3. We did not have resident’s permits and were unlikely to get them. <br />
4. We would have no medical cover in Africa. <br />
5. We would lose all the allowances we were at present receiving plus the care received at Halton, where Tom was having a course of gold injections which seemed to be helping his arthritis. <br />
Also, there was mother to consider. <br />
<br />
The idea of returning to Africa, albeit it to South Africa and not Rhodesia was tempting. We would be nearer Jeni, although Tom could not live in Johannesburg because of the altitude, but the whole idea was impractical and could not be done. Oh, again, those fatal words. We enjoyed their stay, then they said “Goodbye!” and they returned to sunny Somerset West in the Western Cape.<br />
<br />
On their return George sent us cuttings from the local newspaper, advertisements from Estate Agents, which suggested we could buy a decent house for the Rand equivalent of fourteen thousand pounds, or less. One morning I stood looking through the window at the Union Flag hanging limply in the mist, and thought about Mary in her bed sitter in Southend. I made a cup of tea, sat down, reached for pen and paper and wrote to South Africa House. I stated our position honestly and asked if, under these circumstances, we might possibly be considered as residents. I did not mention that we had a daughter living in Johannesburg, not wishing her to be responsible for us in any way. Within a week an envelope full of application forms arrived, but the more I thought about moving again, the more ridiculous the whole idea became. Tom was confined to bed and most days I was feeding, shaving and bathing him. He could barely walk and only went out in a wheelchair. On the other hand, an endowment policy had paid out and, with three years savings added, we had about twenty thousand pounds in the bank. Tom’s RAF pension was reasonable, the exchange rate would be in our favor, the cost of living in South Africa was lower and our old age pensions would be due in a couple of years. If a door opens, at least just peek behind it. <br />
<br />
Tom had a small desk in his bedroom and I left the application forms on it without comment. Although not a word had been said, a week later I noticed that the forms had been completed! On Tom’s next “good” day we had our chests X-rayed and the result, plus completed forms plus photocopies of just about every document I could find, were sent to South Africa House. Six weeks later our permits arrived with instructions that we must take up residence within three months. I wrote that we had planned on visiting South Africa first, to look at property etc., and would probably not be ready to move for six months. They replied to the effect that once issued, a permit could not be issued again, and suggested that if we take up residence while we were on holiday, we could then come and go as we pleased. A month later we flew to Johannesburg to stay with Jeni and Tony before going down to Somerset West to stay with George and Alice. We almost took off without Tom because I had left him in the care of a ground hostess as an assisted passenger. All the other passengers had boarded, the engines were turning over and still no Tom. Then I heard someone knocking on the window of the emergency exit and there he was, sitting on top of a platform waiting to come in and all we could see was his face. It was the funniest sight. The hostess opened the emergency door and let him in, to the cheers of the passengers!<br />
<br />
Because Tom’s breathing had not been affected too much by the high altitude on our previous visits to Johannesburg, we had no reason to think he would have a problem now. But the emphysema had progressed and the lack of oxygen not only affected his breathing, it also seemed to affect his brain; he was terribly ill and I was terribly frightened. The doctor told me to get Tom down to sea level as quickly as possible which we did, with great difficulty. Meanwhile, Tony had taken our passports to be endorsed with the resident’s stamp, so when Tom recovered I told him that he was now a South African resident. We were met at Cape Town airport by George and Alice and as we neared Somerset West, and I saw the mountains to my left and the sea to my right, I said “That is where I want to live.” I was reminded of Ireland and Cyprus, two places where I had been very happy.<br />
<br />
The McGrath’s house was big and old with high ceilings and wood floors. George said to me “You can stay as long as you please. A couple of weeks if you like”. A couple of weeks, in which to find a house and organize a new life? These were the people who had persuaded us to travel all this way and we had rather counted on a slightly longer stay. I did not realize it at the time, but Alice had the onset of Alzheimer’s disease, which accounted for her strange behavior. Actually, a week was too long for Tom. Alice had a breathing problem and, quite understandably, would not allow smoking in the house, so Tom was living in a disused servant’s en-suit bedroom in the garden. The advantages were that he could smoke in there and I could keep him supplied with whiskey. The disadvantage was that the place had just been liberally fumigated and the residual fumes were causing him great discomfort.<br />
<br />
