19 March 2019

Death of an alcoholic

People are naturally always very sympathetic when they find out I am a widow and more often than not ask in hushed tones what my husband died of. When I tell them he was an alcoholic, their look turns from one of sympathy to complete incomprehension, particularly if they knew him slightly or worked with him. He or more precisely we were very good at masking it.... from friends, from neighbours, even from the immediate family. Denial is not just the prerogative of the alcoholic.

My own reaction to his death was strange. When someone has a terminal illness brought on by no fault of their own (let us say a stroke, heart attack, cancer or any number of the cruel life-taking illnesses there are), it is easier to feel so sorry for the patient, to tend to their every whim, make their dying as comfortable as possible and grieve heavily for them after they have gone. After all, it is not their fault.

In the case of an alcoholic who has brought all of their physical destruction on themselves and more than likely caused untold upset and chaos within the family unit, it is completely different. Mopping their sweat-covered brow with love and devotion just isn't an option, when that person has poured gallons and gallons of alcohol into their system, ranted and raved till the wee small hours of the morning, drunk the housekeeping money or dented the car. You might still end up mopping their brow (if you haven't left them in the meantime), but with a feeling of resentment, anger, wistfulness for what could have been and a great dollop of see-it-through-to-the-end fortitude. When they pass on, it is usually one of relief for those who have lived alongside it for years: relief that you can sleep peacefully and return to a normal existence at last.

When Greg died, I was unable to cry (see here) and still find I am relatively hardened to what  happened. It is difficult to knock those self-preservation barriers down that I erected for all those years he drank. Now, when milestones crop up such as birthdays or wedding anniversaries, I naturally think of my late husband. At first, I was too numb to feel anything. As the years pass (currently nine since his death), I am beginning to mellow and am saddened by what he is missing. As a BBC journalist, he would have been so interested in the international and local events of the last nine years. I wonder what he'd make of Brexit,  ISIS, the demise of the Liberal party to name a few. He has also missed out on our daughter's excellent progress in her career and her love life. Knowing he will never walk her up the aisle is particularly upsetting.  He would have been 70 next month. How and where would we have celebrated, who would we have invited, had he been a normal healthy 70-year-old? He and I have forfeited a long and happy retirement together. Gone are the weekends away somewhere or travel to new parts of the world. (I know a few widows or divorcees who do travel alone, but that's not for me. I would stick out like a sore thumb and would not enjoy it.) There's still, after nine years, an element of anger over the fact that my wings have been clipped as well as his, but I also feel sad that he missed out on so many things that could have been possible but for the kamikaze alcoholic choice he made.

The death of an alcoholic is a funny thing and does not always fit neatly into the stereotypical form of grief normally suffered by the bereaved. Whether my anger or the sadness will get the upper hand, who knows? Only more time will tell. 

06 March 2019

Nine years

Today is the ninth anniversary of Greg's death. Kay and I are going to the crematorium to lay flowers in the chapel. Sometimes it seems more than nine years, at other times barely possible that so much time has lapsed. We talk about him often - keen to keep him with us in the present; to chide him over his stupidity to drink himself to death; to lament his absence. To forget him is nigh-on impossible, despite the passing of time. How can you eradicate 39 years together? Most were happy, although they are unfortunately overshadowed by those last few years which were so full of the drunken nightmare, so that it is THAT which has stuck eternally in our minds. 

He was and always will be Kay's father. I am keen to keep his memory alive for her, the good side of him, the kind side of him, not the bad, drunken side. But with every passing year, I struggle to conjure up the details of his face or his voice. I have photos, of course. Cine film even. Not to mention cassettes of his voice as part of his work as a radio journalist. But the 3-D Greg is difficult to bring to the fore. He is fading away into the mists of the past, but still I feel the need to grasp hold of him and remember.

Last resting place

27 February 2019

Thought for the day 1

A recent news report announces that cockapoos (cocker spaniels mixed with poodles) and labradoodles (labradors mixed with poodles) are now the favourite breed of dog, rendering others such as the West Highland White almost undesirable. There's also peekapoos (half poodle, half Pekingese), jackhuahuas (half Jack Russell, Half Chihuahua) and bullshihtzus (half bulldog and half shih ztu), not to mention many more combinations.

