64. Here comes a chopper to chop off your head…
As soon as I could face it, I trawled the Parkinson’s forums (fora? Like dominum? Where is that Latin of yesteryear?). Anyway, trawling. Looking for teachers who had been diagnosed with the Nonsense and were still working. Showing me that it would be possible: that my work – and the associated payslip – were not about to disappear like an unsaved worksheet on the buggered hard-drive of doom.
Indulge me. It’s been a long week; I’m all digressy this morning.
63. When I wake up in the morning, love…
Exeter, 1976. DearHeart and I, pens poised to record insights into the poetry of Yeats. Dr Henderson takes off his spectacles and gives us all a Paddington-Bear long-hard-stare.
“I’m going to read you one of Yeats’s greatest poems, Lapis Lazuli. Before I start, can I remind you that the word gay did not, in 1938, have the meaning that it has today. So when I tell you that ‘Hamlet and Lear are gay’, I expect you to react appropriately. Thank you.”
62. But the days grow short…
The phone rings. Even from Sorrento, Ma and Pa still need to keep check on us in case we do anything risky, like crossing the road or forgetting to breathe. Conversation is made more interesting by a combination of poor line and poor ears.
“There’s something wrong with the internet here,” she shouts. “We couldn’t get this week’s Jelly Chronicles.”
“I haven’t done one!” I yell back. “I’ve done nothing but work.”
I can hear Ma telling Pa that my computer doesn’t work. I take a deep breath and have another go. “I said ‘I’ve done nothing but work’. It’s been really busy. Can you hear me, mother?” Click.
61. I love work: I could watch it for hours…
‘Twas on a Friday morning, Ocado came to call
Bringing all our shopping was a cheery chap called Paul.
We gave him lots of plastic bags; we’d built up quite a heap
But he stuffed them up the chimney and we had to call the …. Continue reading →
60. Give me just a little more time…
“It’s strange,” says DearHeart, as we try to attach the door, “but I keep thinking that you’ve retired.” DearHeart herself took an early retirement before moving to a bungalow. I guess her subconscious now links a lack of stairs with a general liberation from the corporate ladder.
I call Pa to tell him that we’re a nut short of a greenhouse, then we saunter round to raid his tool box. On the way, I realise that her subconscious must have Friended mine because I also can’t get my head around the prospect of having to stop playing houses in order to go and teach.
59. Present mirth hath present laughter…
“So, any interesting presents?” I pass on the Quality Street and add my sweet wrapper to the pile in the middle of the staffroom table. Destination – the sticking area for next year’s Reception Class, the last of this year’s children having finally, finally left the building for the summer.
Mrs Berry shakes her head as she sends the chocolates on their way. “Vouchers. And some really nice letters. Nothing useless at all. ”
“I once got last year’s diary, partially written in,” says Mrs Acorn. “And some used British Airways complimentary earplugs.”
“I was once given a packet of condoms,” muses Mrs Berry. “But at least they weren’t used.”
“I once got given a chocolate thong,” pipes up Mr Headteacher. A shiver of horror passes around the table.
“I really wish you hadn’t shared that,” I say. “Right, best tackle that classroom.” As I haul myself up, a text comes through on my phone. YoungLochinvar has thoughtfully sent me a photo he’s just taken in Smith’s. Back to School, it says. My soul shrinks a little.
The following day, I set off to buy some holiday odds and ends. I need some summer shoes for traipsing around Rome but Marks are putting out their winter boots already. Any minute now, I expect to hear carol singers.
It can’t be good for us, this rushing towards the future at the expense of the present. Not good for me, anyway. Nowadays, I work best on a very short focus.
There was a time last year when I was almost paralysed with worry about how my Parkinson’s might progress and how miserable life would become. It takes very little imagination to conjure up a pretty depressing future.
But I’ve had brilliant support from family and friends including my own ActorLaddie. And I’ve talked with people who are living positively with Parkinson’s and MS, amongst other conditions. And it’s helped me to realise that right now, right here, I am very lucky – my life is good and to be enjoyed. I am very content, despite the start of the football season.
DearHeart is currently learning about Mindfulness and has been sharing with me her discoveries. Her recommended book (here) arrived in today’s post so you can expect all future blogs to be vastly serene. And, as she reminds me, we do only have the present. I’m trying really hard to be grateful for that present. Even if it is a chocolate thong.
58. The glory that was Rome was of another day …
Five more sleeps until the wonders of North London supplant those of the Eternal City. I’m already itching to get back and play with my new bungalow but it has to be admitted that there’s some pretty darn impressive stuff here – and that’s not just the number 8 tram.
57. Clang, clang, clang went the bell…
Crammed into the sidecar attached to Pa’s motorbike, Ma, LittleBro, the budgie and I followed the removal van across the City, not dilly-dallying on the way. We were moving from our tiny first floor flat to a house in the suburbs of North London. It would be just like in my favourite Janet and John books, with a real garden and an upstairs. All very exciting and not in the least scary.
56. And the living is easy…
I inherited my ‘toy’ gene from Pa.
We like to think of ourselves as Renaissance people, do Pa and I, with wide-ranging interests which broaden our minds and engage us in the stuff of life. It would be perverse to describe us as fickle, easily bored and attracted by novelty. I would refute such an accusation heartily; indeed, I will put that in writing as soon as I retrieve my calligraphy set from behind the knitting machine. If I can just get past the allotment magazines … and the yoga mat … and the concertina…
55. Veni, vidi….
I am on the upper bunk, watching the sunrise over Tuscany
You are sleeping below, swaying with the train
It is cutting through wheat-fields, the farmers already working
We are hurtling towards Rome.
“You are early risers, O Farmers,” I say
They are too far away to hear.
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