My Bonfire Night was a curious mixture, but not easily forgotten.
My Mum died a few months ago, just after her 90th birthday. The vicar who performed the funeral ceremony, suggested that I might like to attend the All Souls-Tide service she carries out each year at her church, St Chad's.
Patsy123 and I decided it seemed the right thing to do. and so found ourselves sitting at the back of a surprisingly full church, joining in the hymns, when we knew them from years of school assemblies, (Amazing Grace; Morning has broken; The Lord's my shepherd; Guide me O thou great redeemer) and the call-and-response elements of the service.
The climax of the service was the Reading of the Names. The Rector and the Vicar took turns in reading out the names of those whose funerals they'd officiated at in the parish. We were invited, on hearing the name we knew, to go forward and light a candle and place it on a tray before the altar. When Mum's name was read out, I found it really quite moving to light my candle, with Patsy123 close behind me.
I'm not religious. Indeed, I'm mostly anti-religious, but I found the service quite affecting. Not, I have to say, convincing in the religious sense, but the taking part in a ritual, a ceremony, fulfilled a need for something to mark Mum's passing; something in addition to her funeral.
I came away with that sense I always have after church services. That feeling that I envy the congregation their certainty of faith. I sit in churches and wait for my Damascene conversion, but of course it doesn't happen, and I don't honestly expect it to. It's just that, in my rationalist heart, there's a romantic longing for a bit of superstitious inexplicableness.
My romantic leanings were amply satisfied after the service at St Chad's, when we walked back along to Saltwell Park and it's bonfire and firework display. The bonfire was a decent size and Patsy123's frantic search for a flashing blue glow-in-the-dark light-sabre was thankfully cut short by the start of the fireworks.
We Ooohed and we Aaaahed, following the unwritten form of this ceremony, and then wandered happily home to big bowls of spicy lentil soup, reflecting as we went that we must be the only country in the world that has a night of fireworks that doesn't really celebrate anything. Guy Fawkes? Who cares? Gunpowder Plot? Wot Gunpowder Plot? Why, it's just Bonna Neet, man!
Showing posts with label Mum. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mum. Show all posts
Monday, 6 November 2006
Tuesday, 7 September 2004
Return from Planet Mum
Mum was not quite herself today. A little on the strange side.
"They're telling me I have to marry the King of Spain's son, now," she said.
"Why might that be, Mum?"
"Oh, any excuse to give me my final discharge from this place!"
I was under the impression that her "final discharge" from the nursing home was the thing most dear to her heart, but evidently not at the expense of marrying someone, not even the King of Spain's son.
I thought I'd tell her that Patsy123 had returned from China. "You remember, she came to see you?" She gave me a fixed stare then looked at her watch and said,"Twenty-five past five."
"Are Stone and Abie still living with you?" she suddenly asked.
"There's no-one living with me," I said. "And who are Stone and Abie, anyway?"
"Stone's your half-brother and Abie's a black man."
"I didn't know I had a half-brother. Stone's a funny name."
She smiled her most secretive and engaging smile and said nothing.
Until...
"I thought you were driving your wife Pamela to school today?"
Before I could say again that I'm no longer married (and never to Pamela), she said,"Very active imagination."
"You have, don't you?" I said.
"Not me! The person who keeps telling me these stories!!"
"They're telling me I have to marry the King of Spain's son, now," she said.
"Why might that be, Mum?"
"Oh, any excuse to give me my final discharge from this place!"
I was under the impression that her "final discharge" from the nursing home was the thing most dear to her heart, but evidently not at the expense of marrying someone, not even the King of Spain's son.
I thought I'd tell her that Patsy123 had returned from China. "You remember, she came to see you?" She gave me a fixed stare then looked at her watch and said,"Twenty-five past five."
"Are Stone and Abie still living with you?" she suddenly asked.
"There's no-one living with me," I said. "And who are Stone and Abie, anyway?"
