Almost April

Dan has gone to the Heath to play petanque. I am listening to an audio book from the Hampshire digital library. I have not visited the nursing home this week. Last night my uncle's niece, who is also his next of kin, telephoned from Swansea. She visited him on Sunday and subsequently telephoned the manager. It was suggested that Bill should be given a television. I know that the current manager has not been there long. I know she is busy and has not got the easiest job. However, she should have looked at my uncle's record before making that suggestion. He is registered blind/ severely sight impaired. When he first lived at Steep House he used to monopolise the television in the top lounge; he watched Sky News all the time. I would intervene if I was there and put another channel on. He would sometimes watch the TV in his room but in the end he could no longer follow the programmes. Before it got too difficult for me, I used to read the paper to him and  now Sandra, the head of activities, does that. Some days he is receptive and some days he is not. He did remember who Patricia is; he said she was his brother's daughter, which is true. Her father was killed in the war and she was brought up by Bill's parents. She is more like a younger sister than a niece.  When I was finally able to get in touch with her I wondered if she would resent me, but that has not happened. She lost her husband in 2009 and a few years ago her son died suddenly; I know how that feels. Bill was still cogent when Bryan died but could not take in the death of his great-nephew.

It is two weeks to Good Friday. I shall not have to work in the charity shop on Easter Monday, which will be a pleasant break. The following Friday we shall be leaving for Vence and I shall not be in the shop again until  Wednesday May 10th. I shall enjoy the break. There is much work to do in the apartment; I must get the big curtain down from the patio door to the terrace and wash it. There will be bedlinen to launder. Dan will rake up pine needles and olive leaves and we must entertain whichever English neighbours are there. I love that part of France. We shall go to Antibes for lunch and leave our car in the park and ride carpark. The shuttle (navette) used to be free but now costs a euro. We always walk back through the Vieux Port and look at the yachts. I used to buy presents for my two children at one time. Then Neil went to the Midlands and we seldom heard from him. When he came south again I used to  bring him gifts from holidays again; at the end of 2013 I stopped giving him presents at all. He never thanked me and Dan resented it. Neil had his 40th birthday two days after his sister's funeral, which he did not attend. I sent him a text message. It hurt me that I could not celebrate this birthday with him. I think that he is a deeply unhappy and troubled man, but he does not want my love or help.

I must compile a shopping list as we are going to Tesco. I also need to buy breakfast cereals from the shop in Lavant Street. We shall walk tomorrow and there are things that need doing here; I must sort out the linen chest and take the bedlinen that we no longer use to the charity shop. Our friend Sabine, whose opinion Dan values, agrees with me that the room where a new oak floor has just been laid should be a dining room and not a bedroom. I have always wanted that; when we bought this flat my father-in-law was eighty-two and his wife was eighty-one. His health was not of the best and we did not expect him to live as long as he has. They used to stay with us at Christmas and other times, when we took them to the theatre. Elizabeth was a good, sweet person and I think a true Christian. Katy loved her so much and Elizabeth returned her love. I miss them both.

Bearable Probus Club Meeting

I went to bed early last night but did not sleep until after midnight. Dan went to his Monday night bridge session and I took my small Bose device and iPod to bed. I am listening to Jodi Picoult's Salem Falls. It's a good novel, about an attractive teacher who has been falsely accused by a teenage girl of statutory rape. After a short spell in jail he happens upon a small town where he gets a menial job, working for a woman who blames herself for her daughter's death from meningitis and behaves as if the child is still alive. That strikes a chord. I hope it all ends happily for both protagonists.

The matter of false accusations is a serious one. The most notable one recently was that of Mark Pearson, a commuter who possibly bushed against an actress in Waterloo Station. She made the most preposterous allegation against him and the Crown Prosecution Service decided that it was "in the public interest" to prosecute him. It has been suggested that this was because of the soap-opera cast member's "high profile". Does this mean that the same allegation brought by a factory worker would have been ignored? I firmly believe that there should be absolute anonymity for both sides in cases of sexual assault until a safe conviction is reached.  The accuser in the Pearson case was named on the Internet and had to close her Twitter account down. What a horrible woman she must be, to lie another human being into the dock. It could have resulted in a prison sentence and his having to be on the sex offenders' list for a number of years. I wonder if, had her victim been convicted, she would have waived her anonymity and presented herself as a "brave survivor of sexual assault".

