Present Imperfect

Many thanks to the people who have posted kind comments about the last post. I wasn't expecting anyone to notice my stealthy return to this blog, so I'm touched by the response.

Two years ago I decided to finish this blog and try something new on Wordpress, as I thought that it would enable me to create something more impressive. I went through the process of signing up, buying a domain name and even read a guide to Wordpress. However, I was like one of those people who think that buying a pencil and a sketch pad will make them an artist.

I managed a year with the new blog - 'Present Imperfect'. I hadn't quite turned it into the multimedia spectacular that I'd envisaged and my disappointment gradually turned into total inertia.

However, I was stirred into action a couple of days ago, as my domain name expired and the company that hosted the new blog shut it down. I won't bore you with the finer details, except to say that restoring Present Imperfect would be a complicated process and, more importantly, cost me £75 - money that I'd rather spend on a kite or a hunting horn.

I thought that the posts on the new blog had disappeared into the ether, but the html is still on Wordpress, so I'm gradually moving the material over here. In between transferring posts (which involves a tedious resizing of images), I will try to add something new.

I return to Blogger like an errant husband, after an affair with a younger woman. I thought that Wordpress would inject a new potency into my blogging, but instead I discovered that I didn't have the energy to keep up with its demands. While I dallied away, Blogger patiently waited for me to come home, older and wiser.

Am Dram

I recently found a batch of photographs from the 1950s, all of which feature theatrical performances. There's very little information on the backs, but I'm almost certain that they show the work of an amateur dramatics group rather than a professional one. The clues are as follows:

• The photos were processed in the dreary London suburbs of Cheam and New Malden
• There's quite a lot of over overacting
• The pictures look like the work of an enthusiastic amateur; many were very blurry

But I may be wrong. You decide:
  This photo was printed by Cole Studios (which is still going) in New Malden - a rather drab place between Kingston-upon-Thames and Raynes Park. It now has a large Korean community, for no discernible reason (unless it reminds them of North Korea). The set looks quite spartan, but that isn't the case in the next picture: This is clearly a very emotional point in the play and everyone seems to be weeping. Perhaps this is in response to an earlier scene, in which things get rather heated: This is a little bit racy for 1950s am-dram. I don't know what play it is, but it clearly isn't 'Charlie's Aunt'. I think it was very brave of Miss Perkins in Accounts to agree to strip down to her underwear, but perhaps it was even more courageous of Brenda to wear those awful pyjamas.
  In the end, everything is resolved amicably. It turns out that Miss Perkins was simply modelling for an artist and the murder weapon was a telephone directory for New Malden and Cheam. Brenda is the murdereress and she switched to the terrible pyjamas because her dress had blood on it. It is commendable that this company were prepared to tackle gritty dramas rather than just stick to the old favourites: Here we see a 'kitchen sink' drama, as evidenced by a kitchen sink and a packet of Fairy Snow. I presume that this is a challenging drama about race, as one of the cast appears to have 'blacked-up'. I also see that the woman is wearing hair rollers to indicate that she is working class. This is from 'Twelfth Night'. Today we would probably say that this was part of an 'outreach programme' that sought to 'create links with the local community' or even 'communities'. In the 1950s, they just did an open air performance and hoped that it didn't rain. This is from a production of 'Call Me Madam'. I find the rictus grin of the man in the middle slightly offputting. I have no idea what this play is, but I don't think it's 'The Importance of Being Earnest'. However, this is: In this production, the weeping middle-aged man at the piano has been transformed into a sprightly young buck. I wonder if a stripey blazer would do the same for me? I'm struck by how much hard work must have gone into the stage set and the costumes. I never used to notice these things until I met my wife's family, who worked in the theatrical world. Her father was the lighting designer for the London Coliseum, but although he was highly regarded by his peers, his work was rarely mentioned in reviews. Since then, I've always taken more interest in the details. Once again, I have no idea what this is. I can only tell you that it isn't 'Look Back in Anger'. And now, the show is over and it's time to take a curtain call:

Thank you

Thank you to everyone who posted such kind comments in response to my last post. I would have liked to respond to each individual comment, but I'm not firing on all cylinders at the moment.