Within days I had found the house I wanted. It looked like an old English cottage, with three bedrooms, large dining room, huge lounge, two bathrooms, small kitchen and a couple of rooms at the end, with an exit to the garden, which would suit mother very well. I was sure she would want to join us, and the price, a snip at the equivalent of fourteen thousand pounds. In England we could hardly have built a garage for that! Tom definitely felt better in the warm sunshine. He said, “If that is what you want, buy it.” As I said before, he always trusted my judgment on the big issues, so we began the complicated negotiations. <br />
<br />
At this time mother was visiting my sisters in Bulawayo. Yes, she said, she would love to come and live with us in the Cape. We discussed the details and it was agreed that, as I would be packing up immediately upon our return home in a week’s time, there was no point in her returning to England. I would pack her belongings and ship her stuff over with ours. As for her residents permit, well I would sort that out too, all I had to do was go down to her house in Thundersley and try to find all the necessary documents. Jeni would be her sponsor and guarantor. “You will never get it all sorted out in time,” they said. Just watch me.<br />
<br />
I worked out the logistics: - <br />
1. Tom and I would return to the UK while mother stayed on in Bulawayo. <br />
2. I would go down to Thundersley, break the news to my aunts that mother would not be returning (that was very hard) and pack all her stuff. <br />
3. Find her papers and apply for her Residents permit. <br />
4. Book the movers to pick up Mother’s furniture and boxes from Thundersley before arriving at Leavesden to do likewise for us. <br />
5. Take Tom to stay with Beryl and Mac. <br />
6. Ask Tony to buy me a car (he could get me one cheaper through the trade). <br />
7. Arrange mother’s flight from Bulawayo to Johannesburg. <br />
8. Sell our car. <br />
9. Fly Heath Row to Johannesburg. <br />
10. Drive down to Cape Town from Johannesburg with mother, a two day trip. <br />
12. Mother and I to stay with George and Alice until the furniture arrived. <br />
13. Take over the house and sort out the legality of it all. <br />
14. Take delivery of furniture and settle in. <br />
15. Meet Tom at Cape Town Airport. <br />
All quite simple, really! <br />
<br />
The most difficult part of the project was getting the money transferred for the purchase of the house and finding father’s Death Certificate for mother’s resident’s permit application. I had written to the DHSS asking if I could buy the wheelchair, as Tom was leaving the country. They replied that I could keep the chair without charge, but I must understand that they would no longer be responsible for its maintenance. I thought that was so sweet. I had intended asking them to send me, on a regular basis, a can of air for the tyres, but no matter!Biddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07790561611449442215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7874847895112533954.post-11509736615317609492010-12-16T22:28:00.000+02:002010-12-16T22:28:19.185+02:0064. Watford, and lost in a graveyardAll the moving around had been exhausting for Tom, but I think he was pleased to be back in England. One huge advantage to living in Hertfordshire was that we were only about 45 minutes from RAF Hospital, Halton where Tom could get all the medical treatment he needed, free of charge. I was also familiar with Watford from when we had lived in Bushey Heath. It looked like the ideal location, we could afford the rent and the tenure was secure. <br />
<br />
It was disappointing to find that the other residents were not very sociable. All the men were disabled to some extent, and I thought that would make for a close community, but we were back in England and everyone was shut in for the winter. Bob, a retired Major, and his wife Rose lived next door and they were friendly. I used to play Tile Rummy with Bob, but he did not like being beaten and became morose when he lost. Rose was a very sweet person who needed a great deal of gin in order to make living with Bob bearable, and many were the bottles I smuggled in to her, reminding me of the time I used to make secret deliveries to the owners of the sweet shop in Edmonton during the war.<br />
<br />
Thundersley was near enough to visit mother for the day, but the M5 was being built and there were many hold ups and diversions. I visited mother at least once a month and, as there was a good coach service, she often came to stay with us for a few days. It was while we were out walking in the snow, during one of these visits, that she said, “I am so cold! I really don’t want to leave my bones in this cold country.”<br />
<br />