Not being funny, but didn't mixed breeds used to be called mongrels?

11 February 2019

I have survived - part 2

Back in September I had our family bathroom modernised and dragged it into the 21st century. It was high time as it was stuck in a 1960s time warp. I wrote about it here. I find it stressful having workmen in the house, particularly when they behave like Laurel and Hardy, but don't like the idea of leaving the house to give them free rein in it either, so I end up on tenterhooks killing whole days at a time, keeping out of their way, not being able to relax to anything, but serving multiple cups of tea and coffee (Greg always used to say a workmen needs his thirst quenching regularly).

Always a glutton for punishment I decided to repeat the whole exercise, but this time to update my en suite bathroom, also stuck in a 1960s time warp. I employed the same plumber to do the work. He and the young lad he employs as his gofer make an excellent job of the bathroom, but manage to create havoc elsewhere. This time was no exception.

The old bathroom look like this.....

Yep. I told you it was dated. I've had to live with it for 30 years! 

The first problem was that the plumber couldn't start on the date we had agreed months ago, 14 January, but asked if it could be a week later. I always have to make sure Kay isn't working night shifts, when I arrange for workmen, because otherwise any noisy work during the day would render her sleepless. So far, so good, as she was not working nights if we shifted the dates forward by a week.

The next problem arose, when a day or so before the plumber said he couldn't start on the Monday 21st , as his last job had overrun, but would definitely start on Tuesday 22nd. As my job would take at least two weeks to complete, he was unable to complete the job by Friday 1st February as we had agreed, but it would run into a third week. Normally this would not be a problem, but on Friday 1st we were expecting a guest from Germany for the weekend - a young girl from Berlin, whom Kay had met on her travels in South America last year. They had become good friends and the girl wanted to visit us in London. I had hoped it would not be a problem as the bathroom work would be finished by then, but of course now it wouldn't be and the house would be in chaos for our guest's arrival. There was nothing to do but grin and bear it and accept the situation.

The first six days (Tuesday 22nd to Tuesday 29th) saw much banging and crashing. The old bathroom was ripped out and ended up in my front garden, new pipes were laid, plasterboard was sawn and hammered in (the dust from plasterboard is nothing short of several bags of flour being thrown around throughout the entire house despite doors to rooms being shut. I was even breathing it in!) Then came the plastering over the plasterboards, the painting of ceilings and the electrician arriving to do his bit. On the Tuesday afternoon, the young lad hosed down the front garden path, as rain had mixed the plasterboard dust out there into a gloopy mess, looking as if a lorry had dumped a load of porridge on the path. The plumber and his gofer lad then left me for the next three days (Wednesday 30th to Friday 1st) while the tiler came to do his bit.

The tiler got on with the job quietly and was finished by Friday lunchtime.  I was pleased at that because it meant I had the whole afternoon to get the place a bit straight for the German girl's arrival that evening. (I had decamped to the guest room while the en suite bathroom was being done, but it meant I had to vacate the guest room and move back into my room, change bedding etc and move all my stuff out.) Things were going well and I was more or less organised, when I happened to go into the integral garage in the late afternoon to fetch something and that is when I discovered it. 

The floor was sopping wet. We have an old bit of carpet on half of the garage floor (don't ask) and it was soaking up the water like a sponge. And on the carpet are three items of furniture belonging to my late mother which we had kept back for Kay for when she eventually gets a place of her own - one of them an antique bureau. All three pieces had their feet on the wet carpet slowly soaking up the moisture. I looked around and saw water pumping out of the hose. I should explain that the hose I keep in the front garden for watering plants out there is permanently attached to a tap in the garage. When I need the hose I turn the tap on and water the garden. Then I turn the tap off. Three days previously the young lad had used the hose, as I explained above, but had not turned the tap off afterwards. He had screwed the spout end in the garden shut and the water had backed up along the hose and was pouring out of the tap end in the garage. With a few hours to go before the German girl arrived, I managed to contact the plumber who flew over to my rescue, muttering about the lad under his breath. He helped me move the furniture to safety and the wet dustsheets covering said furniture ended up on radiators all round the house, as did our old drenched fabric frame tent which is the size of a small bungalow.  Goodness knows what our German guest really thought, when she arrived and saw the things steaming on the radiators but she smiled a lot and accepted what we told her, probably thinking the English are as mad as a box of frogs.