I did not visit the nursing home because Dan was not able to come to the Half Moon with me. He was delayed showing a double glazing fitter around some other flats, so I got a lift with the chairperson. I always take cake and sweets and would have had to take these into the pub. I shall buy cream slices and go tomorrow afternoon when I finish at the charity shop. I hope that whomever I work with tomorrow is congenial and that Judith is in a good mood. I shall buy the little tea light lamp and take it to Vence together with the umbrella stand. I shall bring the tall bread basket back for the charity shop, unless our friends want it for their kitchen showroom.  I am looking forward to going to Vence, although I know that I shall start fretting to come home when I have been there a few days. I am always relieved when the Wednesday before our Friday departure comes. I start tidying and ironing and on Thursday morning I put the suitcase on our bed and start to pack. I am happiest of all here, in our flat in the little town in Hampshire. I am not a very sociable person.

When we are in Vence we have to entertain our neighbours from the top floor. She is a very talented artist and he is good company. They have invited us to Sunday lunch and we had a drink in their flat at Christmas. We must return their hospitality this time. They spend time in Brisbane as well; I think that is their main home. I have cousins in that area and one day we plan to visit them again. But for our son and his troubles, we would have spent our wedding anniversary there in 2013. We shall give Nessie and Jeremy good food and wine and provide Nessie with an ashtray. I wonder if Yvonne and Ron will be upstairs too. Yvonne was suffering from a sarcoma on one arm the year before last and Ron had gone through heart bypass surgery. We are lucky to be so fit and well. I was a sickly child but a healthy adult. My daughter's death was because she inherited genes from my father's family; my poor baby suffered from respiratory infections from very early childhood. She died of chronic interstitiary pneumonia, which caused cardiac arrest. I love her and I always shall. I hope that there is a safe, warm heaven where she is with her step-grandmother, Elizabeth. I have no religious faith but I so want to believe that is possible. She deserves heaven and Elizabeth was an angel in human form.

Signs of Spring

I have survived Mothering Sunday. I spent most of the day alone, catching up on chores and emails. I looked at my friends' pictures on Facebook. They were with their children and had received gifts and flowers. I did not, of course, hear from my son. I have removed all of the pictures of him from view; I have many of Katy at various stages of her life but there is none of Neil on display. The only recent picture of him is one I found on the Internet and downloaded. I think his hair is beginning to recede. He has gained a little weight; he will be forty-one in less than two weeks. I still miss him; I always shall but I have to write him off.

The weather is a little warmer and the wind has moderated, although it is still a little cold.  I am waiting for a pair of trousers that I sent to have shortened. They went to the seamstress at the end of January and it is now nearly the end of March. I wear trousers from Autumn to late Spring and now I need this lighter pair. I also need to get my hair cut. I cancelled my appointment because of the vitrectomy and have not got around to booking a new one. Tomorrow is the Probus lunch and I shall comb my hair in the shower and squeeze the fringe so that it doesn't get in my eyes. I have one pair of light trousers to wear. There was another pair but I gave it to the charity shop, not knowing that I would have to wait so long for the new ones to be shortened. Perhaps I shall go into jeans and cotton sweaters for a while.

This coming Sunday my father-in-law is coming to lunch. We have also invited my aunt; she is ninety-one but still sprightly and cogent. She was married to my father's brother. He died in 1954 and she remarried. Her second husband was absorbed into our family and regarded as an uncle. He died two years ago, having suffered from vascular dementia for some years. She and my father-in-law know each other from the Anglican church where Paddy's second wife was parish clerk. I have realised that, if one does not  make the effort to keep in touch, the years go by and then the opportunity to keep up friendships is gone. There are times when I feel sad that my lot seems to be the geriatrics and other friends and relations have grandchildren, but these times are getting fewer. We are too old and set in our ways to enjoy grandchildren now.

