Dec 8 2012

The sun will come out Toe-morrow, things will be brighter then …..

Morning all!

TOO exhausted to post yesterday – hell of a day.

Early appointment at the podiatrist – third one we’ve seen now – why can’t they be more gentle with me? I feel violated.

Despite feeling bleary-eyed and dopey, the PAM, the other half and I got to our appointment in time.  Freed from the customised boot of choice; I was disrobed and examined minutely for signs of anything nasty.

I appear to be infection free. I don’t appear to have osteoarthritis – the nasty aches and pains are due to residual bruising and will probably continue for some months yet – lovely.

The bit that cut me to the core is that there is also no sign of a toenail.  It has been two months since that crate dropped on me and it seems that in addition to severing my toenail and causing a HUGE bruise all over me, it killed my toenail completely.  There has been no new growth over the past two months so it is unlikely to happen now.

So the PAM and I have months of not being able to  wear appropriate footwear whilst the nailbed gets tough and uncompromising – and there is always a further risk of infection in the meantime.

Thank you crate – you great ugly lethal lump of moulded plastic just waiting to cause damage to unwary workers.  I hope someone smashes you and you end your days as a recycled dog poo bin  – or worse.

Moving on – because we have to – having been swabbed and redressed in a totally over the top bandage, we embark edon a short shopping trip to stock up on food. Whilst the other half is on late shifts, we are somewhat housebound all afternoon and evening – which is nice – well for me but not necessarily for the PAM.  She should be studying for her next essay, revising for the exam from hell and reading up on important paperwork but gets a little stir crazy when the walls start closing in.

She is far too easily seduced however, by FB and silly games, Twitter and comments that range from serious to satire to plain silly.  Her Kindle is also a bad influence;  it is no use her telling people that she has reference books on it, she also has Coin Hover and Mahjong – hah! Blown!

She did actually do some studying yesterday – and there was a rather blissful bout of dozing during the morning to make up for the early start.  There was far too much procrastination however.

To be fair – she did take off the hideously unflattering dressing that the pod had applied, put me into a chic little indoor number and for the benefit of our lovely EEEEE, gave me a snowman face and took a picture for FB.

Another high point was that the pod also said that I will be able to enjoy the sun and heated swimming pool waiting for us in Lanzarote.  I may need to wear a slinky little dressing to prevent any nasties creeping into my crevices and take some antibiotics with us – just in case.  So me and the other nine toes will be able to wiggle in the sand a little and forget about bureaucratic bungling and and the autocratic arses that inflict it on us – controversial – better back off before the PAM notices.

It has been alleged that I am a bad influence on the PAM.  This may be so but  – nothing has been proved.

Time to wake up the other half for another shopping trip.  We are cooking pasta tonight and have to get all the bits. Mozzarella balls and grated Grana Padano anyone?

Arrivederci!

Oh and EEEEE – don’t ever stop bothering xxxxx

Dec 7 2012

Nobody knows – tiddly pom – how cold my toes – tiddly pom – how cold my toes – tiddly pom – are growing

Yay! Today has been another inside in the warm day.

A very long lie in after the other half had gone out to scrape off the snow and toddle off to work.

Lush smelling shower  – hoorah – salt water bath – boo.

The post brought important letters but the contents cannot be divulged – it’s no use trying to torture me – someone’s already killed my toenail and made it fall off – so you can forget the bamboo shoots as well – I will not give out the information.

The PAM laughed a lot though and looked a lot happier than she has for the past couple of days  By the rate at which she was texting – she was imparting vital secrets. Oh how those thumbs flew!

I enjoyed a very brief exposure to the elements after the shower and then it was the lighty whitey indoor dressing so that I was protected whilst trying on my festive willie warmers – which arrived in the post with the important letters.

The festive red WW  engulfed not just me – but my four little friends and half the foot.  It has a shiny red ribbon to stop it from falling off and we’ve sent a picture to FB so that my hoards of fans can admire the look.  I fully expect Heat magazine to be doing a feature on toe-couture within the next week or so.  The two black WWs were customised this evening and provide that chic and sophisticated look that I SO desire.

No dozing off today or going back to bed for the afternoon nap – the PAM has been busy tappity tapping, downloading documents  and making  extremely important phone calls.

A question for my fan base – if you write about people – like ‘In The Thick of It’ and you change their names but EVERYONE knows who the character is based on – that’s satire innit?  And you can’t get into trouble for satire can you, because it is just made up stuff?

I’m the only V-toe there is – so people had better not try to write anything about me that I don’t like – are you listening PAM?

There was a brief respite this afternoon when the PAM did the maternal bit and cooked food for the thundering teen – who was hyper-critical as usual. Why DOES she bother?  All that standing on one leg (the other leg) whilst she’s cooking makes her look like an overweight flamingo – in plain clothes – she won’t wear bright pink.

The more civilised sprog phoned this evening  – on his way to a party to get riotously drunk; with the news that he was a runner-up for the University Challenge team – he’ll be on it next year – you bet.

The PAM’s Blackberry has continued to be busy with texts and FB alerts all evening – but she can sort those out without disrupting me from my comfy cushion thank goodness.

If it wasn’t for this annoying pins and needles stuff, the achy joint and the stinging – life would be quite pleasant here in the land of the V-toe.

Oh well – off to bed – we are all up early in the morning (apart from the slumbering teen) to visit the pod and get the update on just how much damage that lethal lump of moulded plastic did when it fell on me.

Toe-dle Pip!

Dec 6 2012

Toe reading – only in America

No lie-in this morning. The PAM’s other half was an early riser and once he was off to work, she had to wake the noisy teenager for college.  Unusually she only had to call him once.

This salty bath business is no joke.  Five minutes.  That’s what the pod person said.  Five minutes soaking in a warm salty bath.  That does not mean at least fifteen minutes whilst you eat your breakfast, get bored by the news and flick through a million channels hoping for some distraction.