Come the Monday, the lad was extremely apologetic having been given a right rollicking by the plumber and the final stages of work commenced. By Tuesday evening I was able to wave them a hearty goodbye and regain the house to myself. I'm sure you're dying to see the transformation, so without further ado, here are the after photos.  I feel like a film star now, particularly with that big mirror. It might be another 30 years before I can face another makeover again, but for the time being I'm loving that new bathroom.

28 January 2019


Yesterday was Holocaust Memorial Day - a day dedicated to remembering the six million Jews who died at the hands of Nazis in Germany (as well as in subsequent genocides in Cambodia, Rwanda and Bosnia). It is well that we remember these events in order to avoid the atrocities recurring in the future, although, sadly, we never seem to learn from our mistakes. However, I was appalled to read that five per cent of UK adults do not believe the Holocaust even took place and one in 12 believes its scale has been exaggerated. Why do they think so many millions of people all around the world would make up these stories?

My own family were victims of the Holocaust. I have mentioned it before. My father came from Germany and was born in 1923.  His father was Catholic, his mother a Jewess, albeit one who had never set foot in a synagogue in her life. I guess marrying a Catholic would have been impossible if she were a strict Jew. But she was no more Jewish than I am an African goatherd (and I'm not by the way). By the mid 1930s with Hitler now in power, it became pretty obvious to the family that things were not looking good for Jews. Even if you were non-practicing, they went back six generations to check your Aryan eligibility, so my father and his brother failed miserably on that score, even though they had been raised as Protestants in the Lutheran church. My Dad and uncle had even been confirmed, but it wasn't enough to save them.

In late 1938, my uncle (then aged 17) was arrested at home and taken to Buchenwald concentration camp, presumably because he was not eligible to join the Hitler Youth. My 15-year-old father was thankfully in another town visiting his aunt, otherwise he would have been arrested too. Quite why they didn't take my grandparents at the same time, I do not know, but it was 1938 and things were still not as bad as they later became once the war had started. Also my grandfather had been awarded the Iron Cross in the First World War, so maybe that was enough to spare him at that point.

My uncle witnessed horrible things while in Buchenwald, among them daily hangings which the inmates were forced to watch. I have two photos of him taken just before Buchenwald and just after. He appears much more gaunt in the latter and his eyes look haunted. Thankfully he was only there three months. My grandparents managed with the help of Quakers in England to get both boys over here in March 1939,my grandfather paying the Nazis vast sums to get my uncle out of the camp and promising the family would leave Germany for good. It doesn't bear thinking about what would have happened if they had stayed in Germany. As it was, my grandmother's brothers ended up in concentration camps and we never heard of them again.

From a young child, I saw the tattoos, I heard the stories and I relived their experiences. How anybody could say these things did not happen, when there are so many similar stories from people all over the world that have been told or documented, I cannot fathom. What on earth would be the point in making up such horrid stories on a mass basis?

14 January 2019

Fancy that!

Every Monday I take an elderly friend of mine to the local park to help her walk her dog. We met about fifteen years ago in the park when our dogs started playing with one another. Sadly my dog has since passed on, so has hers, but she has replaced hers with a lovable blind spaniel. In the last few years, my friend has had an unfortunate run of bad experiences, namely a broken hip, a broken arm, breast cancer and the death of her husband all in a matter of a few years. Now in her eighties and lacking confidence after her falls, she can no longer drive and I offer once a week to drive her to the local park so she can meet up with some of the old crowd.  Dog-walkers are a particular breed of person. As animal lovers, they generally tend to be lovely caring people and will stop and talk, swap life histories and put the world to rights. Over the years we have met many and become good friends with some of them. One of them sent me the following by email this morning and I thought I'd share with you the origin of some of our well-known English sayings from the 1500s. I already knew some of them, but others were a surprise. See how many you know.

