PARTHURBLOG

An overheard life story:

“She always loved the flute, right from an early age. She practiced and practiced and practiced – went through the grades like a knife through butter. She was a natural. Then she had the chance to try out for 2nd flute with the Liverpool Philharmonic.

“So she went up for the audition, and there were two hundred others who’d turned up.  She didn’t even play; she just turned around and came straight back home. And from that day she never picked up the flute again.

“She’s happy enough now (this happened several years ago). But we’re still not allowed to talk about what happened that day.”

Popularity: 13% [?]

Mid-life affects people in many different ways: from an office fling to a Harley Davidson and a ponytail to giving it all up and going to find ‘truth’ up a mountain.

For me, it’s getting back on a racing bike.

Of course, it’s not called a racing bike any more; it’s a road bike. But the drop handlebars,  the tiny mudguards and the derailleur gears are the same.

But not the technical clothing. Oh no; now a man can’t get on two wheels without suitable padding in suitable regions,  his on-bike computer or – most obviously – his helmet.

LIFE CYCLE

So what’s prompted the return to the saddle – thirty years since I parted company with the beautiful Carlton Corsa that my parents had previously bought me for passing my 11-plus?

Like any other mid-life philosopher, it’s the feeling of mortality.

My father had heart surgery last year. He’d suffered a couple of black-outs (mini-strokes, called TIAs) which finally resulted in keyhole surgery, then a pacemaker.

That in turn set me reflecting on the heart surgery I had as a child to correct coarctation of the aorta (basically, the main valve was closing up).  In the early 1960s, things were a little more risky. And rather than going in through a keyhole, the cardiac team opened up my chest, sawed apart the sternum, then pin and sewed my back together, leaving  a salmon pink zipper down my front. I haven’t really thought about it for many years, but Dad’s op bought it all back into focus and I am prompted to do something to say ‘thank you’ to the team that, literally, saved my life.

Too little, too late?  Perhaps – but each according to his means.

Hence I’m back on the bike and will be riding from London to Brighton in June this year to raise money for the British Heart Foundation, And perhaps help another child born with a heart defect.

A HEART-FELT PLEA

So I have new wheels, a spiffy heart monitor that tells me exactly how unfit I am, and a pair of figure-hugging leggings that frankly shouldn’t be worn in public.

It’s all just 10 weeks away, and as I sit here after this morning’s training ride, my body is telling me that it will be ready in 5-to-6 months.

So the race is on – physical readiness v funds raised.

It’s a fair bet that  the money will cross the fine before I do. I’m confident that my very generous friends and colleagues will pay handsomely  for the vicarious pleasure of knowing the pain I’ll be experiencing in the final hill-climb into Brighton.

If you’d like to share in that warm, slightly sadistic glow, please click HERE.

And thanks.

Popularity: 23% [?]

Let’s start with the brief life of Amelia Maggs. Born 1885, she is the daughter of Ephriam Maggs – a plater – and his second wife, Sarah.

In the 1891 census, Amelia is listed as living at home in Southampton, the youngest of eleven children. We know very little about her circumstances, but can assume it is a life of poverty. At least she’s with siblings and parents; a decade later, it’s a very different picture.

The 1901 census lists her as an inmate at the Stoneham Union Workhouse. She is 16 years old and a domestic servant. We know that she marries three years later, and having survived the Great War, she dies on 22 February 1919 – aged 34 – a victim of the Great Flu Epidemic.

And we know one more fact about her; on 28 November 1918, she gave birth to a daughter. Gwendoline.

*

As we sit, well-clothed, well-fed and with loved ones both here and at home, it’s easy to forget the severity of the world into which Gwen / Mum / Nana / Great Grandma was born. It was not the most auspicious of starts. She was a link to a very different world.

For me, as an outsider to the gene pool now gathered in this room, it was learning about Amelia Maggs that set everything in context, and helped me truly value so many of Gwen’s qualities:

Her pragmatism. Her directness. Her belief that everything should be just so. Her generosity. And her appreciation of all the blessings that eventually came her way.

