The Christmas letter

Every year, for some considerable time now, when I write my Christmas cards, I include a computer-written round-robin letter in them, telling people what we have been doing during the past year. First, it saves having to hand-write a letter to every one of the hundred or so we send cards to, secondly it keeps people we haven't seen for a while up to date and thirdly I actually love receiving similar kinds of letters from other people at Christmas. If I have been unable to see them for two, three, four, ten years, it is a nice way of catching up with their news. I also keep copies of my own letters, so over a period of time, I can look back and see what we did in any given year. One of our acquaintances has said in the past that they felt insulted receiving the same printed newsletter from us sent to all and sundry, but apart from that one person, most have said they look forward to receiving them and hearing our news.

Over the last few years I have had increasing trouble knowing what to write about Greg. Only a small handful of people know there is anything wrong with Greg apart from his diabetes and heart trouble. They know nothing whatsoever about the alcoholism. The first person I ever shared the problem with, about four years ago, was Greg's sister and for a long time she was the only other person who knew. Then my mother witnessed things at first hand when she stayed over with us one Christmas. Then a year or so further on, Greg's mother (who is sadly no longer with us) found out. Gradually I felt brave enough to share my dilemma with my two closest friends and finally, eighteen months ago, Kay's teacher, who needed to know in case Kay's school work suffered. In fact, it was the telling of the teacher that finally pushed me into writing my blog, because that was the first (and only) person outside close friends and family whom I had told and that seemed to give me courage to get things off my chest into cyberspace. However, apart from those six people, the rest of our circle of friends, neighbours and family know absolutely nothing at all. Some might have guessed (certainly neighbours in recent months), but most have no idea at all. I have often had to make excuses to others about Greg's absence from social gatherings, about why he doesn't drive anywhere these days or about his hospitalisations. The usual excuse is that he has problems resulting from diabetes and the poor circulation in his legs. It is true he has those complaints but they are not of course solely the reasons for his absences, inability to drive or hospitalisations. I have even blamed his absences on the fact that he has to babysit for the dog. I sometimes wonder if I should just come clean and tell everyone the truth as the situation arises, but then I feel I might somehow be disloyal to Greg, doing the dirty on him, washing our linen in public. (I suppose the same could be said of this blog, but then I do try to cover up our real identity, so Greg's privacy is protected.)

Up until this year there was always equal news in our newsletters about all three of us. However, my Christmas letter this year contains lots of news about Kay and myself. There is a very small paragraph buried in the middle just to say Greg had been ill in hospital again and was now housebound. He read my draft through a few days ago and commented "there's not much about me in it". What more could I write? That he drinks all day? Watches TV from morning till the following early morning and naps on the dining chair at odd times of the day? That he has all sorts of illnesses building up from the excess of alcohol? That his hygiene has gone to seed? That he never goes anywhere or does anything? Perhaps I could make up something, such as he is planning to climb Killimanjaro or has taken up stamp-collecting? I asked him what he would like me to write instead. He thought for a minute and then said my draft was fine.

Accolades and Setbacks

Thank you Rebel Mother

Thank you Infactorium

On the accolade front, I should like to thank Infactorium and Rebel Mother for thinking of little old me when handing out the above awards. I really am amazed that people think of me as worth reading. Remember, I am doing this partly to get things off my chest, partly to alert people to the problems of living with alcoholism and partly to reach out to others in the same boat. That anyone should think I deserve a reward honestly comes as a bit of a shock. Anyway, many thanks Infactorium and Rebel Mother. I have pounced on so many people of late with awards, that I feel it is time to leave them alone , and not pass on these awards for the moment, although I am sure there are many who deserve it more than me. Hope that is all right.

So far as setbacks is concerned, you may remember I was having my cholesterol level monitored (see here) and had managed last time to keep it down (and avoid taking statins) by sticking hard to a self-designed diet full of pulses, oats and fruit/veg. The doctor had asked me to have another fasting blood test six months later and I went for the results of this a few days ago. I have to admit my "diet" had gone to pot over the summer and autumn months and I was not eating porridge any more (not one of my favourite foods I have to say), and had been comfort-eating, as I always do when I am stressed, with such naughty things as chocolate peanuts, chocolate anything and crisps. But I did partly deliberately go back to eating rubbish to see what effect it would have on my cholesterol levels. I knew things were not looking good, because my waistbands were getting a bit tight. (I think my clothes must have shrunk in the wash, ehem!) Anyway, the doctor confirmed my cholesterol levels had risen again. She asked if there was any history of strokes or heart attacks in my family. Most of my mother's side have gone with strokes; most of my father's side with heart attacks. I could see the horror on her face. Given my age, the genetic risk and my high levels of cholesterol, she said she should really be prescribing me statins. I have tried to hold out against statins, because of the known side efects of these little blighters, but I waved the white flag and agreed to start , with the proviso that if they made me ill, I would stop. So I have been taking them for the last few days now. I must admit, it means I can eat a rubbish diet now and again without feeling too guilty, because the statins will do their stuff overnight to eliminate cholesterol. Watch this space. Another blood test in two months to see what progress the statins have made.

Rollercoaster

I seem to be on a proverbial rollercoaster at the moment, hence my absence over the last few weeks. There have been lots of highs, lots of lows and some scary white-knuckle bits in the middle. Quite frankly, I'd be glad to get off onto terra firma for a while if I could.

For a start, I am leading a dual sort of existence in two places sixty miles apart. One is with my mother. I went to visit her at the beginning of November for two weeks. We had a great time together, sharing laughs and memories. I also did the usual hard work felling two enormous holly trees and taking then to the local dump. I prepared her garden for the winter and took anything extraneous to the dump. I shredded loads of paperwork and took that to the dump too. I washed net curtains, cleaned windows, filled her larder and freezer with food and walked the dog inbetween. I don't mind hard work. It can be therapeutic and helps me work out and de-stress. In the middle of all that my mother got a call from the local hospital - they had had a cancellation and they were inviting her to have her other cataract operation while I was still there. So I was able to drive her to the hospital, hold her hand while we waited in the conveyor-belt queue, drive her home again, remove the eye patch the next day and administer the first antibiotic eye drops.

Then I had to get back home to run my other existence. The one where I live with Greg in a semi-nightmare world. He is back to drinking big-time. Back on a full bottle of whisky a day. Back to not eating. Back to not caring for his hygiene. In addition he has had upset tummy problems which alternate between constipation and diarrhoea. Because of his leg problems and inability to walk very fast, he is not making it to the toilet in time. I shall spare you the graphic details of what my involvement is when his diarrhoea meets his inability to walk quickly. Let's just say it is not pleasant. The words he uttered to the social worker in hospital when he declined her offer of back-up services at home keep coming back to me. "We can manage" Like hell, we can! While I was away at my mother's he managed to drive himself to the local hospital for some laser treatment on his feet, supposedly to help with the tingling feeling in his feet caused by the diabetes. He had several sessions. He also had to see the diabetic consultant on one occasion and, smelling drink on him at 10.30 in the morning, she refused to let him drive home, ordered him a taxi and made him leave his car in the hospital carpark. He picked it up the following morning - still intoxicated. He rang me at my mother's to tell me and was so humiliated and embarrassed..... unfortunately not enough to make a jot of difference to his drinking.