1. There is an old Hotel/Pub in Marble Arch, London , which used to have gallows adjacent to it. Prisoners were taken to the gallows (after a fair trial of course) to be hung. The horse-drawn dray, carting the prisoner, was accompanied by an armed guard, who would stop the dray outside the pub and ask the prisoner if he would like ''ONE LAST DRINK''.If he said YES, it was referred to as ONE FOR THE ROAD.  If he declined, that prisoner was ON THE WAGON. 

2. They used to use urine to tan animal skins, so families used to all pee in a pot and then once a day it was taken and sold to the tannery. 
If you had to do this to survive you were "piss poor", but worse than that were the really poor folk, who couldn't even afford to buy a pot, they "Didn't have a pot to piss in" and were the lowest of the low.  

3. Most people got married in June, because they took their yearly bath in May and they still smelled pretty good by June.  However, since they were starting to smell, brides carried a bouquet of flowers to hide the body odour. Hence the custom today of carrying a bouquet when getting married. 

4. Baths consisted of a big tub filled with hot water. The man of the house had the privilege of the nice clean water, then all the other sons and men, then the women, and finally the children. Last of all the babies. By then the water was so dirty you could actually lose someone in it. Hence the saying, "Don't throw the baby out with the bath water!" 

5. Houses had thatched roofs, thick straw piled high, with no wood underneath. It was the only place for animals to get warm, so all the cats and other small animals (mice, bugs) lived in the roof. 
When it rained it became slippery and sometimes the animals would slip and fall off the roof. Hence the saying "It's raining cats and dogs."  

6. There was nothing to stop things from falling into the house. This posed a real problem in the bedroom, where bugs and other droppings could mess up your nice clean bed. Hence, a bed with big posts and a sheet hung over the top afforded some protection. That's how canopy beds came into existence.  The floor was dirt.. Only the wealthy had something other than dirt. Hence the saying, "dirt poor." 

7. The wealthy had slate floors that would get slippery in the winter when wet, so they spread thresh (straw) on floor to help keep their footing. As the winter wore on they added more thresh until, when you opened the door, it would all start slipping outside. A piece of wood was placed in the entrance-way. Hence: a thresh hold. 

8. In those old days, they cooked in the kitchen with a big kettle that always hung over the fire. Every day they lit the fire and added things to the pot. They ate mostly vegetables and did not get much meat. They would eat the stew for dinner, leaving leftovers in the pot to get cold overnight, then start over the next day. Sometimes stew had food in it that had been there for quite a while. Hence the rhyme: ''Peas porridge hot, peas porridge cold, peas porridge in the pot, nine days old''.  

9. Sometimes they could obtain pork, which made them feel quite special. When visitors came over they would hang up their bacon, to show off. It was a sign of wealth that a man could, "Bring home the bacon." They would cut off a little to share with guests and would all sit around talking and ''chew the fat''.  

10. Those with money had plates made of pewter. Food with high acid content caused some of the lead to leach onto the food, causing lead poisoning and death. This happened most often with tomatoes, so for the next 400 years or so, tomatoes were considered poisonous.  

11. Bread was divided according to status. Workers got the burnt bottom of the loaf, the family got the middle, and guests got the top, 
or ''The Upper Crust''. 

12. Lead cups were used to drink ale or whisky. The combination would sometimes knock the imbibers out for a couple of days. Someone walking along the road would take them for dead and prepare them for burial. They were laid out on the kitchen table for a couple of days and the family would gather around and eat and drink and wait and see if they would wake up. Hence the custom of ''Holding a Wake''. 

13. England is old and small and the local folks started running out of places to bury people, so they would dig up coffins and would take the bones to a bone-house and reuse the grave. When reopening these coffins, 1 out of 25 coffins were found to have scratch marks on the inside and they realised they had been burying people alive. 
So they would tie a string on the wrist of the corpse, thread it through the coffin and up through the ground and tie it to a bell. Someone would have to sit out in the graveyard all night (the graveyard shift) to listen for the bell; thus someone could be, ''Saved by the Bell'' or was considered a ''Dead Ringer''.

Who knew walking a dog could be so educational!