For, despite the difficulties of her early life, the second half was filled with happiness which she really savoured:

- Her love and friendship from Jan, her granddaughter – one of the most constant figures in her life;

- At 72, finding late love with John Day, her husband for the next 14 years;

- Reuniting and reconciling with sons Peter (living virtually around the corner) and Chris (with a life on the other side of the world), and seeing that they had found love, stability and companionship with their wives, Christine and Mary, and had thriving families of their own;

- Her good fortune at the care, comfort and shelter provided by her loving daughter Sue and Trevor here in Cornwall;

- And – what she considered her greatest good fortune – getting to know her six great grandchildren.

*

Of course, all of this is a two-way street – for every blessing she counted, so ought we for having known her. Over the past 10 days, you will have had opportunity to reflect, as you will continue to do over the coming weeks and months.

Here are some of the memories she has bequeathed me – for even the smallest actions can cause profound ripples across the pond of time.

*

Thanks to Gwen, I am a vegetarian.

More years ago than I care to remember, I was invited to lunch by my new girlfriend, Janice. We were teenage sweethearts, and desperately trying to make a good impression. I was introduced to Nana, who was busy in the kitchen, preparing the traditional Sunday roast.

Now, you need to know one piece of information about me to make this story work. At the time, my appetite for vegetables ran from potatoes to peas, via carrots. That was it. A limited basket indeed.

We sat to eat, and Nana started to serve. Chicken (that‘s OK), roast potatoes (check) , peas (check), carrots (check), swede (oh dear). The mashed orange turnip. I ate the rest of the meal with gusto, as teenage boys are wont to do, but left the swede to one side. At which point Gwen took deep offence, and adopting her best Lady Bracknell voice, said

“I hope you’re not going to waste that. Come on, eat up young man.”

I forced myself to comply, gagging on every mouthful. Meanwhile Jan prayed for the ground to open up and swallow her too.

Yet without that moment, my diet would be very different today, and life wouldn’t be quite as interesting.

For that alone, I owe Gwen a considerable thanks.

*

Of course, food wasn’t the only platform from which Gwen could launch a major embarrassment offensive. Stealing from the National Trust and Municipal Councils was also a regular habit. As families tend to do, Sue and Jan created a friendly-sounding euphemism for this petty larceny: Wombling.

Picture the scene; an afternoon spent at a country house or park and gardens; then back to the car to go home. But where’s Nana? Back through said garden, looking high and low, to eventually find her “Wombling” amongst the bushes, taking cuttings for future propagation.

So, as we leave today, keep an eye on Jan. If she gets too near any flowers, and starts to open her handbag, please restrain her. We don’t want a scene.

*

It’s not just outdoor pursuits that Gwen has left me. Thanks to her, I am also a puzzleholic.

When Jan and I used to visit her in Shirley, there was very little for me to say or do. Frankly, it wasn’t easy to get a word in edgeways. So, like the patient in a waiting room, I looked for something to read. And in the absence of What Car or Digital Photography, I found myself flicking through The People’s Friend. Not perhaps a publication aim at 20-something males, but at least  it was reading material.

And there I learned the valuable lesson that you can find gold in the most unexpected places – because I discovered Gwen’s almost-finished crossword.

“Nana – I think I have 9 across. Do you want to know the answer?”

Thereafter, every visit to Gwen included a crossword completion test for me, and I got the bug. Most mornings now Jan and I compete to get the answers on The Guardian Quick Crossword.

Gwen would be proud: Jan usually wins.

*

So thank you Gwen, for the impact you had on me. While you may never have directly interfered – that wasn’t your style – your influence has been wide and long-lasting.

And it’s rather fitting that someone who spent their working life as a cook should leave behind such a rich recipe for a happy life:

· count your blessings

· eat good food

· do a crossword everyday

· and never, ever miss an opportunity to go Wombling.