When I am in France I shall shop for clothes for my new great-nephew. I enjoy doing this and like the French outfits for babies. My niece and her husband are going to visit her cousin and his family this summer so she will take the gift together with a silver articulated fish for William Jae-Sun's older sister, Evelyn Jae-In. The fish belonged to my aunt, the wife of the old man I look after. Her name was Eva and she was known as Eve, so it's appropriate to give her near-namesake this keepsake. Evelyn's mother is of Korean extraction and I think that fish have a special significance in the Orient. I hope that she will treasure the pendant. There is a gold fish too, but I still wear that. I shall pass that on to one of my great-nieces eventually. There are four of them.

Dan is playing bridge tonight and I shall go to bed early with my little Bluetooth Bose and the iPods. I am listening to a book by Simon Tolkien, the grandson of J R R Tolkien. He writes well but there are a few too many Americanisms. However, I enjoy his books. I have several unread books on each iPod and am not going to buy my extra audible.co.uk credits for a few months. The Hampshire digital library has some good new additions and I have some pre-orders on audible. I shall save some to listen to while I am in Vence and travelling there and back.

I did my shift at the charity shop this morning. It was quite pleasant, although I missed Ethel who is off sick still. The usual Monday customers came in including the rather peculiar woman who insists that she had her handbag stolen from the shop some weeks ago. In fact, she dropped it on the pavement a little way up the road and a man took it into the estate agent nearby. The police were not interested and so a young woman brought the bag to us as a donation. Another customer found the woman in the town; the circumstances were explained to her but she still insisted that it had been stolen. She continued to repeat the lie around the town but it has not discouraged her from shopping with us.

I hope that the window man comes early tomorrow, as Dan has to let him in and it will make him late for the Probus meeting. We shall see.

Missing my only daughter

The shops are full of gifts for mothers whose children care about them. I have kept all of Katy's Mothering Sunday cards; mostly what she made herself when she did her courses at the local further education college. The little flower, possibly a gerbera, is her last present to me. It lives on in our garden in Vence. Pink was her favourite colour. We took her to an amateur production at the Festival Hall and one of her further education teachers was selling programmes. She told us that Katy was very bright; she stood out among her classmates. Once, when asked what her favourite colour was, she said "Is it all right if I say cerise?" I wore a scarf of that colour to her funeral. I miss her; the gap she has left is still there and there will never be anyone to fill it.

We must visit the nursing home this afternoon. Dan has bought a bag of doughnuts. The old man asked me to bring one when I visit today. I hope that I see Sandra, the head of activities, as I want to have a word about the carers. She was one of that team for six years. I want her to reassure them that I do not think badly of them; I have had run-ins but I know that they work hard for their measly pay. I am very annoyed that they have been blamed for the magnetic catch coming away from the wall. It was not installed properly in the first place and the handyman's dilatory tactics made it worse. I have reassured one young man but I want it emphasised. The handyman has not been well recently and I suppose will milk that to the limit.

There has been much in the press about a pensioner called John Place. He was seventy-two when his optometrist told him that he must no longer drive because of his deteriorating eyesight. Even with glasses, his vision did not come up to the standard required. He ignored this advice and went out in his car without his glasses. He killed a little girl of three and seriously injured her mother when he ran a red light.  It was reported that he did not stop at the scene until another car flagged him down but the police subsequently denied that this was true. He has been sent to prison and a five-year ban will begin when he comes out; rather absurd not to ban him for life, for he will never get another licence. I am wondering about taking up driving again after the next vitrectomy. I have never been a very happy driver, although I used to drive many miles because of my daughter's needs. We shall see. My night vision is not great but I hope that this will improve when the floaters are gone.

There have been no more anonymous calls on my mobile phone. I wonder if there will be more in a few months' time. I do not know where my son is; I believed he was in Portsmouth but now I wonder if he is in Havant. We seldom go there now. It was where Katy lived and we used to see her most Saturdays. I know that Neil was working (probably unpaid) as a disc jockey in a pub in Havant. He had to leave his flat in Petersfield and we did not hear from him again. It was only when I discovered some vitriolic messages in my message requests folder on Facebook shortly after Katy's funeral that I knew of his new profile. I do not even know if he is working; I hope he is. He paid so dearly for that one bad mistake and deserves another chance.