"Stone's your half-brother and Abie's a black man."
"I didn't know I had a half-brother. Stone's a funny name."
She smiled her most secretive and engaging smile and said nothing.
Until...
"I thought you were driving your wife Pamela to school today?"
Before I could say again that I'm no longer married (and never to Pamela), she said,"Very active imagination."
"You have, don't you?" I said.
"Not me! The person who keeps telling me these stories!!"
Saturday, 31 July 2004
My momma done say
On this blue moon day, my horoscope said:
Like-minded eccentrics, eh? Nothing for it but to visit my dear old mum. Actually, as it's her 88th birthday, I could hardly do less.
And did we travel to the edges of the universe? Not quite. I still got it in the neck. Why, she wanted to know, did I give away my wife's second baby to my Big Auntie? All Big Auntie does is put it out in the garden first thing in the morning.
After a while, I made my excuses and left.
Your key planet, Uranus, and his mental friend, Mercury, are singing your favorite tune today as they harmoniously snap, crackle and pop with eclectic ideas and stimulating thoughts. You feel alive, although not necessarily in your body. You are in your head. It's a thinking day and you'd do well to seek out other like-minded eccentrics with whom you can travel to the edges of the universe.
Like-minded eccentrics, eh? Nothing for it but to visit my dear old mum. Actually, as it's her 88th birthday, I could hardly do less.
And did we travel to the edges of the universe? Not quite. I still got it in the neck. Why, she wanted to know, did I give away my wife's second baby to my Big Auntie? All Big Auntie does is put it out in the garden first thing in the morning.
After a while, I made my excuses and left.
Wednesday, 7 July 2004
More Tales of Mum
As I entered the nursing home, the Emaciated Lady drew me to one side conspiratorially, and told me, sotto voce, that "In the lounge there's a woman who's wearing two of my socks."
I thanked her and thus forewarned, went in to see my old mum.
She wasn't saying much today, other than to ask after my wife and baby. I reminded her that I'm actually now a singleton, despite the attachment of Patsy123, but all she could say was, "Well, why did you let me think otherwise?"
There's no real answer to that.
She did express real concern when I had to deny having a fleet of cars.
"What's the good of having one and a half million if you haven't got yourself a fleet of cars yet?"
Eventually, I made my excuses and left.
I thanked her and thus forewarned, went in to see my old mum.
She wasn't saying much today, other than to ask after my wife and baby. I reminded her that I'm actually now a singleton, despite the attachment of Patsy123, but all she could say was, "Well, why did you let me think otherwise?"
There's no real answer to that.
She did express real concern when I had to deny having a fleet of cars.
"What's the good of having one and a half million if you haven't got yourself a fleet of cars yet?"
Eventually, I made my excuses and left.
Overweening Ambition
George & the Dragon (oil on canvas, 16 x 20 ins)
Things have gone well today. The new 3 x 4 painting has moved along remarkably well, thanks in part to a return to Spectragel, the fast-drying impasto additive. Inevitably, of course, the figure - undoubtedly the most successful part of the painting so far - has turned out to be too small. I guess I'll just have to bite the bullet, wipe her out and redo her. Bollocks.
Mo came round today with her digital camera and took a photograph of what will probably be my image on the publicity. I'm happy enough with it. That's it above.
Tomorrow (Wednesday) is shaping up to be a total loss as far as painting is concerned. I managed to get an appointment with a doctor of uncertain pedigree at 9.10 tomorrow morning.
That'll be a laugh. Me getting up in time to make an appointment at 9.10!
Then I simply gotta see my mum. She'll be running out of ciggies.
And to round the day off, a much-postponed visit to the dentist for at least two fillings. Oh joy.
I can see I'm unlikely to get all the paintings done I'd hoped to, unless I really knock myself out. Ambition will be the death of me yet.
Sunday, 20 June 2004
Sand in my shoes....