* * *

CODA: I was due to give this at Gwen’s funeral, scheduled for 10:30 this morning, but the elements (and Cornish hills) conspired against us: when the hearse can’t get to the Chapel of Rest, you know you have a problem.

With her two sons in situ but with tight travel plans (the one from Australia happened to be in the UK for a wedding), the Minister conducted an improvised commemoration in my in-laws’ home, when Gwen had lived for the past 5 years.

It was one of the most intimate, meaningful services it has ever been my privilege to be part of. And three siblings – who had spent most of their adult lives not knowing the others even existed – shared a moment that, in some way, makes them more complete people.

How about that for a legacy?

Popularity: 50% [?]

This may have escaped your attention, but November was National Novel Writing Month – NaNoWriMo.

It’s an online initiative run out of the US, to encourage would-be writers (aka slackers who talk a good story) to finally, finally, finally shut up about it and put words on paper.

The goal is straightforward : 50,000 words in 30 days. The route equally simple : 1,667 words a day.

After years of procrastinating at a world-class level, I bit the bullet on 1 November, got up an hour earlier than usual, and wrote my first slab of text. And that’s all it was, a slab. As Truman Capote said of Kerouac’s ‘On the Road’ scroll: “That’s not writing, that’s typing.”

This morning, 29 days later without missing a day, I reached the finishing line. 50,482 words of typing. Bad typing.

Oh, there are a couple of moderately interesting characters; there’s a sort of plot; there’s the possibility of a resolution; there are some good jokes; there’s some musings on life and the world; and none of it is in any way related to what I had in mind when I set out.

And I don’t care. Like the runner who comes 8,234th in the London Marathon, all that matters is completing the race. I showed up, every day.

There have been some days when it has flowed like golden syrup; there have been a lot more when it’s been an utter, unforgiving slog. While I haven’t re-read any of it, I know that there are one or two really good paragraphs (they’ll be the first to go – ‘Murder your darlings’ advised Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch) and a lot of repetition. When the blue pencil comes out, I’ll be lucky if 20% stays.

And I don’t care. Every morning I have been down the ideas mine and cut out some raw material, blocks of words that now need shaping and honing and polishing. Somewhere in there are the notions of a book. And if not, then a LOT of blog postings (you’ll be delighted to hear).

So why go public with this; why bask in my own wonderfulness?

Because, as any regular reader knows, the standard form of ‘the novel’ is over 100,000 words. Even if everything created in the past month were the outpourings of a Pulitzer Prize winner, I’d only halfway there. In truth, I’m less than a tenth of the actual distance.

I don’t want to lose momentum. I shall be up tomorrow morning, doing my 1,667 words, and when I reach 100,000, it’ll be time for a break and a review: Is there anything worth keeping, or do I start afresh?

Douglas Adams was so skilled at missing deadlines that his agent once locked him in a room for three days to get a contracted book finished. Despite best of intentions, some of us need that sort of external threat to keep us on the straight and narrow.

You – dear blog reader – are now the other half of an emotional contract with me. I shall report back on 31 December.

I hope it’s not with my tail between my legs.

Popularity: 44% [?]

We’re all familiar with the happily married man who suddenly takes off with a bright young thing half his age. Or the 50-something who gets it into his head to grow a ponytail and take a Harley across America. Or the appearance of permatan, new teeth and a speedboat.

The midlife crisis can hit a man in a number of different ways. There are as many variations of this as there are cod-psychology books verbosely explaining about "maturation" or "getting in touch with the troubled soul" or "discovering the long-forgotten hidden child."

Personally, it’s been about completion. There’s always been a tiny piece of me missing.

TOO MANY LETTERS

It’s my mother’s fault; she was too thoughtful: For 27 years she’d skipped through life with a 5-letter maiden name. It never took her more than a moment to write it. But ‘Rutherford’ – well that presented an altogether different proposition. It was twice as long. And all those loops: R, h, e,f,o,d – a fountain pen could run out three-quarters of the way through. Mother was a victim (at least in her mind) of repetitive strain injury before Health and Safety had even thought of the idea. Indeed, before Health & Safety had even been thought of.

