A 100 years from now?

Last week I went to Manchester for the day to see my son, Daniel. I was early so walked slowly towards our meeting place, just past The Arndale Centre. Some call it The Triangle, which is about right, given the shape of the area. It was a warm and sunny day - one of the few that I've spent in Manchester when it hasn't rained.



Looking round the packed area, I could not prevent the morbid reflections entering my head. My first thought was - what if there's a bomb? The area is a prime target for so-called Islamic State. Fighting to rid my mind of these possible horrors, I looked around some more. Selfridges, Harvey Nicholls and a huge Next are unmissable - dominating the area. It's a Wednesday lunchtime in summer and yet there are plenty of customers exiting these stores with huge carrier bags. There's money somewhere -  for some. Either that or there's debt. It struck me - what did the British do before shopping? Shops crammed with stuff that many people want but which none of us really need.



Of course most people who were seated in the area, whether alone or with others, were looking at their phones.

Also in the area were plenty of eateries: Sinclair's Oyster Bar, Zizzi, Banyon bar and kitchen, Wahaco, Burrito Bar, Wagamama, Vapiano, Pizza Express, Chiquito, Harvester, Tampopo - Fresh Eastern cooking. The range is dazzling and makes for so much variety. As a student at Manchester University in the 1980s, the choice in eating out was much more limited, which didn't really bother me personally, as I wouldn't have been able to afford it. That said, in those days students were privileged compared to students now, as we had all our tuition fees paid by the Local Authority and I also received a full grant each term as my parents were not well off.



Apart from the Corn Exchange building and an old church down a little side street there was nothing to suggest that the people of a century ago would have walked here. Horses and carriages, some cars now too, long black clothing for women and hats for everyone. Also, a 100 years ago,  raging in France was the Battle of the Somme, in which on a bright sunny day, July 1st 1916, thousands of British young men went over the top of their trenches and were immediately gunned down.



I wondered then, what this densely populated area of one of our major cities will be like in another 100 years. Except maybe for the babies and toddlers in the area, the harsh fact is that all of us will be dead.



What would the people be wearing? What will happen to major names, such as Next, Selfridges and Harvey Nicholls? And the places to eat and drink? What would they be like or would the whole area have changed completely? I wasn't able to ponder these thoughts much more, as I spotted my smiling, waving, 25 year old son walking towards me.

So you think you've got friends? Well, think again.

I've always been interested in friendships and until I read an article recently in The Times newspaper, believed myself to be fortunate in having a good many friends. I'm still in touch with one friend from primary school. As for secondary school, a girls grammar, I went away last November for a weekend with three friends form those days. I also see a friend about four times a year who lives locally and was at my grammar school. University, Manchester by the way, provided me with three of the best friends I ever had. We're meeting at the upcoming Bank Holiday and after our meetings, I always experience a lift, an improvement in outlook and a wish to see them again as soon as we can arrange it.

Through my children's schools I met some people with whom I'm still in touch and through many years of work I have maintained contact with several people. Others, who I have met through my job, I have been very pleased not to have to deal with any more at  all.

However, to return to the article, my faith in friendships has taken a bit of a hit. According to the article, half of our friends don't really like us. To prove this, some kind of complicated experiment and a further complicated survey, have been completed. The results are in and only in 53% of cases do the results coincide. So those who thought with absolute certainty that they were close friends with someone, discovered that in 53% of those named close friends, that degree of friendship was considered to be inaccurate. The names of the people in the experiment were not revealed to the participants - wisely.

So then, should we doubt what we thought were rock solid friendships? It certainly has given me pause for thought. Someone who I got to know recently is forever telling me how wonderful it would be to meet up. This has been going on for months. If I make a suggestion, nailing down a day and time when I am available to meet, I receive a message in response along the lines of not being sure, work being erratic, parents might be coming, they might be going away, the decorators are coming in, but not sure when. And on and on it goes. I'm done. I've made three attempts to organise a meeting and it is now down to the other person. I'm not too worried about this. These things happen. I never considered this person a friend, at least not yet, never mind a close friend.

Now, after having read the article, when I see those who I consider to be good or even close friends, I may well scrutinise what they are saying, study their facial expressions and observe their body language. I wonder if they will notice that I'm doing this and if so, will they ask me what on earth I'm doing? That would be awkward. Will I explain that I'm checking on them for real, true friendship? No. I'll probably just deny it, ask them what they're talking about and then try to behave normally.

Perhaps there will be no need to go through all this. And that is because you know in your heart who a true friend is, one who will defend you, even when you're not there to witness it. Don't you?

What must it be like to be Theresa May?

First of all, I'd like to say that I like her and I welcome her appointment as Prime Minister  She has just made a striking statement of bold intent with a strong emphasis on social justice. She spoke of how if you're black, you are treated more harshly by the criminal justice system. She mentioned that if you're a white working class boy, you are much less likely to go to university than anyone else in the country. She relayed how if you are poor you will, on average, die almost a decade before those who are wealthy. 

As Laura Kuensberg, BBC political editor herself said, May's words were more reminiscent of  another political party - The Labour Party, of which I am a member. (Sort yourselves out, comrades!)

The last two and a half weeks have been dramatic in political terms: the EU referendum, the challenge to the Labour Party Leadership, the resignation of David Cameron, the stepping down of Angela Leadsom. the surprise disappearance of Boris Johnson because of the shocking back stabbing by Michael Gove of Boris Johnson. What price loyalty?

So what must it be like to be Theresa May right now? And what must it be like to be her husband, Philip? Theresa first - my question is, how does she feel about it all? I have no doubt that she is fully capable of being Prime Minister, but she must feel a degree of excitement, but perhaps also she is feeling overwhelmed. She has the top job in Britain. Being Home Secretary for six years is impressive on anyone's CV. But the job of  PM has no superior. Has she wanted this job for a while? Was she watching and waiting? When the chance came, did she think she could triumph against Boris Johnson, who, up until very recently, was the favourite to succeed Cameron? How could she have foretold the events of the leadership race? And if Andrea Leadsom had not made her ignorant and insensitive comment about Theresa May not having children and therefore  not having a stake in the future, Theresa's appointment may not have happened.