After six months we were re-established as UK residents and became eligible for various Social Security benefits, Unemployability Allowance, Mobility Allowance and I received a Carer’s allowance, which struck me as strange that I should be paid for looking after my own husband! But as Tom had been paying income tax on his pension all the years we were away, and continued to pay his Social Security contributions, I felt we had some entitlement. He was also given a wheel chair, nothing fancy but the wheels went round. So we settled down and Stan and Rachael, who were now living in Kew, sometimes came to stay at weekends, as did Beryl and Mac. Denis Read visited whenever he was in the area. A big advantage to being in England was that Tommy visited us. Apart from a couple of stop-over visits on our way to and from England, I had not seen him for fourteen years. On his first visit I met him at Watford station. He emerged with long hair hanging below his shoulders, a big floppy hat on his head and little John Lennon glasses on his nose. My first reaction was, “dear God, did I really give birth to that”, but I hugged him and said not a word. I should have known he was just winding me up and as soon as we arrived home he removed the hat, and the wig came off with it! <br />
<br />
And mentioning stop-over visits reminds me of a funny story. We were visiting Tommy in Germany, just for a couple of days, and had booked into a small hotel. The night of our arrival, the couple in the next room were having a blazing row that seemed to go on all through the night; it was all in German so I had no idea what it was all about. However, in the morning they were making up with much enthusiasm, squeaking bed springs and gasps of delight – I think. I was tempted to bang on their door and shout “FIRE”, but I did not know the word in German. I went down to breakfast and as Tom was not well enough to go out I decided to go for a walk on my own. It was Sunday, and the Germans take Sunday very seriously, they dress in black and visit their dead. Flower sellers sit at the entrance to the cemeteries doing very good business. I find cemeteries fascinating and I came across one not far away, so I decided to walk round it and that was when I saw a little chapel so I went to look inside. But it was not a Chapel, it was a circular viewing room and enclosed behind glass were the coffins of those soon to be buried, with notices saying who they were and the time of burial. Two women were looking through one of the windows and talking in hushed voices. I went over to look and there, sitting up in the open coffin, a book in her hands and little metal spectacles on her nose was a very small, very dead old lady. Details of the burial were on the window. The viewers spoke in German so I could not understand what they were saying but I guessed it was something to the effect that “Dear Gertrude always did like a good read”.<br />
<br />
Then came the frightening part of the day. I had not realised that there was more than one entrance to the cemetery, and I did not go out the way I went in; I had walked some distance before realising that I was lost. Not only was I lost, but I did not know the name of the hotel where we were staying, nor the street. I was not carrying my passport and spoke no German. I walked miles getting more and more agitated, until I thought I recognised the florist’s shop that was near the hotel. I have been lost before, but not in a foreign country where I could not ask for directions.<br />
<br />
Another frightening “lost” story was when Helen and Jules came to visit us. I arrived at Heathrow to meet them and long after all the passengers for that flight had cleared customs, they had still not arrived. Then I was paged, went to the desk and was told that the girls could not come through because Helen’s passport had been handed to a ground hostess in charge of a minor who was now on her way to Australia! That took quite a bit of sorting out, but the 'lost' incident happened when I took the girls for a picnic in the nearby woods and could not find our way out. Helen has an uncanny sense of direction and she kept saying “It is THAT way, Biddy,” while I was trying to work out our position according to the setting sun. It was almost dark and, inwardly, I was starting to panic so I said “OK girls. We will follow Helen and if she is right I will give you each a pound.” She was right, it cost me, but it was worth every penny. <br />
<br />
But, back to Macdonald Gardens where we settled down, prepared to see out our days, in spite of missing the sunshine and the family. The houses were built around a circle of lawn and nice garden which was maintained by the oddest man I have ever met. He was about sixty, bent over, terribly thin with a pointed nose that ran uncontrollably and who, in the summer, would garden in very loose fitting jockey underpants. He was the most unsightly, most talented gardener I have ever known, and he not only had a wife but a girl friend as well! We paid him to work in our garden which he kept supplied with beautiful plants free of charge, so we had the most magnificent display of dahlias, the colours were quite dazzling. I always remember one tip he gave me when he saw me watering the seedlings. He said “Don’t water them, let them make roots first”. And I have just remembered his name, Mr. Dempster.<br />
<br />
Watford had changed a great deal since last I had shopped there. The outside market was now all undercover and there were far more Asian stallholders than before. The Watford theatre was still open and, as before, I enjoyed seeing many of the pre-London shows there. The difference between then and now was that I now had a bus pass!<br />
<br />