Tomorrow Dan is going to walk with a friend. I shall stay at home and do more ironing; I am not feeling sociable and shall do the chores instead. I have a charity shop sack that needs to be filled and must sort through some clothes. If I am going to have a dining room at long last, we shall lose clothes storage space. I cannot face parting with my shawls and scarves; I always buy natural fibres and they keep my arthritic neck warm. Some T-shirts must go and there are some miniature tea sets that may please a collector. Katy's doll house and the furniture and family went two years ago, to an old school friend. She has little grandchildren and it has already been played with. I kept it for the granddaughter I shall never have.

We have to go to buy eggs at Charity Farm before we visit the nursing home. I shall put my iPod in my handbag. One or both iPods go with me when I go out. I cannot manage print books or my e-reader any more. Audiobooks are wonderful; well, most of them anyway.

A Chance Meeting and More Memories

Today was shopping day. Dan did not play petanque as he usually does on Thursday morning as he has recently been appointed vice-chairman of the Probus Club. He went to his first committee meeting instead. I did a little ironing and one or two other chores. The young woman who has bought the flat next door and round the corner called and I told her that Dan would knock on her door when he returned home. Her father is helping her renovate the kitchen of her flat and they needed Dan's advice on the water supply.

Thursdays are poignant for me; we found our daughter dead on a Thursday afternoon. We went today to the supermarket in Havant where she would shop every other week and where we went the day she died. Dan had his car cleaned and filled up on petrol. When all of this was achieved, we went into the centre of Havant and parked at the Meridian Centre. I saw an old workmate from my days at the Portsmouth News. We chatted for a while and she told me that another former colleague recovered from cancer and is now well. I told her of Katy's death and how nothing is personal at The News any more; when I placed Katy's death announcement I wished that dear Arthur, who was front office manager for so many years, had been there to talk to. It was good to see her and catch up a little.

There have been more calls from a withheld number on my mobile phone. I blocked my son some time ago. I went to the O2 shop and the technician there activated the facility to block anonymous calls. Then my son phoned and did not withhold his number so I blocked that. Sometimes there will be calls on my blacklist log that follow the same pattern; two calls, quite close together. This has not happened since November but there were two calls today. It will be his  birthday soon. When we arrived home there was a message showing but no one had spoken; that, too was from a withheld number. Is he lonely? Is he ill? I worry that he has been smoking pot or skunk and that this has caused the change in personality. I still love my son and I always shall but I cannot see that there will ever be a reconciliation. I hope that he will one day find happiness.

Dan has gone to his bridge club. I am going to have a light tea with a glass of Prosecco and then go to bed with my iPod. I have to phone the charity shop first thing to see if I am needed. If not, we shall walk as usual.

The daffodils from Marks and Spencer are beautiful; creamy white, the sort with layers of petals and a little yellow in the centre. They give me hope and lift my spirits. The fine white orchid that our friend Sabine gave us a few years ago is blooming again; only two stalks this time but the stalks have extra branches. The bulbs from the market have been disappointing this year but we shall take them to Vence and plant them in the garden as usual.  Spring flowers are the daintiest. Katy loved primroses.

Mothering Sunday and British Summer Time.

Years ago I worked on the Phonads section of the Portsmouth daily paper. Part of my job was booking family announcements; births, marriages, deaths and all of that. It was not the easiest of jobs at times because people can be so difficult. It was a personal affront if their advertisement was got no response. Customers would never admit to  making a mistake; they would waste time by telephoning to complain that their advert was not in the paper. Very often their mothers would also have scoured the paper and not found the relevant ad.

