Rambling so
apologies
Two Funerals.
Half term.
I love a leisurely
start to the day.
Curling stretching in my nest of a bed. Listening to the
headlines at 6 a.m. and smugly relishing the fact that I don’t have to jump on
that early morning treadmill of chores, making lunch, rousing son, feeding cat
etc etc ... padding downstairs to make tea and taking it back to bed.
I have done all of
the above , but this morning I have to write some memories of my Aunt who died
last week for the Minister who will be officiating at her funeral.
He doesn't know her, in fact has never met her or any member of my
family, so I really hope I can somehow précis her 93 years of life into an
acceptably short enough (for him) memoir so that he can compose
something relevant to say in Church.
She was a church
goer. She was a lot of things before her failing health 7 years ago required
her to sell up and move into a residential home.
This place was as
close to Agatha Christie’s Bertrams Hotel as I am ever going to encounter in
real life.
Genteel. Only 16 lady residents, proper dining
room, sherry before Dinner and not a whiff of wee!
She loved it here.
Enjoyed being bathed and talced. Found no indignity in this kind of care. In
fact, saw it as no more out of the ordinary than the things she had done for her
nieces as children, it was now just her turn.
Three years ago, due to failing faculties she
moved to a nursing home. This place reminded me of a large real life (old)dolls
house, where the inmates residents were got up, washed and tidied , dressed,
fed, aired, fed ,washed and put to bed only to start all over again next
morning.
On my last visit,
indeed her last visit , when she appeared peacefully asleep, but was in fact
slipping away due to a combination of old age morphine and recent surgical
assault, one of her carers , a young girl showed me a picture on her phone of
herself and Peg. They were both grinning broadly , the girl hugging Peggy close
to her and I felt eternally grateful
that she had been well looked after.
In my writing for
the Minister I tried to convey all that Peggy had done for us, the small family
whose father had died all those years ago. How after a days work Aunty Peggy would feed and take care of two
small girls and put them to bed, while
their mother worked a twilight shift in a factory, the only work she could fit
in with home life.
Peggy had no
children, and her beloved husband is dead, so there is no one left to send
sympathy cards to. No one to confirm favourite songs, colours or films. In my
memoir for the Minister, I hope I have conveyed enough of the woman who liked
foreign holidays, designer clothing, jewellery and Hello magazine who also
always put family first.
Last half term, my
daughters and I went to funeral.
The 41 year old
woman in question had been suffering from a brain tumour and had very sadly
come to the end of her journey. She had been both daughters dance teacher from
when they were tiny until they went to university. None of us had seen her for
almost 10 years, but when the news came, we all felt we had to go to her
funeral
She had been an
enormous part of our family's life for so many years. First as a graceful, long
limbed teen who helped with the younger children at the dance school. Then as a
teacher, when she took over the running of the School.
Very calm and patient she generated an aura
when she danced. Her movements were so beautiful, so measured. My daughters
adored her; they hung on her every word as small children and came to admire
her as they grew up. They spent all of their Saturdays with her plus Monday
evenings and also helped with Summer Schools and Concerts , for more than 18 years.
I look back on those times, when the most
serious thing we ever did was prepare for a ballet exam, as some of the most
precious in our family life.
Her funeral was
unusual. She never married and lived with her widowed mother, who seemed to be
her closest friend. Her dogs, huge great dignified St Bernards, led the coffin
in. A coffin covered in pictures of a meadow. Many dogs were in the Church and
at quiet times in the service all I could hear was the panting of those
comforting animals.
Many past pupils attended
the service, little girls, now grown , with degrees in Fine Art, Chemistry,
English , Photography, Philosophy..you name it they went on to study it.
But
they still valued that time when as small children they all came together and
danced
The Darling Son
has been playing a game called Diabolo 3. I don’t know if you have heard of it,
I certainly wouldn't have if I didn't live with 22 year old
gamer.
It is apparently
enormously popular. I can’t give you any stats relating to this game cos I can’t
really be arsed to look em up, just take my word for it, it is a huge worldwide
online role playing game.
Darling son has
periodically been calling me up to his room to, look at his character, marvel
at his progress and skills etc etc, (see previous post ‘ holding the wire’ )
and the other day, he showed me what happens if you choose to play in Hardcore
Mode. In this mode your carefully created character is 'mortal' in the sense
that, it is not possible to have any
save points in the game and when it dies it dies!! All you have won or gained
with said character in this mode will disappear. You will never be
able to play using it again and it will appear in your list of characters as a
grey robed figure. Apparently in this mode, the game is better, more rewarding,
more edgy, more real!!!
There is a warning before you hit the button
to play in Hardcore Mode that advises that once a hardcore character dies it
can never be played again. Customer Service cannot revive any Character lost
when using this mode ...(this tells me they have had calls).
Your Character is Permanently
Deleted!
We laughed about
this, but my son did say that he could imagine that after spending many
hundreds of hours (yes horrified reader hundreds...), he could imagine the rage
and frustration that would erupt if your hardcore character died, especially if
it was due to an internet connection problem outside of your control.
It got me
thinking...