04 January 2019

Happy New Year

Another Christmas and another New Year have passed peacefully. Kay and I managed a lovely day-trip up to the Midlands a few days before Christmas to see Greg's sister and her family in their new home. Then Kay and I spent Christmas itself - just the two of us - eating far too much, drinking a little too much and watching wall-to-wall TV in perfect harmony. On New Year's Eve, I went down to Brighton to spend New Year with my two closest friends, whilst Kay was loved up with her boyfriend somewhere in deepest Kent. As an only child and a widow, I am thankful for having good friends and we had a lovely time together seeing in the new year. Kay and I  are back to the normal routine now and I'm about to dismantle the decorations and put them back in their boxes in the cellar.

A new year begins. Who knows where it will lead me personally or the whole of the UK, as we begin to countdown to Brexit? Meanwhile, I have hung up a new calendar my Brighton friend gave me. Knowing I studied German, she has bought me an hilarious one, taking well-known German sayings and translating them into meaningless English. This month's one is "Das ist Schnee von gestern" meaning "that is old news" or I suppose the exact equivalent would be "that is yesterday's newspapers". Somehow the literal translation below doesn't quite get that meaning over. 

A Happy New Year to you all. May it be happy, healthy and not at all as scary as the newspapers would have us believe. Onwards and Upwards....

19 December 2018

Dancing in the Rain

Christmas is nearly upon us and all is organised in the Alcoholic Daze household. Cards have been sent, food is in the cupboards and freezer, presents have been laid out ready for wrapping and train tickets reserved for a quick pre-Christmas day trip to visit Greg's family. The stairs and tree have been decorated and we are all set to go.

I wish everyone a peaceful Christmas and a great start to the New Year. 

Of course, Christmas is not peaceful for everyone. For some it is not peaceful out of choice. I know many people who prefer a noisy Christmas with lots of relatives, board games, singing reindeer, farting snowmen and so on. The louder, the better. 

For many it is not peaceful  and certainly not of their choosing, as they live with an alcoholic. This time of year can be a minefield, living with an alcoholic, as it is almost expected that alcohol will feature prominently in large doses. Not a problem for most, but for families  living with alcoholics it is purgatory. I therefore offer some solace for those in that situation with a saying I came across recently.


Every so often,  for your own sanity, it not worth the trauma of fighting the alcoholic, but to let things be. Sometimes, approaching the problem with a different mindset can cause you less stress. May you therefore dance in the rain this Christmas. Back in 2019!

08 December 2018

At last

Image result for cartoon choir
courtesy of cartoonstock.com

Our choir actually made it to a concert last night. Actually sang. Without  the wrong kind of snow or the pianist's lurgy cancelling it. It was scheduled for last night and with bated breath, based on previous experience, I was half expecting the cancellation, right up to the moment I stood on stage!

We had rehearsed all term a mix of religious and non-religious Christmassy numbers and a random one thrown in. We had two rehearsals this week to fine-tune everything with microphones and a flautist dragged in from somewhere to create a haunting backdrop. 

Kay wasn't sure she could make it, as she had started a new rotation at the hospital yesterday and, being her first day there, she couldn't just up and off when her shift officially finished, as everything would be new and take her twice as long, but after all that, she did manage to get home in time to accompany me to the venue. So it was all working well.

The first half of the "show" was taken up with songs from a 20-strong barbershop choir who were very good indeed. They were followed by a local primary school with cute fluffy kids singing some complicated songs. Then came the interval and we were on in the second half. The star act!

The random song, the first one of our repertoire, was I wanna dance with somebody and our choirmistress, in her wisdom, had all eighty-odd of us line up at the back of the hall and dance down the aisles through the audience and up onto the stage. That was embarrassing! However, once installed on the stage, I managed to keep my nerves, even though I was centre-stage and with nobody tall standing in front of me, I could see most people in the audience. Gulp. I was on the edge of my group, the sopranos, but standing next to a bass on the edge of his group. He belted out his notes so loudly that it was a job trying to sing my soprano part over him. A right war of the notes. We warbled our way through gospel, religious pieces and then finally stuff like Jingle Bells and White Christmas. I think the audience liked it and even joined in for the Santa Claus is Coming to Town at the end.  

More events are lined up for next week - carols in the high street. I'll be signing autographs afterwards. Bring a pen!

