Carpe Diem
It’s rather a glib phrase isn’t? You see it on pots, cards and the sort of sundials you buy in those select ‘in the know’ catalogues for the aspiring middle class. It’s the names they give them that get me; “The Museum Collection”, “Culture Vulture”, “House of Bath” (based in Manchester by the way).
Well anyway, my darling did what E. M. Forster suggested you should do with clichés; she breathed new life into this one by seizing the day, the fatal day, before it even happened.
She had told me that there was a folder called ‘funeral’, but I couldn’t bear to look at it until she had left us – it was just too close. Even seeing the reduced person she was in the last few weeks of her life I knew that she would have taken a hand, she was, after all, amongst a host of other things, a brilliant event organiser – everything from the annual British Pharmaceutical Conference with a cast of thousands, to small discussion groups for mental health sufferers.
Well what I imagined would be odd suggestions about an order of service and appropriate tunes turned out to be much more. One of the mourners said to me “I think that was the most amazing ceremony I’ve ever been to!”
What she had done was to ‘organise’ the whole thing: order of service; script for the humanist celebrant; readings; music, and even left the catalogue number for the coffin. “I want a wicker coffin. I don’t want to be hemmed-in, and I’ve always been at least pale green in outlook”.
The three readings were ones that she had written about us, family and friends – typical of her; she would still be thinking about others from beyond the grave. We were to write the last reading, and she knew that Sam, our family laureate, would write a poem for the occasion.
So what I am going to do is reproduce as much of this ceremony as I can for you on her beloved blog. I will include an electronic version of the Order of Service designed by the lovely Jo who worked with Jean for over 20 years. She turned Jean’s order and Jessie’s suggestions into a simple, beautiful testament for the day. Then there will be the three readings which Jean left and the fourth which we put together in her memory.
At family funerals eldest son Sam usually plays a beautiful Irish air called ‘The tip of the Whistle’ on the penny-whistle - at the interment. He didn’t think he could do it on this occasion, but Joe, second son, recorded him playing it a couple of days before. Joe tells me that we can probably insert a link for that too. So we will try.
The only thing that we couldn’t do at the crematorium from Jean’s original order of service (the place was jam-packed with people standing on top of each other almost), was to get up and dance to ABBA singing ‘Dancing Queen’ (with bubbles). We did that at the local cricket club afterwards, so you will have to imagine it.
First reading
Read by Andree Mackay, Sister in law
The most important relationship in my life has, of course, been with Stewart. I met him at 15 and fell in love at 16, married him at 18 and though we had our ups and downs, thicks and thins, we stayed deeply in love right to the end. I wrote about our relationship on my blog, I called it
Asunder
It's the thought of leaving my kids that brings the quickest tear to my eye; it just does. I try to think about leaving Stewart behind, but I can't formulate it in my mind. I think he will be coming with me and that is just daft. Certainly the he that is he that is us will, but he will be left and shattered and forever different. But I still can't conceive of it.