Across from us lived a dour ex-army chap who, every morning, apart from during the very worst weather, would raise the Union Flag on the pole opposite my front door, and every evening he would lower it. One morning the flag flew at half mast because one of the residents, an ex-Naval Officer, had died. He was a war casualty in his seventies, paralysed and blind. It was the aftermath of his death that upset me. Mary, his widow, had lived in the house for more than twenty years, and all her friends and her charity work were in that area. She received a letter from the Officers’ Housing Association advising her that the house was now required for another disabled officer and that she must move to a block of bed sitters, near Southend ,which was designated for officers widows. Now in her seventies, not only had she lost her husband, but she was about to lose her home, her friends and everything that was familiar to her. Over the next few weeks I helped her to pack and then drove her to her new home, followed by the removal van. The building was bleak, facing the road with no surrounding garden; the room was small with a minute kitchen and bathroom. No one was there to greet her; not even a booklet giving her basic information, she did not know where the nearest shops were, where to find a doctor or where to catch a bus,. Everything was strange and bewildering. The furniture was unloaded, I made the bed and unpacked a few things, and stayed with her as long as I could, but I had to get back to Tom, and I left her sitting on her bed, looking absolutely bewildered; I cried as I drove away. Was that her reward for looking after her war disabled husband for so many years? Was that to be my future before very long? The following morning I looked out of the window as the flag was raised to greet another grey day and knew that a plan would have to be made.Biddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07790561611449442215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7874847895112533954.post-70695751632634976252010-12-15T22:02:00.000+02:002010-12-15T22:02:57.159+02:0063. Bluebird and looking for a nestThe son-in-law of one of my ranch friends was a pilot with BEA and spent some time in England between flights. He agreed to find me “a nice little runner” which would be left at Heathrow in the aircrew’s parking lot ready for my arrival. I collected the keys and found the car, how I did this with all my luggage in tow I do not remember, and the “nice little runner” was a Bluebird, whose manufacturer I do not remember but it was more of a dead duck than a bluebird. This was in 1983 when the Vehicle Licensing Department was not as strict as it is today. Bluebird had once been a very nice, top of the range car, but now she was badly rusted and obviously ready to retire, or fall to pieces, and she was certainly not the Bluebird of Happiness! She started reluctantly, as if to warn me of things to come. I had been driving in Bulawayo for the past fourteen years where there were probably ten sets of traffic lights in the whole town, and five of those on the main road. Five cars stopped at a set of lights constituted a hold up! <br />
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Now, I was preparing to drive from Heathrow Airport to Thundersley in Essex, the place of my birth, without a road map or the slightest idea which way to go. My sense of direction is minimal, I can barely find my way out of a paper bag without a road map, and this paper bag was major. In fact to this day I do not know how I got there. I do remember going round and round one roundabout about six times with taxi drivers honking at me like mad and a policeman regarding me helplessly as I went round and round, too scared to take any of the off roads, not knowing where they were leading! <br />
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In Germany I always lost my way after visiting Stan and Rachael and the only way I could find my way home then was to follow the signs for Wippertahl Zoo and the overhead railway. Once at the Zoo I knew my way. Trying to find my way to a particular hyperama in South Africa, where a television my mother wanted was for sale on “special”, I stopped at a garage to ask for directions. The man looked at me totally bewildered, walked me outside and, pointing into the distance, said, “You see that range of mountains over there? Well, it is on the other side of them”. I tell you no lie! I could go on, but I think you have the picture. Later that day, much later, I found my mother’s little house in Thundersley. Two activities always bring me out in an unladylike sweat, one is losing my way and the other is screwing cup hooks into a hard piece of shelving. There used to be another activity, but that was a very long time ago.<br />
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Where to start looking for accommodation? Buying was out of the question, what little capital we had was frozen in Zimbabwe and even if I could get it out it would barely buy a garage – and I don’t mean one complete with petrol pumps. Daltons Weekly was read from cover to cover and it seemed I would have to look in Lincolnshire, or somewhere in a farming area, for anything affordable to rent. I looked in the “Lady” for a live-in domestic post. Most of them wanted a couple, with the husband doing the gardening and odd jobs. In the peak of fitness Tom was never a gardener, and could not even mend a fuse, so that was out. The hours of work and dog walking some people wanted in exchange for use of small bungalow were, I thought, excessive.<br />