27 November 2018

One year on

1923- 2017
It's a year since my lovely mum died. The actual anniversary was last week. Kay took time off work, I bundled together my scars from my recent operation and we headed to Eastbourne. Mum used to live there until five years ago, when she was no longer able to live independently and I moved her to a retirement flat closer to me. Her ashes are down in Eastbourne, though, together with Dad's and we wanted to inspect the Book of Remembrance to make sure her entry had been written in it. It seemed strange being back and seeing all her old haunts. We had a look at her old house. The new owners had paved over the front garden lawn to make a car port, put up an ugly fence and had ugly brown blinds at the windows. It doesn't pay to go back to a once loved home, does it?

Kay and I checked into a seafront hotel and made a small holiday of it. Being November, the weather was not great, but one day we managed a long walk along the promenade to the foot of Beachy Head and on other days escaped the rain by doing some Christmas shopping. After my operation, the break was welcome and blew away some cobwebs. But everywhere we went, Mum was always in our thoughts.

19 November 2018


  1. worn out or ruined because of age or neglect.

    "a row of decrepit houses"

    synonyms:dilapidatedrickety, run down, broken-downtumbledownramshackleworn outderelict, in ruins, ruined, falling apart, falling to pieces, in (a state of) disrepair, creaky, creaking, gone to rack and ruin, on its last legs; 
    • (of a person) elderly and infirm.

      "a rather decrepit old man"

      synonyms:feeble, enfeebled, infirmweak, weakened, weaklyfrail, debilitated, incapacitatedwasted, doddering, tottering, out of shape, in bad shape; 

It's over four weeks since my big operation and I am slowly getting back to normal. The pain is slowly subsiding, the scars are looking less horrific and I am generally getting more active. I am now able to perform small tasks around the house and look after my own personal hygiene. Each week sees a difference in what I can bear or do.  The only thing I am not allowed to do is lift heavy weights, so vacuuming the carpets or carrying heavy shopping is not possible at the moment (hurrah).

At the weekend I decided it was high time I got back in the car to see if I could manage to drive. Not only that, I was worried the car battery might give up the ghost after so many weeks left unattended in the damp weather we have had recently. Surprisingly my 19-year-old car sprang into action as soon as I switched on the ignition and we were away.

I'd strategically stuffed a pillow between me and the seat belt to cushion any sudden braking, but I drove like a granny, as I was worried about opening up the scar or doing myself some sort of mischief en route.

I must say I have never noticed this before, but suddenly cars were right on my bumper expecting me to go faster. On narrow roads where cars were parked either side, cars came roaring towards me expecting me to pull over,when technically they did not have right of way, so I had to keep negotiating stop and start manoeuvres, where once I would have nipped through the gap in time. To my shame I have in the past wondered why the car in front was creeping along, when I wanted to go faster, or forced myself through a gap first when confronted by a doddery old driver coming towards me. Now I was that doddery old (well, hang on,  not so old) driver. 

It'll make me more tolerant in future. Next time I am behind a slow-moving car, I'll muse whether it's because the driver has not long ago had surgery or suffers from debilitating arthritis, so they cannot move as fast as they once could. I'll cut them some slack instead of getting annoyed. 

Meanwhile, give me a few more weeks and I'll be zooming around as per normal.

11 November 2018

They gave their today for our tomorrow

Image result for they gave their today for our tomorrow

A hundred years ago to the day, the armistice was signed between the Allied Forces and Germany to end World War One. It seemed relevant that the ceremony at the Cenotaph in London today was attended by the President of Germany as well as the usual observers from the Royal Family, politicians, statesmen and clergy. It is high time to forget the hostilities that brought about that war and make peace. I have written before that both my grandfathers fought in that war on opposite sides. 
My English maternal grandfather William was in the Royal Artillery and survived Mons, Ypres, the Somme and Passchendaele. He was wounded at the latter in 1917 and lost an eye, taking him back home for the remainder of the war.
My paternal grandfather Erisch was on the German side, fought both in France and later on the Russian front, was wounded in the leg and received the Iron Cross, something that sadly meant nothing when he (together with his young family) was kicked out of Germany in 1939 for marrying a Jewess.