There is a beautiful place near our French house called Limeuil, we went there for picnics by the river and for the annual pottery fair where we always bought something even though we had no bloody room in either of our houses. If you walk up the hill it's one of “les plus belles villages de France” but the wonder of it is the river.. . or rivers.. I should say, as it's where the Vezere meets the Dordogne and they become one river. They are both massive and brown and godlike; they rumble and bicker together as they meet then merge with little flurries over rocks and banks. Just a way up from the picnic site there would be no way of separating one from the other, their weeds are each other’s, the fish can't tell the difference. If one were to dry up there would still be all the life from the other - from before, that would be impossible to disentwine. So is that like us; yes and no; no because rivers can't feel and miss and want; yes because we are one miraculous, mucky thing, sometimes out of control and sometimes deep and beautiful; and, it has proved, always feeling the pull to be together.
Second reading – Denise Burns, friend
I can remember a blissful day when I was about 21, it was in a place with a bandstand and lots of grass. I was playing with Jeanie and Jamie: my niece and nephew and we were chasing around playing catch. I knew then I had to have some children of my own and have them quickly. We had been waiting until we could afford a house and I had finished my degree. Switch to another day, perhaps 14 years on when we were rattling along in one of our old bangers, with all four children aboard, Sam, Joe, Luke and Jess, through Shropshire I think it was. We were playing 20 questions and I remember thinking ,“ I don’t think I will ever be happier than this”.
Having children is an amazing thing, they sort of become part of you but apart; they are your life but more important than your life. They take over your being.
For me family memories revolve around food and eating, en masse, at our kitchen table. There were seven of us every evening, including my Dad. We didn’t have much money at all at first so it was often omelettes or spaghetti bol but delicious all the same. We would natter continuously as we chomped and it wasn’t just to drown out the noise of Dad’s false teeth rattling around. Often it was about politics, religion or the latest news. There was gossip and there were Luke’s questions to Sam: did Fred Astaire ever do shot-putting? Do I have to say I am a Christian boy at school even if I don’t believe in God; will you write a song about tap dancing on Rupert the bear. (he did)
Often we were joined by other members of the family: my Mom and her second husband the beloved Fred; Peggy and Eric - Stewart’s, Mom and Dad; Neil and Andree, my brother and sister-in-law and often Jeanie of the bandstand memory; Graham and Ruth and Grace, Stewart’s wonderful devoted brother, his wife and their lovely daughter. Later our kids brought their friends who became our friends, and then their partners: Tom; Aleks and her daughters, our step-granddaughters, Hannah and Chelsea; and Julie from France. Their parents and siblings too have become part of the family and with great joy recently their children: Harry and Danny and the twins Max and Charlie, and we must not forget Scoobie, Joe’s dog: oh what a difference they have all made to our lives. I cannot put into adequate words the complete joy that grandchildren bring.
All this was a wonderful mix of fantastic food and people we loved. I had had a very different childhood in many ways, we ate on our laps and it was often Steaklettes and Angel Delight or warmed up school dinners but I was given the most amazing grounding in political awareness, art, kindness and bravery by my Mom and Dad and a lot of laughter, what a pair they were. My wider family of aunts, uncles and cousins were all characters in their own right. I thank them all for making me what I was.
Of course I can’t bear to leave all of this family life and for there to be a gap at that table in the kitchen, but I know that they will all keep me alive in their hearts. I would love to have been around longer for my children and grandchildren but it is not to be. So, keep eating, loving and remembering my darlings.
Third reading- Ruth Harker, sister in law
Friendship and fellowship
The other big boon in my life has been the amazing array of friends I have had through the years. This all started in the black and white years of the 1950s with Lynda, Frieda, Kathryn and Ann, and the boys of course who we chased around Gleneagles Rd and in the playground; then on to secondary school where Berenice became and has remained all my life like a surrogate sister. At University I was a married woman and so not open to many of the frenetic friendships that went on but Doug and Gloria who came to live near us after University have remained fast friends as has Sue who was a weirdo scientist but we overlooked that.
I married into an amazing set of friends from Stewart’s school life: Duncan and his wife Maggie; Les and Jude, Mary and Mike, Lynn and Doug and Sue and Mick. For over forty years and most particularly when we were young and fancy free, and also since I became ill, they have lightened our lives and mixed in their own blend of experience and humour.
There are some friends who become something other, part of the family but different, your soul mates I suppose. They come and go but we have been so lucky in these sorts of relationships over the years: Nita and Tony; Rudy and Celia, and Richard; Pat and Dick (40 odd years and still going strong – in fact stronger); and in the last two decades Chris and Denise our inseparable mates. With these there is a silent understanding and an unbreakable bond. Some like Rudy and Celia split up but stayed close to us even though separated by thousands of miles.
We have been extremely lucky in living in a road for 30 years that is bursting with fellowship and community spirit. We have loved the parties and the fireworks, the quizzes and the neighbourliness. And when we were lucky enough to be able to buy our paradise in Maumont we found it there too, bathed in sunshine and bursting with bon viveur.
Friends also come because of kids and politics, Julie and Trudie are notable examples of these, guaranteed to make me laugh. So many others as well – it would take a book.
At work too I counted everyone I worked with, with one notable exception, as a friend. Work became a fulfilment and an obsession at times and the support and laughter I shared has been one of the best parts of my life. I know I was famous for lists, but I’m not going to make one now. You know who you are, and that I love you.
I have talked, giggled, drunk and danced with all of you, thank you so much for enriching my life and please carry on for those left behind.

Fourth Reading – From us to her
Sue Williams, friend
Apart from Sam’s poem all the words you have heard so far have been Jean’s words, and, true to character, they have all been about us, her family and friends.

Now is the time for a few words about her. We are not going to have the usual potted biography. We are all here today because we know and have been touched by the facts of her life. Suffice it to say that she was a clever brummie girl who had academic success and then devoted the rest of her life to making things better for others. In the seventies she ran a campaign exposing the pain visited on people, her mom included, from taking a heart drug made by ICI. They made a Panorama programme about her campaign. She got 14 million pounds in compensation for people – a fortune in those days – without a thought about personal gain. This was typical of her quiet determined nature.

Here then are some words that family and friends have to say about Jean.

Friends say:

“She was so brave, funny, clever and kind.”

“She was an inspiration to us all, not only in the dignified way she coped with her illness but also as an example in life – as a mother, a wife, a daughter and a friend.”