Hurrumph!  At least she hasn’t wrapped me up in the boring white dressing yet.  Upstairs and further distracted by Twitter; my moments of naked freedom are limited.  I had hoped that she might get engrossed in http://www.beatoereader.com/ but the instant she spotted the phrase ‘Your internal-self is displayed in your left foot‘ I knew I was onto a loser (I live on the left foot).

The paragraph continues:

‘The position and shape of the toes say a lot about their owner and the energy in one’s body

By observing someone’s toes, you will know a great deal about their past and the experiences they have lived through

Toes reveal how a person copes with their feelings, as well as their thoughts’

Doubt if there will be any toe-gazing in this house today.  Still at least we are all in the warm and provided she leaves that tingly electrical machine alone, a nice doze in front of ‘Homes Under the Hammer’ should be in order.

Forget the peace and quiet – the thundering one has returned from college and is making his presence felt.  The boy who hoards cutlery and crockery in his room for days and is too tired to wash up his dirty pans, is complaining about his mother’s porridge bowl which has been left to soak for half an hour in the sink and the fact that his father buys orange juice with bits in.  I despair.  Can a toe despair? Well I am anyway.

Today I am wearing a very minimalist dressing and the tingly machine has stayed in the box. Things are looking up (they usually are when you are in my position).

Aaaaaaand we’re back in the room.

Today has been warm and indoorsy.

As predicted HutH had a soporific effect and the PAM sat up with a start when the TV segued into the more abrasive ‘Watchdog Daily’ or some such whingeing programme that has  migrated to daytime TV in order to trawl the sick and the elderly (talking about the long-term unemployed is outside my remit and I deliberately start to twinge if she watches ‘Jeremy Kyle’).

So did she accomplish all the things that she wrote down on her to-do list?

Nah.

She did the washing and the drying, then she started reading up about Lanzarote.  We are going there for some winter sun and this toe will be sorely displeased if it doesn’t get to dip itself into the heated swimming pool and lap up a few rays.

We didn’t leave the house ALL day – unless you count hobbling round the back to the bins to pick up a package that the lazy postman put there rather than hang on a few seconds whilst we limped to answer the door.

Guess what was in the parcel – yes – the Purple Ronnie willie warmer! I have to hand it to her, the PAM is a dab hand with the needle and thread.  In no time at all  it was customised to fit  and not fall off when walking.  It is amazing what you an do with a piece of elastic.  Not sure if she has anything that is turquoise with orange stripes in her wardrobe though and she does SO like to accessorise.  I almost wanted to go out to see if it will keep me warm – not that much though.

I have to admit that I absolutely love not having to go to that horrible draughty grey building every day.  The combination of carpet and fluffy-boot slippers kicked up a force field of static that made me even more tingly than the electric machine does.   It was either too cold or too hot and there was far too much standing around and walking for my liking.

That period of my life must count for the most miserable ever – including the occasion when the ham-fisted general surgeon decided that as the PAM wouldn’t let him get his hands on her gall bladder, then he’d have a good hack at my ingrown toenail instead.  He kept stabbing injections into me until in the end the PAM just told him to get on with it.  He put the wrong dressing on me and I had to suffer the indignity of sitting in the the treatment room at the surgery in a bucket of warm water for HOURS whilst the nurse tried to soak the dressing off.

It is SO much nicer being at home – and there is much less risk of any half-witted buffoons treading on me. Yes! It still hurts even if it was an accident and you apologised.  Still if an optician can’t see me – how can I expect anyone else to? Perhaps, instead of knitted willie warmers I should have a foam rubber bumper about a foot wide around me.  Not sure how the PAM would cope with that though – back to the drawing board.

Tried to get some proper kip this afternoon when the tired other half returned but although the body (especially me) was willing – her poor over-taxed brain would not switch off so I was dragged from a warm soft bed and propped up on a footrest whilst she got rid of her angst through the medium of word.

She really needs to learn how to chill out a bit more.

The evening was uneventfully quiet; a takeaway was ordered and despite minor interruptions from the noisy one, I was able to sit on the big cushion and be pampered for hours.  This is the way I deserve to be treated after all the pain and distress I have suffered.

She’s winding up for bedtime now and undoubtedly feels more than a little bit peeved that I’m getting more hits on the blog than she does.

Talent always rises to the surface darling – even when you spend your days avoiding puddles and piles of  dog poo.

Dec 5 2012

Equal Rights for Toes!

Okay – so this is my first blog – it doesn’t look that difficult and the person attached to me (to be known as PAM from now on) is so knackered she has no idea that I have taken over temporarily.

This has been a horrible day from a toe point of view.

The shower this morning was fine; then she had to ruin it all by sticking me in a plastic container full of salty water to wash off the nice smelling shower gel (Snowfairy from Lush if you must know).  I don’t care what the podiatrist says – salt water STINGS!

She was quite gentle drying me and as a consequence I held still whilst she took ANOTHER photograph of me with her Blackberry. I am SO photogenic.

Then comes the bit I hate the most – the dressing.

It is SO boring!  We have two sorts of dressing – white indoors and white outdoors.  Boring.  Boring.  Boring.  Her other half used to put smiley faces on me but there hasn’t been much to smile about lately.

I know she’s bought these willie warmers for me – but where are they? Christmas post bah!

The other day I rebelled against the dressing and caused an allergic reaction to the adhesive  – I made a HUGE blister on my back.  She used her ingenuity with some non-allergic tape though and the blister disappeared.  I had another trick to play on her today though; I’ve been sending aches down to the place where I join the foot – that’ll teach her to drop things on me.

I wanted to stay in the warm today; propped up on my cushion with the occasional hobble to the loo or the kitchen and the possibility of a proper lie-down on the bed after lunch – some chance.

As soon as she started putting the finger bandage over the top of the indoor dressing this morning I knew we were in for some – exercise.