So as she lay in the Nursing Home, having delivered me to the world, she still didn’t haven’t a clue what I was to be called (I was supposed to have been a girl, you see). But she knew it was going to be short. It had to be. Saddling her new son with Nathaniel or Bartholomew or Marmaduke would have meant a lifetime of writing novellas at the bottom of cheques.

So, thanks to Mr McCartney ( I am of that era), in a spur of the moment I became Paul. And that was that. No middle name. No family monicker to continue tradition. Just Paul.

IF THE CAP FITS

The first time I became aware of my empty middle was in the Cubs. In the lining of my cap was a label upon which I had to write my name. One particularly boisterous evening, when we were throwing caps at each other like supporters at a 1930s Cup Final, I checked the labels of a few others.

Peter N, Graham S, Michael P, Ian W. Everyone seems to have a middle initial. Everyone except me.

Feeling decidedly inferior,  I added a ‘C’ in mine with a felt tip pen. C for Craig, after Craig Sterling in "The Champions". I thought it might increase my chances with Alexandra Bastedo, should she ever become Brown Owl.

The inferiority complex grew deeper after I passed the 11-plus and started at grammar school. As a very traditional establishment, it published a school list with names of the entire teaching staff and all the pupils. And everyone had a  personal alphabet.

Except me. Like a contestant on Blockbuster, all I had was a P.

THE MAN WITH THE CHILD IN  HIS EYES

The feeling abated during my 20s (although I had a couple of twinges at friends’ weddings, when the full cocktail of nomenclature was announced to the congregation. William Rupert – you know who you are.)

Then my own children came along, and I was determined that they should have a full, rich combination to play with, mix and match, write on application forms, put in text books and have read out at Speech Days.

The first one got Alexander, for no other reason that it went with his already-chosen first name, and made him sound like a Radio 4 announcer (not his voice; just his name). The second was awarded John, as he does have a long first name, and we thought this was a good complement.

Finally, my daughter got Ann – without the ‘e’, just like my Mother and my wife (who has a third name, and has made a point of subtly reminding me of that on every formal document we have ever signed together. It is the little victories that keeps a marriage fresh. So she says.)

So for almost 20 years, I have lived in a house bursting with names. Even the dog had several, for pedigree reasons.  Passports, medical cards, insurance forms, cheque books, examination certificates – everywhere I have turned, there have been letters and names flashing and dancing like the LED displays in the financial district.

And just when you thought they’d all flashed by, there as my solitary P.

MIND THE GENERATION GAP

The possibility of filling the gap was first mooted in the run-up to my 40th birthday. Someone had the bright idea of  the children buying me another name (that is to say, pay the £20 fee for a Deed Poll addition). I thought it had great symmetry about it; I had, after all, been instrumental in name them, so why not give them the chance to return the blessing?

But the notion withered when all they could come up with was ‘Eminem’, ‘Vader’ and ‘Pokemon’. Needless to say, I didn’t encourage them, and the idea quietly dropped.

I would have left it at that; there are, after all, greater problems in life to fill the worry corner of one’s mind. Until I came across a box of photos in my Father’s loft, and they re-lit the touchpaper.

For a few months I got the genealogy bug, and started mapping my family tree. While one branch now goes back to 1650, there are no real skeletons nor spurious claims to the throne. But there are lots of names. Lots and lots of names, often owned by one person. Ethel Milvina Jane or Thomas William Henry; Eliza Leonora or Frederick George; Austin George Willoughy or Septimus Ralph (and yes, he was a seventh son).

I didn’t really give this a lot of thought as I was unearthing them and mapping the relationship between them. But it obviously had an effect as a couple of months ago I announced over the family dinner table  that finally, after years of letting it niggle at the back of my mind, I was finally going to get the papers and fill in the personal blank that had bugged me for so long.

