I was born in a Lancashire town called Kirkham, a few miles from the Fylde coast.
I thought of Kirkham the other day because I was having lunch in the White Horse pub in Shere (in Surrey where I now live) and got chatting to two old chaps, two brothers. I noticed they had Lancashire twangs to their voices even though, like me, they'd lost most of their accent from decades of living in the south of England. They turned out to have had childhood friends in Kirkham and we reminisced a bit about what the town and surrounding area were like before and during the war.
Kirkham had one main street with a few shops, a cinema, a municipal swimming pool and an ancient Grammar School for boys. My family moved to the neighbouring town of Wesham (pronounced Wessom) before I was old enough to remember the house where I was born. In those days women tended to have their babies at home. My mother also gave birth to a boy some years earlier, my brother, but he had spina bifida and died not long after he was born. It was seen as perfectly normal to give birth at home in the same bed where your babies were conceived. It was years later that it became normal for women to give birth in hospitals. Certainly it was pretty normal by the time I had my first child in 1953. That was in America. My second was born in 1956, in England, also in hospital. I wonder if the old house where I was born is still standing, like me, 81 years later.
Wesham was a much smaller town, with just a handful of shops and a railway station and at the bottom of the town a weaving mill where most people from Wesham worked. The cotton mill, to me as a small child, was a really fearsome place full of noise and the clanking of the weaving looms. No-one could be heard in the din of the mill machinery and the only way the workers could communicate was by sign language - which was called me-mo-ing - or by lip reading. My mother was a weaver in the Wesham mill.
I only ever got to go right inside the mill once. It was probably in 1934, when I was about five. My mother had recently gone back to work there and I don't know who was supposed to be looking after me but I was found crying for my mother outside the mill. I was taken in and reunited with her and that was the end of her return to work! From then on she stayed at home.
My father was a labourer with the Water Board and earnt a bit of extra money helping with tasks like haymaking on local farms.
I had 3 aunties and 1 uncle. Auntie Polly was the eldest, then Auntie Nellie - who was deaf and dumb following an attack of scarlet fever when she was two - my mother Isabella was next and then Auntie Lizzie, who suffered from epilepsy.
Auntie Lizzie worked in a café in St Annes and on Saturday nights would bring round to our house a bag of cakes that were left over, unsold. This was one of the highlights of my week. Sometimes if I was lucky there would be vanilla slices or cream crisps; other times there were only bath buns.
Auntie Lizzie had no children and her husband, my Uncle Jim, worked as a signalman on the railyway. This was a lonely occupation, sitting alone waiting to work the signals for the trains, and he ended up having a nervous breakdown, having first tried to commit suicide by gassing himself. Fortunately, my cousin Joe Lambert, Auntie Polly's son, called round, found him and rescued him and poor Uncle Jim was carted off to the local mental hospital where he remained for many years.
As well as my aunties and uncle and a lot of cousins I also had both my granddads. My mother's father, Granddad Gillett, was pretty fearsome to me. He seemed about ten feet tall and had a grim face with a large hooked nose. He had apparently ruled his children, including my mother, with a rod of iron. None of them got married till they were thirty - he wouldn't let them. They all lived at home and I gather he took a good proportion of their wages off them as he retired early and even went on holiday to Spain with Monsigneur Rockliffe, our parish priest - a thing unheard of at that time in Lancashire society. The Monsigneur obviously squirelled money away somehow - when he died he left enough money to buy everyone in the parish a prayer book. All the books had a dedication to him inside them. I've still got my copy. He disapproved of books that weren't religious. He came round one day and saw that my Aunt Polly had bought a romance. He threw it on the fire!
Granddad Gillett allowed his children out on Saturdays once they were grown up, but they had to be in by 9pm. Granddad would be standing by the door with a cup of cold water from which they all had a drink before going up to bed.
Auntie Lizzie finally broke ranks and got engaged and then Auntie Polly and my mother followed suit. My father and mother courted for seven years before marrying, partly because Granddad was so strict and partly because my father - who used to come into Wesham on Saturday nights to seee my mum - suffered from an inability to get past the Swan Hotel where he used to put up his bike. After seven years my mother issued an ultimatum: we either get married or it's all off! They got married and I never knew my father to go into a pub or take a drink, except perhaps at Christmas or just a glass beer after helping with the haymaking.
Granddad Gillett died when I was 8. We had a sort of lying in state where Granddad was propped up in bed with 6 big candles burning, 3 on either side of him, and all the aunts and uncles and cousins gathered round saying prayers for the dead, with our parish priest in attendance. I was positioned at the bottom of the bed, peering up at my dead granddad. I have never forgotten the experience. I was bought a new grey coat to go to the funeral. In those days everyone went into deepest mourning when a close relative died and mother and the aunts all went to Preston, the nearest town, to buy their black. My mother apparently tried on a dress which looked a bit peculiar round the collar but the sales assistant assured her "it's the latest cowl collar, madam." It wasn't. Mother had put the dress on back to front. In spite of granddad's recent death apparently all my aunts fell about laughing.
It was a nice day for the funeral, sunny but cold, and everyone cried by the graveside. Afterwards the whole family went to the Swan Hotel - I think it was the only pub in Wesham - and had a funeral breakfast. Salad and boiled ham at that time was a great luxury.