The cremation took place this morning and went as well as I could have hoped. Everybody seemed to think that my mother would have been pleased with it. We read one of her poems, I read a tribute and during the time of quiet reflection, we listened to Abide With Me. There was also a second poem by a Mr Anon, which was so apposite I wondered if anyone would guess the author's identity.

At the end, I handed out roses to each person and they placed them by the coffin. Afterwards, someone came up to me and asked me where I'd managed to find such beautiful flowers. I didn't tell them that I'd spent £6 in Tesco the previous day.

The next post I write will be to give the name and web address of my new blog.

I will finish with a picture of my mother behind the till at Woolworths in Teddington, for Chris, who wondered if he'd seen her there. She worked there every weekday morning until 1990. My father thought that she should do something better, but the hours fittted around the school holidays and she wasn't too proud to work there.

Next week, I will begin the long, slow process of dismantling a life, forensically going through every item in her flat: the reading glasses, tablets, walking stick, Werther's Originals, romance novels, Damart catalogues, old birthday cards from her family, certificates, framed cross stitch pictures, biscuits and unopened sets of notelets. 

It will feel wrong, as if she is going to come back and ask me what I have done.

Never Say Never

I had thought that The Last Post was the last post; on this blog at least. I'd set up a new blog on Wordpress and planned to make it more 'multimedia', beginning with a podcast featuring my mother and her friends talking about the day war broke out.

I wanted to record their stories before it was too late.

Sadly, it already was too late. My mother had a major heart attack ten days ago, but didn't realise what had happened and simply thought that she was unwell. By the time she was admitted to hospital, four days later, the damage to her heart was irreversible.

She didn't know that she was dying. During my last visit, only ten hours before her death, my mother asked me to bring a comb with me when I returned, as she was concerned that her perm was in a mess. I made a note to buy one the next day.

The hospital phoned several times during the night, but I was sound asleep and heard nothing. When I finally answered, a doctor told me to get there as soon as I could. I raced across the South Downs in the dark, jumping the traffic lights when there were no other cars. I arrived just in time.

My mother was asleep, with an oxygen mask over her face. The doctor didn't beat around the bush: "I'm afraid your mother is dying. I don't think it will be long. We've done everything we can to make her comfortable." The nurse stroked my arm and the doctor asked if we had any religious requirements. I shook my head.

The oxygen mask steamed up every time my mother exhaled. I noticed that her left eyelid was half open, but I had been assured that she wasn't conscious. I wondered how things could have changed so much over a few hours.

I took my phone out and sent a text to my wife to let her know what was happening. After pressing send, I looked up and noticed that the oxygen mask was clear. The nurse took my mother's wrist: "She's gone." A heart that had been beating continuously since 1929 had stopped.

It was a shock, but also a relief. My mother had died a peaceful, dignified death, blissfully unaware of what was happening to her. If she'd lived, she would have had a pretty awful existence, needing help with even the most basic tasks. She had always dreaded ending up in a home or 'going potty' and selfishly, I dreaded it too. 

In spite of decreasing mobility, my mother had led a pretty active life right up until the end. She spent her last two weeks hobbling around the streets of Lewes, determined to get one of the new plastic five pound notes. I don't know why she was so excited by them, but it became something of an obsession.  Sadly, she didn't find one.

I felt that I had to write this post, as I have written about my mother so many times and didn't want to leave out the end of the story.

I have just started to receive cards through the post. Whenever I see the phrase "passed on", I silently cringe, partly because my mother hated it so much: "They haven't passed on; they've died," she would always say. I'm not sure why it made her so angry, but perhaps growing up surrounded by death, during the London Blitz, gave her a contempt for the coyness of the modern age.

People are being very nice to me, saying how shocked I must feel, but my overwhelming emotion is one of gratitude that my mother lived as long and as well as she did. I've witnessed some pretty horrible deaths over the years and it was a huge relief to see my mother die peacefully.

At some point, I hope I'll be able to write something about my mother's life, but for the moment this is as much as I can do.

I will post a link to the new blog when it's ready.