The best bit of the rollercoaster has been that Kay came home this weekend as she had a prizegiving at school and had to pick up her prize and A-level certificates. It was great seeing her again, as it was the first time we had seen one another since September. We have spoken on the phone lots, emailed, texted on our mobile phones, but not met. Either she has been busy with academic work or making new friends, so there has not been an opportunity up until now. For those who have asked, she is settling in well now and making friends from all over the UK and beyond. When she walked through the door, she looked so much more confident and older. We nattered a lot and she showed me some of her essays - written in entire gobbledegook, so far as my non-scientific brain could decipher. How she can cope with all that bio-chemical jargon is a mystery. Greg and I did foreign languages at uni, but bio-chemistry is a language all on its own! I put her on the train back to uni last night, but our parting was not at all tearful. She was happy to be returning to her new life and I was happy that she was happy... but roll on Christmas!!!

Kreativ Blogger Award

Nechtan recently very kindly passed on to me the 'Kreativ Blogger' Award, for which I belatedly thank him. I always feel so false accepting such "awards", as, after all, I am only telling my story, but accept it I do and very humbly so. The rules of the award are as follows:

1. Thank the person who gave this to you.
2. Copy the logo and place it in your blog.
3. Link the person who nominated you.
4. Name 7 things about yourself that no one would really know.
5. Nominate seven 'Kreativ Bloggers.'

1.2. and 3. I've thanked Nechtan above, linked him and put the logo on.

4. Now to the difficult bit. Can I scratch together 7 things about me...Hmmm....let's see

i) I have a special attraction to Cornwall, because my husband and I were engaged whilst on a holiday there and spent our honeymoon there a year later.

ii) I adore Thomas Hardy novels.

iii) I am currently fascinated by anything to do with Charles Darwin.

iv) Kit Courteney has reminded me that I have a thing about numbers and can get quite excited if the clock reads, say 12:34 or 12:21 or 09:09. Anything where it seems to be numerically in a pattern.

v) I love going for long walks and kicking up leaves in the autumn.

vi) I would far rather skip the main course and go straight for the dessert.

vii) I am hard of hearing ( a genetic condition) and have been for the last twenty years. Don't feel sorry for me..... it can come in very handy sometimes.

There. I bet you are all glued to your seats with shock or excitement or both! Oh well, suit yourselves.

5. And so to the nomination of seven others..... There are so many creative bloggers on my reading list, but I have chosen those whom I have not burdened for a long time. Sorry if I have chosen someone who is busy at the moment, but feel free to decline if you want to. I understand.

Working Mum on the Verge
Not Waving but Drowning
Rebel Mother
Just Twaddle
Fat Frumpy and Fifty
Retired and Crazy
Liebfraumilch and Lipstick

P.S. Off to my mother again for another ten days. Back soon.

Halloween time again

Yesterday history repeated itself in a strange kind of way. This is what I wrote last year......

We live in a small cul-de-sac off a fairly busy road in London. There are 32 houses in the cul-de-sac and everyone knows everyone else by name. Quite rare by any standards, let alone in somewhere as large as London. The children all play with one another and are in and out of one another's' houses. It was great when Kay was growing up, because, as an only child, she always had someone to play with at the click of a finger at any time of day. There is a new generation of children now since Kay outgrew such things - out playing on their bikes, pushing toy prams, playing football. The cul-de-sac is a village all of its own and we are quite separate from the goings-on in the main road. Halloween is always a special time here, when all the cul-de-sac children go around in a large clump knocking at doors to trick or treat. The grown-ups go round with them, keeping a safe distance so as not to destroy their child's feeling of independence, yet watching over them in case they fall into the wrong hands. In the past, when Kay was little, I was known to host small dinner parties for the children before the tricking and treating commenced. On the menu would be bloody eyeballs (scoops of water melon), followed by dead man's fingers (sausages) with worms in blood sauce (spaghetti in tomato sauce). Kay and I found one of the home-made menu-cards yesterday while we were searching for the battery-lit pumpkin.

Before it got dark, we prepared a basket full of chocolate mini bars to hand out to any callers that might come by and hung the plastic pumpkin on the front door. At seven o'clock yesterday evening, then, Kay was getting ready to go out to a teenage party at a friend's house. All black dress, high heels and red lipstick. Not a pointed hat or white sheet with holes for her. Definitely not cool. Suddenly the doorbell rang. We opened the front door to find about twenty monsters, ghosts and ghouls standing on our doorstep. They ranged from those who could barely toddle and still in nappies to those who were at the age of eleven or thereabouts. All looking fabulously scary and holding out bags for their treats. Their parents stood much further back, shivering in the chilly night. Wanting them to work a bit for their treats, we playfully asked the group what they would do, if we did not give them anything. A little witch, not much older than four with blonde ringlets, acted as spokesperson at the front of the group.

"We would trick you", she shouted. The others all nodded and giggled in agreement.

"So what would that involve?", we asked.

The little blond witch thought long and hard, biting her bottom lip, and then blurted out with all the aplomb of the Godfather delivering his sentence.....

"I'd say BOO". Her little face was a picture. In fact, I'd say a real treat. The chocolate bars were passed around.

Swing forward one year to last night. A few changes but more of the same. The same little group knocked on my door, standing a few inches taller and one year older, with a few more younger ones in nappies added to the crowd. There they stood giggling and expectant. The parents stood further back shivering in the cold. Two hundred miles away Kay was getting ready for a Halloweeen party with her new friends. Was I scared by all these little ghosts and witches? Not a bit.... I felt toasty warm inside remembering the lovely times I had with Kay at that age.

Bedtime story.

Well I am back home for a couple of weeks and back to reality. Greg's promises were not worth the breath he spent on them. He has started drinking again in my absence. He has the cheek to say he needs to buy a small bottle every day to avoid the withdrawal symptoms. I pointed out that when he left hospital two weeks ago he had no withdrawal symptoms at all as the hospital had virtually detoxed him while he was an in-patient, but it seems he drank several large bottles in my absence last week, then saw the error of his ways and by then had to contend with new withdrawal symptoms instead. Stupid man.

There is more.....We are having painter/decorators in our cul-de-sac settlement at the moment painting the outsides of our houses. We pay a monthly contribution to a painting fund and every few years, the painters are instructed to come along to start work. So this month is the due time. While I was away, the painters knocked at the door, Greg hobbled to open it and was told they were about to undercoat our front entrance door. Once undercoated, it needed to remain open for a while to allow the paint to dry. Greg decided to leave the door open over the expected drying time, well into the dark evening hours. A well-meaning neighbour opposite was a little concerned that our front door was wide open and, as there were no lights on in the house, she came across to investigate. Even more worrying, she could hear sounds of a television emenating from the basement kitchen. She enlisted the help of our neighbours next door and asked the husband to enter the house and see if Greg was all right. As fate would have it, Greg had embarked on one of his drinking sprees and was fast asleep on a dining chair in front of the TV with no lights on. The neighbour tried to wake him, but Greg was in one of his almost comotose-like slumbers. He was not to be woken. The neighbours by now were very concerned, knowing that Greg has diabetes, and called an ambulance. Greg came to, to find he was surrounded by paramedics taking his blood pressure and blood-sugar levels. Embarassment on all sides and the neighbours and paramedics quietly withdrew. Greg rang me up at my mother's to relay the tale. My life at present is peppered with one amazing story or another. It just can't get any worse. Can it?