“I will always remember her as being full of life, kindness and strength, and I always looked forward to being in her company.”

Neighbours say:

“There will forever be a void in Livingstone Road.”

Workmates say:

“Jean was special to all who worked with her. She was always confident and made up for all our inadequacies. She was always supportive, never seriously critical, and when she was with you everything seemed manageable.”

“Jean was a wonderful person, warm, fun to be with, a great friend and colleague. She was immensely talented and achieved so much.”


And now to her children;
Joe wrote:
I have been asked to say a few words about my mother Jean, but there are no words. There are no words to describe what a wonderful wife, mother and friend she was. There are no words to describe how we will all miss her sunny, positive disposition, her wisdom and council in times of pain and uncertainty. There are no words that could ever do justice to the way we loved her and the love she showed to us all.
Luke wrote:
Around the time my Grandma Peggy died, I was very sad and approached my mom with questions of the here-after and whether Grandma was in 'heaven' It took real devotion and love from mom to tell me truth, that no, we could not make everything seem better and easier by palming this over to a 'god'. She told me that what lives on from a person is the memories we have shared and that when a person dies they are not really dead because the memories of that person live on in the minds of those that love them and are passed on throughout the ages. Aldous Huxley wrote that 'Every man's memory is his private literature'. With memories of my mother we all have a library of inspiration.
From Jess:
My mom was everything I am and everything I am not. She taught me to be a friend, a mother, a grafter, a feminist, a wife, a socialist; a women. What I didn’t learn was her grace. I didn’t learn to fight quietly, to let things go and to pick my battles. Her greatest skill was to fight and win, love and be loved without anyone realising she had done it. She was a master of the art of diplomacy.
My mom was like medicine. When I was pregnant and scared she made it seem like nothing to be scared of. When I wanted to quit my degree she did all the bloody work for me. When I lost my rag (all the time) she calmed me down. When I had nothing to wear she made me feel a million dollars; which probably is the amount she spent on clothes, holidays, haircuts and lunches for me. She made me feel like it was a privilege to be my mom.
Now I face the fight and the fun without her, however she gave each one of us, me especially, so much of herself that I have credit in the bank. I have enough love to make sure that she carries on as Jean the activist; Jean the friend; nanny Jean; My Mom.
The final words about Jean come from her husband of 43 years:
Stewart said:
Simply this:
She was my going out and my coming in. She was my loaves my fishes, my heat my light, my longing, my desire.

Sam’s poem:
A Mother’s Words

To read the last few pages of a book
And find out how it ends before the story
Gets there, is what the worst kind of a crook
Would do, you said, it was like voting Tory.
But sometimes something makes me want to look –
A kind of narrative momento mori.

So when I teach my own kids how to read,
Can I forget these last pages you read
To me, the way the words began to bleed
Into each other as the reader bled –
The way the paper turned into seaweed
And held fast to the rocks beached in your bed?

There are books we’ll always read again,
Just for the joy of putting off the end,
Knowing that the words – these gingerbread men
In our mouths – will fail every time to fend
Off the fox – the tongue darting from his den –
As he’s the gingerbread man’s fastest friend.

“I’m all gone!” he says, but it’s a joke.
An all-gone gingerbread man doesn’t speak.
And yet, it doesn’t change the fact he spoke
Or the miracle of his triumphant streak.
Each time you read that ending, my heart broke,
And leapt to hear such existential cheek;

Then Dad would have to read it too. So now
Each time I teach my kids an English rhyme
You taught to me, I’ll tell them who and how
You are. I’ll use the present tense, and time
Will have no choice but to accept my vow
To help another incy wincy spider climb

Another spout again. And when I reach
The last few pages of the book and try
To say how your fox ate you too, I’ll teach
My children the first and the last thing I
Was taught by you; that is: the gift of speech
Exists because a mother’s words don’t die.

Tip of the Whistle

Hope it all works. Can't seem to upload Jo's lovely Order of Service at the moment. Will do that later.

Sad News

Dear blog followers Stewart Trainor here:

Many of you will know, but some may not, that my wonderful wife has left us. She died in the evening of July 4th, the day they put a statue up to Ronald Reagan. The irony of it would not have been lost on her. She departed this world, the lifelong champion of human rights and dignity that she had always been. She, however, bore the mantle of champion with a lightness and grace that entirely escaped those who sit in high places and end up on plinths.