 The speed of her move from one job to another has also been dramatic. As far as I can see, she is managing it all with calm and good grace. What she is saying to her husband in private may well be very  different.

Just a word about David Cameron, who left office before he was really ready. He was confident that the nation would vote to remain in the EU, but, that people voted to leave, may be a sign of how out of touch Cameron was.

As he left Downing Street, just as Gordon Brown before him, 'nothing in his life became him like the leaving of it.' * We saw both David Cameron and Gordon Brown, with their wives and children, appearing relaxed and possibly a little relieved. But more than anything, they appeared fallible and decidedly human.

*from Macbeth

Tony Blair - a Broken Man?

Tony Blair told the truth. There was no attempt to deceive. 'Please stop saying that I lied.' He asked of his audience and of the nation as he faced reporters today.

Finally, after seven long years, the Chilcot report has been published. It is unforgiving in its criticism of decisions made and actions taken, but it categorically states that Tony Blair, the Prime Minister, the winner of three consecutive election victories for Labour, something no other Labour Prime Minister has ever achieved, did not lie.

I am really pleased that Sir John Chilcot found Blair not to have lied. Ever since the accusation that Blair was lying in order to secure military action against Iraq, I have never believed it. Yes, in my view, the invasion was a mistake, but hindsight is a glorious thing. It saddens me that so many Labour supporters chose to believe that Blair was lying and that they were so quick to sneer and condemn. Why were they so willing to believe he lied? Was it that they were eager to believe he lied because that way further ignominy would rain on Blair's head? I think that was the case. Damn him and damn him again. He was their quarry and they would take him down. An unpleasant trait of human nature if ever there was one.

In May 1997, Tony Blair was elected Prime Minister after eighteen long years of Tory governments. Neil Kinnock nearly did it in 1992, but we had to wait five long years before Blair finally did it for Labour. I was absolutely delighted. He grasped the nettle and changes for the better were effected in health and education. Who can forget Blair's, 'My three main priorities for government are education, education, education?'

It is undeniable that Blair did good work. This must not be forgotten. But sadly, I believe that it will be and that Blair will be remembered for his ill-conceived invasion of Iraq. 'Shock and awe' filled our screens as Iraq was hit in such dramatic and monstrous fashion. Did anyone else feel that this show of military might was just too much and that humility was sadly lacking? Should humility have been a part of it though? Was the aim not just to finish off Saddam Hussein and his torturing sons once and for all? Or should the civilians, who were undoubtedly killed, have been given greater consideration? Of course, history will be the judge of that as it will be the judge of us all, including Tony Blair. As he said, 'I express more regret and sorrow than you can believe.' And, 'There will not be a day in my life when I do not relive and rethink what happened.'

Today, Tony Blair appeared as a broken man. In such nerve shattering circumstances, all Tony Blair's wealth, for which he has been roundly criticised, is of no help at all. From this, money is no saviour. 

What was particularly striking was the fact that Blair was more than generous in the number of questions he allowed, some of which were harsh and probing. Admirably, Blair never faltered. He gave the truth, his truth and that is all any of us can ever do. 




 

Post Referendum Reflections

This last fortnight has seen  the greatest political  upheaval of perhaps the last half century. The referendum dominated politics for weeks before it took place and it was as if there was no other news apart from  the  latest on the shenanigans of the Leave or the Remain side.

But now - what a mess! The Tories are voting in a new leader, a new Prime Minister, in fact and at the moment it looks as if either Theresa May or Andrea Leadsom will be that new Prime Minister. That all seems quite straightforward, especially in comparison to the hideous behaviour of some Tories.

Boris Johnson, ex-mayor of London, bagged himself a safe Tory seat last year. Then he launched his bid to become Prime Minister, which had always been his ambition. When Boris emerged as lead Leave campaigner, some say that he was going against his natural inclination. Up until this point it seems that Boris was wholly for remaining in the EU. In order to become Prime Minister though, he had to unseat Cameron, which he succeeded in doing by fronting the Leave campaign and leading the campaign to victory. And then, in a move straight from Shakespearian drama,  Michael Gove, the good friend of Boris for two decades, raised his dagger and stabbed Boris in the back. All of a sudden, Michael Gove, who had stood with Boris throughout the Leave campaign, had decided that Boris was not good enough to be PM. Naturally, he made a fuss, talking about how hard he had thought abourt his decision to stand, but I am most certain that Gove, despite his public denials, was encouraged by his wife, Sarah Vine, to stand. It pleases me that it seems most unlikely that Michael Gove will be Prime Minister. After all, who could trust such a man?

The Labour Party has considerable problems too. Today, Jeremy Corbyn has turned to social media to plead with Labour Party members to 'Come together.' By that I believe he means to stop the attempt to depose him and have a leadership contest. People say that Jeremy Corbyn cannot win a General Election and that he was too feeble in his support for the Remain campaign. As many as 25 MPs have resigned their posts in the shadow cabinet. In a vote of no confidence there are 170 memebrs against him and just forty for him. Ironically, people, especially young people, are joining the party in droves to support him, in the event of a leadership challenge, which he will more than likely win - again.


Of course, those MPs who say that  they believe Corbyn cannot win an election may have forgotten that Neil Kinnock, Gordon Brown and Ed Miliband did not win an election either. Tony Blair did win - three consecutive elections, as it happens, yet everyone hates him. Such short memories.

And then there are the demonsrations to stay in the EU by people who cannot accept the democratic vote. Yes it was close and yes, I did vote to remain, but the result was clear. That said, it may well be the case that in the end we do not leave, as a referendum is not legally binding. However, imagine the anger. There would be some quite intense demonstrations and protests if Parliament did decide that it was not in the national interest to leave the EU, and in fact we did not leave.

It seems that at this juncture there is much more to come and as yet, there is no fat lady anywhere that is even contemplating bursting into song.

