Where Do The Days Go?

Where Do The Days Go?

I've just sat down to write again; I've been meaning to write another post for days.  I think I have said and written this before! but looking after Mum means the days just roll into one, and I end up asking the same old question:

WHERE DO THE DAYS GO?

I sit here - at the computer -
Thinking how the days all roll into one;
I look at the date I last logged on
Where have the past 9 days gone?

It's not that I've dallied
Or let things drift out of sight....
My days have been filled
From morning 'til night

With inexorable duties
That have to be done;
No time to relax
In the setting sun.

You might catch a glimpse
Of the evening star
But the washing and ironing
Are more important by far.

It's a strain keeping going
As the pressure mounts up;
It's hard to find moments
To eat and to sup.

But at one in the morning,
When Mum is tucked up in bed,
I can dream and write poetry,
All the lines in my head.

Uncle John Fills In Some Details

Uncle John Fills In Some Details

Because I was so young when we first landed in Dar-es-Salaam, I wondered if some of the memories from my childhood had become hazy with time, and maybe life with my father hadn't been quite as bad as I remembered. It was a relief to have Uncle John to talk to; with his very clear recollections about what had gone on when we were in East Africa, he could clarify details about our lives abroad.

I told Uncle John I always wondered if the way Mum had been mistreated by my father had contributed to her ill-temper now, and her inability to hold reasonable conversations; he said he thought it was perfectly possible. Mum had been physically abused by my father, put down on so many occasions, and not allowed to voice her opinions, so perhaps now that she was no longer intimidated by a violent husband, she felt she was going to say exactly what she liked - even if that something was completely wrong, no-one would challenge her. Sometimes, when Mum is in one of her moods, she will say dreadful things, hurtful things, that I remember my father used to say to her; it is a very strange and sad state, hearing these words coming out of my Mum's mouth.

One of my earliest childhood memories is of playing in the dry, dusty garden, and wearing a big white floppy hat, to protect me from the sun. I felt very hot, and wanted to go indoors, so I climbed up the stairs by the side of the house. When I reached the kitchen, I was surprised to see my father in a heavy clinch with our neighbour, a woman called Marigold; they were so engrossed, they didn't notice me. I would have been about three.

Uncle John filled in so many details for me. He told me, we had not been in Dar very long, before my father took off with another man's wife, Muriel, for a "naughty weekend" in Zanzibar. Quite what the woman's husband thought of it, Uncle John didn't know, except that the gossip was, he wouldn't protest or do anything about it. Many more liaisons with other women followed; for Mum, who was still not 30, it must have been so humiliating. She was young and pretty and, confirmed by Uncle John, loved socialising and dancing; yet here was her husband, ready to enjoy extra-marital affairs with no thought of being discrete about it.

There was no-one to turn to, and no escape. Mum was in a foreign land, with a young child; she was there with her husband, and as such, was the "Engineer's wife."  It couldn't have been easy.

Mum and Uncle John Get To Know Each Other Again

Mum and Uncle John Get To Know Each Other Again.

When we got back home from Heathrow with Uncle John, Mum was very happy to see him. He was a bit tired from the long flight, but didn't suffer from jet lag; he was soon he was in fine fettle and adjusted to English time.

Mum was more mobile in 2009, and they would sit at the table together and have breakfast. In the mornings, he liked his cornflakes and All Bran; Mum would have a bowl of cornflakes, and they would be quite companionable.

I had warned Uncle John that Mum could have a few "funny five minutes;" having mentioned it to him, I just hoped everything would go gently, and we would all have a happy family time.

To begin with, Mum was very much in "Older Sister" mode, directing most of the conversations, reminiscing about what they had done when they were children, and the different places they had lived in, but trouble began to brew when Mum recalled an event in their past, that clearly didn't tally with how Uncle John remembered it.

"No, Phyllis," he would say, "our Mam didn't do that/go there/say that...." Uncle John would then explain how he remembered the occasion, and Mum would be adamant it had happened the way she remembered it. He was a bit surprised that Mum seemed unable to have a sensible discussion, to see if they could establish what had eally happened; instead, Mum would go stomping off to her bedroom and become incommunicado for hours, whilst Uncle John was left shaking his head, perplexed at Mum's confusion.

We explained Mum was having these turns, but not to pay too much attention to them; being pragmatic, Uncle John accepted her as she was, although occasionally, if her assertions were really extreme and untrue, he would say outright that he disagreed with her.

We had a few long conversations about Mum.

I asked him, "Was Mum ever a bit strange when she was young?"

His response was immediate: "No! She was fine - she was a lovely sister - perfectly normal."