One advertisement caught my attention. The Marquis and Marchioness of Reading wanted a mother’s help. They lived in the Cotswolds, had a toddler and a baby expected within days. I telephoned, arranged an interview and was invited for lunch. How to dress was a problem. If I was to have lunch with them there might even be a butler, or at least a maid serving at table. I wanted to look like a cross between a lady and a Norland Nanny. It was a very tricky journey from Thundersley to the Cotswolds which comprises a mixture of hidden little villages, so of course I got hopelessly lost and arrived an hour late, apologising profusely. What a charming couple! He was dressed in tennis clothes, she highly pregnant wearing a duffle coat. The little girl was a sweetheart although still in nappies. Her ladyship said “We saved you some lunch”. I hoped the butler was not too annoyed at my spoiling the lunch arrangements. We walked in through the back door and into a huge kitchen which was in total disarray with washing and ironing forming colourful mountains. I sat at the big kitchen table where the Marchioness herself served me with a cold potato in its jacket and a slice of spam. Not a butler or maid in sight, let alone a silver salver. It was obvious that the poor girl needed help. Most of the houses in the Cotswolds are either the original manor houses, or beautifully converted labourers’ cottages, occupied by the wealthy, and there are not enough cleaning ladies in the area to service them all.<br />
Their house was an original old manor house into which the family had only recently moved. The massive main hall opened up to the roof with a huge minstrel’s gallery running around it. On the floor, leaning against the walls, were dozens of ancestral oil paintings waiting to be hung and everything was in disarray. The house would be impossible to heat in winter. We walked through the hall, up the grand staircase to the minstrels’ gallery and then climbed a short, steep flight of wooden stairs to view the staff quarters. These were situated up under the eaves of the house where the sharply sloping roof was so low that Tom would have been unable to walk through the rooms other than down the middle. High up in the living room wall, too high to see through, were two little windows. The central heating did not work and we would have to buy gas cylinder fires to warm the place. A great deal of work would be needed to make the place comfortable. <br />
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The Marquis was very interested in Tom’s background and thought he would be able to find him some work to do in his office at home. They were such nice people, and I would have been happy to work for them but once Tom had climbed up to the flat I don’t think he would have got down again, and the thought of carrying everything up and down that little staircase and out through the house was a bit daunting. I thanked them for the offer, and hoped the new baby would be a boy.<br />
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A couple of years ago I was looking at a copy of “Hello” in the hairdressers when I came across a wedding photograph. Ringo Starr’s sister-in-law had married the brother of the Marquis of Reading, and there were the Marquis and Marchioness, with their two grown up daughters as the bridesmaids. So the second child had been a girl, too. However, I just looked them up on the internet and I see that a son was born about two years after the second girl, so the title is safe. They won’t remember me, but I have never forgotten their kindness, and the fact that they gave me a cheque to cover the cost of my petrol and a picture postcard of the house.<br />
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I had written to a housing association for retired officers, something I should have done before I left Zimbabwe, and was told that there was a flat vacant at Tunbridge Wells, and to phone Admiral X who lived in the other flat in the converted Victorian house and he would give me the key. Well, from titled gentry to Admirals, we were really mixing with the upper class. I took mother with me for the outing, mother loved ‘outings’; just open the car door and she was into it like a terrier. Now, how do we dress to meet an Admiral? Hat and gloves would be over the top, so I settled for a suit with sensible shoes. <br />
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We left home in plenty of time, Thundersley to Tunbridge Wells is quite a distance and I had to allow at least an hour for getting lost. I found the house and nervously rang the bell. It was opened by a tall, handsome, distinguished looking man wearing slippers, unpressed trousers and an old pullover with a suspicion of weetabix down the front. His wife stood beside him, hair uncombed, wearing a bright yellow cardigan, buttons missing, held across the front with a large safety pin. I was so pleased I had not worn a hat! The flat was on three levels, with very steep stairs in between. The windows in the main room, which looked out on to a large, neglected garden, were at least eighteen feet high and would have cost a king’s ransom to drape. Short curtains I have made and hung by the dozen, but these windows were beyond me. Regretfully, I refused the flat on the grounds that Tom would not be able to manage the stairs. I did not add that I was not prepared to clean yet another dump.<br />