Rest in Peace.

My computer has died. It's only about two years old but it seems to have given up the ghost. A computer engineer gave it the last rites this morning. Greg's computer, on which I am now quickly writing, has come out in mourning and it seems may be also heading for the great big scrapyard in the sky. Which leaves me totally blogless at the moment. You may therefore have a few weeks' silence from me until I manage to acquire a shiny new laptop which I can then take to and fro to my mother's house, once I have initiated a broadband connection there. (Yay)

Meanwhile, I am heading for my mother's house for a week or so, as I desperately need to do a few chores for her, not least grapple with the gardening. The weeds always seem to grow a foot high in my absences and as thick as before. I had hoped to visit her for much longer than a week, but I have been to the Citizen's Advice Bureau for some advice and legal help and they are so snowed under with people seeking credit crunch help that the earliest they can advise me is late October, so I have to be back again for that interview. In the meantime I shall try if I can to read your blogs and will be back as soon as is technically possible, but if I can't you will know why.

Greg is quite happy for me to leave him and he assures me he will manage on his own. Mind you, when I look at him creeping around the house behind his zimmer frame, I do wonder. Going up stairs takes forever and standing up or sitting down is a work in progress. But he is adamant that I should visit my mother as he is just as concerned about her as I am. If he has any thoughts about getting alcohol behind my back, he will have a job to get the car accelerator and brake pedals pushed down with those weak legs! (His reply is that he won't be going back to drinking alcohol. Ever. Watch this space) Meanwhile Kay is settling down well in her new home and has started her medicine lectures. Her homesickness is diminishing and now when she rings me up she sounds very cheerful. So all's well on that front and gives me the freedom now to devote my time to my mother. Bye for now.....

Sky high

The discharge letter from the hospital shows the following liver values in Greg's blood. If you are an expert, you will know what these mean. If, like me, you have absolutely no idea what they stand for, at least you can see that Greg's values are way over what should be normal.

Normal range (Greg's)

ALT 8 - 20 (103)

ALP 20 - 70 (113)

Bilirubin 0.1 - 1.0 (11)

GGT 0 - 65 (1500)

AST 8 - 20 (262)

It doesn't take an expert to see that Greg's liver is decidedly unhappy, to put it politely.

The bad news is that he is still creeping around in control of a zimmer frame at a pace slower than a tortoise, he is sleeping a good deal of the time and back to smoking ten cigarettes a day (it would be more but I am rationing them! Remember, it's the smoking that is causing the poor circulation in his legs.) The good news is that his appetite is returning and he is eating healthily. And so far not a drop of alcohol has touched his lips since he went into hospital ten days ago, but then he has not been able to drive out himself to get any. He was of course weaned off it in hospital, so is no longer alcohol-dependent. It is just a question of whether when he is able to drive again, he will find himself in a shop that sells it! Watch this space!

Because of a computer breakdown and a need to tidy the house, I was out of action for the last few days, so have been unable to do some of the things I was planning to do, which include visiting my GP for advice, talking to THAT social worker and getting advice from my nearest Citizen's Advice Bureau. All grist to my mill for making some decisions.

Thank you

Thank you so much for your sympathetic and encouraging comments in my outpourings yesterday. I feel very humbled and comforted by your generosity to help and feel I owe you a calmer explanatory post today. A good night's sleep has helped and, although I am still extremely angry, I am more able to cope today.

Yesterday had started reasonably OK. I had planned to go to an Al-anon meeting in the morning and then in the afternoon go on to my daily visit to Greg in hospital. I have been a member of Al-anon for the past year. I started going after Greg's detox in September a year ago. I have reported on it here. I still find it hard to get into the spirit of things. The Twelve Steps don't seem to work for me (or at least I cannot get beyond Step Two) and I am still grappling with the concept of a Higher Power to help me, but I do enjoy being in the others' company for an hour or two. It is an escape from the misery at home, a chance to share my story and a chance to meet like-minded people who do not judge or criticise.

Afterwards I went off to the hospital. The trouble I have found is that the doctors may have a conversation with Greg, ask him what is wrong and tell him what they are going to do but there is a giant problem they overlook. If the patient is an alcoholic, suffering from some degree of mental incapacity (whether it be just plain drunk at one end of the scale or dementia at the other end), how do they know they are getting the full story or even the truth? If, say, Greg decides to omit the fact that we live in a house with lots of stairs, how do they know this when thinking of sending him home? If they advise him they are going to do this or that, how do I get to find out? Greg's mind is in such a state, he cannot remember who has visited him or what they said. He gets days mixed up, he is confused by the time on the clock. Is it ten minutes to two, or ten minutes past ten? How, then, can he tell me whom he has seen and what they are going to do for him? Therefore, communication both ways, between Greg and the doctors, or between the doctors and me, was not entirely satisfactory. I had no idea what sort of doctors were seeing him or what they were planning to do. All I had been told to date was that they were putting Greg on medication to combat withdrawal from alcohol.

The hospital Greg was in is, I suppose, typical for most large inner city hospitals. Large and impersonal. The nursing staff, the domestic staff, the porters and the receptionists , mainly of Caribbean origin, seem to have a much more laid-back and relaxed approach to things. I want information. They want me to go away, so they can carry on laughing and chatting with one another. Some of the nurses go around arm in arm, like giggling schoolgirls at break-time, chatting and gossiping. If I ask a question, I am ignored or they shrug shoulders without passing a word. It is literally like trying to get blood out of a stone. I've even seen some nurses in Accident and Emergency dancing as they attend to patients. All I want to do is talk to a doctor, find out what they think is wrong with Greg's legs, find out whether they think he has some depression or dementia, get a diagnosis, a prognosis. Nobody seems to be able to give me that information.

On Tuesday he had been moved from a holding ward to another more permanent medical ward. In the transfer they had managed to lose two pairs of Greg's reading glasses (one a prescription pair), a pen of no value and a dispensing box full of all his tablets for a whole week which I had brought in at their request as Greg could not remember what he takes.. Nobody seemed too bothered to tell me where I might go looking for these missing items, if they were no longer on Greg's bedside table. Little things like this were beginning to really annoy me. On Thursday I struck gold.... there was a lovely EFFICIENT black nursing sister who seemed to know what she was doing (hurrah) and at my request she managed to spirit a doctor from the ether to come and talk to me. It turned out he was a psychiatrist and, though he could not tell me anything about Greg's legs, he was obviously more concerned about Greg's mental state and had been told by the social worker to assess Greg. I think I got through to that lovely young doctor what my concerns were and, bless him, he did approach Greg's bedside and say he would talk to him the following morning. Greg hates hospital (have I mentioned that a thousand times before?) and was again trying to tell this young doctor that perhaps he could do the assessment from home. The doctor replied that it was better to be done from hospital as things don't happen once you are home again. That reassured me but clearly agitated Greg.