The Long Sands, Tynemouth (Oil on canvas, 28 x 36 ins)
I'm off to Tynemouth for the rest of the day. With any luck the weather will hold up and Patsy123 and I can go for a walk along Tynemouth's beautiful Long Sands and, as my mum would have it, "get the smell blown off us."
See you later.
Monday, 14 June 2004
Tales of Mum
It's always interesting visiting my old mum. I get to catch up on all the things I've been doing of which I'd otherwise be totally unaware.
The £1m she told me about last time has had another half million added to it. This is compensation for my having to bear the indignity of being wrapped in chains and having all my clothes torn each time I go to visit her. Luckily, all of this money is in a bank and two signatures are required to get at it - hers and mine. One benefit of this is that Tony Blair has abandoned his attempt to marry my mum, because he cannot get his hands on the loot, and has married someone else.
I guess I should also find myself in the Births, Deaths and Marriages column, because I'm now married with a baby. This came as something of a surprise to me. It will come as an even greater surprise to Patsy123, whose baby it is, and who is now going by the name of Lulu.
It was my mum's turn to be surprised to learn how improbable this is, due to our both being 57. She thought we were only 40.
As I was leaving, one of the nurses asked, "Did you see the football?"
I shook my head.
"Worra load of rubbish!" she said. "They couldn't play football in my front passage!!"
She said nothing of any forthcoming fixtures in her back passage, and I didn't ask.
The £1m she told me about last time has had another half million added to it. This is compensation for my having to bear the indignity of being wrapped in chains and having all my clothes torn each time I go to visit her. Luckily, all of this money is in a bank and two signatures are required to get at it - hers and mine. One benefit of this is that Tony Blair has abandoned his attempt to marry my mum, because he cannot get his hands on the loot, and has married someone else.
I guess I should also find myself in the Births, Deaths and Marriages column, because I'm now married with a baby. This came as something of a surprise to me. It will come as an even greater surprise to Patsy123, whose baby it is, and who is now going by the name of Lulu.
It was my mum's turn to be surprised to learn how improbable this is, due to our both being 57. She thought we were only 40.
As I was leaving, one of the nurses asked, "Did you see the football?"
I shook my head.
"Worra load of rubbish!" she said. "They couldn't play football in my front passage!!"
She said nothing of any forthcoming fixtures in her back passage, and I didn't ask.
Monday, 24 May 2004
Nearing the Event Horizon
Constant hammering I can deal with. Constant drilling, I can take. Even constant hammering and drilling would be bearable. But what I found I wasn't up to was sporadic outbursts of one or more of these, accompanied by the Magic 105.4 undercurrent. It was the sudden stopping. The sudden starting. The Horror....
If I'm in a club or a stadium, I'm happy to have my music loud, but at home I keep it to a relatively low level. Louder than the ex-Mrs Zip would have had it, but reasonable nevertheless. But it occurred to me today that the only way to deal with the Workmen's Cacophony from next door was to put something on the sound system and crank up the volume HIGH.
And lo, it worked. With the help of a lot of volume, Rabih Abou-Khalil, Down to the Bone, and Natacha Atlas successfully drowned out Lucy Smooth's Concerto of Noise.
But what then can you do in an atmosphere of Noise & Counternoise? Certainly not your 2003/2004 accounts, I soon discovered, or your mum's (no doubt doomed to failure) claim for Pension Credit.
Sitting with a cup of tea, I tried to get some constructive thoughts going in my head.
Not just any tea, of course, but Themis Koslanda Ceylon Black Tea (Organic & Fairtrade) with Guarana and Acerola. Ceylon tea is "traditionally used to boost mental alertness." The Amazon Indians consume Guarana "for its invigorating properties." Acerola, "to help give you an extra zing." I bought it in a short-dated stock sale at a health food store in Newcastle, along with some (non-apricot) yoghurt and a bag of green lentils.
Now fortified with mental alertness, my properties invigorated and with an indefinable extra zing, I climbed onto one of my mental roundabouts, brought on by considering the work of Mary Lloyd Jones.
