Foodbank

Not very far from me is a foodbank where I volunteer. It is run by a church and in the church. It apparently started about 10 years ago when a homeless person knocked on the vicar's door and asked if he had any spare food. The vicar handed some tinned food over and the  following night, two people stood at the door. The numbers have swelled now to over 400 families per week and has become a highly organised operation.

I joined in 2018, after the death of my mother, when I was seeking something useful to do with my spare time. Even back then, it was still relatively new and not as complicated as it has since become. It opens three times a week (Tuesdays, Fridays and Saturdays) to hand out bags of food, but back then it had a shower, a washing machine, a sewing machinist to mend clothes, and advice on housing and benefits. On a Friday there is a two-course sit-down cooked meal for guests to eat and a cafe on all three days providing a hot drink and a piece of cake.

When Covid came along, the operation changed. Instead of guests coming into the church and being handed the food on more or less a conveyor belt system, the guests had to queue outside in all weathers and the volunteers had to stand outside (in all weathers) to hand out the bags. This was an attempt to avoid cross-infection of Covid. It has remained to this day that food is handed out outside. It gives a much bigger area inside the church hall to provide the sit-down meals. The shower and washing machine were not available during Covid and remain unused to this day. The advice on housing/benefits remains as does a counsellor for mental health. Some cannot read or write so there is help in filling in forms for council housing or utilities etc. For a while I took over the sewing machine duties, mending tears, unravelled seams or sewing on a button, but after a long while, I found there was little uptake for this and so went back to the food side of things.

Each guest gets a basic bag containing at least 5 tins (soup, tomatoes, baked beans, vegetables and meat/fish) plus a litre of milk and a toilet roll. In addition they  will also get extras of whatever we have in stock that week - maybe pasta or rice or tea or biscuits or shower gel. They also get to pick for themselves from crates of bread,  vegetables and fruit donated by supermarkets. These latter items are not always at their best but nevertheless can be used to make soup or stews. People with children get extra items - more pasta, biscuits, fruit juice, cereal and extra tins. In addition we provide cat and dog food, where available and sanitary ware for women and nappies for babies. Everyone can request extras such as coffee or sugar or washing up liquid or washing powder, if we have them in stock. Most of them stay for the sit-down cooked meal and get to chat to one another.

All guests must register with us on a computer system and only need written proof of address and number of children. No other questions are asked. We recently had to ask for proof of address as some guests were coming from as far afield as other parts of London where they have their own foodbanks. Proof of number of children was to allow us to give out extras to them. They can only visit us once a week, so the computerised registration on arrival each week checks that they have only had the one visit that week.

Demand has far outreached supply - more people needing foodbanks as opposed to less donations during the cost of living crisis. To solve this problem, the church has now been running a charity shop for the last two years in the High Street. It sells clothes, toys, books, ornaments - the usual charity shop stuff - and any profit is ploughed back into the foodbank to buy food in bulk. This has helped no end to keep the stocks high. I also help out in the shop from time to time, either on the till or in the backroom sorting clothing donations and pricing them up. The foodbank has become a huge part of my life. Our local Member of Parliament has taken a very strong interest in the foodbank and I have met him 3 times now, on one occasion when he invited us up to the House of Commons to have a look round and then afterwards discuss the foodbank in one of the parliament committee rooms upstairs.

I help out on a Friday at the foodbank itself and there are usually at least 100 people queuing for over an hour to be served. Since Covid, the numbers have swelled and the cost of living has seen numbers rise even more. The guests are mixed. Some are homeless and sofa-surfing; some are pensioners trying to survive on a basic pension; some lost their jobs during Covid; and others are large families. The latter category intrigues me. There are several women who have six children each and, because of this, can claim a lot of food. They go out with multiple heavy bags groaning with food. They are often very cheeky, taking lots of food out of the returns box, when they are only entitled to swap one item. Or they will snatch more sanitary ware when they think our back is turned. I have seen them getting into their large cars and it does make me wonder if they are taking us for a joke. Many have perfectly manicured nails done in a nail salon (these are not cheap) or tattoos. It does make you wonder about their priorities. How my war-time parents and grandparents would have loved to have a foodbank to go to but made do with no help whatsoever!