Jean has shared her musings with you over these months, and I’m sure you will miss them. She would have thought of them as ‘musings’, nothing dogmatic, nothing didactic in the obvious sense. “I hate those pompous buggers on Front Row discussing how many levels of textual analysis are possible in Middlemarch” she would say, “I bet George Elliot is rotating in her grave”. Her comments came from the heart, and a pretty prodigious processor in the head never weighed them down with pomposity or cant. She was a devoted and courageous campaigner, but never sought prominence. She loved the simple act of sharing, and that’s what she’s been doing with you.
I’ve shared my life with her since she was 15 years old (not even in the sixth form yet – shocking eh?). I can’t wake up to share our tea and toast now. And, like you, I can no longer share her whimsical sideways on look at a barmy world, but I’m not going to weigh down her lightness with heavy clichés about her remaining always with me; she wouldn’t like that. I’ll leave you instead with one of my many fond memories, which of course will remain. It’s one that shows her totally unpretentious nature, alongside her simple joy at a complex task well done.

We were going for a well-earned weekend break in Paris. On the way into the aircraft cabin she picked up a free copy of The Times. We found our seats, sat down, and in the time that it took the plane to taxi out to the take of runway, some 10 – 12 minutes she had completed the Times Crossword. She merely lent across and said “I think I’ll have a bit of a doze now darlin”, and by the time we lifted off she was asleep.

Goodnight sweetheart!

The Funeral will take place at Robin Hood Crematorium, Streetsbrook Road, Solihull, on 15th July at 1pm, with a reception afterwards at Kings Heath Cricket Club.

Watch this space

Had a few ups and downs recently

But watch this space

First trip, first real job

I went to see Dr Peake last Friday, having waited the statutory two hours, I finally got into see him. He felt my stomach and noted the growth there but said he couldn't really make a judgement until the scan results came through. We discussed treatment options, he doubled my steroids to 4mg a day and he promised to call with the results while we are in Sandringham.

Trouble is I do feel a change for the worst has occurred, as I keep having to sit up when I am asleep, to aid the gurgling in my stomach. Funnily enough it's making me sleep better and I am getting a good six hours of admittedly strange sleep but six hours none the less.

We are getting packed for our first trip, I have written my lists and Stewart is doing his ironing and worrying, so nothing changes there. We will set out at about 11ish once the District Nurses have been, dressed my pressure sore etc. The etc involves hands up bum but we wont go there! We will take in lunch on the way, as usual, and try to be as dreadfully normal as possible. I am really looking forward to it, if a tad apprehensively.

And meanwhile, Sam, husband of Julie, father to Max and Charlie, number one son to me and Stewart has got a job. OK he only came second in the interviews but given that the woman they chose had to travel form Marseilles to Lille, ie about as far as you can go in France, perhaps this was yet another piece of French bureaucracy gone mad. Well done Sam!

Infinite possibilities

It was the Jersey man telling me that I could fly that did it. Then Pat my lovely friend said why don't you go down to Maumont then. I had read that the civilised French hired out hoists and beds form the local pharmacy, they also provide district nursing services at about 10 euros a day. Then we discussed how we might adapt the entrance to the house to take the wheelchair with a little help from our friends, and how we might get Chris and Denise, our friends from over the road who were going anyway, to drive our wheelchair accessible car to Bergerac to pick us up from the flight from Birmingham. Et voila Guillame est votre oncle.

We will have to move the table out of the kitchen and turn it into a sitting room and pray for good weather so that we can eat outside, we will have to bring one of the single beds down from upstairs so that Stewart can sleep downstairs with me but that is petit bier considering the benefits. So we are getting our canards in a row, we will ditch Jersey as we only made a provisional booking and head for Maumont instead.

Can't believe it might be possible.

A holiday a month

Well there are three or four hotels with hoists in the UK and we have booked each of them! To avoid disappointment of course and with fingers crossed in case we will lose money if we have to cancel. I inquired about cancellation insurance but it was £1800 for a single trip. Isn't that a great thing about insurance get a real illness and you are persona non grata? Beware health reformers, give up the NHS at your peril. I love it when private insurers phone me on spec and I say "Yes I would be interested" (don't worry I am not turning I just like to test them out) and then tell them about my terminal cancer and all my problems, they suddenly go very quiet and start making excuses, I say "Hello, it is supposed to be insurance, right".

Anyway the plan is Sandringham for four days in June, Minehead in July for a week, Jersey in August for four days and Llandudno in September for a week. It was a revelation about Jersey, I had investigated ferries and they were horrendously expensive and would take all day. Then the man from the hotel called and said why not fly? Apparently the flight staff lift you on to a little chair, haul you up the stairs then transfer you to your airline seat. Your wheelchair goes into the hold. Well all sorts of questions come to mind. Will the little chair be too little? will I be too heavy? but they must have people heavier then me. When we get there we will take taxis, the island is only about 15 miles across for goodness sake.