There was often real distress to deal with; a stillbirth or the untimely and unexpected death of a young and apparently healthy adult. A year later there would be an In Memoriam notice. I used to talk to the customers and tell them that they needed a year to adjust; they must live through all the landmarks of the year before they would fully accept their loved one's death.  I believed what I was saying. My daughter died one year and five days ago. I still miss her just as much and I still carry the same guilt that I did not go to her the night before she died. I shall always regret that I did not phone her earlier on the day she died. I have to live with the thought that I might have got to her earlier, phoned an ambulance and she might still be alive. I think of her every day. She has left an enormous gap in my life. There is so much that I regret; I was not the best of mothers. I love my children but did not know how to mother them. I could not give them what I did not get from my own parents. I wanted to explain things to my son but he would have none of it. I doubt that I shall ever see him again. It will be his birthday soon. I wonder if it will hurt that there is no message or present from his parents; I know that it hurts me not to give, but I do not know where he is.

It is a slight benefit that the charity shop where I help out does not sell Mothers' Day cards. There are Easter Eggs and sweets for sale but I can bear that. It was not too busy this morning and I was relieved to find that the man I expected to work with was not there. I do not think that I shall get on too well with him; he is full of his own importance and I am a mickey-taker. My Monday morning co-worker phoned to say she is ill and I shall probably do her Friday morning shift as a man is coming to our flat about window repairs and we shall not be walking. If I find myself working with the ultracrepidarian bletherskite, so be it. I can cope and Fridays are very busy. Why, oh why must people observe a meaningless pecking order in voluntary work? It can be so enjoyable if one's co-workers are congenial. There is no pay or promotion to be gained so there is no point in jockeying for favour.

The tree outside our living room window is white with blossom. On Sunday morning the clocks go forward an hour; we shall lose an hour's sleep but it will not get dark so early. The shops are full of summer clothes. In Vence, where our flat is, the temperature is 15° and there is heavy rain, thunder and lightning. We shall go there soon; the plan is to leave here on Friday April 21st and take the ferry from Dover to Calais or Dunkirk; probably Calais. We shall overnight at Besancon and arrive in Vence on Saturday afternoon. Last year we left on our son's 40th birthday, which was two days after Katy's funeral. It's a good thing, perhaps, that Easter is a moveable feast.

Just another Tuesday

There was sun today, although the wind has a bitter edge to it. I went to the nursing home and the old man was pleased to see me. He ate a whole custard tart and a lot of small pieces of chocolate. He managed to upset his tea and it went into his bed. A repair I requested has been done but it seems that the door catch will be replaced with something else. A young carer, one of the Eastern European men, is annoyed because he feels that he and his colleagues are being blamed for the damage. I reassured him and told him that my engineer husband thinks that it was not installed properly when the new wing was built. I have complained many times about the handyman.

Dan played petanque at Alresford as he usually does on Tuesday afternoon. It is a pleasant little town and the players are an agreeable lot. I am not interested in sport although I enjoy walking. After the nursing home I walked home again, visiting various shops on the way. I am always looking for bargains for my two Christmas shoeboxes. In recent years I have become disillusioned with some charities; I do not see why salaries have to be so large. Watching the Camila Batmanghelidjh's "torrent of verbal ectoplasm" when she and Yentob appeared before the Commons public administration committee further increased my cynicism.

I do help out in a charity shop as I like to feel useful. I have been criticised for giving to the shoebox appeal but I shall continue to do it. I shall never have any grandchildren so I might as well give two stranger children a little happiness at Christmas. It is not a time of year that I like.

A friend called in with worktop samples. Our gas hob has a fault now and my husband, who is the cook, is thinking of replacing it with an induction hob. This will mean a new worktop. We may also have dining room at last.  We have used that room as a second bedroom ever since we bought this flat. We moved from a large house and left three rooms of furniture behind but brought a lot with us. Dan's father and his good, kind, truly Christian second wife used to stay at Christmas along with our daughter. Those were happy times because Katy adored her step-grandma and her affection was returned. Darling Elizabeth died in September 2014 and now Katy is gone too. Father-in-law is ninety-six and increasingly frail, although fairly compos mentis.  

I have to work in the charity shop tomorrow. I suppose that I do not have to do it; I am a volunteer. It is the second charity shop that I have volunteered at. This one belongs to a big charity and the other one supports the local hospice. I enjoy the work on the whole and like most of the customers. The one thing that can spoil the day and make me reluctant to continue is the problem of getting on with some of the other volunteers. I try to get on with everyone and think it reasonable that, as we are all working to the same end, that people will try to get on with me. Not always the case.  There are the workplace bullies, the ultracrepidarian bletherskites and the just plain miserable. The manager, too, can be very difficult.