Recently a middle-aged woman and her elderly mother took several bags for their family, asked me to help them carry it to their car and, when I got there, it was an enormous one-year old 4x4 MG car rather like this one.

It does make me beg the question whether the foodbank is reaching the wrong people and whether there are some taking us for a laugh. Apart from demanding to see their bank statements, we have to go on trust that they are desperate, but I do sometimes wonder.

Alcoholic Daze - Chapter 7

At this point, nobody else knew about his addiction. There were times, when I wanted to share the burden with someone, but I kept hoping, things would change, he would see sense and get better. After all he is an intelligent man, capable of reasoning and logic - he had had a high-status media job both abroad and in London. Surely he would be able to get to grips with this problem. There was of course also the feeling of shame and the guilt that I was somehow responsible for this. Had I said or done something that had made him sink into this spiral of depression, illness and addiction? Should I have noticed sooner? If people commented on how dreadful he looked, I passed it off as being a result of his diabetes. But some people had relatives who were suffering from diabetes too and they would further cross-examine me with raised eyebrows about what medication he was on and what diet, so I guessed they were not all that convinced by my feeble excuses. It made me uncomfortable and I would try to change the subject.

In the midst of all this, there is one episode which sticks in my mind as the most embarrassing of all. We had been staying for a week in August with my mother and on one particularly hot day Greg, Kay and I had met up with some close friends who live nearby for an afternoon picnic at an Air Show. As we sat, watching the aeroplanes doing their stunts above us, we chatted, ate sandwiches and drank a little wine - we had bought a bottle and they had bought a bottle. However, three of us shared one bottle between us, but Greg had the other bottle all to himself. My daughter, as always, drank water. Granted the weather was extremely hot, but red wine is not exactly the ideal liquid to quench your thirst. Greg declined any of the food and just drank. Our friends had to get back home early, but Greg, Kay and I stayed on to wait for a spectacular firework display that was planned for 10 pm that evening. During the wait, Greg produced a bottle of whisky from his pocket and started to work his way through that too. He was getting argumentative and behaving oddly, even for him. The place meanwhile filled up with thousands of spectators who had come from far and wide just to see the fireworks alone, as the event happens every year and is renowned. It was so crowded there was hardly any space between the groups of people sitting cross-legged on the ground.

The first rocket flew into the air on schedule at 10 pm and those that followed over the next thirty minutes were truly spectacular, but I could not give them my full concentration as Greg was shouting rather loudly that it was a load of old rubbish. Then he started to throw small stones in front of him, narrowly missing a small child sitting a few feet away from us. The father turned round as if to say something and then thought better of it. Meanwhile. I was wishing the ground would open up and swallow me. As the firework display reached its closing climax to the strains of Handel's Music for the Royal Fireworks, everyone clapped, cheered and then started to disperse. Imagine about ten thousand people all standing up at once and wanting to make for the same exit. Kay and I sprang to our feet, as we did not want to be crushed in the stampede. Greg however remained seated on the ground. He tried to get up but was obviously having difficulty. He pushed up with his arms but his bottom half seemed not to be in the slightest bit involved. He yelled at me to help him up and I took his hand and pulled him up, but there seemed to be absolutely no strength in his legs and he toppled down again. A man passing by approached him and said "Let me help you, mate" and pulled Greg to his feet once more. As soon as the man let go his hand, Greg toppled yet again to the ground. He sort of fell backwards full length like a domino, as if his feet were glued to the ground, and banged his head. By now a small crowd, originally on their way to the exit but sensing the entertainment was not quite over, was gathering and found it quite amusing to watch.