And so on 8 October I received the confirmation letter from UK Deed Poll that I am no longer plain Paul Rutherford. The chasm between those two words has finally been bridged, thanks to the name of my maternal grandfather and great-grandfather (pictured).

I am now Paul Arthur Rutherford. And I think I may have grown up.

Popularity: 44% [?]

Amber left yesterday.

She’d been with us for 7 years (a birthday present for my wife), and at the time I couldn’t picture life with a dog in the house. Now I’m having to come to terms to life without her…

She’d been ill for about six months. During one routine inspection, we noticed a very inflamed patch at the back of her throat.  Veterinary check-ups, followed by a operation by a oncologist,  revealed a tumour at the back of her soft palette. It was the size of a plum: To this day, I can’t imagine how  she was managing to swallow.

After the op, the surgeon warned us that the cancer type was recurring and Amber had months, possibly a year or two, but that was unlikely. Wisely, my wife decided that long, drawn-out treatment wasn’t an option. There would be little point in clinging on and putting the dog through protracted suffering.

We hoped for a longer remission. It turned out to be a couple of months.

A couple of weeks ago, I’d taken Amber for a walk and noticed that she was really strugging on the home straight.  I know that animals slow down with age, but she had retained a bouncing, puppy-like quality. To see her struggle was a real shock.

When we arrived home, she flopped in the hallway (not unusual) but then we noticed a very large bump by her shoulder. Sure enough, it was another growth. In the days that followed, swallowing again became uncomfortable for her, and she struggled with her breathing. Our vet told us that all the symptoms indicated that she had tumours in various parts of her body.

And yet, and yet…

On occasions she would as lively as her first days with us. Tail wagging like a windscreen wiper, eyes shining like Asprey silver. How could this animal be ill?

But then she started coughing blood, and we knew she was at the end.

The veterinarian profession is very sensitive and sympathetic about these things. Our local practitioner offered us the option of ‘putting her to sleep’ in the surgery or at home. Amber never did like riding in the car, so we opted for the latter. The vet and her nurse arrived yesterday afternoon, and were gentle yet efficient. This is not a process that should be extended.

Amber laid submissively in the kitchen (we have a floor to ceiling window that was ‘her spot’ where she would soak up the sun. Fittingly, it was a sunny day). The vet shaved a little hair off  her front legs then told us that the injection was an  anaesthetic overdose; all Amber would know was that she was falling asleep.

I have always been somewhat suspicious – not to say cynical – about the anthropomorphic tendencies of pet owners. But I am sure I could see in her eyes that she knew this was going to be a respite from her pain. Indeed, there was barely a whimper when the first needle went in. She pulled back a little, but without real fight, and in a moment – perhaps 20 seconds – her golden-haired body visibly slumped.

To be sure, the vet added to the dose in her other front leg. And by the time the syringe was empty, Amber had gone.

The two of us, teary, a little numb, said goodbye then retired to the sitting room while the vet and the nurse wrapped Amber’s body in a blanket and carried her out to their car. They will dispose of the body at a pet ‘facility’ and we’ll have a her remains back in a week or so.

I thought I was fulfilling my role of strong male, holding things together to give my wife some support.  Amber was, after all, her dog and she was the one who’d taken the tough decision (thus answering the conundrum ‘Do you love someone enough to let me go?’).

Being English, the thing to do in these circumstances is to have a cup of tea, so after the vet had gone I went into the kitchen to boil the kettle. And there, on the table, was Amber’s collar. Red leather, rather worn, with its metal disc with our phone number.

And in that moment, I saw every occasion when I had clipped on her lead or pulled her back to sit at the side of the road. Every walk to the park, every wrestle with a football in the garden, every conversation started with a stranger.

And it hurt much more than I ever thought it would.

It’s the unanticipated gaps which amplify the grief. This morning we didn’t have to negotiate with her whether she’d go out the backdoor or the side door to visit the garden. When the top came off the biscuit barrel, she didn’t suddenly appear at my side, the embodiment of attentive obedience (aka cupboard love). I didn’t have to step over her on the landing.