Where are the Leave Campaign? Left Already?

Have they left? Who? The Leave Campaign of course. There was a time, up until last Wednesday in fact, when you couldn't switch on the television without having to gaze at Michael Gove,  Boris Johnson or Priti Patel. But now, they seem to have gone to ground. So where are they? Are they all holed up somewhere, panicking, hyperventilating and saying things like. 'OMG! What have we done? Half the country hates us and thinks we are small-minded idiots. Better get on with it. Hang on though, what did we say we'd do?'

A friend of mine, very politically aware and once a Labour MP before he was kicked out by a Lib Dem over the Iraq war, has actually said that we may never actually leave the EU. He told me that it would take at least 2.25 years for us to cut all ties and that within that time so much may have changed in the EU that another referendum will be activated. Pipe Dream? Maybe, but at the moment I am willing to believe anything that gets us back to where we were on Wednesday.

I honestly thought that Remain would win and even Nigel Farage, on referendum night said that he thought that Remain 'had edged it.' I confess to being surprised, shocked even at thye result and yet I do not believe that the EU is perfect - far from it, especially with the 12 unelected decision makers at the helm and the money that seems to leak away from what some call the 'last gravy train'.

Even the most passionate Remain supporters will accept that the EU is not flawless, but by being a part of it we could, maybe, have influenced decisions.

What the politicians must now turn their attention to are those people who used the opportunity to spit at the government, the Labour Party and the whole of the Westminster elite. They have been fobbed off for too long while their  towns and cities have changed fundamentally. Yes, of course, immigration is a good thing, for all the reasons that have been repeatedly repeated. For some of the indigenous people though, immigration has been too numerous and too swift. It needs managing and a sense of fairness needs to be seen to be applied to all. Places in the North West; Bury, Bolton, Preston. Blackburn - the indigenous population there do not feel that 'immigration is a wonderful thing' - they just feel pushed out and forgotten.

So when you feel pushed around, bullied even, the chance to bite back is irresistible. The Leave vote won out, not because people wanted to leave the EU, but because they wanted to punish those who they felt, have punished them.

As a Labour Party member, I have to confess to being sick of the internal divisions, the self-indulgence of infighting, the vanity of MPs who think that they have a right to form little cliques and to sneer at he leadership. ALL the Labour Party should be should be thinking of those people who rely on them for fairness and justice: the poor, the dispossessed, the asylum seekers, the old, those who want to find a better life, the unemployed, those recently out of prison and those who need a step up. We can't look to the Tories for sympathy. Despite their phrase of 'compassionate conservatism' no one is fooled.

So reach out Labour, as the Four Tops instructed and look after YOUR people.

What is a 'good mother'?

We hear it all the time. 'Oh yes, she is a really good mother'. Listeners nod sagely in agreement, but what I would like to clarify is this - what do we really mean by a good mother?

So, is a good mother a woman who puts her children before everything else? Or is she a woman who has a job, employs a childminder, and heads off to the workplace daily, firm in her view that she will be a better mother if she has a job she enjoys and which giver her a sense of her worth?

Some women have a strong desire to be with their children all the time, often fearing that outside influences will corrupt them in some way. Daily there is baking, painting, craftwork, drawing and on and on. On reaching school age, what does this mother do? Well, she home schools them, of course. I don't like to mention social class or be classist in any way, but sometimes, it is the only way. Now I've excused myself for mentioning social class, it is the case that it is usually middle class women who home school. It's possible they do this because they wish to retain control. I suppose it is also possible that some educated women, usually middle class, feel that they can educate their children better than a school can, where their particular child may get lost in a class of 30+.

Is this the woman who is a good mother? The one who has sacrificed her own life and says things like, 'There's nothing more important than our children.' The middle class though are not the only ones who consider their children their most precious 'possessions' - the working class would also put their children as top priority. But, in my view admirably, the working class just get on with bringing up children, they don't make an art form out of it, and if they tell them to stop 'mithering' and to get out of their way, it does not mean that these parents love them any the less. It also does not mean that they are bad mothers.

What concerns me about some mothers, is that they behave as if they are the ones with all the answers, they have the indisputable rule book. written by themselves and so millennia of childrearing is thus rendered useless.

Some mothers see their children as a reflection on themselves, thus a narcissistic element is present. The attempt at total control though will certainly fail. Good mother or bad mother, whatever is your view, children become independent people and will develop their own views, whatever mummy and daddy say.

So what is a good mother then? I would suggest that a good mother is one who allows her child to feel bored sometimes, who does not give her undivided attention to the child, who makes the child realise that the world does not revolve around him/her, which is as good a lesson as anyone can have. I see many mothers reasoning with their child as to why some action the child has committed is not ideal, even when it involves whacking someone else. Asking the child what it was that made them do that? Were they feeling angry? Why was that? Dear God! Sometimes things are simply wrong and a child should be told so without delving into their current mental state.

Might I add that those who sacrifice their lives for their children may well regret it later. Someone who I know had 3 daughters upon whom she doted. She was a deputy head teacher, gave it up on the birth of child number 1 and decided to bring to the child all she knew. The next 2 were born which only inflamed her wish to be all things to her offspring. When they spoke, often interrupting adult conversation, they were immediately the top priority. What happened to, 'Shush, I'm talking.'

Thirty tears on and the 2 older children are abroad, and nor do they speak to their mother. It is heartbreaking to witness her pain at the loss. The youngest one is still at home, until September. She is a recovering drug addict and funded her habit by prostitution. That is not to say that such tragedy happens in all families where the children rule the roost, but it is a warning.

Jo Cox - Rest Peacefully

For a good while now I have not had much respect for politicians. The expenses scandal, the use of official cars to travel 100 yards, the nest feathering, claims for bathplugs, dog food and duck houses - all most off-putting. There are a few for whom I have some respect: Dennis Skinner, Jeremy Corbyn, Rachel Reeves and Jess Philips. These are all Labour MPs and I am a Labour Party member. Even so, I don't have a deal of time for many of the Labour MPs. As for the Tories, well... I'll explain another day, maybe.