I have been Googling like mad to find the best restaurants in the locality, Michelin stars and all. Don't think we'll make it to Gidleigh Park in Devon as its 76 miles away but you never know, and in Llandudno there is one just 10 minutes away at a very Welsh sounding place, the Tyddyn Llan at Llindrillo.

All set then to make our way around Norfolk and Lincolnshire, we have been to Norfolk a few times recently and done the usual stuff, so we though we would head North West and revisit Lincoln Cathedral, it's been about 40 years since we were there. WE will visit the rolling hills of Somerset and Devon, the delights of Jersey and the wonders of Wales.

We will eat drink and be merry for who know's tomorrow may never come and we will certainly be filling our boots till it does.

Hotels with hoists

Sitting in my bed. I am a Google freak. A few weeks ago Stewart, who is normally very cautious, commented that if we bought a portable hoist, we could go away for a few days. I was a bit shocked really, hadn't thought about that possibility. I parked the idea for a while and then sat Googling and just typed in hotels with hoists, well a revelation. Apparently there is an organisation laughingly called The Ceiling Hoist Users Club and they have a list of hotels with hoists. Not only hoists but electric beds, nursing support, doors that flash apart as soon as your wheelchair whispers "open sesame".

OK there are only about three or four of these wonders, plus a few Holiday Inns that I think only have the hoists, two based in Central London, so maybe we could go for a weekend, take in a show, an exhibition and of course a blow out meal in a Michelin star restaurant. Well you have to spend your DLA on something.

So we have booked mid-June, four days in Park House Hotel, on the Sandringham Estate. The house that Princess Di was raised in. We will go half board as it's a good deal, and throws in afternoon tea. We will search for lovely places to visit and pubs for lunch. Our horizons are widened if only over the vast skies of Norfolk and there are two more to try, one in Minehead in Somerset and one in Llandudno in Wales. Not so posh and maybe they will smell of wee and cabbage, but then I suppose, beggars who use ceiling hoists really can't be choosers.

Family matters

Another day, another funeral. This time it was my cousin, Betty's, husband Freddie. He was 85 and had been struggling with leukemia but that doesn't get over the fact that he is no more and that he was a laugh and an absolutely devoted husband and father; and that he will be missed so much by his nearest and dearest.

That's what's been getting me at these funerals, I call them my funeral moments. I can't help but bawl when I think about my own demise and how much it will affect those closest to me. Just can't help it, it's too raw and open, sore and painful. I don't feel as if it will happen yet as I am feeling well, but the time will come. But sufficient to the day is the evil therof and so I brush away the tears and wipe on the smile, as much for myself as anyone else.

It was good to see the family though, bits of it I rarely ever see these days, only at funerals in fact. There was cousin Ann. I have no idea why I always refer to her as cousin Ann, it sounds like something from the hillbillies and her husband Brian, who is a dead ringer for Donald Sutherland. Cousin Ann was always held up as a model of virtue and blessedness by my mother because she ironed and sewed beautifully. She had neat plaits and was the first of our family to go to college, unless you count my Dad who at 14 went to Birmingham School of Art. Betty and her sister Joan, who was once the most glamorous woman on the planet, but now lies unable to function hardly at all due to Altzheimers, were 20 years older than me, at least, as I was the youngest child of the youngest child of my Nanny. So it was their children, Peter and Pam and Lou and Glen who I was nearest to in age. I hadn't seen Peter, Joan's son for years, since his grandmother's funeral in fact, but we fell back into an easy relationship and it felt good. Apart from Betty of course, that was it and we dwindle. There were only three of us there yesterday. From the dizzy heights of six children and nine grandchildren (not that dizzy on the grandchildren front actually) of my Nanny's brood we are down to six grandchildren, of which I am the youngest, and we hardly ever see each other.

I took along a few photos, as I have been ploughing through them to find subjects for my oeuvre, terrible burden to have an oeuvre, and it struck me that we will soon be losing the shared memory of our generation. It mostly stops about 40 years ago anyway as we all grew up and moved apart, but there are things I would like to ask my older cousins about what went on, who did what etc and I had better get a shake on as we are a bit prone to dementia and other memory taking conditions. I am going to try to be proactive about this and actually pick up the phone to arrange visits, says she, yes I am. They are family after all and it's all in the pursuit of my art, or should I say heart?

Hubble, bubble

We went to see Macbeth on Saturday at the new theatre in Stratford. Stratford looked just like it used to on bank holidays when we used to go on charabanc trips; not an inch to spare on the grass by the river; people having picnics and kids with ice cream all over their clothes and faces. I know that's how they used to look because I have been searching out old photos to use as inspiration for my paintings. Mind you that world was black and white then, Stratford on Saturday was a blaze of colour.