But it was seeing the weekend paper in the letterbox that really caught in my throat. The paperboy had delivered – but this time, to a silent reception.

And I realised that for seven years Amber’s bark – like birdsong – had announced the start of the day.

Mornings just won’t be the same.

Popularity: 28% [?]

On a visit to my local coffee shop to grab some lunch I ran into Ivor, one of the neighbourhood eccentrics.

There’s something of a garden gnome about him; he’s quite small, very crumpled and has a face that’s been sculpted in clay. Like Robin Cook, without the beard.

‘Hello Ivor,’ I hailed.

“Hello. I know you, don’t I?” In truth, most people avoid Ivor, so he’s always grateful for a conversation. “You’re the man with cats.”

My brow furrowed. ‘No Ivor. You’re getting me confused with someone else.’

“You’re the one with cats. You’ve got two cats.”

‘No I haven’t.’

“Yeeees you have. A tabby and a ginger.”

‘No Ivor really, I don’t have cats. Not at all.’

He stared at me, blankly, trying to reconcile his version of the truth with my strenuous denial.

“Are they dead, then? Well, you didn’t  look after them very well, did you?”

He stood up, adjusted his cap, thrust his hands into his pockets and strode out of the shop, passing two old dears on their way in, who sat at the next table to me.

Ivor turned and hollered: “You wanna watch out, you know. The cat protection people will be after you. Killing cats.”

I spent the next ten minutes avoiding eye contact with a couple of Medusa’s great aunts.

Popularity: 3% [?]

The Visitor’s Guide to Music Exhibitions

My sons recently persuaded me to accompany them to the International Music Expo at the ExCeL Centre (’accompany’ – translation: pay for, feed and negotiate on behalf of).

No matter how hard one tries to ‘keep up’ with teenage vocabulary (’Jokes’. ‘Trust’. ‘Legend’), it becomes clear pretty quickly that frankly, you just don’t have a clue. You might think that you’ve just tuned-in, but in reality they’ve moved onto the next big thing after the one which was the next big thing after the big thing that you’ve just grasped.

In other words, you’re always at least two days behind.

So I have decided to change strategy. Rather than try to keep up with the next generation, I’m starting a new vocabulary for us parents that will give us a shorthand to describe the world that our off-spring inhabit. Use these in conversation, and watch their worried little faces become confused and wonder if they’re missing out on the cutting edge.

Here’s a starter list of tribes that I saw at the Expo:

SARNIES: pumped-up, close-cropped, shade-wrapped hunks of meat in singlets, leather trousers and motorcycle boots who sit completely motionless on the train, hoping to intimidate all those around. Look in their backpacks, and you’ll find that their Mums have sent them out with a light lunch wrapped in cling-film (”something for the journey”).

PINHEADS: would-be rockers whose individuality and anarchistic leanings can only be expressed by adorning their faces with metal decoration – using the same patterns, the same studs and the same chains as their friends who are also in the Cashpoint queue.

NITS: young men who wear droopy woollen hats for no reason; they are not Rastafarians, it is not cold, nor is it Christmas. Probably part of a Dutch religious cult, worshipping Father Abrahams

PEACE CORE: a sub-culture of child crime. By making the noise of the real thing completely unbearable at home, under-8s blackmail their parents into buying a £500 – £1000 digital drumkit (comprising of near-silent rubber hubcaps).

PLUGGERS: seasoned Expo-attendees (usually middle-aged men manning the stands) who know that the event organisers allow 10 minutes of free-form kit demonstration at ten-to the hour, every hour. If you’re really nice to them, they’ll let you have a pair of ear inserts that they ‘borrowed’ from an airline.

EVERESTS: musicians who have decided that playing an instrument well is not enough of a challenge, and who go out of their way to make it as difficult as possible (eg the inventor, manufacturer and world’s-only-exponent-of the 9-string bass guitar whose fingers aren’t long enough to reach all nine strings).