I don’t mind going out in the car. PAM doesn’t drive and her other half always puts the heater on so I am nice and warm on the journey (she has the heated seat on but  that never reaches me). We usually have to get out of the car at some point though and that’s the bit I hate.

We parked up in the wet and draughty multi-storey car park.  I got slightly damp on the way to the lifts and the stinging began.

We walked to a shop full of glasses and up some stairs – loads of stairs – I hate stairs.  Then a woman puffed air in PAM’s eyes and she sat down to wait.  Then a man put drops in her eyes and she sat back down again and waited some more.  Back to the eye puffing stuff then into another room where the man looked in her eyes with a bright light and accidentally bumped into me.  HEY!  I am the prominent white toe sticking out of this black suede boot!  Use your eyes you optician man you!  He apologised to her and sent her back downstairs so that another woman could take pictures of her eyes.  What about me then?  Does anyone give a damn about all this getting up and down I’m having to do?

They brought me home again then – after a trudge through the shopping mall (horrible hard floor), back into the lifts and across the wet car park.  The bliss of the car heater but the sudden change from cold and wet to warm makes the stinging even worse.

She went for a lie down when we got in.  I was looking forward to a nice rest but she attached this electrical gadget onto her foot.  She dozed off whilst this thing sent electrical pulses through me, kept me awake and made me feel quite numb. We’ll have to put a stop to that then.

So I have rebelled. I have taken over her blog. From now on it will be the world according to Vee-Toe.  Look on my works ye mighty and despair. 🙂

Dec 2 2012

Woolly Bully

The poor old Volcano-toe (or V-toe as it is now known to its intimates) is feeling the cold.  Since the nail fell off it has been particularly sensitive and whilst (after the daily salty bath) I dress it lovingly and wrap it up warm, the hole in my boot(s) doesn’t just let in the water but an icy draft that makes it sting like billy-o. The dressings keep it dry but can also have an adverse effect – last week V-Toe decided to develop an allergy to the adhesive round the edges.  I should get a Blue Peter badge for the ingenuity involved in looking after this toe.

There’s a nice girl in Boots who contacts us every time a new supply of finger (they don’t do toe) dressings arrive – we can’t order them in bulk but she puts two or three packets aside for us.  Poking forlornly out of my boots, the V-toe looks both bizarre and sinister.  It attracts a great deal of attention, but my lips have been superglued shut about how it got damaged, by what and who is responsible, so conversation with anyone other than my nearest and most dear is – difficult  – and takes on a distinctly mysterious quality.

I’ve tried a number of solutions to keep the old V-toe (and it’s companions) safe and warm in the icy and wet conditions; the right foot won’t tolerate having a different shoe/boot or even a sock on – my temperature control goes out the window and I end up with one very hot foot and the other freezing cold.  Wearing odd footwear also makes me feel lopsided and leads observers to jump to the conclusion that I was on the lash last night and can’t manage to find matching footwear.

Lovely Hub has bought me two pairs of Ugg-knock off boots with fluffy linings; combining these with my stock of ageing leg warmers from the seventies (no, I never throw anything away) my feet (except for V-toe and its immediate neighbour) are kept reasonably snug.  The leg warmers are needed to pad out the boots which have to be three sizes bigger in order for me to get V-toe and its apparel through the toe hole without it getting bashed or squashed.

Being a bit of an accessory dandy and deprived of my socks, I confess to having trawled my way through eBay in search of more interesting and festive leg warmers  recently – before the others give up the ghost (they are somewhat frayed round the edges – definitely like their owner).

It was whilst I was trawling that I hit upon an idea that might keep the V-toe a bit warmer, lighten my flagging spirits and enable me to participate – to some extent at least – in engendering some festive cheer.

The willie warmer.

A tried and trusted Secret Santa present and found in many a Christmas stocking only to be hidden rapidly before the kids see it; eBay did me proud.  I have ordered a very nice Purple Ronnie WW, a suitably festive red WW with a red ribbon – and two black knitted WWs – one with a sparkly black trim and one with sparkly black and white trim.  Ideal for our visit down South just before Christmas but hopefully unnecessary for the trip to Lanzarote.

Who would have thought it?

There was a slight problem with the two black WWs; they come in different sizes = small, medium and large.

I was reminded of an incident many years ago when, as a fairly wet-behind-the-ears drama student, I was dispatched to the local ballet shop to buy a dozen jock straps (or jazz belts as the girl in the shop called them) for a production that required the male performers to wear tights.  The tights were dense but very close-fitting and said jazz belts were a necessity if the production was not going to be closed down on the grounds of indecency.

“What size?” asked the gum-chewing assistant as she riffled though the stock of jazz-belts.

“Size?” I gulped, it had never occurred to me that they came in different sizes and the thought that I might have to go back and – measure them (!) – filled me with a mix of emotions that my eighteen-year old self found very difficult to cope with.

The assistant took pity on me; she gave me three large, three medium and three small – with the rider that she would exchange them provided they weren’t taken out of their packets.

Needless to say, the three large jazz belts were snapped up immediately, followed very quickly by three chaps who didn’t mind being mediums.  No one would admit to being a small and when I agreed to take them back to the ballet shop I was told in no uncertain terms to get three more in large size.  One bright spark asked for extra-large but was booed roundly by all who were present.

There was a temptation to sprinkle them with itching powder on the way back but I resisted.

So, with this in mind, I measured the V-toe and decided that it was definitely a small (up to 4 inches if you really need to know). I thought I ought to let the nice lady what knits WWs know what I needed them for (some of them come with two little pouches attached – not necessary for my purposes) so I sent her a message when I paid for them.

“At the risk of sounding implausible – I’ve actually bought two willy warmers for my big toe. It got badly crushed in an accident two months ago, I’ve lost the nail and can only wear boots with a hole cut out for the toe. It has a dressing on at all times – but it still gets cold and in the festive season a plain white dressing is a bit dull. Small size would do please? Thank you.”