It's a constant source of puzzlement for me: how to bring to the urban subject matter of my own work, the concerns of people like Mary Lloyd Jones and Derek Hyatt. Somewhere in here there's a crossover into the literary work of Peter Ackroyd and Iain Sinclair, but I haven't found it yet.
I went over my badly-conceived Mind Map showing connections between facades, plumbing, maps, doors & keys, books, masks, clocks, Mr Punch, magicians, fairgrounds, existentialism, decay and rust. And you know what? I was none the wiser.
By the end of the day, I felt like I was slowly circling a black hole of a headache.
Only a tin of mulligatawny soup has saved me from immeasurable personal pain.
If I'm in a club or a stadium, I'm happy to have my music loud, but at home I keep it to a relatively low level. Louder than the ex-Mrs Zip would have had it, but reasonable nevertheless. But it occurred to me today that the only way to deal with the Workmen's Cacophony from next door was to put something on the sound system and crank up the volume HIGH.
And lo, it worked. With the help of a lot of volume, Rabih Abou-Khalil, Down to the Bone, and Natacha Atlas successfully drowned out Lucy Smooth's Concerto of Noise.
But what then can you do in an atmosphere of Noise & Counternoise? Certainly not your 2003/2004 accounts, I soon discovered, or your mum's (no doubt doomed to failure) claim for Pension Credit.
Sitting with a cup of tea, I tried to get some constructive thoughts going in my head.
Not just any tea, of course, but Themis Koslanda Ceylon Black Tea (Organic & Fairtrade) with Guarana and Acerola. Ceylon tea is "traditionally used to boost mental alertness." The Amazon Indians consume Guarana "for its invigorating properties." Acerola, "to help give you an extra zing." I bought it in a short-dated stock sale at a health food store in Newcastle, along with some (non-apricot) yoghurt and a bag of green lentils.
Now fortified with mental alertness, my properties invigorated and with an indefinable extra zing, I climbed onto one of my mental roundabouts, brought on by considering the work of Mary Lloyd Jones.
It's a constant source of puzzlement for me: how to bring to the urban subject matter of my own work, the concerns of people like Mary Lloyd Jones and Derek Hyatt. Somewhere in here there's a crossover into the literary work of Peter Ackroyd and Iain Sinclair, but I haven't found it yet.
I went over my badly-conceived Mind Map showing connections between facades, plumbing, maps, doors & keys, books, masks, clocks, Mr Punch, magicians, fairgrounds, existentialism, decay and rust. And you know what? I was none the wiser.
By the end of the day, I felt like I was slowly circling a black hole of a headache.
Only a tin of mulligatawny soup has saved me from immeasurable personal pain.
Wednesday, 12 May 2004
Don't jerk me off!
Aaaargh! Just got back from collecting my mum's pension at the Post Office. I suppose I should be grateful for the continued existence of a Post Office hereabouts, but this one always pisses me off. They started out as newsagents, and until they shrugged their shoulders in a "Not my problem" kind of way when I complained they hadn't delivered The Observer, I gave them my business.
Then they started to stock groceries; bread, soup, microwaveable pasta, dog food, that kind of thing. This seemed totally unnecessary in view of the close proximity of a KwikSave which stays open until 8 o'clock at night. It just looked like greed and a wilful desire to drive the few remaining little shops out of business.
Then they took over the Post Office business. Rampant commercialism.
But none of this prepared me for today's horror. And this time it wasn't even of their doing. They simply provided the theatre for the appearance of....
...a packet of dog food called JERKY'S.
So what, you may ask? (And I wish you would.) At first, I thought nothing of it. But then a creeping doubt came over me, and while the queue stood still waiting for a dear old soul at the counter to finish the tale of her husband's dentures, I reached out and picked up a packet of JERKY'S.
And of course, they actually bore the brand name Pointer. They were actually Pointer's JERKY'S with game. Next to them were some Pointer's DOGSTICKS with chicken.