PIANOT: a group who think that because a computer has a keyboard, it is a musical intrument, and who believe that recording bloopy-bleepy sounds in the bathroom is just as skilful as playing a Fender Stratocaster.

Popularity: 15% [?]

Waiting.

My father in the Short Stay Coronary unit for an angiogram and CAT scan. Gowned, tagged and sampled, he lays on a bed that has more controls than a JCB cabin, watching cars queue for £20-a-day parking.

Two maintenance men fitting new ‘Max Headroom’ signs above the car park entrance. Of course, for Dad they are making a bad job of it.

‘Makes my blood boil,’ he says. Judging by the screen above his bed, it’s almost a literal statement.

Waiting.

A man in a white shirt arrives to wheel Dad to the scanning room. “How long will it take?” I ask.

“Don’t know. I just wheel ‘em. You’d better ask the nurse.” Foot levers are pushed, and Dad glides away, a human liner launched on its voyage into unchartered waters. A nurse tells me “an hour, an hour and a half”.

Waiting.

I find coffee at the Main Entrance: Hawkers and vendors with their cappuccinos and cakes, their burgers and books, their flowers and french fries. A mini mall of consumption to help pass the time.

There’s even a legal practice; a solicitor who got smart and gave up chasing ambulances. Now they come to him. He waits by the front door, personal injury forms partially complete: just sign here, here and here.

I buy a  black coffee and a brie baguette. “Do you want a packet of crisps or a banana with that?” There’s a meal deal, and I can have a free packet of crisps or a banana. It’s Hobson’s choice: I’m in a hospital; there are ‘5 Portion’ posters everywhere and my conscience is fruit-shaped.

Waiting.

Back on the unit,  I find Dad laying prone on his bed, recovering. The procedure – a tube inserted through his groin, along a main artery, to the aorta – has been painless but uncomfortable, so now he must rest.

Waiting.

A junior nurse – her light blue uniform showing her place in the pecking order – tells Dad to drink a jug of water to flush out the dye from his system. She offers a cup of tea with a straw, and a cheese sandwich. She raises the back of his bed 15 degrees.

Outside, the car queue dwindles. The workmen have finished the signs. We watch people walk to and from their vehicles.

A doctor arrives to speak with a man in another bed. Curtains are drawn, voices murmur about a murmur, curtains are pulled back. The man’s wife casts an apologetic, it’s-not-so-bad smile at Dad.

He says his feet are cold; are his slippers on the floor? I find them behind the drawer unit, kicked there by the porter, and stand at the end of the bed, pull back the blanket and put them on Dad’s feet, dark coatings for pale plates.

Waiting.

Another doctor. This one introduces himself; a cardiologist who confirms what we already know. Dad needs surgery. His aorta has dilated, restricting the supply of blood to the brain, and causing blackouts. It’s a replacement operation, too big for a stent.

Dad takes this in his stride – because it isn’t the bad news he is fearing. That comes in the next breath. “I have to advise you that until you’ve had the operation, you mustn’t drive.”

The metrics on the screen all change in an instant. Fifty years of professional self-respect and personal pleasure have just ended. His heart has been ripped out.

Waiting.

Cars leave the car park. Dad is now sitting upright. Another nurse, in darker blue, looks at his charts and asks if he would like to go to the sitting room. “Can we get his clothes from the locker?” I ask.  Not yet; just sit.

I help Dad on with his dressing gown, like wrapping a fragile parcel. We walk slowly to an open area, with salmon seating arranged against the walls.

The waiting room is new; no scuffs on wall or skirting, no rips in the chairs, no smell of hospital.

Waiting

The patients sit in hospital robes, their white porcelain legs capped with socks and slippers, received at Christmas, like every Christmas past.

A father, wife and son huddle in one corner, sharing a joke. Along the wall, a couple sit; he asleep, she staring straight ahead. Connected by hands, clinging to each others’ memories.

To my left, a lonely man reads a book and twitches his arm back and forth like a metronome.  Opposite, a well-dressed woman struggles with The Times crossword.