Yesterday morning Greg phoned me to say he had not seen the psychiatrist after all as he had been taken down for a liver scan. He did not know when the psychiatrist would reappear. I went off to my weekly Al-anon meeting and got calming vibes and reassurance to send me on my way to the hospital. When I arrived on the ward, I was met by one of the staff whose first words to me were that Greg's pills had come up from the pharmacy and he was now ready. On Greg's bed was a huge plastic bag full of his belongings. Greg was sitting on the bed next to said plastic bag trying to phone me on his mobile phone, even though I had already reminded him that morning that I was going to my Al-anon meeting. I was somewhat stunned. "Sorry, ready for what?" I stuttered. "Do I deduce he is going home?" The woman looked a bit embarrassed and said she was sorry I did not know. Greg was muttering that he had not had a chance to tell me. I felt a surreal moment coming on. So that is how I first found out. When I regained composure, I went out of the room to speak to the woman who had broken this news. "But what about the psychiatrist, the back-up at home?" The woman replied that the psychiatrist had visited Greg but did not think Greg was showing any sign of depression or dementia, but merely the alcoholism was effecting his mental state and that would only subside if he stopped drinking. They were providing contacts for Greg to get in touch with to stop drinking (ones Greg already knows about and has not wanted to approach in the past, I might add). Furthermore Greg had refused any back-up help at home, because he said we could manage. He was very keen to get home and, as the hospital cannot force him to stay, he was free to go.

I WAS FURIOUS. How dare he say we can manage? We? Me, more like. HE will just sit on his bony backside and expect everything to be done for him. I felt like bursting into tears, dashing along the corridor, out into my car and driving off leaving him stranded there. THAT'LL SHOW HIM. AND THEM. My head was in a spin. Instead I politely completed discharge forms, wearily packed any remaining items into a bag and quietly made arrangements to meet a porter with Greg in a wheelchair at the main entrance. And I drove home with Greg asking every few minutes whether I had enough cigarettes at home, or whether we should stop on the way to get some more. I don't know how I saw the traffic lights change through my tears. By the time we got home, Greg had thoroughly managed to wind me up until I was even more furious. I felt like Mrs Incredible Hulk. I felt as I was going to burst with anger. All that kept going through my head was "we can manage" and the words the psychiatrist had uttered that once the patient goes home, the help cannot be found in retrospect... it has to be done or can be done much quicker when still in the hospital. Effectively I was on my own. I was so furious, I parked the car, got out, unpacked the things from it, disappearing through our front door and leaving him to it. He called out to me. I brought the zimmer frame round to the passenger door. "You said you can manage, then bloody well manage", I screamed at him and went back inside. I hardly recognised my cruelty, but something in me just snapped. I made no attempt to help him up or down the stairs. I was almost willing him to fall down so I could call another ambulance. Another chance to get him back to that hospital. Once settled he made himself a coffee (he could see I was not going to make it for him) and again asked about the cigarettes. I just could not bring myself to answer. After a few minutes had passed, he said in that case he would just have to get some himself. I called his bluff. I was banking on the fact that his car had not been used for over three months and that the battery would be as dead as a dodo. The next thing I knew, he was slamming the front door and feeling his way along the wall for support to the car. I rushed up to the bedroom window to watch. I waited for the choking of the engine before it spluttered and died. Instead I heard a pleasant hum and watched as the car glided backwards off the driveway. Sitting rather dwarfed and frail in the driver's seat was Greg. I rushed downstairs again and out through the front door. By that time, Greg had manoeuvred the car across the cul-de-sac but could no longer move it forward. It had died on him. I tried to push it forward but Greg said he thought the gears had gone. Now, because Greg has been driving for over 40 years and is more experienced in these things than I, I believed him. It did not occur to me to doubt his thoughts on this. So we called out the Automobile Association (ironically another AA in our life!) and frantically waited for them to turn up , all the while blocking access and egress for all our neighbours in our cul-de-sac. When the AA turned up, the car moved first time - Greg had simply not had the strength in his legs to push down the pedals hard enough. The AA man even drove it round the block before waving us a cheery goodbye. It occurred to me that if Greg had managed to drive to the local shops, he would never have been able to walk without the zimmer frame from the car to the shop to get the cigarettes and he had forgotten to take the zimmer frame with him! It is this lack of thinking that worries me. What will he do next?

It was while we were waiting for the AA that I wrote my post yesterday, so I think you might now have a better understanding about why I was so distressed!!! Again I apologise for having blown my gasket sufficiently for some of you to be very worried. I promise you I am back in fine fettle today and turning my thoughts to plans for the future!

Home again

He is home again as of 5 minutes ago and I am so blimmin choked, I could howl my eyes out. The hospital have just wiped their hands of him yet again. He can barely walk, is already bleating he wants some cigarettes and I know it won't be long before he's asking for the whisky. How can they do this to me?

Death and Life

What a busy 24 hours I've had. Yesterday I rushed down to Brighton for my friend's husband's funeral and arrived by train to discover hoards of policeman and sniffer dogs wandering around the concourse. I pondered whether they were diet police and knew I had two chocolate bars about my person, but then the taxi driver on the way to the church told me that Gordon was giving his speech within the hour and it was extra security laid on for his arrival. The funeral was the nicest I have ever been to (if you can say such a thing). There were at least a hundred and fifty people there, some having travelled for the day from as far afield as Paris and Geneva. There was a traditional service bit, a break while the immediate family departed for the crematorium for the committal) then a two-hour celebration of his life with speeches from those involved in all aspects of his life. It was very moving. It was good to see my two best friends, one being the widow, though sadly we did not have much time for a chat.

This morning I was back at the hospital, where I seem to be spending most of my time this week, to meet the social worker who sold me down the river last year. She has been brought in to discuss Greg's latest condition and what help/back-up Social Services can provide. I have told her I cannot cope any more, am at the end of my tether and really need either back-up from support workers at home, if I decide to stay and care for him, or a cast of a thousand to care for him if I decide to leave. She is looking into this for me. Don't hold your breath. Meanwhile Greg is demanding to be sent home NOW, even though he can barely walk across the room and is shaking like a jelly from withdrawal. At least he is on medication to get him off the alcohol (again), though he asked me to smuggle some in for him yesterday. My answer was unprintable.

Here we go again

Three guesses where I spent my Saturday evening? Having a romantic meal? No. Bopping away at the nightclub down the road? No. Being serenaded by Richard Gere on a gondola? No....fat chance! Sorry your three guesses are up. I spent Saturday evening in Accident and Emergency at the local hospital.

Over the last few months, Greg has been having increasing difficulty walking , his feet have puffed up to the size of party balloons over the last few weeks and despite my nagging (his words by the way - mine would be more along the lines of advising) him to go to the doctor, he has shown no sign of doing so. The circulation to his legs is damaged by smoking and the nerve supply in his legs is damaged by diabetes. More and more over the last few weeks, as I had reported, his appetite had gone altogether, his hygiene had completely gone to seed and he had not bothered to dress or do anything. He had been incontinent several times and I had had to clear up the mess.

