Tripping Hither, Tripping Thither

'Where shall we take your mum this year?’ asks Tom. After the success of our Isle of Skye trip last year, we warm to our theme and pick another island but one - given Ma’s recent trials and tribulations - a bit closer to home and which comes with added ferry trips, namely the Isle of Wight. Ma has to put up with lots of ‘do you remember whens’ on the way out as Tom and I fondly reminisce about our sailing days in the Solent (see Sailing Kind, but once we’ve disembarked it’s only a short drive to our holiday accommodation which comes - rather splendidly - with its own private beach and occasional flashes of red squirrels in the garden.

Our holiday home is very comfortable and decorated in a slightly chintzy style which - as Tom points out - would have delighted his mum. It’s ‘Peak Rita’ but we’ve chosen it because there’s a large downstairs bedroom with an ensuite and walk-in shower which is perfect for Ma. We don’t discover the hidden drawback until the next morning when I take a cup of tea into Ma and learn that she barely made it into her ginormous and very high bed. The combination of a bad accident (see A Winter’s Tale) and her poor back makes it very hard for her to gain any kind of purchase to lever herself up. I ponder different solutions but Ma - with her usual grit and determination - decides she can manage.

Accessibility - or the lack of - becomes a bit of a theme during our visit (poorly positioned disabled bays, hard-to-reach loos) but three cheers to Osborne House where we can borrow a wheelchair and Ma can see most of the house. I’m by no means a monarchist but I’m rather seduced by Victoria and Albert’s seaside retreat which is unexpectedly charming. I especially like the ‘his and hers desks’ set before a saucy painting of frolicking bare-naked ladies, and the rows of little beds in the upstairs nursery (the consequences of all that frolicking).

After a really lovely stay on the Isle of Wight. Tom and I round off our trip to the southeast with a foray up to London where Tom’s booked tickets at the ENO to see ‘Iolanthe’. Gilbert and Sullivan ‘comic’ operettas are absolutely not my thing, but Tom adores them and I’m always happy to hear live music. The London Coliseum is gloriously over the top as is the English National Opera’s production which opens with a psychedelic riot of colour and yet more frolicking and wire-flying as rings of fairies beseech their queen to bring Iolanthe back from exile. It’s all very silly but it’s a great evening, although struggling up to London and back in the teeth of Storm Babet is a right pain.

We make a final stop on our homeward bound journey to have a pub lunch with Tom’s son and our daughter-in-law and three Sussex grandchildren. My daughter-in-law tells me that this is Tom Hardy’s local, but we’re having such a nice time that I forget to look out for him. So, no sighting of Tom Hardy to report, alas, but I have, at least, seen red squirrels for the first time since I was a very little girl and that’s good enough for me!

Not Tom Hardy

Happy Endings, New Beginnings

Blended families come with conflicting loyalties and at Christmas time nearly everyone has somewhere else they feel they ought to be. Throw partners into the equation and it gets even more complicated. Since Tom and I aren’t especially hung up about Christmas we’re happy to let our children go with the strongest flow, but I have to say it was a great delight to have the girls and their partners staying with us this year. When such moments are few and far between they become very precious. My stepsons weren’t far from our thoughts either, not least because we had the very happy news on Christmas Day that my elder stepson and his girlfriend had become engaged. Congratulations Dan and Gill, here’s wishing you every happiness together. Tom and I end a year that has seen the fruition of many years work, both of us crossing important thresholds within weeks of each other. I’m really looking forwards to seeing Turning the Tide published next year and it’s been so satisfying, after al

Reconnecting

I hadn't realised it until now , but it’s probably no coincidence that my last post was about our trip to Norwich, a city I’ve loved since studying at UEA. I wrote, then, that coming home was a hard landing, a feeling that took me completely by surprise as it’s been such a privilege to live in this beautiful, remote spot on the very edge of the west Wales coast. A trip to Skye at the end of October - Tom’s choice - with Ma, was a truly lovely holiday. The weather was kind, the colours of those breathtaking seascapes will stay with me, as will all the happy memories we made that week. And, because our small cottage had been so beautifully modernised and worked so well for the three of us, it was easy to imagine what it might be like to live somewhere different. If travel doesn’t broaden the mind, it certainly brings a new perspective. By the end of the year, Tom and I had decided that it was time for a change, time to move closer to a town (we are neither of us, as they say, getting

Fly Free, Dottie Do

‘How many days to my birthday?’ Ma asks. I do a quick calculation. ‘Eighteen,’ I reply. ‘Eighteen days until your ninetieth birthday.’ Ma pulls a face and shakes her head. Every sentence is hard work for her now, when each breath is a struggle. ‘You’ll have to write a book about this, you know,’ she says, with one of her quick, mischievous smiles. ‘“Carry On Dying”. Make ‘em laugh, make ‘em cry.’ The smile fades. ‘Who knew,’ she adds wearily, ‘that dying would be such a palaver?’ It’s only eleven days since Ma was diagnosed with a high-grade, aggressive lymphoma, four days since she was overwhelmed with pain and breathing difficulties and was admitted as an emergency to hospital. Until a few weeks ago, she lived completely independently; shopping, cooking, cleaning and tending her much-loved garden. The deterioration in her health is shockingly rapid. The eight days preceding her death are a living hell, a constant battle with the ward staff to get Ma the pain relief she’s been presc

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