So why do I do it? As I said, I want to do something useful. I also enjoy seeing people get bargains. When an old lady finds a good-quality cardigan, new with its tags, on the £2 rail, I am as pleased as she is. When a mother comes in to find clothes for her son for cub camp I enjoy helping her search the rails for waterproofs and T-shirts. When a commuter walking up to the statin early in the morning sees an interesting item in the window and telephones to ask us to put the item by until Saturday, I hasten to do so. I am happy to bring things to the window and hold them up for customers who cannot get into the shop because of limited mobility. I sympathise when a customer tries something on and finds that it is not quite right.  When our daughter died we gave most of her things to the shop and they raised a great deal of money. When the shop was broken into two weeks ago it was heart-warming to see how people dug into their pockets and purses to fill up the collection box again. It is worthwhile, if only one can put up with other people's idiosyncrasies. I shall continue to work there for as long as my eyes can manage the till.

Then what?

More surgery to come but much in between

I went to the Optegra Hospital again today. The purpose was to check the right eye, upon which I had vitrectomy surgery three weeks ago. They eye is fine and the second operation is scheduled for May 8th, unless I change my mind. I do not think I shall. Perhaps I shall start driving again after my eye is healed.

The weather is cold and windy again. It seems that there is, or was, a storm called Stella across the Atlantic and this is the very tail end of it. I must wrap up in warmer clothes when I visit the nursing home tomorrow. The old man was fairly receptive yesterday. He ate most of a sugary ring doughnut. At one time he would eat a lot of cake or chocolate, but now his appetite has declined. I shall take custard tarts and chocolate tomorrow. I have been responsible for this sick old man for eight years now. His name is William and he likes to be called Bill. He was married to my mother's youngest sister. When I agreed to have his powers of attorney I had not seen him for forty years. It was always understood that when my aunt or uncle died, my youngest brother would deal with everything that arises when someone dies. He was my aunt's favourite. My aunt was very close to this brother's third wife at one time, until Sharon (for such was her name) became an alcoholic and suffered a complete change of personality. I did not know until my aunt died that wills had been changed and I had been appointed executor. I have wondered since if my aunt knew that I would look after her widower when she was gone, although my brother probably would not. It is a complicated story.

I have been thinking of my son in these past few days. The anniversary of his sister's death was last Friday and when she died I hoped for a reconciliation. I still worry about him and wonder if he is lonely, if he has a job and enough to eat. I wonder if he bothers to wash and launder his clothes. I know that he gets very depressed. It will be his birthday just before Easter. I cannot send him birthday wishes because, apart from sending him a message on Facebook which he probably would not see, I have no way of communicating with him. I know that he would reject my good wishes anyway, so it is best not to bother.

A very dear friend, who was once a relative, has recommended that I read a book called The Shack. It is about why bad things happen to good people and she has received comfort from it. She has been through a lot in her life and experienced much pain. She is now full of anxiety over her mother, who has had heart surgery and is not doing well. She lives in the mid-west and is a Baptist. I have no religious faith but sometimes envy those who have. There is a audio version of the book. Perhaps I shall buy it and listen. I think that perhaps religion is like a virus; some people succumb, others are immune. I was not brought up to be religious and life has taught me that some of the people who profess to have great religious faith have little concept of kindness or humanity.  I do not know if I am a good person. I suppose I try to be.

Still functioning socially

Yesterday we went to London with a friend and that friend's brother-in-law. I managed very well with the help of my iPod. The three men talked on the train and I listened to an audiobook. We went to Carluccio's at Waterloo station and had a cup of coffee together while we planned what to do before going to the concert at the Royal Albert Hall. I found Jim's brother-in-law a very pleasant person and got to know him a little.

We looked at my pocket-sized maps and guide books and decided to go to the Victoria and Albert and then to the Science Museum. The tube journey was not too bad; there was the usual argument about which side of the underground we needed to be. I even got a seat without too long a wait. Mindful of the unfortunate Mark Pearson I tried not to brush up against anyone and was a little timid at the barriers but I found that young people were very pleasant and polite and stood aside so that I could go and present my Oyster card to the machine.