Yesterday afternoon he tried to get up the stairs to lie down and his legs just crumpled beneath him. He had no strength in his legs whatsoever to stand or even sit on the stairs. He looked akin to a mermaid (or should that be merman?) trying to writhe up the stairs using the top half of his body but dragging the useless bottom half behind him. He barked at me to help him up the stairs, but as I tried to get him to stand, so his legs crumpled beneath him again. Then he tried to crawl on all fours but again his legs would not do the work. After several attempts over a period of half an hour, when I seemed to be getting the blame for his inability to get up the stairs, I could see we were getting nowhere and I said I was going to phone for an ambulance. He begged me not to (he hates hospitals with a passion and is too curmudgeonly to do what he is told by the nurses and doctors) but I was having none of it. So I called an ambulance and he was whisked to the nearest hospital, with me following on behind in the car. After a three-hour wait, during which Greg moaned about the long wait and complained that I had over-reacted and that he could have got up the stairs if only I had supported him a bit more, we finally saw a doctor who did all sorts of tests to evaluate his mobility and reflexes. Then she ordered some blood tests and the long and short of it was that they admitted him overnight to do some more mobility tests in the morning. My sister-in-law commented "thank goodness it wasn't last weekend when you were taking Kay up to university".

Meanwhile the blood results show that his liver values are sky-high. Surprise surprise!

Testing times

I don't mean to keep on whining, because I know everyone has their share of problems, but I'm having a tough time of things at the moment.

1. Kay is up at university and I would be quite happy to cope with the empty nest syndrome if it weren't for the fact that she is finding it hard to settle. I have received quite a few tearful phone calls from her over the last few days which in turn have unsettled me. It seems the people she is sharing a flat with are quite heavy party animals and have been out every night since they all arrived on Saturday boozing till 3 AM. Although Kay enjoys a vodka or two, she is obviously not keen to follow in her father's footsteps and cannot see the point in being completely legless or throwing up by the roadside. She prefers to pace her drinks and be relaxed and enjoy the evening. They also seem to have come with quite a few of their mates from school, whereas Kay had no choice in which university she went to (because of the competition I mentioned here) and so has not gone where any of her school friends are. She has just rang me again in tears. Last night she had not gone out with them as she needed to be in university today to meet her lecturers and tutors for the first time, and attend lectures. She therefore needed a clear head. Her flatmates came crawling home at 3am and were shouting and yelling in party-mood, which woke her and she could not get back to sleep again after that. All she keeps saying is that she feels so tired and misses home and her friends, but she does not want to seek pastoral advice from anyone at the university for fear she will look bad in her flatmates eyes. Frankly I really don't know what to do and I am really worried about her.

2. I have two very close friends from my university days and the husband of one of them has just died suddenly. He has had back pain for a few months and at first was being treated for sciatica and then a kidney infection. The pain did not go away, though, and he only found out about six weeks ago that he had spinal cancer. About a month ago, he had a quick course of radiotherapy which rendered him paralysed and he died ten days ago. It has all happened so fast, we are still reeling from the shock. I am going to his funeral next week. It is not going to be easy. He was a tall cuddly bear of a man, a gentle giant, a gentleman, a leading light in his field of expertise. It does not seem possible this could happen so quickly.

3. In an attempt to cheer myself up this morning, I went into our nearest shopping centre for a bit of retail therapy. But I felt as if I was walking in a bubble and all I could see was Kay and I walking there last week getting the last-minute bits and pieces for uni. I did not enjoy it one bit and decided to come home, quickly nipping into a supermarket on the way to grab a couple of whisky bottles for Greg. One slipped through my hand and I ended up with glass and whisky in a pool all around my feet. Fortunately the supermarket manager was extremely sweet and told me not to worry and an assistant miraculously appeared with mop and bucket and also told me not to worry. I felt like bursting into tears, because they were so nice.

4. On getting home, I discovered Greg had had an accident in the toilet and there was mess all over the toilet floor. He had of course not cleared it up and it was waiting for me to deal with. (He seems to be getting more and more incontinent at the moment, both with urine and faeces. Because he cannot walk very well, he seems to get the message too late to get to the toilet in time.) My washing machine is working overtime. I have become a carer and am no longer a wife - in all senses of the word.

Sometimes life sucks.

Empty Nest Syndrome

On Saturday I took Kay up to university.
The house is empty now - without her.
Void of her laughter, her clothes, her self.
It's horrible.

Why?

Many people ask why I have stayed so long and put up with Greg's alcoholism. Like with many things involving emotions, it is not an easy question to answer. To start with, we have been married for nearly 34 years and in addition were together five years before that, so that is a heck of a long time invested in one another. The alcoholism only started 6 years ago when Greg took early retirement because of heart disease and the diminishing ability to commute to work. The previous 28 married years had been a normal reasonably happily married relationship.

When the alcoholism started, it was uncharacteristic and I had hoped it was a minor blip which would right itself. By the time the penny dropped that there was no quick fix and this was not going to get better, the thought of leaving him was at the time out of the question. You know how it is, if you have teenage kids, you want things to be consistent for them, particularly with important exams looming on the horizon. You don't want to upset the apple cart. The problem is that the alcoholism does not make for a peaceful life anyway, so you are damned if you leave and damned if you don't. [All credit to Kay that she managed to survive the shellfire and do as marvellously in her exams as she did.]

With each detox or hospital emergency (which ultimately led to yet another detox), I hoped that this time it would work, but inevitably Greg would return to drinking again, fooling himself and me that the occasional drink would be OK. Unfortunately I was to learn that an alcoholic cannot dice with alcohol in that way. It's all or nothing. No grey area at all. One drink leads to another and another and in the end it spirals out of control again. I admit that I had high hopes just before the first detox. When that failed, my expectations became less and less with the subsequent ones. The statistics speak volumes...apparently only 1 in 10 alcoholics manage to overcome their alcoholism.

Another thing, I suppose, is that I come from a family where marriage is sacrosanct. My parents were ecstatically married for over fifty years before leukaemia tore my father from my mother. [My mother has still not got over her grief some eight years later and says goodnight to his photo on her bedside every night.] I thought I was equally blessed in my marriage as things were fine up until 6 years ago. To give up and walk out on the marriage just because of the alcoholism seemed cowardice. I suppose too, I have always liked a challenge and I thought I could beat this black shadow that had crept over our family. Unfortunately, though, it has since shown me who is boss. One thing is for sure, the whole experience has made me a stronger person than before. I have achieved things and endured things I would have thought were not humanly possible.

Early on in Greg's alcoholism, an emergency doctor once told him that if he stopped drinking abruptly, he would suffer horrendous withdrawal symptoms such as hallucinations, fits and tremors. That frightened Greg so much that he would turn to drink as soon as he woke in the morning, for fear he would start off the withdrawal process . Ironically the very thing that made Greg feel ill in the morning was the very thing he needed to feel better. He would wake retching, feeling nauseous, shaking. But after a couple of stiff drinks for breakfast, he would begin to feel better and the day would continue with bouts of sleep and renewed drinking to keep up the alcohol levels to avoid withdrawal. This deep-seated fear has now made him alcohol-dependent and his lack of willpower has meant that he is unable to reduce gradually, as the doctors all advise. I have seen this fear in him and witnessed him reduced to tears when he feels he wants to stop but knows he just dare not. I have oscillated between feeling sorry for him, because he was not always like this, and being extremely angry about what he has put the whole family through.