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Next I went to Lincolnshire where property was available for rent. I leased a furnished house in East Dereham owned, strangely enough, by an RAF Flight Lieutenant who was serving overseas. It was pretty dirty, the plaster was pealing off and redecorating was long overdue. So I cleaned all the carpets with a heavy machine, and gave the all clear for Tom to join me and for our household effects to be shipped and put into storage. I liked the surrounding countryside and Bluebird was holding together, which was just as well because I would have to get to Heathrow, find Tom and drive back to Lincolnshire.<br />
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I did learn something at that house. If you want to avoid doing a lot of washing up, have a minimum of utensils. I had a basic survival kit, two cups, saucers and plates, two knives, forks and spoons, one mixing basin and one saucepan. You cannot make a big pile of washing up out of that. We had been in East Dereham a couple of months when the RAF Housing Association offered us another place, this time it was a little bungalow in a complex of twelve dwellings for disabled ex officers, and by now Tom was definitely disabled. The complex was called MacDonald Gardens, situated at Leavesden, just outside Watford. The owner of the house in East Dereham would not release us from the rental agreement, so we continued to pay rent until the end of the lease. I thought the owners could have been a bit more co-operative, considering he was also RAF and could easily find another tenant. However, I think he came from somewhere in Jamaica, and perhaps they think differently there. <br />
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Tom stayed with Beryl and Mac in Kensington for a while until our furniture arrived. There were three bedrooms and so I bought an extra bed to sleep on, wardrobes, a cooker, microwave and a refrigerator. Pickfords delivered our stuff, curtains were hung and the place made reasonably comfortable, and then I drove to Kensington to fetch Tom. Beryl and Mac were living in Kensington not because they were wealthy, but because Mac was the gateman at Kensington Palace Gardens. <br />
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And here I would just mention that one night, when Tom and I were staying with them, Mac received a call from one of his friends in the Special Branch, to say that Her Majesty and the Duke of Edinburgh were just about to leave the French Embassy, and would be driving through the gate any minute. Beryl and I rushed out to the gate and saw Her Majesty drive past in her illuminated royal car, flag flying from the bonnet. We were the only people there and she turned and gave us a most beautiful smile and a wave. She is really so pretty in the flesh, not at all like her grumpy looking photographs. It surprised me that the inside of the car was all lit up, making her an easy target, and I could not help but compare her escort, of two policemen on motor bikes, to the Mugabe cavalcade that nearly drove me off the airport road in Bulawayo, with the dozens of outriders, escorts with headlights blinding and sirens blaring. I had heard from other people who had met Queen Elizabeth how pretty and charming she was, and I was very thrilled to see her for myself. <br />
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And the Duke? Not one of my favourite people, not since he visited an Air Force Base where Tom was Security Officer and designated to be the Duke's escort. Tom stood beside him most of the day and he also introduced him to a number of men in his unit and never once did the Duke acknowledge his presence or say “thank you” at the end of the visit. There is a photograph somewhere of Tom standing next to the Duke, they were all in civilian clothes, and the Duke is bending over, looking at the tie worn by one of the men - it was probably the RAF Police tie - while Tom was wearing the rebel Rhodesian tie on which was embroidered the Zimbabwe bird!Biddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07790561611449442215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7874847895112533954.post-88744147552489986492010-12-15T08:55:00.001+02:002010-12-15T14:13:45.637+02:0062. Pass the cheese and push the carThe decline of Rhodesia after it became Zimbabwe was slow at first; some items of food were scarce, cheese when available was sold in tiny two ounce blocks. We were having lunch out one day and sitting at a nearby table were four affluent looking black men who had asked for the cheese board. When it arrived one of the men took a big plastic bag out of his pocket and put the whole, large piece of Cheddar cheese into it. I stared in amazement and one of the other men at the table caught my eye, indicated to me his disapproval but also a warning not to make a fuss! The cheese board was then brought to us with just a scrap or two of cheese left, which I refused. On the way out I told the owner in a fairly loud voice, that I hoped, in future, he would only serve small pieces of cheese on the board which could be replaced when used. I was furious. <br />