Waiting.

We’re told to take  gentle walks up and down the ward, every fifteen minutes. Without conscious arrangement, the seven patients take it in turns, a slow-mo relay without a baton.

I stroll with Dad, past more posters about fruit and fat, smoking and exercise. Given the circumstances, I’m not sure if this is encouragement or a reprimand.

Waiting

We all sit in silence, as only the English can. From along the corridor, the sounds of medicine – whirring, humming, buzzing.  The screech of a chair scraping the floor. Footsteps: we all look up, hoping for attention. But it’s not for us. No one comes.

Like divers in a decompression chamber, we need the ‘all clear’ to head for the surface.

Waiting.

The cardiologist reappears. He confirms that he will be handing Dad’s case notes to a surgeon, who will call him in for a consultation. Meanwhile, he’s discharged: One of the nurses will complete the paperwork.

A GP letter is written. A test report is compiled. Dad goes to his locker to dress. The visit is over, the prognosis given. The treatment is surgery, once he hears from the hospital in ‘couple of weeks.’

Waiting.

Popularity: 5% [?]

My local coffee shop. One table, two stories.

Four women friends sit together: one with a VOICE that can shatter concrete; one wearing GLASSES; one in a STRIPEY top; the fourth with her BACK to me.

VOICE: No matter how much you tell yourself that you’ve cleared out, there’s just so much stuff left.

GLASSES: When’s the move?

VOICE: I looked around and thought ‘This is really too much’. I just couldn’t face it; so we have people coming in tomorrow to pack.

STRIPEY nods enthusiastically.

VOICE: I mean, just in the kitchen cupboards, there’s all the plates and the glasses and the ornaments and serving dishes. They’ll come in and wrap everything, ready for the off. Next Friday. Huge weight of my mind.

GLASSES: We did the same the last move that Nick’s company paid for. We had cleaning staff in too. You want to leave the place looking good, don’t you?

VOICE: Oh. Yes. Of course.

A beat

BACK: Ready for you holiday?

GLASSES: Almost. The three of us have all got new jackets for this year. Emma’s grown so, she needed another, so Nick and I thought we would too.

VOICE: Did you contact that instructor? He really helped us when we went last year.

GLASSES: Yes; that was your first time, wasn’t it?

VOICE: Mmm.

GLASSES: We had someone just like him when we went. The first time.

STRIPEY sniggers, then censors herself.

GLASSES: We’re really looking forward to the break. Of course, we’re only back a week, then we’re off to Nick’s parents’ place in Spain.

VOICE: If it’s finished.

GLASSES: Oh, it’s nearly done. Just some landscaping.

VOICE: I thought there were problems…

GLASSES: With the first contractor. Nick went over, and sorted them out. It’s fine now.

BACK: How long are you going?

GLASSES: We go on the Wednesday, and are back the following Monday.

BACK: Hectic time.

GLASSES: Tell me about it. And of course we have Emma’s ballet audition the day before we go…

I return to my paperwork.

A little later; two other women sat at the same table. The older, open-faced, with BEADS and padded jacket; the younger, shoulders hunched, ARMS folded.

Papers from a plastic file are on the table. BEADS is talking on a mobile phone:

BEADS: …she’s on a particularly high tariff…yes, I have the bill in front of me… seventy-three pounds and twenty eight pence….well, I was hoping that you could help us by convert it. Pay-as-you-go…

BEADS puts her hand over the phone.

BEADS: When did you start the contract?

ARMS: Dunno. September?

BEADS: (back into the phone) The problem is that it’s outside her budget now. That’s why we need your help…you can? Thank you so much. Of course; I’ll put her on…

Smiling, BEADS hands  the phone to ARMS.

I collect up my papers, put them in my case and put on my coat. By the time I’m ready, ARMS has ended the call.

BEADS: So that’s good. He was very helpful, wasn’t he? Now, let’s have a look at this electricity bill…

Popularity: 4% [?]