Kay was by now in tears with embarrassment. I on the other hand somehow managed to beam myself to another imaginary level where I just blanked the people out and concentrated on getting Greg to stand. He stood and toppled over twice more domino-style. A few more people offered to help but Greg shouted at them to leave him alone and at me to stop mucking about and get him upright. By now I did notice that the crowd was tittering and nudging one another. Kay was really upset by now and said she would go in search of the several ambulance crews who were situated at the exit as they normally are at that sort of crowd gathering. She was off before I could stop her. In my heart I knew we needed help, but Greg was protesting loudly that she should not go. She returned within minutes pursued by two paramedics. As soon as they smelled the alcohol on him and ascertained there was nothing else wrong with him, they were very offhand. I can't say as I blame them. In all fairness, they did offer to take him to Accident and Emergency at the local hospital, but Greg refused to go. In that case, they said they were unable to get us back to my mother's house, as they were not a taxi service. They instead notified the police, who were also well represented at this event, and said the police would come shortly to take us in a car back to my mother's house. I felt sick. What on earth would my mother think or say, when we all rolled up in a police car? My mother, bless her, has just the tiniest bit of Hyacinth Bucket about her and I could imagine that she would never live it down amongst the neighbours. I was embarrassed for her. I was embarrassed for my daughter. Hell, I was embarrassed for me. I too was having a Hyacinth-Bucket-moment.

Fortunately when the policewoman arrived, she was most adamant that the police were far too busy to take us home either and she would call for a taxi. She first helped me get Greg onto a bench and then she made a radio call, but she did warn us that nobody might turn up, as, believe it or not, taxi drivers are none too keen on ferrying drunks about either, particularly if it involves cleaning up the seats afterwards. We did wait a while.... about half an hour, I think.... by which time Greg had regained some feeling in his legs. We concluded the taxi was never going to come and we managed to walk albeit very slowly the half mile home, Kay and I supporting Greg between us. It took us an hour to walk what would normally have taken us ten minutes. We then made a charade of excuses to my mother, who had waited up for us, as to why we were over two hours late getting back to her and we carried on as if nothing were wrong. However Kay and I felt in a right state and it took ages to get off to sleep that night, replaying the scene over and over again in our heads, while Greg slept like a proverbial baby.

Bank Holiday from Hell

The recent bank holiday weekend was one I would not care to repeat. It was full of bad news. 

It started on the Saturday morning, when my daughter Kay rang me to say she had had an accident at work the day before.  Two people (one being my daughter) were coming in opposite directions along two separate corridors that meet at right angles. At the right angle, they swerved violently to avoid one another. Fortunately my daughter was not injured, but the other person swerved and fell rather dramatically, maybe dislocating their shoulder or breaking their arm. They were screaming in agony. My daughter with others helped scoop her up on a trolley and took her to A&E, whereupon she had to leave her, as she was already late for a meeting with her consutant boss. My daughter then met up with her consultant boss and promptly burst into tears - she always feels guilty, even if it is not her fault. She has been plagued with guilt ever since, even though witnesses to the accident said the other person was looking behind them, just as they approached that rightangle, so there is no way my daughter should blame herself.

The second piece of news involved G, a very dear friend of mine who was diagnosed with leukaemia two years ago in September and given a rough two-year life sentence. He texted to say he had been taken into hospital with shortness of breath and fluid on both lungs, as well as blood results getting worse. I am rooting for him to get better.

The third piece of news, also on Saturday was that my 93-year-old neighbour was taken into hospital again, only having been discharged a month ago, as she had a suspected deep vein thrombosis on her leg. She was in hospital all day for tests and x-rays. She was then sent home by ambulance transport at 1 am in the middle of the night. Who sends home in the middle of the night a 93-year-old who lives alone? I've been popping in to do more odd jobs for her. She remains amazing given her age and frailty.

The final piece of news on Sunday morning was that one of my birthday girl group - namely 91-year-old J - who was admitted to hospital last week, having slipped in the shower and banged her head, had taken a turn for the worst. She had aspirated overnight and now had pneumonia to add to the list. Sadly she died on Sunday afternoon.

I spent all weekend on my own, so it was hard to digest all that sad information happening all at once.