I got this reply last night

“Oh bless you, I read your message last night when it came through and made me chuckle that you had to explain your reasons for purchase and the use they are for… well, it didn’t make me chuckle the reason.. (toe crushed) OUCH!
I think these will certainly brighten up your toe and hopefully keep it warmer than it is now. I have popped them in the post for you so hopefully they won’t take too long with the Christmas post!”

There are some very nice people about.

My breath of fresh air visited me yesterday, bringing the baby and the little star – who is a star at Maths now as well!  We had a lovely morning culminating in a well-fed baby crashing out on my shoulder.  The smell of a tiny baby’s head is so unique and innocent. College Boy stayed in bed all morning – he doesn’t do small children – they look at him in a funny way – and babies frighten the life out of him – phew!

The day continued to be special with a trip up to Crosby to watch the sun sink slowly behind the Standing Men and eat ice cream cones  with blood-red syrup, a flake and two different colours of sherbet – yes I know it was December 1st but it was nice and warm in our car.  Lovely Hub was happy because he’d just bought new tyres for the car and they were so quiet on the motorway that we could happily sing along to ‘Should I stay or should I go?’ without shouting.

Mmmmm – that song could be particularly relevant right now.

Nov 24 2012

The Angels want to wear my red shoes (well boots actually)

This is a total work of fiction and is in no way a reflection on anything happening in the real world. Any resemblance to life as we know it is the pure coincidence that occurs when fact and fantasy collide.

CENSORED

Nov 15 2012

“This above all: to thine own self be true”

Words passed to me by my Lovely Mum and which I hold to.  She would have laughed like a drain at this, then rallied our forces.  Integrity is a scarce commodity anyway but one which seems in short supply in some of the circles I have frequented.

In the immortal words of Chumbawumba – “I get knocked down but I get up again – ain’t nothing gonna bring me down.”

Uni Boy is back in my nest for the weekend and my conscience is clear – I shall sleep well tonight – and tomorrow?

Got writing to do

Got people to see

Got places to go

I’m free

Bring it on 🙂

 

Sep 26 2012

Bring it all back home – Days 6, 7 and 8 – Old friends, a place of solace, loving family and heading up North again

Thursday had been designated as recovery day.  We left College Boy in bed and drove the familiar route to Tesco to stock up on essentials and goodies, for Lovely Hub’s oldest friend was visiting at lunchtime with his five-year old daughter.  They were staying with his family for a few days so the timing was good.

CB had announced his intention of staying in bed all day because that London had taken it out of him – and besides – he didn’t like little kids – especially girls.  We were instructed not to disturb him until the house was clear of visitors again.

It was good to see such an old friend; good to see how his daughter had grown into such a bright, happy little girl and what a wonderful dad he had turned into. I was flagging by the time lunch was over but the three of them had boundless energy apparently so with my grateful blessing, they went off to the seashore and I – to my bed. Hub took his camera so I have photographic evidence of what a  good time they had; climbing on the rocks they both knew as children, teenagers and wayward young men.

My afternoon sleep was disturbed by a malfunctioning intruder alarm.  CB never heard a thing. I cooked dinner for Hub and me but CB prepared his own and put way too much hot stuff on it.  His overloaded system rebelled and he went off for another lie down so that when another of my cousins turned up that evening with her eldest son, CB was nowhere to be seen.  It didn’t really matter as he would undoubtedly have become restless.  Listening to us reminiscing and catching up on family news leaves him cold. The eldest of my Auntie P’s daughters, this particular cousin is especially cherished; we spent a great deal of time together when I was younger, she introduced me to volunteer work in a children’s home which ultimately led to my (sometimes) chosen career in social work.  She also introduced me to a man who worked there.  She fancied him but I got him  – although after a year of his grumbling and dissatisfaction, I dumped him on the day before New Year’s Eve by throwing a parcel of cooling chips in his lap and slamming his car door so hard that the window smashed.  During the year we were together we went for a week’s holiday in St Ives.  The high point of the holiday was coming home a day early.  Who would have thought that it was possible to argue from St Ives to Southampton without a break.

Apart from introducing me to the Welsh version of the Grinch and consigning me to a life of having to care about other people too much, my cousin has also been there for me in the most difficult of times; she and her mother drove all day to be there when my Lovely Mum had a stroke and came back two months later to support us at the funeral.  When Ronnie died she was there for us too, driving up in dreadful conditions with her new partner and another of my much-loved cousins.

I had smatterings of information from Facebook about her new partner and he was even better in actuality but my curiosity was piqued and I needed to know more. Like many of the people in my family, my cousin has overcome adversity and emerged phoenix-like from the flames.  In a brave but sensible decision, she and her husband put an end to a marriage that was no longer good for them. They have managed to stay friends and ensure that their children do not suffer from the break up as so many other children do.  She set about rebuilding her life; she ran, got slim and took up sailing, acquiring a whole new lifestyle in the process and much later, a new partner.

I admire her for her courage, for her tenacity and for the fact that she has always been a giver.  She looks extremely good right now, fit, healthy and with a natural tan to die for.  Just as it had on our second night, the talking went on till late, many questions were answered but  there was much laughter too. I managed to stay upright when walking this cousin out to her car. I slept well that night.

Our last full day and one that has a rosy glow of happiness around it.  CB had recovered from his hot stuff overdose of the night before and agreed to accompany us out to the Forest to visit Auntie P and some more of her family, another of my cousins, and the jewel in the crown for me – Exbury Gardens. A place that I go to in my head when everything else turns to mush.  There is something about Exbury that sums up the South of England; driving through the Forest to get there, the lush gardens and the Beaulieu river running through, the sound of the seagulls and tantalising glimpses of the sea and the Island beyond. Hub and I went there long ago, before the boys were born.  The image I hold in my head; sitting on a stone bench warmed by the sun, grass beneath my feet, a slight wind bringing the salty sea tang and the gull voices close by.  I can shut my eyes and be there whenever I need to but even the most vivid memories need refreshing.