I had never heard of Jo Cox until yesterday, when the news broke of a shooting and stabbing in Batley and Spen. A short while later the news came of her death. A woman aged 41, an MP who had worked for Oxfam, entered war zones and held the hands of women who had been gang raped and thus excluded and ostracised from their communities.

Jo Cox was a woman who didn't just express sorrow and regret as to what was happening in war torn countries; Jo Cox was a woman who actually went to those places with little regard for her own safety. Most of us, the vast majority, in fact, including myself, make sympathetic noises, may even be sufficiently moved as to make  donation to a cause, safely ensconced in our own homes. Joe was different.

A local Batley girl, she was bright enough to gain a place at Cambridge University. Her time there was not the most comfortable, largely because not many people there had an accent like hers. I have personal experience of how an accent can affect those around you, those around you being best described as snobs. My son, a Sheffield lad through and through, was also bright enough to secure a place at a top ranking university - Oxford in his case. Initially, he was asked by fellow students to say the words, bus, path and stuff - and those listening would laugh and marvel at how northern he was. Later, and no longer in awe of their wealth and their 'poshness' he told those who asked to f... off.

Elected in 2015 as a Labour MP for the place in which she grew up, Jo achieved her dream of representing the people she knew and understood so well. It was these people and all disadvantaged people for whom she campaigned. She spoke her mind and was not cowed by the fact that she was relatively young, inexperienced, and spoke with a Yorkshire accent. I imagine that her love of climbing mountains, which she did 'to relax' is evidence of the measure of the woman.

The pictures, so recent, that are in my head are of her striding confidently, dressed in a blue jacket and red trousers. Another image I have stuck in my head from the recent coverage is of her speaking in the House of Commons, putting her point forcibly to those in attendance.

An image of my own creation is of Jo, husband Brendan and her 2 young children living on a houseboat in East London. She's putting them to bed, kissing them goodnight, relishing the feeling all of us experience when you know the children are safe and quiet, and you can enjoy whatever part of the evening remains, albeit it sometimes as little as 10 minutes.

Of course her husband will miss her terribly, but he is a man in his early 40s who can remarry. This is not intended to sound heartless, but in time, he will meet someone else. What I find so heart breaking about Jo's death is that she had to leave the children that she loved.  Those 2 children will never know the ferocity, the protectiveness, the unconditional love a mother gives.

Time will tell what the motive for the murder was, but in many ways it is immaterial - Jo is dead. Perhaps what will come out of it is a gentler, more honest, more sensitive politics. Bt would even that be worth her life?

Such a Sad Day

Today I visited my 90 year old aunt who is now in a care home for the Elderly Mentally Infirm - EMI. The staff were lovely, it has to be said. As I searched the room for my aunt, it was hard to single her out amongst the silver heads sitting in chairs, heads lolling, mouths open, mostly napping.

There she was. I gasped at the change in her in just three days. Three days ago, though she wasn't doing brilliantly, she was better than this. On reaching her, her eyes seemed to be misted. unseeing, dead. I was surprised then, as she lifted her head and said, 'Hello Ruth love.' A lump in my throat, tears pricking my eyes, I had all on to utter, 'Hello Auntie Pat, how are you?'
Her reply broke my heart. 'I don't know where I am.'

Of course, I told her where she was but she couldn't grasp it. I took her for a short walk, out in the fresh air. She asked me if I'd seen her sister, Jean, who had been dead for thirty years. I may have been wrong but I told her that Jean was fine. She liked that. She also asked how Michael was but I had no idea who he was. When she was younger my aunt was very glamorous and attracted a lot of boyfriends. I wondered if Michael was an old boyfriend. I asked her who he was and what he looked like. She said he was in his twenties, tall and dark and was wearing a brown jacket. I told her I would look out for him. She smiled.

After a while she asked if she could lie down. I took her to her room and helped her lie down on the bed. Within seconds her eyes closed. I stayed a while, cried a little, then left. The guilt at leaving her there was overwhelming.

I'll go to see her again in a couple of days. It's no fun for me, but for her? I can only imagine...

He is Found! Relief in Japan as Missing Boy Turns up.

More than six days after his parents abandoned him, albeit temporarily, or so they thought, Yamato Tanooka has been found in an army hut, alive and unhurt. The fact that the hut was unlocked was very lucky as usually the army lock it.

Yamato was taken to hospital suffering from dehydration. While his son was being treated, the father appeared at the entrance to the hospital and tried to explain his actions, emphasising how he had apologised profusely to his son.

The parents were of course right to discipline their son but next time it might be an idea to take his computer off him and stop him playing computer games for a few days, rather than repeating the abandonment method near bear infested forests.

The Last Time - This Could be The Last Time

You won't know that it is the last time, even when it is the last time. The last time could refer to anything. It could be the last time that see you a person. You didn't realise at the time, but you may see someone, talk to them and say goodbye, never for a second believing or even registering the fact that this could be the last time you would ever see that person. 

When was the last time you kissed your child goodnight? When they were a toddler, a five year old, a teenager? Was it last week, last decade? And a friend you're really fond of - when did you last see them or have you already had the last time you'll see them, but you just don't know it yet?

There will be a last time that you visit a certain city, resort, country. There'll be a final plane journey, bus journey, tube journey and car journey. You may, if you think about it at all, know that this is the last time you'll take a particular journey, but the likelihood is that you won't.

When I try to remember the last time I did certain things, sometimes just unimportant things, mostly I have no idea. A student teacher asked me if I could remember the last time that I had used chalk, rather than using a marker pen on a whiteboard. Of course - I had absolutely no idea. Changes take place and you don't register them, but it stands to reason that there was a last time.