I loved the play. I have seen it many times before, of course, but I just got carried away by the whole theatre experience on Saturday. Stewart who "did" Macbeth for O level told me they had missed chunks out and fiddled around with the beginning. I am glad I wasn't so "au fait" and hope Shakespeare would have relished my innocent enjoyment rather than the scepticism of the scholar.

They have restored the new theatre along the lines of the 16th century model, ie all tiered and tall, and the stage is in the round with four aisles leading from the auditorium to the exits. Being a disabled bod I was right on the edge of one of these aisles and had actors tearing around, up and down alongside me, breathing down my neck in fact. It did make me wonder if when they were in the aisles, were they still Macbeth or McDuff or were they anxious actors getting ready to be in the next right place at the next right time. When did they stop acting or that bit of acting when they are actually in character?

Yesterday at Aiobheann's funeral, there was a lot of acting going on I guess. People putting on brave faces. I held it together until Ceri from over the road stumbled tearfully but successfully through a poem. I wept and it was not just for Aiobheann. Lots of lovely things were said about her and that wasn't an act. People kept saying how well I looked and so my act was paying off under the thick stage make-up I metaphorically wear. I wear it to dim sum with my niece; awesome crystal scallops, I tell her I am not afraid and at the moment I am not. I wear it to Easter Sunday outings with my nearest and dearest and indeed I wear it to Stratford, carried with me in my own version of the charabanc trip.

At the funeral one of my caps fell out. What I didn't tell you about Macbeth was that the witches weren't witches but ghostly fay children. I quite liked this as it seemed to follow a theme of the whole play. But if the directors change their minds and decide to go back to the original idea well here I am ready and waiting, toothless and witch like, and no make up required.

Just being normal

It's nice, we go shopping; we meet friends, we do the garden. I chop vegetables. We are almost normal. Okay I have to be winched if want to move out of bed, I have to sit where I am put and we can't do anything until the nurses have been but just living is OK, fantastic in fact and definitely, at the moment, better than the alternative.

Tomorrow we look after Harry for the day, another sign of normality, I will bake with him and make Easter goodies and paint with him and he might go and help his Grandad in the garden. Stewart has brought all the nice stuff up from the bottom of our garden, the urns, the big black model flamingos and pots galore filled with Spring. I can see them all from my bed. We open the French windows as the weather is so good and I sit out in the sun for part of my time out of bed allowance. It is simply heaven or as close to it as I will ever get.

And I think I have found my oeuvre! I am working on style, it is likely to be just that, stylised based on the patterns and shapes in things rather than attempting realism; and for subject matter I am going to try and paint some pictures based on incidental moments in my life. I have enjoyed writing about these from time to time on this blog so will see if I can paint a few. I will be scouring through all the old photos and thanking goodness for my Dad's photography passion, although when I was a little girl it drove me mad, all that waiting around posing while he fiddled with light metres and bellowed at me.

We will see how far I get and how much time my lovely normal life allows me to try to make images of my past.

Smiling through in pictures- my birthday

Some pictures of happiness, grandsons and birthdays.


Charlie with his Grandad and Max with his Nan




Charlie and Max, the most beautiful babies in the world!





Julie and me with a handful






Danny and his Nan are pleased with themselves!




Danny shows off Harry's pirate picture




Julie and Max

Birthday fat arty farty girl

Well I've made it to 62 and as Harry said yesterday, that's nearly 100. We started the celebrations on Friday night, when the twins arrived with their Mom and Dad and Jess and her brood came round for a Trainor type sumptuous feast. It was then one big blur of eating and visits and lovely smiles from twins. Max smiles at you as if you are the most wonderful thing in his life, Charlie as if you are the funniest. They are the most beautiful babies in the world and Sam and Julie are like the cats who got the cream, loving every moment. It is a joy to behold. The best birthday present of the lot; that and when Danny and Harry look at their two little cousins as if they were their most precious gifts as well.

As for the food; we took in lunch at lovely brother and sister-in laws on Saturday, afternoon tea with proper scones, clotted cream and cucumber sandwiches back at ours with friends and family. A massive brunch of kedgeree and bacon and eggs on Sunday, the actual anniversary, shared with all my lovely grandsons, followed swiftly by Julie's delicious lemon tart and lime and coriander truffles made by Diana, Harry and Danny's other Nanny. Talk about an extended family. Finale was posh meals on wheels (ginger chicken and marmalade bread and butter pudding brought over by Chris and Denise in the evening, we sang as we ate, don't know why, we often do!

Apart from the gourmet fare the other major theme, was painting and I had all sorts of art materials`as gifts. All very challenging and technical. So I will start my 63rd year, stuffed to the gunnels with food and love and with bright ambitions about finding my oeuvre and creating something worth keeping.