Every time we go home for a week I intend to get back to Exbury but this time we managed it. We took Lovely Mum’s box of treasure with us and it was a delight to see Auntie P, her youngest daughter and her granddaughter rummaging through and finding items to enjoy and remember Mum by. CB was mollified by the presence of their dog (too small for him but a dog nevertheless).

We set off in convoy to Exbury; it was wonderful to see the vast stretch of heathland that epitomises the New Forest for me, and for Lovely Hub too.  CB couldn’t remember having seen it before and he’s right; he probably was a lot younger the last time we drove out this way.

Lunch in the tea shop at the Gardens and a very kind lady allowed us to sit in the annexe opposite the main cafe so that the dog could stay with us.  She was so well-behaved – unlike her human counterparts who did much laughing and scoffing of scones and Dorset Apple cake.  We decided that after lunch Auntie P and I – having a dodgy hip and a dodgy knee between us – would embark on the buggy ride round the Gardens, whilst the more active members – including the dog – took a leisurely stroll and met up with us later.

Our buggy driver was excellent; just the three of us on board, she was a wonderful elderly lady with a wealth of knowledge about Exbury and could sling that buggy round corners better than Lewis Hamilton.  We went into hidden nooks and crannies that most people never see.  I found the vista that I’d been longing for and my equilibrium was restored.

We bumped into the rest of the family a couple of times, then ravaged the gift shop for Exbury fudge and gluten-free biscuits to take back to work. Goodbye hugs all round and off for another family visit on the way home.

Just a few miles up the road and the home of my lovely cousin who held the big fat  family wedding of last year.  CB was in his element – another dog and this one was more frisky than the last, egged on by my cousin’s small son and a much-loved squeaky toy.  We were so comfortable that we stayed longer than planned.  The hardest part of this holiday has been the tearing away from people that we love so much and wish we had more time with.

Hamble called however and a visit from my big bruv and sister-in-law; a blissful end to an even better than hoped for week.  Well it would have been but there was an anguished call from UB, who had been off on a jaunt to Manch and managed to lose his door key.  We would normally leave a key with our friends and neighbours but forgot this time.  Very kindly they offered UB a bed for the night and I promised faithfully that we would set off early and get back home as soon as we could. Being the sleep-all-day student that he is, I could foresee a slight problem as our neighbours are often up and out with the lark now that they are retired.

Just before eleven that night I had a phone call from UB – fashion plate that he is – he was wearing skin-tight jeans.  so tight that he didn’t realise his door key had slipped into a hidden pocket, only to be found when he was getting ready for bed.  He said his ‘thank you’s’ nicely (he’s always polite – even when being fluently sarcastic) hopped over the garden wall and tucked himself up in his own bed at last.

Pressure off, packing up the next day was a rather more leisurely business,  and we didn’t leave till late morning, with a slight detour to say goodbye to  Mutti and Farty and check on their appliance wiring  – spaghetti junction in miniature. Lovely Hub sorted things out whilst  CB and I had a nice chat with Mutti, and I managed to leap into the car without have to touch skin with Farty at all.  He had annoyed me by calling me Miranda when I arrived – I am not at all convinced by the air of confusion he contrives. We escaped – la!

Lunch at Burger King and a very fast and uneventful journey home with Hub the only one awake – fortunately.  The horrendous task of unpacking the car and redistributing the piles of belongings around the house began – not to mention  the mountain of washing that had built up courtesy of the poor drying weather.

Family reassured that we are home and safe via phone, text and email; UB awake and bleary-eyed and once all the PCs and laptops are up and running, kebabs ordered and cider poured, we are content again – but oh, how we miss you lot down South xxxxxxx.

Sep 15 2012

Bring it all back home – Day 4 and 5 – Uni Boy departs, more Zorba’s kebabs and that London

So strange; we spent all morning listening to Sylv, Bruce and Jean about the machinations of the despised Doris, but I expected to feel sad or angry or any one of a hundred different emotions, but instead I felt elated and so did Hub.  All the guilt about not having managed to get Ronnie out of the hell ward and into a hospice seemed to fade away because we had found out about his past finally and the last piece of the mystery fell into place.

‘I must tell Mum what I’ve found out’  – but I can’t because she isn’t here to tell anymore – but I know that she knew all about what had happened to Ronnie and that’s why she fought so hard to clear his name.

We talked and smiled all the way back home – which was just as well because Uni Boy had taken FAR too long in the shower and College Boy was champing at the bit to begin his ablutions.  Oil was poured and the troubled waters subsided.  UB went back to his packing; he had already decided when we first planned this trip that a couple of days of family immersion would be enough and bought his own train ticket back home in advance.  He’s become something of a whizz on the train booking system and as well as getting a cheap ticket, he’d also acquired a £7.00 upgrade to First Class on one leg of the journey – free food and WiFi.

His minimalist worldly goods were packed into the car and the four of us hit the shopping mall – which seems to get bigger every time we visit but also has less shops that we are interested in.  Clothes were bought – well, it hadn’t been dry enough to hang out washing and there was no tumble dryer so retail therapy was the only answer – and we hit the Gadget shop so CB could buy silly things for his mates.  UB and I found a bookshop; our intent was to browse but neither of us could resist in the end and several pounds were spent.

Thence to the station to see UB off and to acquire our train tickets for going up to that London the next day.  UB had worked his wonders again and got us a good deal.  Hub was excited just at the prospect of letting the train take the strain all day.  CB was feigning boredom about the whole jaunt but I could tell that he was quite excited too.  Not just at the prospect of seeing London and going on the London Eye, but also having us to himself again – he’s really not good at sharing.

Hub and I need to make wills.  I know things are different these days and I don’t for one moment think that UB is as Machiavellian as dreadful Doris but if we’re leaving everything to the boys we need to ensure that CB doesn’t end up in Ronnie’s situation.  UB and CB don’t like each other much but I can’t see them being so cruel to each other. Or can I?