I've started thinking about this lately quite a lot, especially in view of my friend's recent death which I wrote about here - A Sudden and Shocking Death. For ages Marlene and I had been saying we should meet. The months went on and we didn't fix anything up. We sent each other birthday cards and Christmas cards. What we didn't do was get round to meeting. We were actually due to meet the day before she died, but then we were prevented. How I wish that we had arranged to meet previously and now, of course, I cannot remember the last time we did meet, nor did I realise that our last meeting would be our last meeting.

I should take this as a warning. For the last few months another friend of mine and I have said that we will meet. It's been over six months now and still we haven't got a date in the diary. What is it that holds us back? Is it the sense that we have loads of time to fit in a meeting? Is it laziness perhaps? Whatever it is, one thing is for sure. Tomorrow I will ring her and offer three dates. Tomorrow will be the day that we arrange to meet - for definite.  

A Heartbreaking Decision

On the news this evening was an item that I found most distressing. It concerned a Japanese family: mum, dad and seven year old boy. According to the news report, the seven year old boy had been misbehaving. He had apparently been throwing stones at cars but, at best, the details are sketchy. It was not reported when or where the child was throwing stones nor whether he actually was or was not throwing stones. 

On discovering that his child had been doing wrong,.the child's father told the child to get out of the car, as a punishment. What the mother thought about this and whether or not she protested, is as yet unknown.

What is known is that the boy did get out of the car and that the parents drove off. They no doubt intended just to frighten the boy as a punishment for the stone throwing, though that has not been confirmed.

The tragedy is that when the boy's parents came back for him, they couldn't find him. The area they were in was very rural, the single road surrounded by vast forests of huge trees. The parents could not find their son. It has been three whole days now since he disappeared. There are hundreds of people out looking for him. One of the most awful aspects of this case is that the forest area is populated by bears.

If the boy is not found I can only imagine what the parents will feel. I just hope that he is found safe and well.

My mum - 93 today

Ninety-three years ago to the day, on May 24 1923, Mary Casson was born in Tinsley, Sheffield. Mary Casson, married name, Mary Brothers, is my mum. She is 93 today.

Over the years I have heard my female friends complain about their mothers - me, I have no cause for complaint. Women fríends relate stories of how their mothers made them feel inadequate, immature and even, at times, unloved.

Not mine. She is the embodiment of kindness  - generous to a fault. She is also selfless, unassuming, sweet-natured and witty She never puts anyone down, but always finds something good to say about everybody.

If all this sounds too good to be true, then there is nothing I can do to change it. She is as described.

Christmas just gone was difficult - she seemed to be unable to control her arms and legs resulting in strange jerky movements. The doctors wanted to keep her in hospital overnight so she stayed, albeit reluctantly. Despite various scans and investigations, nothing was found that was untoward and so the following afternoon my brother and I brought her home. Apart from feeling a little more tired than usual, for a while, since the blip at Christmas, she seems fine.

She tells me that, ' It can't be long now.' Well, she is in advanced old age, but, I would not be in the least surprised if she carried on for a few more years yet. When the time does come, I hope she dies peacefully in her sleep, or, she has someone with her to provide solace at the end of her long life.

Every now and then, she tells me, 'Oh, Ruth, before I forget, there's a hundred pounds in that vase - and in the cupboard where I keep the cereal boxes, there's an empty box with five hundred pounds in it.' Such are the vagaries of old age and, I'm sure, the long term effects of having lived through a war.

I often think to myself how lucky I am to have a mum like her. Today, especially, on her 93rd birthday, I thank my lucky stars that she is my mum and that she has been beside me for so long.

A Shocking and Untimely Death.

A couple of weeks ago, my friend Marlene nipped out of her house to hang out her washing in her postage stamp sized garden. The task was never completed and Marlene never went back into her house alive. Devastatingly Marlene's heart failed and according to the doctor, she would have already been dead before she even hit the ground.

Marlene's youngest son, aged 24  had just popped out to buy some milk and when he came home, after just a ten minute absence, his mum was dead. Imagine the shock, the heartbreak, the loss he must have felt.

It is a commonplace to praise the dead, to say how kind, how loyal, how the deceased would have helped anyone and given away their last penny. But in Marlene's case, it is all absolutely true. She never had much, was living in a small terraced house, which she rented, and was very economical
because she had to be. She used to cut one of my children's hair and she would insist that she wanted no payment.  I would have to throw the ten pound note on the floor as we left or surreptitiously slip the money into her bag when she wasn't looking.

My son Daniel and Marlene's son David are great friends. They have known each other since they were three. David and Marlene have lived on their own with no other family members, for ten years. They were very close. Naturally, David is profoundly affected by the loss of his mum. One consolation is that just like his mum, he is a popular person and just as kind. His many friends have gathered round him and offered to stay the night in his house.  If there is any fairness in this world, good things will surely come David's way. He will miss his mum for the rest of his life but, with time's useful healing properties, the fierce ache he feels now will eventually dull.

Marlene's funeral was very well attended and though this is not an original thought about a person who has died, how I wished she could have seen the outpouring of love and grief from those in attendance.

Always well groomed, always a full face of make up, always a kind word, always a pearl of wisdom. How I will miss her.

Doing in Real Life what we do on Facebook

Yes, I am on Facebook and Twitter and I do enjoy social media, for the most part at least. Sometimes though, as I scroll through the posts, I find myself asking why someone would make public on social media what they had eaten for tea, or post wedding pictures of people you don't know, or something not really worth the effort of posting.

If, in real life, you were to leave the comfort of your sofa and actually walk down the street, accosting people to show or tell them what you had eaten for tea or to show them wedding photos of someone they didn't know, their reaction would be one of confusion and perhaps it would include a bid to walk on by a little faster than is normal. As they were walking away, and you might have to shout this, you could tell them what you plan to eat tomorrow and how you have felt today, including the rudeness of the shopkeeper, bus driver or your boss and how you feel about life in general.

Then you would catch up with them and show them pictures of your beautiful dog, your parents and your aunt Kate. Also you could show them your children as babies, toddlers, teenagers and the rest of their lives. You could show them pictures in your garden of you hanging out washing, talking to your neighbour and doing what everybody else does most days.