I have an awful lot worth keeping.

Aoibheann

I had to look her name up. I had to look it up every year for the Christmas card, or if I was rushed I would just write to the Butlers from the Trainors. It's a beautiful Irish name, pronounced Eevan. We had it as a question in the New Year quiz one year, her husband, Graham always did the quiz. Aoibheann lived on our road, she always asked how you were, she always cared about the answer.

There have been two cancer stories up our street for the past few months, mine and Aoibheann's. We have sat in our various rooms, feared our fears, bristled our will, taken our medicine. We have just missed each other in our sojourns on the Cancer wards. We have asked after each other and felt our singular sort of empathy.

Aoibheann's story ended yesterday. She had it in her throat, they got it out eventually after bombarding her body and spirit with particularly poisonous chemicals and deadly radio waves, each of which affected her terribly. Finally a viscous sweep of her throat got rid of the cells. She was clear but some delicate thread was cut, she just went to bed for a rest and died. She was on the path to survival but somehow it didn't happen

Our road, which is full of old and new friends who look out for each other, feels damaged, chipped, cracked.

Legs eleven

Right from the start of this cancer marathon, it's been my legs that have told the story. It started you will recall, three years ago now, with me noticing that one leg was fatter than the other; shunted me into a sidetrack where the blinkered NHS saw the only likely cause as a DVT despite the fact the leg continued to expand and then thanks to the French the cancer was discovered right up in the vein in aforementioned fat leg. Once the vein was out the leg continued to be "my fat leg" it got lymphoedema and I had to wear sexy thick compression stockings. I got by though. I could walk and that helped.

Since the paralysis set in a couple of months ago the poor old legs have had another story to tell. For a start they are all floppy and I can't control them at all, or feel them in the slightest for that matter. And because they aren't being moved and I spend my time perched up above them, they are apt to swell to enormous proportions given half a chance.

Well that was the story they were telling until a week ago, but no more! A transformation has taken place. An angel in the guise of a specialist lymphoedema nurse walked into my life and after just four visits I have legs that are almost normal. There they were bloated and literally weeping. Stewart had to heave them in and out of the hoist; we had to pad the wheelchair so that they didn't bruise from being squeezed into the bars; they were probably the ugliest legs on the planet. Then in walks Jane and after she binds them up for a few days in Michelin man type bandages and fits new compression hosiery, I have legs I can almost be proud of; can take out and show to the public in fact.

I did in fact take them out on Saturday, neatly tipped in crocs sandles, and I haven't worn shoes for months; when our friends Mike and Mary from Galway (well actually Mary is from up the road from where I'm from and Mike round the corner from where Stewart lived, but they live in Galway now) took us out for a meal of soup, posh fish and chips and rice pudding. Just what the doctor ordered and my legs and the rest of me filled our boots!

Talking of legs, please will you sponsor my friend, Diana's legs to run a lot of miles in aid of cancer research. She is doing it in my name in the Race for Life. I have added details of how to sponsor her in the column on the right. She is also Harry and Danny's other nanny and like them has a fine pair of pins I am sure.

The medication hits the spot

Feeling better today as hopefully the medication is hitting home. Doctors confirmed that its probably my liver kicking off and have prescribed steroids and anti-nausea medication. I managed to down a ham sandwich and a custard tart a few minutes ago, and I had a laugh with my friend Yvonne who popped in.

I find that my taste buds are reverting to the 1950s; when Stewart asks what I fancy for tea (tea you see! what we now call dinner and posh people call supper but for the 1950s' working classes, it was definitely "tea"), I eschew any of our more recent culinary repertoire of Roghan Josh's, Thai chicken etc and opt instead for cheese and potato pie, or just egg and bacon. Who knows perhaps it will be corned beef hash next.

It is wonderful when you stop feeling sick and long may it continue up our neck of the woods

Liverish

I don't feel well and I don't like it. I feel I am losing control and Leio is taking over. I suppose up to now I have felt quite well most of the time. I know that sounds strange when I am paralysed as a result of Leio acting at his worst, devastating my life. But up until now all these mets in my vital organs, liver and lungs have been reasonably quiet.

I now have a pain in my side which makes me shout out when I breathe in deeply and I am feeling sick almost all the time. Very unusual for me, but also I have absolutely no appetite. Anyway we have called the doctor and the hospice nurse specialist. She thinks it's probably liver capsule pain, because the liver is covered in something like cling film which bubbles up if the liver swells, it would also explain the nausea and loss of appetite. We will see what the doctor says when he comes and what they can do for it. I may have to go to hospital again; here's hoping I don't and that we can move back into the driving seat and kick Leio into touch for a little longer

Pressure

I have a dreaded pressure sore. It's level 3 when the scale only goes up to 4. Nurses have to come in on a daily basis and stroke it and pack it and worry about it. I can't feel it as its below the paralysis line and that is a blessing but in order to stop it spreading I have to put annoying restrictions on my life. I can't sit out for more than three hours; I have to screw myself into a contorted foetal position so that the sore is off the bed several times a day.

