Restless

During the summer I became quite discontented with my house (sadly not the one above), which felt smaller and noisier than ever. Outside, builders shouted, drilled and listened to hideous power ballads. Inside, my wife, sons and cats occupied every room except the main bedroom.

At one point I started viewing property websites and looked longingly at houses with spacious kitchens and gardens larger than a bath mat. Many of them had a study and a shed - catnip for a middle aged man - plus the en suite bathroom that my wife has yearned for all these years.

To add to the temptation, the houses weren't selling for any more money than the value of our home. If we could buy one of these houses (and somehow lose our cats during the move), how much better life could be. I could have that book-lined study I'd always dreamed about.

But the bubble always burst when I clicked on the maps and realised that there is a simple rule to purchasing a property in this area: unless you're blessed with a large sum of money, you can either have a small house in a good location, or a large home in a less desirable one. Invariably, whenever I saw a house I liked, there was a catch.

Also, many of the larger houses I saw conformed to Patrick Hamilton's snobbish but amusing description in a book I'm reading at the moment, Mr Stimpson and Mr Gorse:

'The houses were squat, two-storied affairs. Their fronts had all been most oddly treated. It looked as if the builder had had some sort of infantile sea-mania for shingled beaches, and that, to indulge this passion, he had, having covered the external walls with thick glue, used some extraordinary machine with which to spray them densely with small pebbles.

In the front gardens of most of these houses there were, in addition to sundials, countless images of Gnomes, Dwarfs, Fairies, Goblins, and Peter Pans - the inhabitants of Sispara Road having, it seemed, a strong turn of mind for the whimiscal, the grotesque and the beautiful.'


So for the time being, I am staying put in the unpebbledashed, gnome-free streets of Lewes, resigned to living in a terraced Victorian shoebox, but grateful to live in a town that is full of delights, with solid, unpretentious housing.

In a vague attempt to improve my fitness and leave my cramped surroundings behind, I've been going on long walks around Lewes. I have a particularly good pair of shoes that were originally designed for postmen (if you look carefully, you can see 'Royal Mail' embossed on the side) and they enable me to stride around the town at a speed that burns off a few calories and gets the heart racing.

The other day I explored the ruins of the Priory of St Pancras, which was built roughly 940 years ago:

 

There's nothing like a good ruin to put things into perspective, whether it's a Norman priory in Sussex or a deserted office block in Detroit. Ruins are humbling, or should be.

Last night, the Priory of St Pancras looked particularly beautiful as volunteers had lit over a thousand candles, all strategically placed either on the ground or in the nooks of the stone walls. It was quite magical.

(My only reservation was over the decision to lay a double row of lights, as it looked like one of those makeshift landing strips that feature in war films. When, at one point, I heard the drone of a light aircraft, I was worried that its confused pilot was about to make a descent. But that aside, it was a magical evening.)

As the sun set, a choir started singing Carmina Burana and I felt incredibly grateful that I lived in a town that did things like this. If my pokey, Victorian terraced house was the price that I had to pay for living in Lewes, it was probably one worth paying.

Also, at a time when so many people around the world have been displaced from their homes, it seemed absurd to be complaining about something so self-indulgent and trivial.

But when the car exhausts and builders' hammers get too much, I can faintly hear the quiet call of the garden gnomes whispering "Shed, conservatory, en suite bathroom, study, parking space, large kitchen, guest bedroom..." and a part of me weakens.


P.S - In response to Joan's comment, I have a very short video clip of the choir, which I've added. I didn't bother trying to film anything in the dark, but I hope this captures something of the evening's magic. Oh, and did I add that it was all free?

Moved

Last Friday my mother left the home she has lived in since 1963 (she knows where she was when Kennedy died) and moved to a sheltered accommodation flat in Lewes. I had no idea how she was going to react to the change and worried that beyond her facade of stoic resignation, my mother might feel utterly miserable, but to my relief she seems blissfully happy in her new home. It's as if she has been released from a terrible burden.