Another memory, apart from seeing my grandfather dead in bed, is the way my aunts and their husbands, having been weeping at the graveside, were now all laughing and joking and making merry. I was shocked by this. I've been to enough funerals now, at my age, to know this is often the way, but then, with the logic of an 8 year old, I felt it was not right!
The tradition of wearing black when you were in mourning for a close relative persisted up until the late 1940s. When my mother died in 1949 I was 19 years old. We were told she died of pernicious anaemia. Young people then, unlike today, didn't wear black clothes. My father wanted me in black from head to foot and I was appalled. One of my aunts prevailed upon him at least to let me wear a white blouse with a black suit, which I did.
I was by myself with my mother when she died. It was a beautiful June morning and my father had gone to fetch the doctor. We had a little car by that time but no telephone. My mother, who had not had good health for years, became ill in the night and father wakened me at about 5.30am to sit with her while he drove to fetch the doctor from Wesham. She died whilst he was gone. I had read about people having a 'death rattle' and it was true with my mother.
Like granddad, my mother stayed at home in her coffin until the funeral.
At first, I was nevous about this and was necessarily in the house alone with her whilst my father went about making arrangements for the funeral . But then I got used to it and would go in and see her and give her a kiss and talk to her a bit.
I'm jumping ahead of myself here though and will go back to our life in Wesham when I was a small child.
Our house was an end-of-terrace but on the 'top road', not down near the cotton mill, which was reckoned to be a bit more elite! The front door opened right onto the pavement, with a little hall called a vestibule before you opened the door into the living room. We had just one living room, a fairly big kitchen with a walk-in pantry, and 3 bedrooms. There was no fridge back then. The pantry was just cold. There were shelves where my mother kept butter, milk, cream and meat. They were all covered to protect them from flies. She made cakes and plum and damson preserves for the winter. We had no bathroom or indoor toilet. The toilet was up at the end of our small garden but was at least a water closet and not one of the old type privies which were all they had on my aunties' and uncles' farms out in the countryside.
We had chamber pots under the beds for night time use. My mother and father had a splendid one, black with pink roses all over it, which had been a wedding present.
For baths, every Saturday night a tin bath with a high back, which hung on a nail outside the back door, was brought in and set before the fire. I was then bathed by my mother and put into a clean nightie, with my clean clothes laid out ready for Sunday. I wore a vest which always had a St Christopher's medal pinned to it with a little gold safety pin. Why my mother thought this was necessary, as St Christopher is the patron saint of travellers and I never went anywhere, I don't know. After the vest I wore a garment called a liberty bodice, a sort of sleeveless jacket with buttons up the front. I wore navy blue fleecey knickers and long brown woollen stockings, kept up with garters made by my mother from pieces of elastic.
I suppose all these garments were necessary because we had no heating except for the coal fire in the living room. The coal man used to come round with his horse and cart, and coal on the back and my father would buy sacks of coal. Also, we had no electric light, just gas light. The lights had mantles made of gauze and you pulled a small cord to get the gas to flow. Then we lit the mantles with lighted tapers. Outside our house was a street light and that was also gas. A little man used to come along in winter with a long pole and a taper on the end to light it.
lundi 8 novembre 2010
vendredi 5 novembre 2010
Once You're Over 80, Your Friends Are Sadly Prone to Pop Their Clogs
Early this afternoon I was getting ready to go to the White Horse pub in Shere in Surrey with one of my daughters. I'd booked the local Dial a Ride service and we were going for lunch.
The phone rang and a friend announced that one of our friends, John Berry, had died. John was 92 - almost 93, I'm not sure. We'd been friends, a group of us, for a good 16 years I suppose, though in recent years we hadn't seen much of him. A few months ago we all went out to dinner and he was on good form - completely on the ball and in good humour.
Recently, we heard he'd gone into hospital for a stomach operation, suspected stomach cancer. But no, the surgeon found no cancer and John was going to spend a few more days in hospital and would then come home, even though an army of carers was apparently going to help him at home.
However, it wasn't to be and he didn't, obviously, recover from the op.
When you get to be 80 you have to accept that, increasingly, your friends will die. Somewhere around 55, I suppose, or maybe later, you become aware that you're going to more funerals than weddings. At 81, the funerals become all too common.
A few weeks ago a very close friend of mine died after a simple fall in her home. She was a bit unsteady on her feet and just toppled backwards. Unfortunately, the fall was enough to fracture her skull and she died that same weekend. When I looked at her obituary in the Surrey Advertiser I was shocked to see the obituary of another friend of mine too. I hadn't heard yet that he had died but there was the announcement, already in black and white.
Quite a few of my friends are younger than I am but I'm very aware that my friends around and over the age of 80 are vulnerable, just as I am. Perhaps it makes us appreciate each other more. It should do. When you're young, by and large, it doesn't occur to you that each time you see a friend may be the last. For those of us over 80, there's always that possibility. I treasure all my friends but I know that the very old are the least likely to be around next year or the year after. That's not being pessimistic, just realistic. And being realistic is useful since it means we can appreciate each other's friendship that bit more while we have the chance.