An Escape To Poet Paradise

An Escape to Poet Paradise

Looking after Mum means I don't have much chance to pursue the things I really love to do, such as performing poetry I've written, so it was a real treat to be out of the house for the afternoon on 7 June, travel up to London and spend a happy hour at the Poetry @3 session, organised by The Poetry Society's Paul McGrane.

This is a regular monthly meeting, held on the first Thursday of the month, and compered by Paul, who makes sure everyone gets a fair share of the time available. It's always well-attended, with many enthusiastic poets, and can be a truly international gathering!

Because I am always under a time constraint and need to get back home in good time for Mum, I was very grateful to Paul for organising my turn on the bill at an early point in the proceedings - and here's hoping I'll be a regular participant in future.

This month, the theme was Film and T.V., and it was a wonderful feeling to perform and share a couple of poems I'd written, with a generous audience. This is what I came up with:

FIFTEEN MINUTES OF FAME

Take me, make me into a star

Mould me, enfold me, wherever you are.

I'm ready and eager, for fame must be nice -

Whatever the cost is, I'll pay the price.

Who cares if the talent is lacking in me?

With a bit of pizazz, I know I can be

All that men dream of; and much better by far,

With a soupçon of spin, I'll be a big star.

Turning dross into gold isn't easy, I know

But with a touch of the airbrush, see how far I can go!

Don't care if this sounds like a desperate plea

Just work all your magic, and soon you will see

A glittering icon, with falsified glow;

But my goodness, I'll sparkle, and light up the show!

LEAVE OUR CLASSIC FILMS ALONE!

Please don't make a re-make of the classic Casablanca -
For who could fill the Bergman/Bogart roles?
With that smouldering, on-screen chemistry
Their eyes windows to their souls.

Just think of Alec Guinness, Peter Sellers, Herbert Lom
And Katie Johnson's genteel tour de force -
Outwitting all those Ladykillers
As Mrs. Wilberforce!

And what about The Italian Job?
And Alfie, with Michael Caine -
The re-makes just don't cut it
They're simply not the same.

And whilst we're on the subject
Recall The African Queen
Again, old Humphrey was the star
With Hepburn on the screen.

There was something extra special
About those films - their style and grace
Controlled by classic actors
With skilful use of pace.

The modern films don't have it
They're too much in your face
The special effects and too much noise
Have taken pride of place.

It's the perfect films from long ago
That always stand the test;
Impressions left upon us
That we had seen the best.

And so, if you're still thinking
Of re-making films well-known:
Don't meddle with their magic -
Leave our classic films alone!

Mum Still Has A Name For Every Mouthful Of Tea....... Or, Mother's Glugging Game

Mum Still Has A Name For Every Mouthful Of Tea....... Or, Mother's Glugging Game

I've recently written about Mum's pattern of eating, and how she is very slow at mealtimes, but that with patience, she will clear her plate.

After eating her dinner, she also likes some chocolate with her tea - After 8s are a favourite, which I cut in to quarters for her, and she can feed herself with the little square pieces.

I then do "rounds" of tea with her - usually six spoonfuls per round, all accompanied by the name of one of the pussy cats, or one of us.

We have "One for Blackie; one for Pushkin; one for Tiddlywinks; one for Artemis; one for Al's pussy cat, Apollo, and one for Marmaduke: .... The cat who lives down the road."  Mum joins in with this "glugging game", finishing off the sentences as we go through the list.

Then it's on to members of the family: "One for Wendy; one for Al; one for you, one for me....." etc.
and, in between rounds, we have a little pause, whilst I rub her back to get rid of any air Mum's swallowed. This usually results in a good burp - I tell her, "Better out than in!" and Mum says, "That's better!"

Helping Mum to drink a cup of tea now takes 12 or 13 "rounds" - 72 - 78 spoonfuls - and with all the rests in between, it can take nearly an hour for her to finish. However, if we use this time to ring up someone Mum knows and have a chat on the phone, the spoonfuls tend to go down more quickly, and we've had the pleasure of touching base with a friend. We also comb and do her hair, which she really enjoys.

We still have people who don't know Mum's routine all that well, suggesting we use straws, or put the tea in a baby's feeding mug; but we have already tried those ideas, with very little success.

The strangest thing is that when we go for Tea at the Ritz, Mum tends to "rise to the occasion," and, with help, will drink her tea from a Palm Court tea cup. They don't hold as much as the pussy cat mugs we have at home, and we have to steady her hand round the cup for every sip, but I think the elegance of her surroundings does have an effect on her. It's a shame I can't replicate it at home!

The important thing is for Mum to keep up a good fluid level; she hardly ever says she feels thirsty, so it's up to us to ensure she drinks (and eats) properly.