There comes a point in this cycle between the detoxes, when Greg is no longer able to buy his own supplies. This is at the point when he is usually drinking a full bottle a day, his health has deteriorated and he is not eating at all because the alcohol suppresses the appetite. He becomes physically weak and mentally incapable. I have therefore been the one to buy his whisky supplies when it gets to that stage where he can no longer get out on his own. The one alternative is that he goes without alcohol (which, as I have mentioned above, he cannot for the reasons of withdrawal) or the other alternative is that he drives to get it himself. I would rather have it on my conscience that I am enabling him to drink by buying the stuff for him than risk him running someone over with his car if he gets it himself. Of course I would rather not have either option, but the fear he has (and, if I am honest, I have too) of the withdrawal symptoms is too strong a threat to ignore. We are both caught up in this addiction for different reasons. Him because he needs that alcohol in his system and me because I know if he doesn't get it, it will tear him apart. I am however the only one between us who seems to understand that it will eventually kill him. He seems to think he can outwit it. I am resigned to the fact that he will never manage it. His health has suffered too much already and each time he detoxes he does not bounce back so easily and his liver and brain suffer that little bit more. I know it is killing him. Also I am aware that, if I should decide to leave him, he would not be able to cope and would inevitably be alone in an emergency and possibly die alone. Not exactly a nice thought for any of us to contemplate, whether we are alcoholics or not. Strange as it may seem, I certainly still care enough to feel guilty about this.

Shortly Kay is about to embark on a new chapter in her life and will be leaving home for exciting adventures at university. I then have some tough decisions to make.

Analysis of the situation so far

Here are some key facts about Greg's current situation:

Health - he has heart disease, diabetes, circulatory problems in legs and feet, liver damage, slight brain damage; he forgets to take medication (or refuses to take it when I provide it), drinks one 70cl bottle of whisky per day, smokes 30-40 cigarettes daily, eats almost nothing (has no appetite). Because of the diabetes/smoking, his circulation is poor, so his feet are purple, puffy and covered in sores.

Money spent on alcohol/cigarettes - too much to mention. Approximately £140 per week.

Hygiene - Greg does not wash himself, clean his teeth or change his clothes, in fact he has taken lately to not even bothering to dress and bums about in his dirty dressing gown all day and all night. He stinks. Any attempts on my part to get him to wash or change clothing (so I can actually get it into a washing machine or burn it) constitutes nagging.

Interests (in no particular order) - whisky, talking about anything that happened 10-40 years ago, watching History channel on TV, dozing on a dining chair.

Irritants - anyone who interrupts his monologues, anyone who dares to say anything over the television programmes he watches ( he watches from 7am till 2 am the next morning!!)

Average number of times he has been out of the house in months - nil

Last time he went for a walk anywhere - 3 months ago

Age - actual age 60, looks 80, physical ability of a 120-year-old

He is a living nightmare.

Google Library picture

Burning issue

Because of the heavy alcohol dependency combined with the diabetes, Greg spends a lot of his time nodding off to sleep at various times of the day. I will often come into our kitchen/diner, where he sits all day watching TV, and find him fast asleep on a dining chair with his chin on his chest. If I leave him like this, he complains, once he wakes up, that I should not have left him like that and that I should always attempt to wake him, as otherwise he will not sleep at night. As it is, he does not go to bed much before 2 am. The trouble is, if I DO wake him, he is always irritable and shouts at me. If it is much later in the day, he also talks a lot of gobbledegook.

The other day, when I found him asleep in front of the TV, I tried to wake him and he started talking about daughters in the fridge. I asked him to explain that again and he got very annoyed, as if I should have understood the first time round. He was slurring his words, then said that he meant *details* in the fridge. What? He explained again, only more annoyed this time...the details of addresses in mobile phones should be defrosted and put in the fridge. What???? He was really shouting at me by now that I was failing to listen properly and understand him. I gave up at that point and said I was going to bed. But my heart was in my boots. I am always afraid when he is in that mental state that he might fall asleep with a cigarette still alight. It does not fill me with confidence when I turn off my bedside lamp and try to sleep.

An "ology"

After my last two posts, I can't stop thinking about a series of old British Telecom (BT) adverts on TV that used to feature the life of a woman called Beattie (BT, get it?!) played by Maureen Lipman. This particular one was always my favourite. It seems to have extra relevance this week!

To dream the impossible dream

I apologise for my mad mother cow mode yesterday, but I wanted to shout the good news from the rooftops.

When Kay was a teeny tiny three-year-old, knee-high to a grasshopper, she used to love playing with a nurse's set. She would don the nurse's uniform and cap with the bright red cross on, sling the stethoscope around her neck and call for her next patient. This was usually my long-suffering Dad (her Granddad) who was visiting us. He had to lie down on the sofa and Kay would tell him that he had unfortunately just been run over by a runaway truck carrying glass bottles. Not only had he broken his leg but he had huge shards of glass embedded in his leg too. The most serious of accidents. She would listen to his chest with the stethoscope, then roll up his trousers to his knee and with painstaking concentration pick out the non-existent shards of glass with tweezers. Then she would x-ray his leg, waving her arm back and forth pretending to be the x-ray machine. She would write out a prescription for tablets and pronounce him well and able to go home. She would then call for her next patient (usually her granddad again but using a different voice and of course with a different ailment). This game went on for a number of years only until she outgrew the uniform.

She never outgrew her love to help other people though and, because she is fascinated by the workings of the human body, she always steadfastly maintained she wanted to be a doctor. She would devour every TV hospital fiction programme from Casualty to Grey's Anatomy. People would tell her that what you see on TV is the romantic's view of medicine, that in reality it is a lot harsher, with real warts and all, but still she maintained she wanted to do it. She would scour every documentary about Siamese twins or people with disabilities or real-life operations. She would look into the pictures of fractured bones and gore, often coming up with a diagnosis before the TV commentary had exposed the answer. She even watched her beloved granddad disappear from her eyes with leukaemia. When she was sixteen she did two weeks' work experience shadowing a consultant in one of the local hospitals, where she sat in on clinics and was even allowed to scrub up and observe real operations close-up, done by real surgeons a million miles from George Clooney or Dr Kildare. And she still loved it with a passion.

Her choice of A-levels was therefore none too surprising, but particularly this last couple of years she fought an uphill struggle to study the foreign language of chemistry, the varied miracles of human biology and the complications of maths while her father constantly ranted and raved his way through a blur of whisky. She watched him collapse on many occasions, saw him delirious in a hospital bed and still she fought on. There was many a time when she would be trying to study for a test or write a piece of coursework and she could not get peace because he was shouting all over the house and following us from room to room. There was many a time too when the night before the exam, she could not find a quiet corner in the house to revise. As I have said many times before, Greg is not quiet when drunk.

Medicine is not an easy subject to get a university place for. Every medical school Open Day we went to was punctuated with the difficulty we would face... about twenty applicants for every place... they don't just want straight A students - after all, they are ten-a-penny....they would prefer all-singing, all-dancing ones.... applicants, who not only acted in the school play, but wrote it.... who not only played in the school cricket team but captained it on a recent visit to Antarctica.... applicants who can play the cello standing on their head while singing Ave Maria in Swahili.... ones that at the age of 16 have done their first brain operation.... You get the kind of thing I mean.