The phone rang and a friend announced that one of our friends, John Berry, had died. John was 92 - almost 93, I'm not sure. We'd been friends, a group of us, for a good 16 years I suppose, though in recent years we hadn't seen much of him. A few months ago we all went out to dinner and he was on good form - completely on the ball and in good humour.
Recently, we heard he'd gone into hospital for a stomach operation, suspected stomach cancer. But no, the surgeon found no cancer and John was going to spend a few more days in hospital and would then come home, even though an army of carers was apparently going to help him at home.
However, it wasn't to be and he didn't, obviously, recover from the op.
When you get to be 80 you have to accept that, increasingly, your friends will die. Somewhere around 55, I suppose, or maybe later, you become aware that you're going to more funerals than weddings. At 81, the funerals become all too common.
A few weeks ago a very close friend of mine died after a simple fall in her home. She was a bit unsteady on her feet and just toppled backwards. Unfortunately, the fall was enough to fracture her skull and she died that same weekend. When I looked at her obituary in the Surrey Advertiser I was shocked to see the obituary of another friend of mine too. I hadn't heard yet that he had died but there was the announcement, already in black and white.
Quite a few of my friends are younger than I am but I'm very aware that my friends around and over the age of 80 are vulnerable, just as I am. Perhaps it makes us appreciate each other more. It should do. When you're young, by and large, it doesn't occur to you that each time you see a friend may be the last. For those of us over 80, there's always that possibility. I treasure all my friends but I know that the very old are the least likely to be around next year or the year after. That's not being pessimistic, just realistic. And being realistic is useful since it means we can appreciate each other's friendship that bit more while we have the chance.
German Terrorists, Irish Terrorists, Muslim Terrorists
Some deluded young girl, with her head full of militant islamic faith, was jailed for life the other day for trying to kill her British MP. She stabbed him in the stomach because he voted for the Iraq war.
Only 21, she'll have lots of time to figure out what a foolish thing she did in the name of 'religion'.
At 81, I've seen a few terrorist movements come and go. I've concluded that every society is going to have some disgruntled minority or other which decides its principles give it the right to go round killing other people.
In the second world war the nazis decided they had the right to terrorise German jews. They started out going round kicking jewish citizens and smashing their shop windows. They got so much support for their thuggery from the German population as a whole that they grew from what might have stayed a relatively powerless and German national terrorist movement into an all-out effort at world domination. My generation, along with the Americans and other allies, had no option but to fight them.
Then we had the IRA. That was different from a terrorist movement that wants to dominate in that the Irish nationalists didn't want to take over Britain or dominate the British. They wanted to get Britain and British soldiers out of northern Ireland. Once the leaders Martin McGuiness and Jerry Adams became elected politicians speaking out against violence, it was predictable that a new bunch would start up, feeling they have the right to blow up people going about their daily lives.
And then we got the islamic terrorists. They do want to dominate. Like Hitler and the nazis, they want world domination. And like Hitler and the nazis, they think they're superior to everyone else.
I suppose I've become philosophical about these things since I think they'll always be with us. The human brain gets deluded very easily it seems. Human judgement and objectivity are terribly delicate things. Some causes are of course worth fighting for. Others are entirely unjustified attempts to force intolerance on others. There'll always be tussles over values and behaviour. Islamic terrorism is just the latest attempt to replace tolerance with intolerance and freedom with coercion.
Only 21, she'll have lots of time to figure out what a foolish thing she did in the name of 'religion'.
At 81, I've seen a few terrorist movements come and go. I've concluded that every society is going to have some disgruntled minority or other which decides its principles give it the right to go round killing other people.
In the second world war the nazis decided they had the right to terrorise German jews. They started out going round kicking jewish citizens and smashing their shop windows. They got so much support for their thuggery from the German population as a whole that they grew from what might have stayed a relatively powerless and German national terrorist movement into an all-out effort at world domination. My generation, along with the Americans and other allies, had no option but to fight them.
Then we had the IRA. That was different from a terrorist movement that wants to dominate in that the Irish nationalists didn't want to take over Britain or dominate the British. They wanted to get Britain and British soldiers out of northern Ireland. Once the leaders Martin McGuiness and Jerry Adams became elected politicians speaking out against violence, it was predictable that a new bunch would start up, feeling they have the right to blow up people going about their daily lives.
And then we got the islamic terrorists. They do want to dominate. Like Hitler and the nazis, they want world domination. And like Hitler and the nazis, they think they're superior to everyone else.
I suppose I've become philosophical about these things since I think they'll always be with us. The human brain gets deluded very easily it seems. Human judgement and objectivity are terribly delicate things. Some causes are of course worth fighting for. Others are entirely unjustified attempts to force intolerance on others. There'll always be tussles over values and behaviour. Islamic terrorism is just the latest attempt to replace tolerance with intolerance and freedom with coercion.
Children, Grandchildren, Music and Pop Music
My youngest granddaughter always seems to pick musicians as boyfriends. I don't think it's deliberate; it just turns out that way. She went out with one in a band called The Metros. Then another one. Now it's a young man called Johnny in a band whose name I can't recall.
I had a meal with her and her older sister in Wetherspoons in Guildford last night. The girls came down from London just for a few hours to chat over a meal. (Six pounds for a meal and a drink in the Guildford Wetherspoons seems like a good deal to me.)