When both men came together for the engagement of my mother and father in London, they were able to joke that they bet each was responsible for the other's injuries. It was good that they could bridge that gap and put aside the prejudices of war and nationality.  Amor omnia vincit. Love conquers all.

As I observe the 100 years celebration of the armistice, I wish that relations between Europe and the UK could easily be mended. But for those who gave their today for our tomorrow, France and Belgium would not exist in the way they do now.  Those leading protagnists in the EU should bear that in mind, when making life difficult for us merely to teach us a lesson over Brexit. With time of the essence, maybe a deal can be struck where neither side loses face but remembers, above all, how lucky we are and how thankful we should be to be able to vote in a free and democratic way.

23 October 2018

Storm in a C-Cup

Well, I've only been and gone and done it.

I'm back home again and recovering from..............ta da ............... breast reduction surgery. I'm a little sore and creeping round unable to lift anything or raise my arms. Roles are reversed and, with a week off work, my daughter is dressing me every day, doing all the cooking and answering to every click of my fingers! I'm meanwhile getting used to the new me, the new wardrobe that awaits and the stranger I see in the mirror.

All my life from teenage on, I have had an ample bosom. It's fine for the heroines of romantic novels to have ample heaving bosoms, but in real life they are so blimmin impractical. Why I was "blessed" with such a large rack, I don't know. My mother was so flat she never bought a bra in her entire life, so she never owned a bra to burn. Both grandmothers were of average size. However, I researched the family photos and discovered my father's great aunt had stunning projections and my mother's grandmother was also huge (although to be fair she had borne 12 children, so had good reason or excuse!)

Why fate had to pick me to be huge in that department, I curse the day. I have always eaten modestly and healthily. I am not a big person and have small bone structure.  My arms and legs are stick thin. In fact, one of the doctors last week, called me petite. I could have kissed her!! I am a size 10 from the waist down. From the waist up a size 16/18. Marks and Spencer (for foreign readers this is a national chain store where a good percentage of Brits buy their underwear) don't even stock my cup-size in their stores and there is one bra to choose from online which looks hideous, as if my breasts have had an argument with one another and gone their separate ways. I've always chosen clothes to minimise my size and never ones I would have loved to wear. Usually dark colours, no horizontal stripes. Spaghetti straps or bikinis were definitely a no-no. I've always felt "matronly".

All my life I have been unhappy with my shape. I have always felt self-conscious and that in turn has made me always want to be in the back row of life,  lacking confidence to put myself forward in jobs and in social situations, missing out on countless opportunities.  In mid-life I did consider surgery, but Greg persuaded me that it was silly, as he put it, to mutilate myself for something that the media would have me believe was the ideal woman.  He loved me for me and couldn't see why I should want to put myself through all that pain. In some ways, the feminist in me agreed that I should be proud of what nature had given me and to hell with the idea of nipping and tucking, but still it gnawed at my confidence and made me miss out on so many things career-wise and socially. My one pregnancy made no great changes, as it often does, and, as menopause came and went, I only seemed to get bigger, if that were possible, although benign fibroadenomas were diagnosed as the reason.

However, the last twenty years or so have seen medical problems come to the fore. Chronic neck pain which even physiotherapists could not solve; breathlessness when walking on the flat; the sheer weight of carrying the equivalent of a heavy rucksack on my front; the inability to do any kind of sport, which in turn meant I had the tendency to put on weight, unless I was careful, and was therefore unfit. 

In January 2017, I made some new year resolutions. With absolute determination, I found myself sitting in front of my GP and asking for breast reduction surgery. When she had picked herself off the floor, she scratched her head and spent a good six months playing hard to get. Finally she referred me to a plastic surgeon in September 2017 only for me to discover that she was a mole expert and not remotely interested in the two enormous "molehills" I was there to discuss! More time-wasting months followed until May 2018 when my case was eventually put to the local NHS Health Commissioning Group. Backed with a strong  medical case and even more explicit photos, they passed my application without hesitation and I finally got referred to the appropriate surgeon in July. My operation was booked for last week and here I am out on the other side.

