Tomorrow I'm taking my Mum to her final resting place. By Wednesday night her ashes will be tucked up with the only man she ever loved, my Dad. They were married for 25 years, she was a widow for 33 years. And I'm sure there wasn't a day in her long, brave widowhood when she didn't wonder 'how much longer?'
Taking her home means going back to the old neighbourhood. The place I couldn't wait to escape from in 1967.
I guess I'll take a walk around the old places, look at the house I grew up in. The school is long gone. It had outdoor toilets and coal stoves in the classroom, so they closed it down. It also had corporal punishment, daily worship and learning by rote, so by the 1970s the writing was on the chalkboard. It had to go.

I don't enjoy going back to England these days, though many of the people I love most in the world are there.
It has become a place where children get gunned down in the street and peaceable citizens get kicked to death defending their families and their property. It has become a place of gracelessness and defiant, brutal, mind-numbing ignorance. Teachers and parents have abdicated, terrified of the consequences of standing up to the herds of burger-fed, hoodie-wearing, dead-eyed youth. I fear greatly for my grandchildren. What strength of character must it take today to run against the tide lawlessness?

I suppose I should just be thankful that I was born when I was. If I'd been born fifty years later, a bespectacled little swot, hurrying to the library wearing last year's trainers, I'd be a police poster by now. And then there wouldn't even have been any grandchildren.

Posted by Laurie Graham at 03:39 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

This is where I was last week instead of sitting at my desk blogging. Beside the seaside.
I like Brighton. It's one of the few things Mr F and I don't agree on. It's a town full of whimsy and schlock and cor blimey Brits feeding their faces on fish and chips. It's the seaside of my childhood. Except that these days it's had a lavender rinse.
I checked into my hotel and was welcomed by Stephane (or was it Hervé) and as he sashayed towards me in his very tight pants I was slightly alarmed to see the walls were decorated with photographs of naked men. I mean, I know Brighton is Gay HQ, but couldn't we at least sign the guest register first?

My daughter had chosen an Italian restaurant, and as we were two females out on the town (albeit one of them of pensionable age) our waiter felt obliged to give us his 'have you seen the size of my pepper grinder' schtick, until I spoke to him in Italian. That took the puff out of his calzone.

Thursday morning I was early for my appointment so I went for a walk along the Palace pleasure pier. It had been at least a year so I thought I'd see what was new. Henna tattoos seem to be very big this summer. I suppose it's a relatively 'all natural' way of disfiguring your body. I suppose it's better than being saddled with an indigo LOVE MACHINE for the rest of your life. The kiosk selling biltong and other tasty African snacks is new too. Dried ostrich. Mm-mm. Sounds like a real winner.

So I completed my business, got a good fix of ozone and caught up with Daughter No 2. A very good trip all round.
And Hervé (or was it Stephane?) even carried my luggage to the waiting cab.
I'm sorry Mr F, but I do like Brighton.

Posted by Laurie Graham at 10:48 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Feragosto, the great midsummer Italian holiday and I've never seen the city so gridlocked. We went to Vespers last evening and could hardly move in the streets around San Marco. Tempers are VERY short. But I'm outta here, off to the UK on business for 24 hours. There gales and heavy rain are forecast but the good news is I get to have dinner with one of my daughters. I hope someone invites Mr F to dinner tonight. I hate to think of him eating his ravioli and watching Groundhog Day all alone.

Posted by Laurie Graham at 12:59 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

My office is usually a no-go area for cleaning personnel. I work hard, deliver my stuff in a timely fashion and have a high production rate. If I choose to do all this in a book-lined slum it seems to me it is nobody's business but my own. Once in a while Mr F and I have words about this, chiefly because guests who are to be treated to the view from our south-facing altana have to walk through my office to reach it. The words 'self respect' sometimes get bandied about. This from a man who at any given moment has at least three pairs of abandoned shoes beneath his desk.

Anyway... we have a great cleaning lady. She's young and energetic and I knew she was itching to run the vacuum cleaner over my rug, and seeing we were going to be away in the mountains when she made her weekly visit I granted her wish. But I only said she could sweep the rug.

Dissolve to Wednesday evening and our return from the country. Erk, erk, a thousand times erk. Olena had tried to organise me. She had taken everything from under, on and around my desk and rearranged it according to size or colour or something. I don't know. Early Cretaceous is now mixed up with Late Carboniferous and I can't find a darned thing. Plus, my CD shelf, which had three perfectly logical piles: Regular Listening, Work Related and Wish I'd Never Bought It - all these are now ranged in one long heart-sinking row.

She dusted my glass birds. Okay, that was a good thing. Also my bust of Handel. I can live with that. But where are my re-usable Jiffy bags, where are my bank statements of yesteryear, and where, oh where is my box of coloured paper clips? It could take me weeks to get over this. Months even.

Know what I think brought it on? I gave her a raise. She'd worked for us for a year so it seemed appropriate. And this is how she repays me. I am a stranger in my own office.

Posted by Laurie Graham at 03:08 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)