UB hugged and dispatched; tickets collected and the proximity of Zorbas too hard to resist.  CB also discovered a shop selling American produce and came back with his arms full of Twinkies and Hershey bars.

I usually forget something when we go away and this time it was my walking stick.  I don’t use it that often but after the hammering my poor knee has had over the past couple of weeks, it was something I really should have remembered.  An emergency trip to a camping shop and a choice between Norwegian hiking poles and a hunky bamboo job – we plumped for the latter and went home for the kebabs – which were just as good as they had been on Saturday – wonder if John would consider relocating to the North? CB muttered about the embarassment of my taking a walking stick to London but was roundly ignored.

UB isn’t especially noisy (unlike his younger brother) and I’ve got used to him not being around during term time, but it was a shame that he went back early and missed out on the London trip.  He needs his space though and compared to his Uni chums, we’re probably less good company – especially the loud, immature and sometimes totally obnoxious CB ( I love him really).

Wednesday morning dawns and the weather is dry but unpredictable.  The taxi takes us to Hamble station, unmanned and surrounded by fields.  We wait on the platform; confused by the items lying on the line.  Why are there three different odd shoes?  Are people in the habit of dropping just one shoe when they get off the train?  A Tippex bottle, apples in different stages of decay, soft drinks bottles and what looks like a pair of PE shorts keep the lonely shoes company.

CB (never at his most charming first thing in the morning) suggests that the odd shoes are grisly leftovers of people who’ve been horribly maimed by the third rail.  His father and exchange looks and decide not to go there.

When the little train arrives we get on and find ourselves in the quiet carriage.  This shows how provincial we are; I have read about the quiet carriage on Twitter and Facebook, have heard about people who sit there and get annoyed by other people who still chat loudly on their phones and play music so loud that leeches out of their earphones.  We have never experienced the quiet carriage before because we rarely do trains – buses – but not trains.

CB gets embarassed if Lovely Hub and I talk too loud (as in normal quiet conversation) so the quiet carriage is okay for us.  Hub and I have our own methods of communicating in front of the boys and words are often superfluous.

Unfortunately there is already a young man in the carriage who is shouting into a mobile in a language alien to all of us.  It’s amazing how quicklywe get annoyed at this blatant violation of the rules (but none of us is brave enough to say anything).  The ticket inspector comes along and says nothing – although the young man is on the phone as his ticket is being checked.  CB pulls that ‘Go On Mum, do something about it!’ face, so I quietly mention to the inspector that the young man seems unaware that he is in the quiet carriage.

Reluctantly, he walks back to the young man and shouts at him, gesticulating at the mobile phone with a cross through it sign; ‘Quiet carriage mate.  You aren’t supposed to use your phone in this carriage.  Understand?’  The young man obviously does because the rest of the journey is spent in quite blissful silence interrupted only by CB glowering at me for breathing too loudly and subsequently sniggering at his cross expression.

We have half an hour to kill at Southampton between trains.  UB has written me out a list of train timings in an efficiently quarter-Teutonic manner – his Oma would be very proud of him.  We decide to fuel up from the station cafe and this necessitates lots of stairs or the lift.  CB hates lifts so he stalks ahead and waits gloweringly on the far side platform whilst Hub and I negotiate a lift from platform two to three and then another from three to four.  We are probably far more excited about our day up in that London than he is  – and if he was excited his carefully cultivated adolescent persona would not permit him to show any pleasure anyway (the persona still slips occasionally).

We get drinks, go to the toilet and repeat the lift procedure.  Panic!  There is a train on platform two and the ticket collector indicates that it is bound for London so we jump on with moments to spare and find ourselves in another quiet carriage, but this one is full of people – all silent except for one teenage girl who starts off chattering n her phone but very quickly gets shushed by an elderly woman who sits next to her.  CB is in the seat in front of us this time so Hub and I can indulge in some handholding and hushed conversation.

It’s only when we stop at a station that we aren’t supposed to stop at that we realise that we have ignored UB’s timetable and jumped on the semi fast to Waterloo instead of the fast.  This doesn’t bother Hub and me because we like trains and the opportunity to stop at stations we knew so well as grumpy adolescents (that would be me not Hub) is an added bonus.  We decide not to tell CB about our mistake because it will only be another thing for him to get cross about.

It is lovely to see Waterloo station again after twenty-odd years (I said we were provincial).  I have many memories of  excited arrivals and exhausted departures – especially after going to gigs at the Hammersmith Odeon (as it was then) or the Marquee Club, dallying a little too long and finding that we’d missed the last train home and it was a couple of hours till the milk train would be departing.  Oh nostalgia!

There are several signs for the London Eye and Hub heads for the nearest.  I point out that there is (apt for the first day of the Paralympics) actually an exit for disabled people but that entails doubling back and I can see by the look on CB’s face that the option is not available. It’s quite a trek and involves a huge flight of steps where I hold up other travelers as my sore knee locks and means that I can only do one step at a time.  CB glowers at the foot of the steps; he has moved into ‘Oh God, I hate my embarrassing  parents mode’.

He perks up when we see the Eye however; Hub is busy snapping away with his new camera and once satisfied, goes off to collect our tickets.  CB and I perch on concrete bollards and watch the busy crowd as we wait. Hub returns with tickets for the Eye and the river cruise an hour later.  We join one of those snaking queues where people are separated by silver poles and ropes and you end up taking twenty minutes to move one hundred yards.  This queue is fast-moving however; we get stopped just as we reach the point where we have to cross over to another queue and the young man with the lanyard and walkie-talkie writes ‘FT’ on our tickets and indicates that we need to go to a different queue.  We have been fast-tracked and all because Mum bought a walking stick with her.