You could then stand next to people who are engaged in conversation and give them a thumbs up. to let them know that you approve of their exchange of words. You could then make them really happy by sharing their conversation with other people.

It would work, I think. You would also gain followers. These followers would be a police officer, a psychiatrist and a concerned friend.

Does Having Children Make You Happy?

I've often wondered what the answer to this question is. I have three children  - well they are no longer children. They are, in fact,  31, 29 and 25. Despite their ages, their childhoods seem such a short time ago. And I miss them. I miss my little children. I am also mightily proud of them and enjoy their company. But, I am confused now as to what my role is. It is inappropriate to tell them off in the way I did when they were children. They are adults. They have their own views, which, despite my being their mother, do not always coincide with mine. And why should they? They are their own people and can and do think for themselves. So, I suppose my role now is to be a kind of critical friend. I will tell them what I think if and only if, I believe that what they are thinking of doing is not for their own good.

I worry about them. They are staggered by this and a little annoyed, I sense.   They ask what I worry about and they tell me, when they hear my answers, that I am catastrophizing in my usual over-dramatic way. I cant help it though. My main worry is that they will be out late one night, a bit the worse for wear,  and will be attacked. One of my children lives in London, one in Manchester and the other in Sheffield, where  I live. These are all big cities and the chances of terrorist attacks are greater in densely populated areas. So I worry.

A philosopher once said that you can only be as happy as your unhappiest child. What wisdom! What a fundamental truth. When children are young you can meddle, you can interfere in their lives and you can put things right. When children are grown you cannot have their middle aged mother barging in and telling bosses, friends or whoever to stop doing whatever it is they are doing that is upsetting your 'child.'

A survey showed that once the excitement and euphoria of the birth is over, then there is no difference in the happiness stakes between those who have children and those who remain childfree. Very interesting. This result does not say whether or not those who are childfree are so by choice. Maybe they were included and maybe people become reconciled to their lives without children, even if they had originally wanted them. Those people would be richer, have more time and more than likely, worry free. Or not. Worrying is part and parcel of life whether or not you have children to worry about. Childfree people will no doubt worry about other things.

Family days out, in my experience are not the happiest moments. In fact, I can remember some horrific days out. Cross words, shouting - being sick, getting the 'face on' eating the rubbish on sale at Theme Parks and the like. And a lot of money spent on the misery. The best times are the ones that are unplanned. It's a moment of coming together, laughing at the same thing, an enjoyable conversation, or a moment of understanding.

So, to address the initial question, and I can only speak for myself, I know that if I had not had children, happiness, for me, would be hard to come by.

Horrors of the Office Lunch

If you work from home, go home for lunch, or go to a café each day for lunch, you are one of the fortunate and blessed ones who do not have to withstand the most irritating aspect of working in an office or staffroom and having to put up with people eating their lunch.at their desks.

One of the worst types of lunch takers are in fact those who have nothing at all. That's fine, their choice. BUT. Instead of eating they talk. They talk about why they're not having lunch, what they would have had if they were not so determined to lose about a stone, then they proceed to comment on other people's lunches. This is particularly galling, especially when they take the moral high ground. One non-luncher takes it upon herself to point out the calorific value of what people are eating. It goes something like this. 'You might be surprised to learn that even in a Muller light yogurt there are 99 calories, which, if you think about it, is almost 2 weightwatchers points. If you're on 19 points a day like I am then that leaves only 17 points for the rest of the day. What's that I see Sue? Cake? Well you enjoy it, though you might find you'll feel tired this afternoon as the sugar rush crashes. Salad for you tonight, I'll bet! Oh and is that bread, Phil? Naughty, naughty! Rather too much you've got there if you don't mind my saying. It bloats you, you know and as it's white bread there's not much nutritional value in it. It is tempting though - I should know. When I was pregnant with my first, all I wanted was doorstep like slices of white bread lathered in butter. Do you know,  I'm making myself hungry now just thinking about it. In fact, I might just nip out to the shop and buy a Mars bar, They're much smaller now, you know. And even if I am using up 4 points, it will be worth it.' As she leaves, the relief is palpable.

The quinoa eater is clearly out to impress. This luncher is restrained, worships at the alter of self-denial and tells us how her husband made it for her. Her perfect husband and perfect children are mentioned often. They don't believe in shouting, they discuss matters at pre-arranged family meetings. I couldn't have been happier when someone enquired, albeit tongue in cheek, how Ezra's cello lessons were going, only to discover that he would not be progressing with that instrument after a 'hiccup' at grade 6. A little more digging revealed that he had failed the exam. 'We don't mention the world failure in our home.' Nor, apparently do they mention sugar, ever, at all. 'We have quite simply turned it into an offensive word.'

The yogurt pot scraper is highly irritating. Every little last bit - the spoon scraping on the plastic in a bid to capture every tiny scrap remaining. It is yogurt, not gold dust! I think I'd rather have the dripping tap torture than the yogurt pot scraping torture.

Since we installed a microwave, staff have been bringing all manner of foods for lunch. Perhaps the worst of these is the left over curry eater. The smell lingers easily until the next day. Tuna hangs round too - and is unfortunately eaten by at least two people each lunchtime. Tuna bake, tuna toastie even, as we now have also acquired  a toaster. Nobody has owned up to putting the tuna in the bread then into the toaster as yet, but I strongly suspect someone This person ranted just a little too long to be innocent of the crime.

One very slim and active guy buys chips for lunch - every day. He has his own bottle of vinegar in his filing cabinet. The comments, daily, are almost identical. It seems that anyone eating chips must be commented upon. 'I don't know how you get away with it, You don't know how lucky you are. Having some chips with your vinegar are you? Ooh, they smell lovely! I only have to look at a chip and I put on half a stone.'