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But the worst shortage was that of petrol. Under UDI petrol was rationed according to our travel requirements so we were assured of basic requirements, but after Independence finding petrol was a matter of luck. We would drive our cars to the nearest petrol station at night, and stay in a queue until the station opened, then a man would walk down the queue handing out numbered cards and if there were no more cards left by the time he reached me, I just had to turn round and drive back home, using more precious petrol. We had a station wagon and it was very difficult trying to steer and push at the same time, turning on the engine would have wasted what little petrol we had.<br />
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My mother now made a decision that must have been very difficult for her. Her English old age pension had been frozen for many years and she was receiving something like nine pounds a month, on which she could not survive. We helped her financially but, being fiercely independent, this was hard for her to accept. She was also worried about medical bills. The little flat attached to Ivy’s bungalow in Thundersley became vacant and mother decided to return home to England and live in it. Doris and Ivy were very excited at the thought of them all being together again. We packed her little household of furniture and off she went. I can tell you, that was a heartbreaking farewell.<br />
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And here I must tell you about mother’s sideboard which had been purchased from Bentalls in Wimbledon when we were living in Raynes Park. It was quite ornate, had four drawers and two bow shaped side cupboards. Each cupboard had a loose shelf which was balanced on little block of wood, and would tip over very easily. On one shelf mother kept six very pretty coloured cocktail glasses, heaven knows why she had them, she never drank cocktails or anything else alcoholic, and the blue, orange and gold shimmering colours fascinated me. Of course I was the one who tipped up the shelf and smashed the lot. I was always a clumsy child. Anyway, this sideboard had travelled everywhere with mother, England to Durban, Durban to Rhodesia, Rhodesia back to England, and England to South Africa. We used to tell her that when she died we would take out the draws, fit her in it and push her out to sea!<br />
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So many things had happened to the family during the preceding three years, father and Tony Bulling had died, Jeni and Tony had married, had a son and moved to Umtali, Mugabe had come to power, my darling mother had returned England to live with her sisters and now Jeni and Tony were making another move, this time to South Africa. Tom was no longer well enough to work, we were worried about the shortage of drugs and medical treatment, and his doctor said he must live at sea level. Our time in Africa was over, or so I thought.<br />
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Arrangements were made to move back to England, destination unknown. By this time the Rhodesian economy was in a mess, money could no longer be transferred and, because people had been taking goods out of the country instead of money, severe restrictions were put on the export of goods. This was rather short sighted because as long as furniture was being bought people were being employed making it. The long and short of it was, we were allowed to take personal possessions, plus one bed each, one armchair each, one table and two chairs, one chest of drawers and couple of other items, including a little nest of tables given to me by Rosemary. No radios or kitchen electrical equipment. No lounge suites, bedroom or dining room suites. Six years after leaving we would be allowed to remit a limited amount of money, and every two years over a six year period one 6th of the remainder could be sent. So it would take twelve years to receive it all. Tom had been awarded a small medical pension after less that ten year’s service with the Prudential and when it could no longer be remitted Tom transferred it to someone else in Bulawayo, until the Zimbabwe currency was devalued to such an extent that it was only enough to buy one slice of bread. When I heard that Zimbabwe was now run on American dollars, and that pensions were being remitted I wrote to the company but did not receive a reply, and the money has not been accounted for since before 1999. I should be receiving a small widow’s pension from them.<br />
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Our pathetic allowance of stuff was sorted and the rest sold. The removers were at the door and, after passing customs inspection, it was loaded into a container headed for England. Tom went to stay with Maureen while I went on ahead to find somewhere for us to live and, with many a tear, I left the country and the people I had come to love with no idea if I would ever see Jeni and her family again. The only consolation was that I would be in the same country as my mother.Biddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07790561611449442215noreply@blogger.com0