My blood froze.
You see where I'm going with this? This may well be the first example of a commercial product on which the superfluous apostrophe appears in the name. Obviously they should be Pointer's JERKIES!
Western Civilisation continues its collapse. We each begin to talk in our own individual language. Babel is upon us.
Don't tell me it doesn't matter. Don't tell me I'm aping Lynne Truss. Not so. It does matter. If they're called JERKY'S, I'm entitled to ask, "JERKY'S what?" And there isn't an answer.
By god, it feels good to get that off my chest. Off to the Old Farts' Club now, for a pink gin.
Then they started to stock groceries; bread, soup, microwaveable pasta, dog food, that kind of thing. This seemed totally unnecessary in view of the close proximity of a KwikSave which stays open until 8 o'clock at night. It just looked like greed and a wilful desire to drive the few remaining little shops out of business.
Then they took over the Post Office business. Rampant commercialism.
But none of this prepared me for today's horror. And this time it wasn't even of their doing. They simply provided the theatre for the appearance of....
...a packet of dog food called JERKY'S.
So what, you may ask? (And I wish you would.) At first, I thought nothing of it. But then a creeping doubt came over me, and while the queue stood still waiting for a dear old soul at the counter to finish the tale of her husband's dentures, I reached out and picked up a packet of JERKY'S.
And of course, they actually bore the brand name Pointer. They were actually Pointer's JERKY'S with game. Next to them were some Pointer's DOGSTICKS with chicken.
My blood froze.
You see where I'm going with this? This may well be the first example of a commercial product on which the superfluous apostrophe appears in the name. Obviously they should be Pointer's JERKIES!
Western Civilisation continues its collapse. We each begin to talk in our own individual language. Babel is upon us.
Don't tell me it doesn't matter. Don't tell me I'm aping Lynne Truss. Not so. It does matter. If they're called JERKY'S, I'm entitled to ask, "JERKY'S what?" And there isn't an answer.
By god, it feels good to get that off my chest. Off to the Old Farts' Club now, for a pink gin.
Wednesday, 5 May 2004
Million Dollar Brain
I rounded out my interesting day with a visit to my dear old mum, god bless her. Turns out she's won a million pounds (or maybe it was a million dollars), which is nice. Trouble is, that Tony Blair wants to marry her to get his hands on the loot. I told her she should tell him no, and we'll put the money in the bank for safekeeping.
I'm beginning to wonder if, like the man in Chris Priest's excellent novel, The Prestige,I haven't become two of me. Somehow, even as I wrote last night's blog, I was delivering to my mum an absolutely delicious cream eclair. And why the hell didn't I have one with me tonight? Incidentally, if you haven't yet read The Prestige, I urge you to do so as soon as humanly possible. You're in for a treat.
On the bus home, I peered over someone's shoulder to catch a glimpse of a headline in The Tmes. "I keep a serial killer's brain in my cellar," it read. Why on earth didn't I think of that? I've got a cellar. With a bit of rearranging of the paints and general junk, I'm sure I could find a flat spot for a serial killer's brain. Maybe it would give me a new hobby when I grow tired of painting and blogging.
I'm beginning to wonder if, like the man in Chris Priest's excellent novel, The Prestige,I haven't become two of me. Somehow, even as I wrote last night's blog, I was delivering to my mum an absolutely delicious cream eclair. And why the hell didn't I have one with me tonight? Incidentally, if you haven't yet read The Prestige, I urge you to do so as soon as humanly possible. You're in for a treat.
On the bus home, I peered over someone's shoulder to catch a glimpse of a headline in The Tmes. "I keep a serial killer's brain in my cellar," it read. Why on earth didn't I think of that? I've got a cellar. With a bit of rearranging of the paints and general junk, I'm sure I could find a flat spot for a serial killer's brain. Maybe it would give me a new hobby when I grow tired of painting and blogging.
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