One arrived from her job on a magazine called Stylist, which I've never seen, and the younger one arrived from her Anthropology course at UCL.
So who are you going out with now? I inquired.(Her elder sister is getting married in 2010 so I know who she's going out with.)
Oh, she raved, it was still Johnny. Really liked him. Some complications.
She told me the name of his band but I've forgotten it. She showed me a photo on her mobile of a dark-haired young man wearing a sort of jacket open to show his chest.
Very nice, I said neutrally. To be honest, since my sight is failing I didn't really get a good look at him.
'He's Suggs' godson' she said. 'You know, nana, that band Madness?'
(The girls and their brother, my grandson, call me nana because it's not quite so awful as Granny or Gran or Granma. As soon as they could speak I encouraged them not to go the 'Gran' route.)
Anyway - Suggs in Madness doesn't mean anything to me and both my granddaughters laughed when I said the last pop group I could really picture was the Rolling Stones.
Their mother and their aunt, my two daughters in other words, used to sit rapt, gawping at the television screen when Mick Jagger and Keith Richards came on in the late sixties I suppose it was, and early seventies.
The drummer sat completely impassively as far as I could see, apart from whirling his arms around - and Bill Wyman was equally unmoving. I suppose they had to keep still though to contrast with Mick Jagger, leaping about and flailing his arms around. My generation thought they were pretty revolting at the time. We were mystified at our teenage daughters being so enthralled by this ugly, vulgar, loudmouthed louts. Then there was the whole black cloud cast by the death or murder of Brian Jones.
I remember telling my girls that this lot were nothing like real musicians and singers - Elvis, Frank Sinatra, Louis Armstrong, Ella Fitzgerald.
'They'll be here today, gone tomorrow', I said. 'The Rolling Stones won't last two minutes.'
I have a feeling I said the same about David Bowie.
Of course, over the years I got used to the Rolling Stones, and Bowie too, and I had to admit they were talented and made some good music even if it's not my sort of music. Strange how many of these rebels and youth icons move from the very edge of society right into the middle eventually. Isn't Mick Jagger a Sir? That would have been unthinkable in the early days when my teenaged daughters were so entranced by him.
Funnily enough, when I went to meet my granddauthers at Guildford Station last night, I had a quick look in the WH Smiths there and noticed an autobigraphy by Keith Richards, which I think he'd called "Life." A sign next to the books said Buy One Get One Half Price.
I can't really say why but it seemed odd to me somehow that such an old rock music rebel as Keith Richards would have his life story on a shelf in WH Smiths next to a sign saying Buy One Get One Half Price. I suppose it's because he burst on the music scene in Britain as a sort of uncontrollabe rebel and here he was in the shops, all these years later, appearing as a special offer.
I had a meal with her and her older sister in Wetherspoons in Guildford last night. The girls came down from London just for a few hours to chat over a meal. (Six pounds for a meal and a drink in the Guildford Wetherspoons seems like a good deal to me.)
One arrived from her job on a magazine called Stylist, which I've never seen, and the younger one arrived from her Anthropology course at UCL.
So who are you going out with now? I inquired.(Her elder sister is getting married in 2010 so I know who she's going out with.)
Oh, she raved, it was still Johnny. Really liked him. Some complications.
She told me the name of his band but I've forgotten it. She showed me a photo on her mobile of a dark-haired young man wearing a sort of jacket open to show his chest.
Very nice, I said neutrally. To be honest, since my sight is failing I didn't really get a good look at him.
'He's Suggs' godson' she said. 'You know, nana, that band Madness?'
(The girls and their brother, my grandson, call me nana because it's not quite so awful as Granny or Gran or Granma. As soon as they could speak I encouraged them not to go the 'Gran' route.)
Anyway - Suggs in Madness doesn't mean anything to me and both my granddaughters laughed when I said the last pop group I could really picture was the Rolling Stones.
Their mother and their aunt, my two daughters in other words, used to sit rapt, gawping at the television screen when Mick Jagger and Keith Richards came on in the late sixties I suppose it was, and early seventies.
The drummer sat completely impassively as far as I could see, apart from whirling his arms around - and Bill Wyman was equally unmoving. I suppose they had to keep still though to contrast with Mick Jagger, leaping about and flailing his arms around. My generation thought they were pretty revolting at the time. We were mystified at our teenage daughters being so enthralled by this ugly, vulgar, loudmouthed louts. Then there was the whole black cloud cast by the death or murder of Brian Jones.
I remember telling my girls that this lot were nothing like real musicians and singers - Elvis, Frank Sinatra, Louis Armstrong, Ella Fitzgerald.
'They'll be here today, gone tomorrow', I said. 'The Rolling Stones won't last two minutes.'
I have a feeling I said the same about David Bowie.
Of course, over the years I got used to the Rolling Stones, and Bowie too, and I had to admit they were talented and made some good music even if it's not my sort of music. Strange how many of these rebels and youth icons move from the very edge of society right into the middle eventually. Isn't Mick Jagger a Sir? That would have been unthinkable in the early days when my teenaged daughters were so entranced by him.