The process of moving was quite frenetic. I'd been given ten days' notice and, in addition to working full time, I had to find a removal company, decorate the flat, get a carpet laid, install an electric cooker and assemble several kits of flatpack furniture.

Finding a removal company was particularly difficult: three answerphones (one of which had a 'comedy' message) and a wrong number. The final call also seemed liked a wrong number, as the phone was answered by an aristocratic gentleman called Peter,who sounded as if he'd taken too many drugs in the 60s.

The phone call began awkwardly, as Peter seemed reluctant to commit himself to anything, including the nature of his business. Perahps it was a wrong number, but I was desperate. Could Peter move my mother's possessions to Lewes? After many awkward silences and strange noises in the background, Peter said that he probably would be free on July 8th, but needed to check a few details. Could he phone me back in the evening?

A day passed and I hadn't heard a thing from Peter. I phoned him:

"Ah yes, Mr...er...I'm glad you phoned me because I don't appear to have your number. Anyway, July 11th should be fine in Storrington. What? July 8th in Teddington? Oh...well I'll have to check my diary...hmm...hmm...yes, that should be fine too."

My heart sank.

To move couldn't have been simpler: 30 boxes, three chairs and one fridge, but when Peter - a portly, ruddy-faced man in his late 50s - arrived an hour late (only a minute before my mother ceased to be the legal owner of her house), he seemed overwhelmed by the task ahead of him.

"You said there were 20 boxes," he complained. I patiently pointed out that they were very small boxes and would have filled 20 normal ones, but he was determined to feel hard done by, pointedly refering to the refrigerator as the "fridge-freezer", as if we'd deceived him.

My mother turned to me and in a whisper that you could hear 50 yards away, said "He's a drinker."

Suddenly a van door opened and a young man walked up the garden path. "This is my er...son," explained Peter. The young man said nothing, but slowly started to rearrange the boxes as if he was playing Tetris. This was going to take all day.

I went up to my bedroom for the last time. To my surprise, my life there flashed before my eyes in a slightly crass, cinematic manner. All that was missing was a soundtrack - maybe the oboe and harp version of the Crossroads theme tune that they used to play during particularly sad moments.

I thought of the time I first discovered Radio Four, when I was eight, and listened in the dark to Mrs Rochester's terrifying wails. I also remembered the patterned wallpaper that seemed to come alive and dance in the semi-dark; recording songs from the Top 20 on Sunday evenings; practising scales on my new piano, recovering from my first hangover; listening to late night phone-ins on LBC; being cold; the sound of trains trundling past; reading Enid Blyton by torchlight; and, when I was two, being carried around the house by Dad to show me that there were no strangers hiding.

I closed the door and said goodbye.

I went downstairs and told Peter that we were going to leave. We would wait for them in Lewes. All Peter had to do was leave the door on the latch and shut it behind him when he left. What could possibly go wrong?

Mum and I got in the car and as I turned the key in the ignition, I realised that this was it. We could never go back. I had expected this to be an emotional moment for my mother, but she was too preoccupied with an anecdote about Auntie Betty to even notice. I interupted Mum and said that we should say goodbye to the house. She looked back briefly and said "The funny thing is, I don't feel anything. I just want to get to the new place."

When I had arrived, all that Mum was concerned about was being able to make a cup of tea for the removal men. It took quite a lot of persuading before she agreed to let me pack the kettle and tea bags. Later, as we joined the M25, she said "Well, I'm glad I didn't make him a cup of tea now. He's absolutely useless. I wouldn't be surprised if he locks himself out of the house."

After 40 miles, the hazy outline of the South Downs appeared in the distance. It had been raining heavily for most of the journey and I worried about my mother's chairs getting wet. But as we drew closer to Lewes, the clouds broke and the sun appeared. "This is a good sign," my mother said.

