Some South Woodford scribbles from DD, our resident diarist and observer of all things local. Illustrated by Evelyn Rowland
When my late husband suffered a massive stroke 30 years ago, our life completely changed. I became his chief carer. Throughout the next seven years till his death, I began to write to my son and daughter, my nephews and nieces and many of their young friends who asked to come on board. I took it as a compliment when one of them referred to my letters as “Much ado about nothing.” I tried always to make them upbeat, but admit that tears were mixed in with laughter. I thought you might like to read one.
Dear friends all,
There have been important happenings since my last letter: Patsy and Philip got married. Toby and Helen had eight puppies. Andrew landed a leading role in The Full Monty. But, as you know, important happenings generally occur off-stage in my letters. My dramas, such as they are, centre on the daily round that hits no headlines… or even footnotes.
The world that Alastair and I inhabit is inevitably different from the one you are familiar with. I vividly recall an experience just a few weeks after Alastair’s stroke: I was cleaning one of the front windows when a family party came strolling past on their way to town for “a day out.” They were lamenting that it wasn’t as sunny as they would have liked. For my part, I was still at the banging-my-head-against-the-wall stage, in deep mourning for normality. I wanted to shout out to the sun-seekers and revise their perspectives for them. I didn’t, though. And I try not to. As the years go by, I have developed strategies for acceptance of our strange one-day-at-a-time life together. New strategies replace old ones. Some help out for a few hours: I think of Christopher Reeve’s remark to David Frost: “I try to look upon bad days as good days in disguise.” Some remain apparently inexhaustible. Amongst them you. Did you realise you were “a strategy”? My letters to you are lifelines.
The Church Harvest Supper was well up to scratch. We munched our way companionably through the salmon mousse, roast pork and fruit crumble. Relaxed. At our ease. Regrettably, at the same time, other evening revellers were rifling their way through our drawers and cupboards at home in quest of hidden hordes of cash. Bras and briefs were being tossed like so much confetti around the bedrooms. But, as the nice fingerprint lady explained later, South Woodford tends to attract a careful class of thief: they all wear gloves.
The shock of returning to a fully lit house with possessions strewn around every room was mildly alarming, I must admit. I awaited the arrival of the redoubtable night-carer, Geoffrey. I could tell he was seething with disappointment not to have let himself in an hour earlier in time to grab and dislocate, or worse, a pilfering arm before our return. A friendly duo of detectives put in an appearance about 10 minutes later. Alastair seemed to be under the impression that they had come along to have a chat about Arsenal’s chances in the Cup. But by the next day, when we hosted a visit by a volunteer from the Victim Support charity offering good cheer, we were more or less back on an even keel emotionally and getting used to the mess. Their leaflet explained that “people react in different ways to burglaries: some experience burglary as an irritating inconvenience while others feel frightened and angry.” I don’t think I was frightened. I was quite angry. But in the end “an irritating inconvenience” probably comes nearest to how I feel. And now that I’ve filled up the claims forms and tidied round, it will soon be forgotten. As Alastair remarked, philosophically and with a highly unusual show of public-spiritedness: “the burglars of this world presumably need their harvest too.”
On one recent visit to the Post Office, I collected my ‘freedom pass’! It’s a sort of bitter-sweet occasion, granting you free travel throughout London with one hand and reminding you of your senior citizenship on the other! I couldn’t help remarking that the Post Office public relations training is somewhat haphazard: when I went in ahead of my birthday to ask about the procedure for getting a pass, the ‘lady’ who served me said: “‘Ave you ‘ad one before?” I was mortified. When I went back the following week with my photos and form all filled in, the ‘gentleman’ who served me said” “Oo’s this for then, yer mum?”
I have suddenly realised that I can see the Millennium Dome under construction from my bedroom window. I was standing on the windowsill with my head half-out of the skylight and using binoculars to survey the distant scene when I made the dome-discovery. If the roof of the dome is eventually lowered onto its supporting structure on a fine day, I could probably sell tickets to view. I could make a small charge, especially if I threw in a cream tea. I enjoy making scones. I think I shall write to Mr Mandelson to ensure he authorises nothing without Met Office clearance. To miss all the fun in a fog would be unfortunate, not to say financially disadvantageous.
Suddenly, I’m accruing certificates. The Stroke Association has sent me a handsome piece of cream parchment certifying that I have been nominated for one of their ‘Life After Stroke’ awards. I’ve “enabled a stroke-sufferer to go on living.” I’ve been “highly commended”. I’m “a special person” and “an example to others.” I’m grateful, of course. But all the same, I was nearer to laughing than crying when I eased the contents out of their impressive reinforced envelope. Neither Alastair nor I want to be “an example” to anybody! We dream of once more passing unnoticed amongst the able-bodied majority. With me looking up at him, as I have through the past 30 years, not down.
Love and thanks to you all.
To contact DD with your thoughts or feedback, email dd@swvg.co.uk