The staff we encounter from this point on are all very courteous and we are brought to the front where a young lady states that they can actually stop the Eye for me to get on and off if I want.  I don’t need this however.  I sit on the wooden seat in the middle of our pod happy to look through other people’s legs and arms whilst CB stands and Hub snaps happily with his new toy.

There is a German woman sat next to me, wearing a bulging rucksack .  She has no spacial awareness regarding her rucksack and in turning quickly to bark orders at her male and female companions, hits me with it, not just once but twice.  I slide over to a different position.  She decides to walk round the Eye and kick my sore leg at the same time.  CB wants me to deck her for this transgression but we are in a glass pod high above London and I am too entranced by what I see to care about revenge right now. i don’t evenmention the war.

I loved the Eye.  I could go round and round on it all day and still see new things.  Hub and CB are similarly impressed although CB does his best not to show it.  Reluctantly we climb off and move away from the throng, looking for somewhere to eat because it is just gone twelve and the river cruise is not for another hour yet.

The fine drizzle is upon us so we head into County Hall for shelter and food.  It is busy; we are still in the school holidays and the cafe is heaving.  I suggest we try the Chinese ‘stuff your face for just under seven quid’ cafe; when I see the grim interior I know that I have made a mistake but there is no going back.  We are committed.  The food is not good.  Hub manages to find something he likes, I pick dispiritedly at a bowl of sad-looking noodles and unidentified tempura, CB (who is still on one of his high protein make it up as I go along diets) picks and grumbles too. My outlook is even more influenced by the fact that I have been dipping into Giles Coren’s latest book and I dread to think of what he would make of this horrible place.

I go off in search of a toilet whilst my men are still getting through their seconds.  Not surprisingly, the toilets are down two flights of stairs.  There are two disabled toilets which double up as baby changing rooms.  There is a yellow cleaning cone outside them and they are both  locked.  I need the loo.  My knee is sore from being kicked by Frau Insensitive on the Eye, my lunch was deeply unsatisfactory, it is now raining heavily and I AM NOT A WOMAN TO BE CROSSED AT THIS POINT!

After a couple of false starts I find a member of staff who can unlock the toilets, which had been cleaned over an hour before but another staff member forgot to unlock them and remove the cone.  By this time there is a long queue; several wheelchair users and their helpers and a multitude of young women on mobile phones, chewing gum and accompanied by bright pink buggies and small children.

I wait my turn and come out to hear one such female muttering about having to wait whilst these cripples use the toilets, and how she hopes they don’t leave them dirty as she wants to change her baby’s nappy (I can smell her baby’s nappy.  It isn’t good).  I hurry away biting my tongue but catch the eye of a young girl in a wheelchair who grins at me, shakes her head and shrugs her shoulders in a resigned fashion that makes me even more ashamed of what I’ve heard.

Hub and CB have finished eating and I just want to get out of this horrible place.  We hurry (they hurry, I hobble) through the rain to the jetty and are told we can get on the next boat rather than wait till one o’clock. Another queue and my County Hall depression is deepened by the sound of what I think is a child blowing bubble gum and popping the bubbles loudly.  I won’t be able to bear that for a whole hour.

We get on the boat and find seats at the back, with a window seat for CB.  The bubble popper turns out to be an American male in his late twenties who really is old enough to have grown out of his irritating habit.  I resist the temptation to deck him too and relax as he heads for the front of the boat and out of my earshot.

Despite the rain, the river cruise is well worth the time.  A splendidly witty tour guide gives us a whole new slant on our surroundings, Hub is still happy-snapping and even CB makes the odd comment that indicates he is not totally hating his life at the moment.

Like the Eye, it is over all too soon and we are back out in the rain in not very suitable clothing.  The number of Gamesmakers has increased as the time for the opening ceremony for the Paralympics draws near.  We were going to stay on and have dinner in London but in a rare moment of mutual agreement have decided that we want to go HOOOOOOOME.  CB says he will only come to London again if we can guarantee that there will be no annoying people around.  Looks like he won’t be embarking on a further education course here then.

A pair of Gamesmakers direct us back to Waterloo; they are excited, cheerful and charming despite  the rain and as we trudge back to the safe haven of the station, we find that there is a mere thirty minutes before our train.  Time enough to  find some meat for CB and a reviving mocha for me so thatwhenwe get on the rather busy train, we can cope with the fact that we are in a loud carriage.  I apply my anitidote to stress and doze off, secure in the knowledge that Lovely Hub will prod me if I snore and wake me in good time so that I won’t stumble  off the train bleary-eyed, blinking and confused.

Back in Southampton we find that we have missed out connection and there is another hour to wait before the next train.  CB is looking as if he will explode so I persuade an initially reluctant Hub that a taxi back to Hamble is the only  solution.  We are too tired to wait on the platform for another hour and the bus station is miles away.  He is persuaded thankfully, we have a lovely driver who likes planes and the two of them chat happily about air travel whilst CB and I veg out in the back of the taxi.

We had promised to take CB out for a decent steak and fully intended to accomplish this in that London.  Luckily Southampton had a suitable restaurant and we ended up there later that evening.  CB was happy.  he had real meat.  UB texted me to say that the  house was still standing.  We drove home across the Itchen Bridge, admired the blue lights and snorted at the executive dwellings that are going up on the old Vospers site.  Our  Hamble house felt very welcoming, although the sight of UB’s empty room made me feel slightly choked.  Nevertheless we all survived and had a good day.  So good to be back home again.

Sep 9 2012

Bring it all back home – Day 4 – Named and shamed – Ronnie’s story

Tuesday morning, the boys are in bed, Hub and I are off to the sticks.

My much-missed step-dad Ronnie had a history that I only picked up in small pieces over the years.  I knew that he had an older brother who had done the dirty on him in some way, that he had left Ronnie with debts that my Mum spent two years fighting with tax man over – and won – GO Mum!   I also know that my Mum tracked his relatives to Mallorca and wrote to them asking them to get in contact with Ronnie – not about the money but because they were his family.