As we entered the hall of the flats, I felt like a nervous parent taking their child to university or boarding school. How would my mother get on? Would she make friends? Would she wish that she'd stayed in Teddington? These questions had haunted me for the last few months.

Walking towards the lift, we heard a loud voice behind us: "Now, who's this trying to sneak past me without saying hello?" It was the house manager. We barely knew her, but she threw her arms around my mother as if she was a long-lost relative. It was a good start, but I was still anxious to see my mother's reaction to the flat.

I opened the door and let my mother go in first: 

"Ooh, what a lovely carpet...cor, you've been busy...oh I like this...and you can see the hills...and the curtains aren't too bad...I might keep them...this is lovely, really lovely."

As we stood by the window, looking at the sheep grazing on the Downs, my phone rang:  

"Hello, this is Peter...no, we're still in Teddington. The thing is, I did as you suggested and took the door off the latch and shut it behind me, but then I remembered that I'd left my briefcase in the kitchen and I really need it.What should I do?"

Several responses sprang to mind.

Peter and son eventually arrived three hours late. I decided to help them rather than waste another two hours and by 6.00, it was all over. At the end Peter was charm itself, wishing my mother a happy time in Lewes, recommending local places for a good lunch. We said goodbye and I comforted myself with the knowledge that I would never require Peter's services again.

One week on, I have been amazed by the ease with which my mother has adapted to her new circumstances. She seems genuinely happy in a way that I never dared to imagine was possible and I hope that without the burden of trying to manage a cold, damp house in a street with no shops, my mother still has at least another decade ahead of her.

The last few weeks have been exhausting, but they have also been a welcome distraction from the main thing that is going on in my life at the moment. Three weeks ago, my oldest son was diagnosed with a neurodevelopmental disorder (it's complicated, so I'll avoid labels for the moment).

On the one hand, this news is heartbreaking, but on the other it comes as a relief after five very difficult years that culminated in us having to take our son out of school. We now know why he has found ordinary life so difficult and, more importantly, we will now be able to get him the help he needs.

It's a great pity that some of the psychologists at CAMHS didn't recognise my son's condition earlier, as he could have been spared a lot of pain and distress. Instead, we were accused of trying to 'medicalise' our son and the spotlight was turned on our parenting skills. If we had seen a psychiatrist (as opposed to a psychologist) at the beginning, our lives might have followed a very different course.

I have avoided writing about this subject for a long time because I'm aware that the appeal of this blog, for many, is the things I come across in my job: the strange book covers, old photographs and Derek's diaries. But since my son's diagnosis, I have found it increasingly difficult to write the usual, mildly amusing blog posts whilst my life is undergoing what feels like a huge, techtonic shift.

I apologise for the self-indulgent nature of this post, but it has been cathartic. I will return to the Victorian photos, politically incorrect book covers and strange ephemera soon, but for the moment, this is what I needed to write.

Moving

Most of us have items of clothing that we only wear indoors. I have an Andrew Marr t-shirt which always cheers me up, but I wouldn't wear it in public. I'm always suspicious of people who sport attention-seeking 'comedy' t-shirts.

I also have old Waterstone's t-shirts that I use for doing the decorating. One of them is a very unflattering bright red XL top that says "Can I help you find the perfect present?". We had to wear them one Christmas - the idea was that they would make the staff easy to identify and seem more approachable.

I wasn't convinced. When I go into shops, I identify staff as the people standing behind the till or the ones who aren't wearing coats.

And since when did retail companies have the right to regard their staff as advertising space?

The t-shirts were very annoying. When I popped out to buy sandwiches at M&S, I'd forget I had the t-shirt on and wonder why strangers kept accosting me with questions about books.

Yesterday, I had to paint a flat and found an old t-shirt that said "Ask me about the Waterstone's card". After putting on the first coat of emulsion, I drove home and popped into the corner shop to buy some wine. Raj, the owner, looked at my chest and said "Just back from work then?"