Most people bring their lunch in a plastic box. Some use tin foil. Others just use some sort of grease proof paper. The immediate post-lunch activities are also irritating, as well as the declarations people seem to feel obliged to make. 'If that was lunch, I've had it' is one such. Dramatic screwing up of paper, tin foil, whatever it is, is often  followed by a shot at the bin; a shot which, nine times out of ten, misses, and is followed by a groan. The plastic box lunchers seem to spend a disproportionate length of time fitting back the lids, clicking all four corners back into place - a sound almost as irritating as the yogurt pot scraper.  

By far the majority of these people are good, intelligent people who care about education and helping those in our classes to achieve their full potential. They work hard and they also care about their colleagues, showing sensitivity and awareness. Just not at lunchtime.

Sick of stuff - Time for Action

It was last weekend when the realisation slapped me in the face. It was STUFF - and there was far too much of it in my house. The time had come and the clear out began.

The magazines say that you should have three piles: one pile for stuff that you are definitely getting rid of, one for stuff that you are uncertain about, one for the stuff you are definitely keeping.

So, with this in mind, I began. I brought everything that was in the upstairs rooms into our spare room. This done, I was exhausted and told myself I was mad. Not for the first time. This was a bad idea. It was a really bad idea. I contemplated the heap of stuff in the spare room. I had other things to do and I simply hadn't got time for this impulsive project. So I went downstairs, did a few things I needed to do, then forced myself to return. I switched on the radio. Any Questions on Radio 4. A programme guaranteed to annoy and thus energise me.

The sorting of the stuff began. After a while I noticed that the 'Definitely Keep' pile was by far the biggest. More ruthless measures needed.

Gradually, the pile ' to keep' reduced and I had two full bin liners ready to take to the charity shop. I stuffed the bags into the back of my car and drove off immediately, fearing a change of heart.

Driving home, surprisingly, I felt no sense of regret - only relief. In fact I was keen to get rid of more stuff. I also made a promise to myself. For six months, I will not buy any clothes, shoes, or things for the house. Already I had too much stuff. I had no desire to add to it. But would the six month self-imposed rule work? The trouble is that for so many of us, leaving the house means going to earn money or going to spend money. The supermarket where you go with every intention just to buy food, now has household goods, clothes and even jewellery. All there to help us to indulge the nation's favourite pastime of shopping. Even Ikea said lately that we are at the peak of owning stuff.

Having stuff can get you down. How to manage it, buying extra storage to store the stuff and seeing the stuff daily can depress you. Although I didn't immediately feel ecstatic as some declutterers predict, I did feel a bit better. Enough to continue. I'm going from room to room and what's more I'm looking forward to it.

A friend of mine hired a declutter expert. My friend's declutterer advised doing as the magazines I'd read told me to do - the three pile plan. In effect my friend paid £120 to be given permission to throw some of her stuff away. She was also instructed to say goodbye to her stuff. Apparently that way, she would know that the relationship with her stuff was over. She should have saved her money.

Ronnie and Reggie Kray - The Kray Twins

To begin, I must make it crystal clear that I do not in any way support, enjoy or worship violent crime. Violence is horrific, hideous, heinous and in no way do I defend it. In fact I condemn it roundly and wholeheartedly.

Ronnie and Reggie Kray were violent criminals, Ronnie in particular. Ronnie was the slightly older, more dominant twin and it was Ronnie who suffered from paranoid schizophrenia. Reggie was extremely loyal to Ronnie and could not ever turn his back on him. The sadness is that had Reggie turned his back on his twin, he might just have avoided a jail sentence of a minimum of 30 years, as laid down by Mr Justice Melford Stevenson. 'Society deserves a rest from your activities.' he pronounced. Off the twins went to prison to serve their thirty years minimum, both in the end,having spent just over half their lives in prison. Ronnie died in Broadmoor Hospital in 1995, after a heart attack. He was 61 years old. He smoked incessantly and the cigarettes eventually got the better of him. Reggie didn't actually die in prison. In August 2000, Reggie was terminally ill with cancer. Finally Jack Straw, the then Home Secretary in the Blair government, did the right thing and released Reggie on compassionate grounds. Reggie lived for just a few weeks after his release. He died several days before his 67th birthday.

The story of the Kray twins is an undoubtedly sad one but it is also a compelling one. Born in 1933 in the East End of London to Charlie and Violet Kray, they had a very happy childhood, by their own admission. They were much loved by Violet and they were devoted to her in their turn. In Reggie's final interview he speaks of his mother as, 'a warm, very giving person who would never run anybody down.'

What is so remarkable about Reggie and Ronnie Kray is that they were born poor, very poor and yet succeeded in becoming very rich and very famous. Notorious criminals as they were, there was no stopping famous people who were attracted to them and their clubs. Judy Garland was a regular in their clubs, some said she was in loved with Reggie, who was undoubtedly the epitome of cool with good looks to match. He had a six pack before people even spoke of six packs. They had clubs in the West End, Esmerelda's Barn and the Hideout, also in the West End. Reggie was a good business man  - level headed, calculating and determined. Had he not been goaded by Ronnie, he may not have murdered Jack the Hat McVitie in 1967. Ronnie had already committed murder by walking into The   Blind Beggar pub, in East London, which was slap bang in the middle of the Kray's 'Manor'  - as they referred to their area.

Something else which led Reggie to murder was that the previous year, Frances Shea killed herself. Her name was actually Frances Kray but she was born Shea, and married Reggie at the age of 21. Reggie first met her when she was just 16 years old - a beautiful girl with a charming personality but also of a fragile mental state. It seems clear that Frances did love Reggie, at least initially, but then realisation of what her husband was involved in and the torments of Ronnie, now her brother in law led her to suicide. It is well documented that Reggie loved her very much and that when she committed suicide he was grief-stricken. He drank and took large quantities of Valium in an attempt to numb his feelings. Of course, there is no excuse for murder but had he not been out of his head on drugs and alcohol and Ronnie hadn't encouraged him, Reggie may not have murdered Jack the Hat and would have received a considerably shorter sentence for extortion and protection rackets.