Funnily enough, when I went to meet my granddauthers at Guildford Station last night, I had a quick look in the WH Smiths there and noticed an autobigraphy by Keith Richards, which I think he'd called "Life." A sign next to the books said Buy One Get One Half Price.
I can't really say why but it seemed odd to me somehow that such an old rock music rebel as Keith Richards would have his life story on a shelf in WH Smiths next to a sign saying Buy One Get One Half Price. I suppose it's because he burst on the music scene in Britain as a sort of uncontrollabe rebel and here he was in the shops, all these years later, appearing as a special offer.
Giving Up Driving - When Your Sight Starts to go Your Car Has To Go
For 80 years I had really good eyesight. My children were very pleased for me that it was so good but would occasionally say it wasn't fair that they had contact lenses and reading glasses at their ages while I could still see signs way off in the distance when driving, recognise a friend walking up Guildford High Street from way off and only needed weak reading glasses in poor light.
But things change. If you stick around long enough, your sight starts to fail.
I started having a few odd visual effects around the time I turned 80 - little blue dots everywhere in the morning - and began to have trouble seeing detail in the distance. Like a car coming if I was cossing the road. I saw the optician a couple of times and my doctor referred me to en eye clinic and the people there hummed and ha-ed a bit and eventually told my doctor, after a few months, to tell me to stop driving.
When he told me he looked very apologetic. He knows I have a very active life, go out with friends a lot, visit my daughters and grandchildren, and he knew how important the car was to me.
I had to accept that he said I simply wasn't able to drive legally any more, and I don't think he was suggesting I drive illegally. When you've been driving for sixty odd years, being told you're becoming a danger to yourself and others and have to stop is upsetting. I won't say I cried a bit when I got home, but I won't say I didn't either.
After I got over the emotional side of it, the practical hassles of giving up driving started to hit me. How would I get around? I live outside Guildford and go into town to shop. I go out to see friends a lot. I needed to drive to see my kids and grandchildren. How would I get to the airport for holidays? How would I get to the pub for a pub lunch with friends?
I called one of my daughters and told her the terrible news. "The doctor says I have to give up my car. I have to stop driving."
I think she was shocked to. Both my daughters are used to mum being fairly independent. I listed all the things I wouldn't be able to do until she stopped me and said we should look at it differently.
Firstly, she told me to accept it. It was better to give up driving than to hit a car or pedestrian or be hit because I couldn't see as well as I used to. I had to agree with that. Then she reminded me I have plenty of friends who still drive and will help me get about. Next, she said I should think about the money I'd save on petrol, road tax and car insurance - and the money I'd get for the car - and I could put all that this year to taxis.
'You hate parking and you like a drink with lunch or dinner' she said. 'That means you're absolutely made for taxis. Once you get used to callings cabs you'll really like going out without bothering about the car.'
It was just a matter of getting organised, she said. Also, she said, 'You're over 80, mum - you should get some free transport - travel on the buses, and maybe there are council-run services too?'
I told her I'd work on all that. Which I did. The next day I rang her back with quite a lot of news. 'I'm not sure I've accepted giving up the car' I said 'but I've done some sums and research and here's what I've found.'
I'd calculated how much I could put towards taxis. If I sold the car, and since I'd save the road tax and insurance and payments for servicing, I'd be able to afford quite a lot of taxis. I'd rung the local council and they told me about a cheap service for oldies, 'Dial a Ride', which I could book to go substantial distances. If I wanted to go to Wisley Gardens with a friend then I could book Dial a Ride and travel there and back for a few pounds (which I have done since.) I don't know if Dial a Ride is a service local to Guildford funded by the council or if all councils provide the same sort of service as a national thing.
I'd also looked at ordering groceries and household stuff online from supermarkets for free deliveries. I live in a second floor flat so, for some time, it's been a bit of a nuisance carrying bags of shopping up the stairs. I stop on each landing to get my breath back a bit and then carry on. Maybe it was time to order online and get free home deliveries. I haven't done this yet but I know what's involved and may do it at some point
And lastly but most importantly I told my boyfriend/partner, Bryan, and all my friends. 'I have to stop driving - what will I do?' They all rallied round, as we all always do all rally round when any one of us has a problem. One would take me into Guildford shopping once a week. One would pick me up for the weekly pub quiz. Another would collect me for our dinner out every week.
I began to feel it would all work out.
It's been the best part of a year now since I gave up driving. I can't say I miss it. Sometimes it's a nuisance when you just want to hop in the car and go to the library or visit a friend. But mostly it just takes a bit of organisation. With good friends who help and with free buses, (expensive) taxis and Dial a Ride, life without the car is not nearly as awkward as I feared. I love not having to find a parking place and reverse wonkily into it. I love being able to have a glass of wine without wondering if I'm over the drink-drive limit. One friend, Rosemary, has made it a weekly outing for us both to go to Sainsburys and shop. We take our time and have a coffee and it's lovely to see her and chat as well as get the shopping done.
Today I'm going with one of my daughters to a lovely old pub in Shere, the White Horse, for lunch. I've booked a dial-a-ride vehicle and the driver will drop us off at midday and collect us after 2pm. I'll be able to share a bottle of wine with my daughter over lunch and neither of us will have to worry about drinking and driving. Since dial a ride fares are so cheap, getting to Shere and back will only cost a few pounds.