When Kay was rejected from three of her four university choices, it came as no surprise. "Sheer numbers of competition" was the standard reason in the rejection letters. You almost come to wait for the next rejection with stoicism. It was therefore with enormous excitement that she was invited to an interview at the last of the four grand institutions in February. To get an interview was an achievement in itself. Even if you get rejected afterwards, that is something to be proud of. At least you almost got there.

When, on the basis of that interview, Kay got an offer of a place (conditional of course upon getting certain exam grades), we were almost beside ourselves. It can't get better than this, can it? Against all the odds. Like a salmon swimming upstream. At least she had tried, even if the bubbling stream were to force her backwards in the end. Anyway, good things don't happen to us, do they?

The exams were hard. (When were they ever easy? Although of course there is much talk of dumbing down of exam papers these days. But a quick look at A-level Maths and Chemistry papers had me whimpering in pain at how I would cope with the answers. Even Kay found some of them hard and she had been studying the material for them for two years. Particularly when the night before she had yet again tried to work with yet another of Greg's outbursts.) Kay was worried about how she had done. In the end, she even had me convinced she had not done well. As each week passed by, I came to believe that she would not achieve her dream. The week in Greece was a great relief for us both, as we could switch off and relax, change the scene, away from the tensions at home, and forget. But once home again, the reality set in. We did not dare to plan for the future. In case. In case it was not to be. We did not want to tempt fate. After all the odds are that there are twenty for every place. Why should we be so lucky? Even worse, we did not have a Plan B. There was never a Plan B. Plan A was all Kay ever wanted.

As this week drew nearer and yesterday's date loomed, we felt sicker in the stomach. We were both nervous wrecks, though I tried to distract and make light of it all. By yesterday morning I felt like a pig facing the slaughterhouse door. Goodness knows what Kay felt. Neither of us had had much sleep. So imagine then, how we felt when she opened that envelope at school and achieved her dream. I still feel as if I am going to wake up and it has all been a pleasant dream. I only hope her Granddad is watching up there from a passing cloud. He would be so proud that he was instrumental in nurturing in Kay an interest that has never gone away.

So again, I apologise for my mad mother cow mode yesterday, but I so wanted to shout the fantastic news from the highest rooftops.

My Cup Runneth Over

Results day and I am pinching myself in case I am dreaming. I know many of you have been kindly keeping fingers, toes and anything else crossed for Kay over the last few days, so I won't beat about the bush. She has got amazing A-level results (after convincing herself and me all summer that she had failed.) So here they are:

A for Maths
A for Biology
B for Chemistry

What is more, the university has confirmed, accepted, definitely agreed it (pinch, pinch - nope, I am not dreaming.) SHE HAS DEFINITELY GOT A PLACE. Ooop North. To study medicine. There, I can even say what she is studying now. I did not want to jinx things before, by even mentioning it.

This has got to be the best news of the year, of the decade, of my life. Thank you everyone for being so patient with me up to now and for supporting me. I really appreciate it. Yayyyyyyyy!!!!!!

Five, Four, Three, Two, One

Five more nail-biting days before Kay gets her A-level exam results. Kay is so on edge she is having anxiety dreams. Sometimes they are based on the fact she has got the grades she needs and is already at university, sometimes they are about the fact she has not got the requisite grades and has not got in. This time next week we shall know her fate. Having waited eight weeks for this, it can't come quick enough.

More than meets the eye

I expect you may have wondered where I had got to this past ten days and whether I had disappeared down a black hole. I had in fact gone to spend time my mother again, this time taking Snoopy with me. Kay did not come as she preferred to spend some time with her friends before they all go their separate ways in the autumn to universities all over the UK.

I seem to spend my life at the moment administering eye drops. Greg had a cataract operation at the beginning of July. My mother had one ten days ago. Antibiotic and anti-inflammatory eye drops have to be put in four times a day for several weeks afterwards. Greg's operation was sudden, complicated by his diabetes. My mother's was long-planned, having waited many years for the cataract to ripen. It was pure coincidence that both operations were within three weeks of one another. As is usual with the operation, the patient needs someone to collect them from hospital and stay with them overnight. This has a lot to do with the fact that the eye is covered for 24 hours with a bandage and plastic shield which can cause the patient to become disoriented and misjudge distances and obstacles. Add the fact that, in my mother's case, the patient is an elderly lady who is prone to falls anyway, my presence was a necessity! I spent ten days with her in all and returned today. As always, we had a lovely time together and managed a few outings to shops and restaurants. I administered the requisite eye drops for her, tidied up her garden and did a few other chores. Because Snoopy was with me, I managed a few good walks with him too. He loves my mother's garden and enjoys rolling on the lawn as well as chasing the seagulls who dive-bomb him, thinking he is a threat to their young even though the latter are safely waddling about on the rooftops. The weather was (almost) in competition with Greece and I managed to top up my tan while I was gardening.

Kay had coped admirably on the home front looking after Greg. She had done food shopping, including lugging it home, cooked meals (which Greg as usual did not have the appetite to eat), stood over him to make sure he took his medication, washed dishes and still found time to tidy her room. Yes, I'll repeat that.... TIDY HER ROOM. I don't think it has seen a duster or vacuum cleaner in months because you have to hack your way into it. A maelstrom of clothes, shoes, books, jewellery and plastic bags covering every horizontal surface including the floor, so that walking across the room is a hazardous occupation and one I have refused to even contemplate in the last six months without a hard hat and elbow pads. I couldn't believe the transformation when I got back today. All this domesticity will stand her in good stead when/if she goes to university. I think too she has found it relaxing not having to spend all her time studying for exams for a change.

One thing that was very apparent to me while I was away is just how much Greg's mind has deteriorated. We would speak daily on the phone and he would repeat things over and over again. He would tell me some piece of news or information at the beginning of the call and then tell me again about ten minutes later as if it was the first time he had mentioned it. He would sometimes go on to tell me a third time. He can recall with remarkable clarity things that happened ten, twenty, thirty years ago. In fact his conversation largely centres on living in the past, recalling experiences and episodes long gone. But when it comes to things that happened or were said ten, twenty or thirty MINUTES ago, it seems he needs reminding or he has totally blocked it from his memory. Kay has noticed this too. One morning she came down from her room, had a long conversation with him over breakfast and then went to watch the television for a while. About an hour later Greg bumped into her and was surprised to see she was awake and had not come down to say hello to him! He had obviously forgotten that he had seen her and talked to her an hour earlier. Things are definitely worse in that department than I thought. Whether it is permanent damage or short-term (only while he continues to drink) I don't know.

Mamma mia

The washing's been done, the cases unpacked, the photos stored on computer, the memories put to bed. We are back home again, though I so wish we were still there.

Oh what a lovely holiday we had. Just a week. A mere seven days, but it was heaven on earth. Endless blue skies, calm turquoise seas, clusters of white villas dotted all over the landscape and temperatures of 46 degrees centigrade or 115 fahrenheit!! That last bit was a bit of a killer, I must admit, but Kay and I darted from one bit of shade to another and only really emerged at 8pm like butterflies from a chrysalis when the sun had gone down and it was cooler (by then as low as 30 degrees centigrade or 86 fahrenheit)! Even in the middle of the night, temperatures barely dropped below 30. How the Greeks manage to live their lives in that heat, I don't know, but you can understand why they need to siesta.