When I pass a mirror, I cannot believe it's me. I'm probably a size 10 (or even smaller) all the way down now and a puff of wind might blow me over, as opposed to the tree-trunk look I sported all my life. My weight has crashed by eight pounds overnight (yes, that is what they removed and the equivalent of half a baby each side!) moving my BMI reading out of the borderline overweight category and putting me slap bang in the middle of the normal healthy range. My daughter is threatening to take me on a spending spree to buy me new clothes and dress me like a catwalk model. I may have waited fifty years to do this, but, at the grand age of 67, I am glad I have done it.  Already, within mere days,  I can feel my confidence is growing and the world is my oyster. I can now choose the clothes I want to wear rather than the ones I have to wear. I can breathe too and there is less strain on my neck.  I might even join a gym. A storm in a C-Cup indeed.

15 October 2018

A new chapter

I've suddenly realised I've not blogged for a while. Nothing out of the usual has happened really for me to blog about, but that's all about to change. In the middle of this week, something massive is going to happen to me that I have been thinking about for decades since I was a teenager. It will change me physically. It's been shelved a few times and at other times completely dismissed as ridiculous, but a few months ago I got written approval to go ahead and this week it's all about to happen. At this stage (if ever) I don't want to divulge what it is, but believe me this is huge and I am half-excited that it is actually going to happen and half-petrified that it will. I still have a day or two to back out of it, if I feel I cannot face it after all, but, seeing as I have spent the last 18 months chasing it to fruition, I'd be mad to back out now.

Wish me luck.  And courage.

24 September 2018

I have survived

Well, I survived the great eventful bathroom makeover. I'd waited 30 years for that moment and I can't think why I didn't do it sooner. Well, I can. Life just got in the way. Work, having a baby, Greg's alcoholism, caring for my mother. Excuses, excuses, I know, but seriously there never seemed to be a right time when I could devote time to planning it and executing it. The last few months have given me that time. Kay's bathroom (or, to be more precise, the family bathroom) is now looking great. It's not an experience I'd want to repeat in a hurry, although repeat it I must, as I have my own ensuite bathroom to update too.

It took a fair bit of planning, getting my head around what was available, what my plumbing system dictated (poor pressure at the top of the house) and what we wanted. I let Kay do a lot of the choosing as it is the bathroom she would be using. She's been used to a dribble for a shower, poor flush on the toilet and increasing growth of mould, so I figured she deserved a big say in the design. She had a vision for colours, so I gave her free rein.

Here are some of the before, during and after photos.

BEFORE - The sad 1960s style bathroom

DURING - Back to the brickwork and replastering

The plumber and his young gofer lad worked like Trojans every day for the two weeks allocated to the task, bringing in a plasterer, electrician and tiler in a well organised relay. The young plumber's lad ran up and down my five flights of stairs all day long, carrying out the discarded rubble and rubbish and bringing in the new, lugging about 20 different toolboxes containing valves and pipes and screws. He also used to vacuum-clean down the stairs each evening before they left. They barely stopped for refreshments which I plied them with regularly. I cannot fault their stamina and attention to perfection. But, oh dear, they managed to mark walls up and down the stairs with their grubby hands and tool boxes, so that I had to paint one complete landing wall after they'd gone and touch up the skirtings. The lad seemed to spread all the tool boxes into three of the bedrooms, even though I had shut the doors deliberately to keep out the brick dust. Each evening I would find the bedroom doors open again and a layer of brick dust covering everything. Each morning I would shut the doors to find them open yet again in the evening. One evening I discovered a brown wet stain on a cream bedroom carpet. I worried overnight that there was a pipe leaking and rusting from the adjacent bathroom work, only to discover the next morning from the lad that he had accidentally kicked over a full mug of coffee. On a cream carpet! He looked sheepish and said he had tried to clean it up himself, but of course had said nothing until confronted by me the next morning, by which time it was too late to remedy. I have scrubbed and scrubbed and removed about 90% of the stain but it still shows slightly! They could see I was not happy, but I did not have the heart to push it further as I was so happy with their hard work otherwise.

THE FINISHED ARTICLE - Clean and fresh

So it was all worth it, although I can see why my reluctance to get workmen in is backed up by the pain, mess and damage they cause all over the house. I shall try not to leave it another 30 years to get my en suite bathroom done, but may just give myself a few months rest before I put myself through it all over again.