Believe me there's not a lot you can do hanging onto the edge of your bed; reading is nigh on impossible although I did manage to finish Sophie's Choice the other day. I enjoyed every word, beautifully written and an ideal book for when you are feeling sorry for yourself! Things could be a lot worse.

I can listen to the radio while on my side and doze of course, that seems to be the option that creeps up on me most often. Haven't managed to complete my next mistress-piece but we will see what today brings.

I would have been marching or rolling against the cuts in London if I could have been yesterday, piling the pressure on those that protect their own interests while making the lives of people with paralysis, poverty and public sector posts a whole lot worse.

He's not heavy..

My brother is coming to visit tomorrow. Along with his wife, Andree he will catch a train and get a taxi and arrive at my door. A simple act you may think, but not for him as he has been ill for a couple of years and does not venture out.

So I feel highly honoured that he is making this trip to see me and know how difficult it is for him. I sometimes say that it is a good job my Mom is not alive at the moment. She would be 98 now, and probably not have all her marbles, but she would be driven mad by the thought that both her kids have been so ill for the last two years. This being said we have both, in our way, shown her unique brand of strength and resiliance throughout our very different ordeals.

So Stewart will make the quiches and the curries and me and my brother will feast and chat, keeping our peckers up and putting on a brave face as we were taught at our mother's knee

Filling my life

"You always have visitors" my daughter said today when she rang to catch up with me and moan about the assignment she has to do for her Masters Degree. And she is not wrong. Today it was lovely Kathryn who I have known all my life. She lived up the road and her sister, Mary, went to school aged five with Stewart. Mary married Mike, Stewart's scientific brainy mate; they live in Galway and are a pair of our oldest friends. In the 1950s Kathryn's family and mine and all of our neighbours went on charabanc trips to the seaside and to the glories of the Warwickshire and Worcestershire countryside, or pubs more like. Kathryn's Dad and my Dad went up the Blues together. We had lots to talk about.

Yesterday two old colleagues from my working days, Jo and Ruth, came and we caught up on past and present gossip and fell back into all the old laughter. Last night we had an impromptu St Patrick Day's party. Stewart is half Irish which makes the kids a quarter Paddy. They take full advantage of this as it gives an excuse to drink gallons of Guinness and Bushmills. Luke, no three son, turned up and called his wife, Aleks to join us, Chris and Denise from over the road dropped in. Joe had made a delicious Irish Stew which we managed to stretch to feed everyone and we topped it all off with very strong Irish coffees and raucous singing of Danny Boy, Patrick McGinty's Goat and other classics.

Wednesday saw us going out for a very posh lunch at a local toff's house, Hampton Manor: pea soup with basil ravioli followed by monkfish, mussels, asparagus and seaweed sauce - delicious; we went with Pat our dearest friend. That evening Stewart's brother Graham popped in as did Jess, Tom, Harry and Danny

And then back to Tuesday, a lovely lunch here with Les and Jude, another pair of old friends, in fact aforementioned Mary and Mike, Pat, Les and Jude and Stewart all went to school together fifty odd years ago.

So as you see my life as a poor, paralysed old thing is not so bad. In fact it's bloody wonderful. And on top of this I have painted and find I can do it. I have added a copy of my interpretation of a jug of tulips at the top of this blog. It's only my second attempt since I started painting last week. I am thinking about the next one. Somehow I want to capture this room, my world and all that come and go in it. Not sure how I will do it but I will keep you updated

Grandma Moses

I have taken up painting.It's sometimes a bit hard trying to do it in bed - ooh er missus... I only spend about five hours out of bed each day now as I get tired but I manage to paint propped up against my pillows, swathed in aprons to keep the watery colours from invading the sheets. Chris over the road, who is an art teacher, is giving me guidance. He's doing a good job, after realising that saying just play around with the paint, wasn't enough for someone who hasn't painted since she was 18 and then it was with the dreaded powder paint on sugar paper. Yesterday I moved away from circles and dribbling colours down the paper to an actual picture of a bronze model we have. It's not half bad even though I say so myself but I already have enormous ambitions and want to loosen up, become expressive, find my oeuvre, hit the world of art like Grandma Moses did when she was supposed to be finished.

Perhaps it's something to do with feeling a limit on my existence that makes me want to make a mark on the world. Anyway for now I will just make a mark on the paper and see where we go from there.