I suppose we all fear change as we get older. Sometimes you just have to accept it. I had a cataract operation which helped my sight for a while but I can't seem to find any treatment for the macular degeneration which put an end to my driving. Once I'd accepted I wouldn't drive again, I could get on with looking for alternatives that work.
Still I did laugh when I read that Tony Curtis's wife said at his funeral that he objected strongly to being made to stop driving. Right up to his death, she said, he was looking for ways to get his driving licence back!
But things change. If you stick around long enough, your sight starts to fail.
I started having a few odd visual effects around the time I turned 80 - little blue dots everywhere in the morning - and began to have trouble seeing detail in the distance. Like a car coming if I was cossing the road. I saw the optician a couple of times and my doctor referred me to en eye clinic and the people there hummed and ha-ed a bit and eventually told my doctor, after a few months, to tell me to stop driving.
When he told me he looked very apologetic. He knows I have a very active life, go out with friends a lot, visit my daughters and grandchildren, and he knew how important the car was to me.
I had to accept that he said I simply wasn't able to drive legally any more, and I don't think he was suggesting I drive illegally. When you've been driving for sixty odd years, being told you're becoming a danger to yourself and others and have to stop is upsetting. I won't say I cried a bit when I got home, but I won't say I didn't either.
After I got over the emotional side of it, the practical hassles of giving up driving started to hit me. How would I get around? I live outside Guildford and go into town to shop. I go out to see friends a lot. I needed to drive to see my kids and grandchildren. How would I get to the airport for holidays? How would I get to the pub for a pub lunch with friends?
I called one of my daughters and told her the terrible news. "The doctor says I have to give up my car. I have to stop driving."
I think she was shocked to. Both my daughters are used to mum being fairly independent. I listed all the things I wouldn't be able to do until she stopped me and said we should look at it differently.
Firstly, she told me to accept it. It was better to give up driving than to hit a car or pedestrian or be hit because I couldn't see as well as I used to. I had to agree with that. Then she reminded me I have plenty of friends who still drive and will help me get about. Next, she said I should think about the money I'd save on petrol, road tax and car insurance - and the money I'd get for the car - and I could put all that this year to taxis.
'You hate parking and you like a drink with lunch or dinner' she said. 'That means you're absolutely made for taxis. Once you get used to callings cabs you'll really like going out without bothering about the car.'
It was just a matter of getting organised, she said. Also, she said, 'You're over 80, mum - you should get some free transport - travel on the buses, and maybe there are council-run services too?'
I told her I'd work on all that. Which I did. The next day I rang her back with quite a lot of news. 'I'm not sure I've accepted giving up the car' I said 'but I've done some sums and research and here's what I've found.'
I'd calculated how much I could put towards taxis. If I sold the car, and since I'd save the road tax and insurance and payments for servicing, I'd be able to afford quite a lot of taxis. I'd rung the local council and they told me about a cheap service for oldies, 'Dial a Ride', which I could book to go substantial distances. If I wanted to go to Wisley Gardens with a friend then I could book Dial a Ride and travel there and back for a few pounds (which I have done since.) I don't know if Dial a Ride is a service local to Guildford funded by the council or if all councils provide the same sort of service as a national thing.
I'd also looked at ordering groceries and household stuff online from supermarkets for free deliveries. I live in a second floor flat so, for some time, it's been a bit of a nuisance carrying bags of shopping up the stairs. I stop on each landing to get my breath back a bit and then carry on. Maybe it was time to order online and get free home deliveries. I haven't done this yet but I know what's involved and may do it at some point
And lastly but most importantly I told my boyfriend/partner, Bryan, and all my friends. 'I have to stop driving - what will I do?' They all rallied round, as we all always do all rally round when any one of us has a problem. One would take me into Guildford shopping once a week. One would pick me up for the weekly pub quiz. Another would collect me for our dinner out every week.
I began to feel it would all work out.
It's been the best part of a year now since I gave up driving. I can't say I miss it. Sometimes it's a nuisance when you just want to hop in the car and go to the library or visit a friend. But mostly it just takes a bit of organisation. With good friends who help and with free buses, (expensive) taxis and Dial a Ride, life without the car is not nearly as awkward as I feared. I love not having to find a parking place and reverse wonkily into it. I love being able to have a glass of wine without wondering if I'm over the drink-drive limit. One friend, Rosemary, has made it a weekly outing for us both to go to Sainsburys and shop. We take our time and have a coffee and it's lovely to see her and chat as well as get the shopping done.
Today I'm going with one of my daughters to a lovely old pub in Shere, the White Horse, for lunch. I've booked a dial-a-ride vehicle and the driver will drop us off at midday and collect us after 2pm. I'll be able to share a bottle of wine with my daughter over lunch and neither of us will have to worry about drinking and driving. Since dial a ride fares are so cheap, getting to Shere and back will only cost a few pounds.
I suppose we all fear change as we get older. Sometimes you just have to accept it. I had a cataract operation which helped my sight for a while but I can't seem to find any treatment for the macular degeneration which put an end to my driving. Once I'd accepted I wouldn't drive again, I could get on with looking for alternatives that work.