The V & A is a wonderful place, even better than expected. The Art Deco exhibition that I had expected was not running but there was a great deal to see. I have always loved jewellery and feasted my eyes on the collection there. Jim jokingly asked if I was going to steal any but I reassured him that I sell or give away jewellery now; I have more than I need and the insurance premiums are prohibitive. It was an easy walk to the Science Museum but we did not see very much, just the space travel section. We shall return one day and see this place properly.

We had an expensive snack in the Royal Albert Hall. I stuck to fruit juice, partly because alcohol does not really agree with me nowadays and partly because I refuse to pay £14 for a glass of champagne. We went to our box and found that the ladies from Dan's bridge club had brought a cornucopia of food. We nibbled and I drank a glass or two of Prosecco. The security men had allowed the ladies to bring this in after a little pleading.

The concert was wonderful; an exceptionally good tenor, an excellent soprano and a superlative choir. The organ was everything an organ should be. The band and the orchestra fulfilled our expectations. One had to queue for the loo rather a long time, but one cannot have everything.

I thought of my daughter all day. I do think of her every day and blame myself for failing her. The four of us talked of my son when we were dining at the Union Jack club. I found I could bear it; I even managed to speak of his cruelty when his sister died. He could not blame me for her death more than I blame myself. I still love him and would take him back into my life but I do not think that his father will ever be able to forgive him.

We caught the 9 pm train home and met the bridge club ladies in the same carriage. They were had obviously enjoyed their evening and were laughing and joking among themselves. I listened to my iPod again; a Robert Bryndza  novel from the Erika Foster series. We said good-bye to the two Jims at the station and walked home to our flat. The iPod accompanied me to bed as it always does. I have two of these excellent devices, one for fiction and one for non-fiction. I can no longer manage print books and even my e-reader has had to be put in a drawer.

Dan is going to the gun club today. I have some chores to do and this afternoon we shall visit the sick, purblind and demented old man for whose welfare I am responsible. I must buy some custard tarts as he might enjoy one. There is still chocolate left to feed him with if he does not want the cake. Poor old man; none of it is his fault.

I must go to bed early as I have a follow-up visit to the eye surgeon tomorrow. It means I shall not be at the charity shop where I help out until Wednesday.  

Seizing the day

This year I shall be seventy years old. My life has been busy and eventful and I often wonder how long it will continue  and what the quality of the remainder will be. My general health is good and I keep active. The bogey man who lurks on the periphery of my life is senile dementia. Eight years ago I inherited a sick old man who at the time was reasonably cogent although frail physically. He lives on, nearly blind, very deaf, bedridden, incontinent and far gone in dementia. Sometimes he will recognise me and my husband when we visit, but often he will mistake us for someone long dead, or not respond at all. Familiarity with senility has made me dread it.

I was ambitious once and I suppose I achieved a few of the things to which I aspired. I made a good marriage that has lasted forty-eight years and had a  daughter and then a son. I tried to be a good mother but am now permanently estranged from my son and my daughter died a year ago. She was autistic but high-functioning and a good, sweet person.

In a material sense I have everything I need and more and I am grateful but the gap the loss of my children has left will never be filled. My husband and I do most things together and have a good life. I think that we are too old now fully to enjoy any grandchildren that might one day come, although our son is still single and shows no sign of settling down.

The old man for whom I am responsible was married to my  mother's younger sister. She was the second youngest of a family of fifteen children, eleven of whom survived infancy. Owing to the fact that  my mother largely brought her up, the two sisters were very close. When my aunt died I found that I was to be her executor and hold my uncle's  power of attorney, not only for financial matters but for health and welfare. Thus I became responsible for a man I had not seen for forty years. I did this willingly as one cannot turn one's back on a sick old man. There was also the fact that he had left my daughter the sum of £100,000 in his will. When I signed the power of attorney documents I joked that all of the old man's money might go in long-term care. I did not anticipate that the main beneficiary would predecease him.