Outside the shop, a neighbour looked me up and down and said "You're early today". I suddenly realised that, as far as my neighbours were concerned, I still work at Waterstone's. Perhaps I should talk to people more.

I had been decorating the flat for my mother. On Friday, she will leave the Teddington house that she has lived in for 48 years and move into a block of sheltered accommodation flats for the elderly, less than a mile from where I live. It will be a huge wrench, I know, but at 81 my mother is finding living alone in a three-bedroom house increasingly hard.

I've been trying to persuade her to sell the house for years. Aside from the fact that it has no central heating and needs a huge amount of work done, my mother's house is also too far from the shops or local doctor, so every outing requires a bus journey. Until recently this wasn't a problem, but a near-brush with death last October made my mother realise how vulnerable she is.

On Sunday I went to say goodbye to the house that I called home for more than half of my life.

It is part of a long road of Victorian, semi-detached redbrick houses, in a sleepy, dull London suburb that is now incredibly popular with house buyers. Teddington may not be very exciting, but the combination of the River Thames, a wealth of parks and some good transport links to central London have made it desirable for those people who find other parts of the metropolis a little too 'urban'.

In spite of the popularity of Teddington, I thought that my mother would struggle to sell the house, as in 1981 my parents decided to rip out the period sash windows and pebbledash the walls (I think I once pompously accused them of "architectural vandalism"). To my surprise, she found a buyer within 10 days. If ever anyone needed proof that selling houses was all about location, here was a prime example.

My mother has left her electric fire for the new owners, as she won't need it in her flat. I had to bite my tongue. I know that the new owners will completely gut the house, extend it and add period touches that were probably never there in the first place. They certainly won't want a naff electric fire.

Somehow I don't think they'll want this carpet either:

My parents bought it in 1963. The carpet is still in good condition after nearly half a century. Apparently the firm that made it went into receivership, as their products were too well made and retailers didn't want to sell carpets that never wore out. The top left-hand corner used to be covered by a rug.

During my final visit I decided to take photos of mundane objects, like the carpet, that hadn't changed since I was a child. The items included a barometer that never worked, some candlelabra light fittings, two 1970s lampshades and this clock, which chimes every quarter of an hour:

When I was sent away to a sanitorium as a child, I was only allowed to see my parents once a month, so telephone calls were very important. I remember the almost unbearable feeling of homesickness that swept over me when I heard this clock chime in the background.

(Later, I became less fond of the clock. When I brought girlfriends home after the pubs had closed, I realised what a passion killer the Westminster chimes were).

After taking the photos, we had our last lunch in the house: fillet steak with new potatoes and peas. As a special concession to my middle-class sensibilities, my mother didn't call it dinner and only boiled the peas for three minutes instead of the usual ten. Otherwise, everything was the same as it had always been: the table, the chairs and the cutlery, which had been bought with petrol-station coupons some time in the 1970s.

In two days time it would all be gone.

There was one thing left to do. My mother picked up her stick and put her other arm in mine. Together, we slowly walked to the local cemetery where my father is buried. "I don't think he's really here" my mother said, meaning "This might be the last time I visit my husband's grave".

We stood in front of the grave and I suppose it should have been a very emotional moment, but in the distance someone was holding an outdoor event and all we could hear was a man delivering a very bad performance of David Bowie's 'Rebel Rebel'.

I looked at the words on the gravestone: "He was a good man and did good things" - inspired by the final sentence of 'The Woodlanders'. I hope that Dad would have approved.

I have finished painting the flat, but tomorrow is going to be a day of flatpack hell, where I will have to work out whether Part A is the short screw or the slightly longer one, followed by the realisation that Part C is in fact Part E. I'm dreading it.

But hopefully, when my mother walks through the door on Friday afternoon and sees a warm, welcoming, comfortable home, she will feel relief rather than regret.