Still I did laugh when I read that Tony Curtis's wife said at his funeral that he objected strongly to being made to stop driving. Right up to his death, she said, he was looking for ways to get his driving licence back!
jeudi 4 novembre 2010
Eyewear, Glasses, Magnifying Glasses,Dark Glasses and Failing Eyesight
I have macular degeneration, the one they can't cure. Dry, is it? I think dry macular degeneration can become wet and they can cure the wet version but, for now, mine's dry. I don't really understand it.
Anyway, the doctors didn't give me much advice or help but the optician turned out to be very helpful. He told me about a low vision clinic where they give partially-sighted people all sorts of help - lights and glasses and whatnot, so I went along.
I was registered as partially sighted which is new to me. I had to give up driving at the start of 2010 which was a heck of a nuisance but I get access to a free book-and-ride service and I take buses which are free and I sometimes use taxis in and out of Guildford, my nearest town. I'm not sure if I get the free rides and buses because I'm now officiallypartially sighted or if it's because I'm over 80. Either way, it's pretty good.
The clinic also sent away for me to get two pairs of free glasses. I didn't know what they'd do really but I'd explained that I have trouble seeing the telly and trouble seeing the gold finches at the bird feeders I put out, and trouble reading and writing. I used to read books all the time. Now I can't.
The boxes arrived today and the two pairs of glasses are quite something. They're not like normal glasses at all. They're like specialised equipment. If you've ever had a diamond valued, you'll have seen the kind of eyepiece the jeweller uses. These glasses are sort of like professional equipment. Each pair has four lenses. There are two smaller lenses near the eye and then two more a bit furthre away. One pair is ivory coloured; the other is kind of silver blue. They're very cool looking. The blue ones look like they could be skiing equipment!
The ivory ones let me read and write. The blue ones magnify the distance. Now, I can sit and look at the gold finches and see amazing detail of their red, black, gold and white feathers. Even the seeds they're eating. It's wonderful. I can see the television and computer screens without peering at them from inches away.
But I do feel my home is getting ever more cluttered with 'vision aids'. Every room features high powered lights, magnifying glasses, dark glasses (which I need to cut daylight glare when I go out - the glare started to affect me after a cataract operation), and now I've got the two latest developments in close-up and faraway glasses. In the kitchen there's a magnifying glass which has a high powered light attached to it so I can read recipe books. I take this to restaurants too, to read menus.
Having poor sight certainly requires a bit of organisation, especially when you have to give up driving. But if all sounds like I'm a walking advert for the optician, I'm not really. You probably would hardly notice the old girl sitting at the restaurant table with friends or family, taking a look at the menu through a little hand-held glass with a light in it. You might just, I suppose, wonder what I was doing out on a not very sunny day wearing big dark glasses. 'Morning head' you might think. And it's true I like a glass or two of wine with dinner. You would, though, almost certainly notice if I went out with the blue high perfomance four-lens glasses on. I expect you'd notice how advanced and science fiction they look and you'd probably wonder what I was doing wearing them. You'd probably say to yourself 'She looks a bit ancient, frankly, to be going skiing.'
Anyway, the doctors didn't give me much advice or help but the optician turned out to be very helpful. He told me about a low vision clinic where they give partially-sighted people all sorts of help - lights and glasses and whatnot, so I went along.
I was registered as partially sighted which is new to me. I had to give up driving at the start of 2010 which was a heck of a nuisance but I get access to a free book-and-ride service and I take buses which are free and I sometimes use taxis in and out of Guildford, my nearest town. I'm not sure if I get the free rides and buses because I'm now officiallypartially sighted or if it's because I'm over 80. Either way, it's pretty good.
The clinic also sent away for me to get two pairs of free glasses. I didn't know what they'd do really but I'd explained that I have trouble seeing the telly and trouble seeing the gold finches at the bird feeders I put out, and trouble reading and writing. I used to read books all the time. Now I can't.
The boxes arrived today and the two pairs of glasses are quite something. They're not like normal glasses at all. They're like specialised equipment. If you've ever had a diamond valued, you'll have seen the kind of eyepiece the jeweller uses. These glasses are sort of like professional equipment. Each pair has four lenses. There are two smaller lenses near the eye and then two more a bit furthre away. One pair is ivory coloured; the other is kind of silver blue. They're very cool looking. The blue ones look like they could be skiing equipment!
The ivory ones let me read and write. The blue ones magnify the distance. Now, I can sit and look at the gold finches and see amazing detail of their red, black, gold and white feathers. Even the seeds they're eating. It's wonderful. I can see the television and computer screens without peering at them from inches away.
But I do feel my home is getting ever more cluttered with 'vision aids'. Every room features high powered lights, magnifying glasses, dark glasses (which I need to cut daylight glare when I go out - the glare started to affect me after a cataract operation), and now I've got the two latest developments in close-up and faraway glasses. In the kitchen there's a magnifying glass which has a high powered light attached to it so I can read recipe books. I take this to restaurants too, to read menus.