She must  have got too close for comfort because they moved to Australia.  Always indomitable, she tracked them down again and wrote to them – again.  Still no response.

Ronnie  married my Mum back in 1972 when he was a hospital porter and she was on the hospital switchboard.  They were great friends with two couples who Ronnie had known for many years.  I heard about them but only met one of the couples and that was a long time ago.  Even after they moved up North, Mum kept in touch and they exchanged Christmas cards.  One couple parted company but that’s Sylvia’s story and not mine to tell.  When Mum died from a stroke in 2009, Jean, one of  the other couple, also had a stroke but she was more fortunate and although she has some paralysis on her left-side and has to use a wheelchair, her faculties are still razor-sharp.

Ronnie  kept in touch with Sylv and got regular updates on Jean and her husband Bruce.  He sent her one of our family Christmas cards every year so although we had never met, she knew what we looked like and what we’d all been up to.

It wasn’t easy summoning up the courage to phone and  tell her that Ronnie had died.  She made it a lot easier for me though.  We talked a great deal about Ronnie and Mum, and I promised that I’d look out some photos of Ronnie and visit her when we went down South in August.  Listening to that real Hampshire burr made me feel even more determined  to fulfill a promise that I made to Ronnie when Mum died – to try to track down his family down one last time.

Sylv was all I’d hoped she would be and was delighted with the photos, but confessed that it was Bruce and Jean who knew more about Ronnie than she did.  So she phoned them and five minutes later the three of us were off into even deeper Hampshire to pick Jean’s brains.

As soon as I saw them the memory of their faces and voices came back.  I still have no idea of when or where  we met but they hardly seemed to have changed.  Compared to Farty’s dithering and Mutti’s deafness, here were three people in their late seventies- early eighties who were very much on the ball and ready to fill in the gaps of Ronnie’s life for me.

So – set this down – Ronnie Milnthorpe was born in Romsey, Hampshire and had an older brother called Derek.  Their mother came from Cleveleys near Blackpool and was said to be a very astute businesswoman.  They owned a greengrocery business  in Commercial Road, Southampton and lived in a big house at the Bassett end of Burgess Road. Their father worked as a draughtsman on Spitfires at the Supermarine factory in Woolston, Southampton.  Ronnie was said to take after his dad, kind-hearted and a bit of a dreamer but always a stickler for payment if you came into the shop and wanted just an apple or something. Bruce used to deliver fruit and veg to the shop  and that’s where his friendship with Ronnie began.

Derek was called up and joined the army; the day after his eighteenth birthday Ronnie was on a train to Warrington to join the RAF. While they were away their mother died – no details known  – but shortly afterwards their father died and some said it was from a broken heart.  Derek – as the older son – was released from the army and came home to run the shop. At that time he was devoted to Ronnie apparently.

Derek met a girl called Doris; no need to name where she came from but Derek was definitely considered a catch in her eyes.  She fell pregnant and they got married; their son was called Raymond and later they had a girl called Sandra – or Sandy.  Doris didn’t like Ronnie.  Whilst he was still in the RAF she got Derek to sell the house that had been left to both sons jointly and used the money to buy a big house in Bullar  Road, Bitterne.  the house has been knocked down now and flats put up in its place.  When Ronnie came home Doris refused to let him live in the house that was half his and he was sent to live on the other side of town in a B&B.  According to my trio of informants, Derek loved his brother but it was Doris who ruled the roost.

They sold the house in Bullar Road and moved to Crawley where Derek opened a betting shop.  The greengrocers was sold to buy more betting shops, and all this happened whilst Ronnie was gravely ill in hospital.

According to Jean, Ronnie was walking past a pub when a fight broke out inside, spilled out onto the pavement and Ronnie was knocked to the floor banging his head against the concrete paving.  He was in a coma and by the time he recovered, his livelihood was gone and all the wordly goods left to the two brother had come into Doris’s scheming hands. Ronnie went from being the owner of his own shop to being a poorly paid porter living in a council flat.  Cheers Doris.

Derek sold his four betting shops to the William Hill chain at a tidy profit; he sold the house in Crawley too and without telling Ronnie where he was going, he packed the money into a suitcase and drove to Newhaven with Doris and the children. They travelled overland avoiding major ports and eventually settled in Mallorca.

I have a postcard of Mallorca from Ronnie’s niece Sandy, dated 22 August 1969.  Ronnie’s birthday.  She says that there are no birthday cards in Mallorca so the postcard will have to do.  She says it is lovely there and that she’ll be sorry to leave. She signs it from Sandy, Mum and Dad – wonder what happened to Raymond?

Years later Mum and Ronnie went to Mallorca – ostensibly for a holiday but Mum wanted to try to  find Ronnie’s family for him.  By that time she had convinced the tax man that Ronnie had played no part in Derek’s fraud and that all the money owed and the proceeds from the sale of the businesses and house had gone out of the country in Derek’s suitcase.

Jean, Bruce and Sylv all blame Doris.  Apparently she and Derek didn’t just do the dirty on Ronnie, there were several other business partners that they left high and dry as well.  As far as we know, Sandy married and stayed in Mallorca, Derek died and Doris went to Australia with Raymond who had been set with an electrical business there.

I want to get in touch with Raymond and Sandy.  To tell them what a lovely man their uncle was and how they have really missed out on not having him in their lives.  He may have lost his blood family but courtesy of my Mum, Ronnie became a much-loved part of our big family.  He made a success of his life and despite being left with nothing because of the conniving Doris, he dabbled in stocks and shares and showed that he had indeed inherited some of his mother’s business acumen.

If my Mum, without the doors that have been opened by the Internet, could track down Ronnie’s family, then I’m sure that I can too.  Too late for his inheritance – that’s long gone – and thanks to his common sense they have no claim on his estate now – that goes to the people who loved him.  To his real family. Here’s to Ronnie – Here’s to us.