Because of the heat, we did not do an awful lot except relax by the pool or dart between the shadows down to the beach, but we sat under parasols until it was safe to emerge once more. The sea and the pool were refreshingly soothing and lured us from our shady hideaways. A few day trips using local buses to nearby villages and sights also enticed us


from the shade and were extremely interesting. I tried out my pathetic knowledge of Greek, much to the amusement of the waiters and shopkeepers, who looked questioningly at my faltering words and replied in perfect English. We ate a different Greek meal each evening and studiously avoided anything that smacked of English breakfasts or burgers and chips. We sometimes rounded off the evening with a cocktail or two decorated with a garnish of plastic mermaids, straws and other follies. We slept (with the extortionate optional extra of air-conditioning) like we had never slept before. Happy in the knowledge that we were not sharing our accommodation with an alcoholic who could set fire to the place at a moment's notice. A truly relaxing week. It did me the power of good. Mother and daughter getting on like two sisters or very good friends. Sharing secrets and having interesting conversations. Mamma mia, that was a week I shall remember for a very long time.


Our return was traumatic enough. It started by being collected by coach from our apartment at 1 am for a night flight at 5.30 am. This was supposed to be an hour-long transfer to the airport but turned into a two-hour coach-journey-from-hell. Ten minutes into the journey one passenger threw up his evening meal all over the coach aisle because he had drank too much alcohol and the coach had to stop for 20 minutes while he continued to throw up all over the roadside as well. Once the coach had been cleaned up and we had set off again, the coach shuddered to a halt after another five minutes and it transpired the coach had broken down. "Nothing serious", said the dippy blonde tour rep, "just something the matter with the engine!!" We waited another 30 minutes on a dark deserted bit of country roadside for a replacement coach. Once finally at the airport, the check-in was long and meticulous, the overnight flight was cramped and it was impossible to sleep so we arrived back in London at 7.30am having not slept a wink all night. We reached home bleary-eyed mid-morning to find Greg already quite inebriated and a dirty great burn hole in the kitchen floor where he had fallen asleep on one occasion and dropped his cigarette. We were home again... with a bump!

Achtung! Achtung!

By the time you read this, Kay and I will be sitting by a swimming pool in the sunny Mediterranean for a well-deserved break in Greece. It's the first holiday we have had together for five years and my first holiday without Greg for 34 years. It is going to seem very strange, but he is in no state to travel (or be good company) and I desperately want to give Kay a good holiday after all her hard work and before she leaves home. If I am honest I am desperate too for a bit of a break from all the stresses and strains of the last five years.

In the meantime, thinking of things foreign and different, I thought I would share with you the one thing that really gets me shouting at the television. It is when people try to pronounce German names wrongly. All right, I studied German at uni and am, I suppose without wishing to blow my own trumpet (not that I have one) pretty fluent in it. I also lived in Germany for a total of four years, so I do know what I'm talking about.

I don't blame the ordinary man in the street for getting it wrong; after all I wouldn't profess to know how to pronounce something correctly in Spanish or Greek or Mongolian for that matter. But when large companies produce adverts on TV and cannot pronounce them, that is plain unacceptable, because they are teaching all of us to pronounce them incorrectly too. Even the German companies go along with the mispronunciation because they know how useless on the whole English people can be at foreign languages.

Take Braun - the company that manufactures things like hair-dryers and curling tongs. The ad-men would have us pronounce it "Brawn" to rhyme with "prawn". It must make a German's toes' curl rather than their hair, because it is pronounced "brown" like the colour which in fact it is. "Braun" is the German for the colour "brown" and is pronounced the same... "brown". Simples. Or you would think so. No, it has to rhyme with "prawn". Let's make it difficult.

Another example is the German sports car, Porsche. You will hear most people here pronounce it "Porsh", as if they have a speech impediment trying to say "posh". But German words ending in "-e" are always pronounced "-a" at the end. Thus in Germany "Porsche" is pronounced "Porsha". I always feel if you can afford to drive one, you should ****** well learn how to pronounce it properly. It always made me laugh when many years ago a previous next door neighbour - who had his own building firm - drove around in his "Porsh" thinking he was the bees' knees. In my eyes, it made him look ridiculous because he could not even pronounce the name of his car properly. I won't even go there with Audi's Vorsprung durch Technik or how many variations there are on the way people say "Volkswagen".

I could go on with more examples, but don't wish to appear pedantic and pretentious. (What, moi?) For some strange reason it does not sound hilarious when German is mispronounced. But French is another case altogether, as Inspector Clousseau from The Pink Panther and Rene Artois of 'Allo 'Allo would agree. Rant over and spread the word! The correct one, that is! If you tell five people and they tell five people, maybe eventually we'll have everyone pronouncing things correctly. I can dream....



Normal service will be resumed soon! Meanwhile think of us lapping up the Greek sun and hospitality! Now, what's Greek for "a white wine spritzer with a cherry on the top!"

Happy Birthday

My one and only baby is eighteen years old today. It doesn't seem that long ago since she was a helpless little bundle that was so eager to get into this world she barely gave me time to get to the hospital and made her entrance just 90 minutes later.

I thank her for all the joy she has given me over the years...a joy I thought I would never see once I reached the dreaded forty. I thank her for all her love, her hard work at school, her comfort in dark times, her laughter and most of all for just being there. I thank her for keeping me sane. I apologise for being a ham-fisted mum at the start and not knowing which end was which when trying to apply the first nappy! I apologise for sometimes playing the bad cop, when she needed telling. Most of all I apologise for bringing her into this alcoholic environment that most kids should not have to experience.

She is a joy to behold - I wish I could share a photo with you - but for obvious reasons cannot, as I am sure you will appreciate. Trust me, she is stunning and turns heads. She has a wise head on her young shoulders. After all, she survived a trip to the Guatemalan jungle last year and came back in one piece. She knows the dangers of alcohol and promises me she will not drink to excess. She has seen the results painfully too often. However, as the youngest in her school year, she has had to sit out on too many friends' outings to clubs and pubs, as she did not have the requisite 18-year-old ID. She is at least very keen to try that out as soon as she can.

She and I are planning to wander around central London today and do whatever we fancy. Predictably Greg is not up to coming with us. (He has just come back with his daily purchase of whisky). I shall take Kay into a pub and get her to order some drinks with our lunch! Then tonight a quiet meal out somewhere. She is planning a birthday outing later in the week with her friends and they intend to go clubbing till the wee small hours of the morning. Just because they can and are old enough. My baby is no more. My grandmother used to say "small children, small worries; big children, big worries." It's true. When they are little you worry about them falling over and grazing their knee. When they older, you worry about the pressure they are put under at school. As they reach adulthood, you wonder what smart young boy is going to drive her into a tree at 60 miles an hour. I suppose you never stop worrying, but you have to let go. For their peace of mind and yours!

So happy birthday, darling, and have a wonderful day.