Having poor sight certainly requires a bit of organisation, especially when you have to give up driving. But if all sounds like I'm a walking advert for the optician, I'm not really. You probably would hardly notice the old girl sitting at the restaurant table with friends or family, taking a look at the menu through a little hand-held glass with a light in it. You might just, I suppose, wonder what I was doing out on a not very sunny day wearing big dark glasses. 'Morning head' you might think. And it's true I like a glass or two of wine with dinner. You would, though, almost certainly notice if I went out with the blue high perfomance four-lens glasses on. I expect you'd notice how advanced and science fiction they look and you'd probably wonder what I was doing wearing them. You'd probably say to yourself 'She looks a bit ancient, frankly, to be going skiing.'
Gliding for the over 80s
My first post was about a trip on the London Eye in October 2010, which I really enjoyed.
I described the trip to my children (adult children - I'm 81 and should have called this blog An Old Englishwoman's Life I suppose.) They seemed to think it was a bit adventurous to go on the London Eye at my age. "Not really" I replied. "It wasn't as interesting as the gliding."
"What are you talking about?" they asked.
"The gliding. A couple of years ago I went gliding. In Cambridgeshire."
News to them. Apparently I didn't mention it at the time. They were probably having some work or marriage drama or drama with the kids.
I told them I'd gone gliding with my...what do I call him? - partner, boyfriend, companion? of 16 years. All the terms sound a bit silly at my age but I was widowed twice before I met him and lost another partner to open heart surgery so I didn't want to get married and I wasn't going to move in with a man. So, let's say partner. Anyway, he came along - he's 85 now - and a friend of ours, Ron, recently widowed, came too.
Was it scary?, my kids asked me.
No.
Not even when you were towed up by the plane and it let go?
I explained that though Brian and Ron were towed up by small planes, my glider was sort of catapulted from a sort of elastic thing. "Except" I explained "it broke just before we left the ground so they had to use another one."
You mean you still went up in the glider just after the thing broke?
Yes.
Anyway, I thought it was wonderful. We got great views of Cambridge - more of the countryside though in fact. Little rivers and fields and church steeples and animals like toy farm animals. It was a lovely summer's day and of course there's no engine so it's lovely and quiet up there. You're just gliding in a little bubble. And half way through, the pilot sitting behind me told me a bit about using the controls - backwards, forwards, up , down and what have you - and then said "OK take the controls. You're flying now."
So I took the controls and flew.
My kids said "Whaaat??!!"
One of them said "Wasn't the pilot worried that you were practically eighty?"
But I said I didn't think so because he'd already told me he was 75.
Anyhow, gliding was wonderful. I was 10 when the second world war started so all through my childhood we were all very conscious of the planes, the spitfires and others on our side and the bombers on the German side, and the pilots. Later, I married the girls' father - obviously - and he was still in the Royal Air Force. He'd served in the RAF in the war, fighting the Nazis in North Africa and up through Italy. I've flown lots of times as an adult though I never flew as a child - in those days you didn't fly anywhere on holiday. But I think one of the best experiences of flying was being in the little glider and taking the controls for a while. I may do it again next summer if I think of it.
I described the trip to my children (adult children - I'm 81 and should have called this blog An Old Englishwoman's Life I suppose.) They seemed to think it was a bit adventurous to go on the London Eye at my age. "Not really" I replied. "It wasn't as interesting as the gliding."
"What are you talking about?" they asked.
"The gliding. A couple of years ago I went gliding. In Cambridgeshire."
News to them. Apparently I didn't mention it at the time. They were probably having some work or marriage drama or drama with the kids.
I told them I'd gone gliding with my...what do I call him? - partner, boyfriend, companion? of 16 years. All the terms sound a bit silly at my age but I was widowed twice before I met him and lost another partner to open heart surgery so I didn't want to get married and I wasn't going to move in with a man. So, let's say partner. Anyway, he came along - he's 85 now - and a friend of ours, Ron, recently widowed, came too.
Was it scary?, my kids asked me.
No.
Not even when you were towed up by the plane and it let go?
I explained that though Brian and Ron were towed up by small planes, my glider was sort of catapulted from a sort of elastic thing. "Except" I explained "it broke just before we left the ground so they had to use another one."
You mean you still went up in the glider just after the thing broke?
Yes.
Anyway, I thought it was wonderful. We got great views of Cambridge - more of the countryside though in fact. Little rivers and fields and church steeples and animals like toy farm animals. It was a lovely summer's day and of course there's no engine so it's lovely and quiet up there. You're just gliding in a little bubble. And half way through, the pilot sitting behind me told me a bit about using the controls - backwards, forwards, up , down and what have you - and then said "OK take the controls. You're flying now."
So I took the controls and flew.
My kids said "Whaaat??!!"
One of them said "Wasn't the pilot worried that you were practically eighty?"
But I said I didn't think so because he'd already told me he was 75.
Anyhow, gliding was wonderful. I was 10 when the second world war started so all through my childhood we were all very conscious of the planes, the spitfires and others on our side and the bombers on the German side, and the pilots. Later, I married the girls' father - obviously - and he was still in the Royal Air Force. He'd served in the RAF in the war, fighting the Nazis in North Africa and up through Italy. I've flown lots of times as an adult though I never flew as a child - in those days you didn't fly anywhere on holiday. But I think one of the best experiences of flying was being in the little glider and taking the controls for a while. I may do it again next summer if I think of it.
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