The twins had an older brother Charlie, six years older than them, often referred to as Champagne Charlie, an affable. popular man, who nevertheless became involved in crime himself. He was the one who introduced the twins to boxing. It was commonplace for the East End to produce boxers, often street fighting men who honed their skills in the ring. There were plenty of fights between Ronnie and Reggie as they were growing up and these fights, plus their telepathic communication, often seen in the case of twins, made the twins into fighting machines. They fought as one and yet there were two of them. Other East End hard men were unable to beat them, even when, as in the case of the South London Richardson gang, the twins were considerably outnumbered. No one could beat the 4 legged, 4 armed fighter.

Some people may not know about the twins' generosity. They always gave money to the families of the 'aways' - those men from The Firm, who were serving prison sentences. They also gave to charities, most generously, and although they did like to be photographed donating money, it is fair to say that the majority of people, whatever they may claim, are keen for people to know that they have indeed given to charity and are therefore good people. Even in prison they could get their donations to those who deserved them.

Their funerals were grand affairs. Six plumed black horses, the East End at a standstill and mouners 6 deep watching the procession as FRank Sinatra sang My Way. Reggie, in flowers, had the words, The Other Half of Me written on the side of his funeral carriage. Five years later, on Reggie's coffin were the words - Respect - Free At Last.

In 1997, a 38 year old English graduate, by chance, visited Reggie Kray in Maidstone prison. She was filling in for someone else, as part of a team interested in making a documentary about the Krays.  Roberta Jones says that she didn't fall in love with Reggie at first sight. It took longer than that. In 1997 she married him. He was 63 years old. She nursed him through his last weeks and in her book Reg Kray - A Man Apart, she succeeds in showing the man behind the gangster legend - certainly not a monster but not an angel either.

Some thought that with the deaths of all the Kray brothers, people would lose interest in them. That doesn't seem to be happening. Tom Hardy's portrayal of both Reggie and Ronnie in the film Legend, released last September, has fuelled further interest. More books, more films will be released and for good or ill, it seems interest in the Krays will go on and on.

Sisters

Mary, Gertrude and Jean were born in 1923, 1926 and 1929 respectively. Mary and Gertrude are now 92 and 89. They are sisters - Mary is my mother and Gertrude is my aunt. Sadly, Jean died in 1986 of liver cancer. Jean married George at the age of 21. They loved each other deeply and never felt the need for children, fearing that their close bond would be diluted by the interference of children. As a child myself, visiting my aunt and uncle, Jean and George, I was intrigued by the way they smelt. It wasn’t unpleasant but it was a smell that I had never before experienced before. Later I learnt that it was beer or booze as they called it. After about a quarter of an hour of our Sunday afternoon visits, Jean and George would go for a ‘lie-down’, something which I understood to be just that. They were going to lie down as they were tired. Jean and George would hold hands on the settee, they would smile at each other in a crowded room and kiss – properly, while making ‘mmmmmm’ noises. This was most odd to me. My mum and dad sat as far away from each other as possible.

 Living with Jean and George at that time, were my granddad and my other aunt, Gertrude. By this time though, Gertrude had changed her name. She hated both her first names, or Christian names as she would have called them, and as was the custom – Gertrude Ada.  So she became Pat. Not Patricia, not Trisha – just Pat. Still now when I see letters addressed to her - Miss Gertrude Casson, it surprises me that she was once called Gertrude, after her mother.

My Mum, the oldest of the sisters and the only one to have any children, told me that when Auntie Pat was 26,  she had 3 proposals in a fortnight. As a 13 year old, just starting to read Jackie magazine, filling my head with nonsense, as my father would say, I thought this state of affairs to be impossibly romantic. There was no doubt about it - Pat was glamorous. She had innate warmth and beauty and was tall and slim. Hairpieces, makeup, all beautifully laid out and arranged were what made my visits to my grandparents in Tinsley bearable. In the tiny 2 up 2 down council house, my auntie Pat epitomised glamour.

‘Look at this, Ruth,’ my aunt would say. ‘Deep burnished copper,’ she would say, pointing to a glossy, swingy wig laid over a pot head. My aunt would try them on and I would be so excited that I would clap.

Her glass tray held her makeup. Lipsticks standing straight as soldiers, ready to do their work, compacts of powder, such as you don’t see much today and a small black box containing block mascara. To get this to work you had to spit onto the block, move the brush up and down, in order to gather the moistened mascara onto the brush, then transfer the mascara from the brush to the eyelashes, using the brush to spread an even coating over the lashes. My aunt was so skilful at this innately awkward task and when she looked away from the mirror her eyes looked so dramatic, especially as she had covered her eyelids with a grey shimmering shadow.

My overwhelming thought was why wasn’t this sensational, film star style woman married? In later life my aunt told me that she had had enough love from her mum and dad to last her a lifetime and she had no interest in the love of a man. My youthful stupidity had me believe that every woman wanted marriage and children – which is no more true now, than it was then.

Mary, my mum, is a gentle soul. Yesterday at the age of 92 she said she didn’t like using a stick; it was bad enough being old without advertising the fact. She had 56 years with my dad, a man of great energy and a fiery temper. His temper probably stems from his experience as a Prisoner of War for three and a half years during World War Two. My aunt, his sister, told me that before he went to war, he was an ‘easy going chap,’ which I found fascinating – my dad! Easy going? Blimey! When he died my mum was devastated and could not bear to live on her own in the house they shared for 55 years. The nights were particularly difficult for her so for a while my brother and shuttled her between our houses. To be frank I was irritated at having to do this. She lived in a very safe area, had good neighbours, was in good health and yet she couldn’t stay there. In retrospect, I think I was a bit harsh, but I had a fulltime job and three children at home and I just wished that I didn’t have to deal with my mother every morning as well as myself and my children. Despite all this, I should have been more sympathetic.

It struck me one afternoon on an impromptu visit to my mum, when I found her howling with grief, that one of life’s cruellest blows was separating two people who had been together for so long, leaving the remaining partner bereft. The final nine weeks proved my mother to have enviable determination and courage. My dad was in hospital for nine weeks - my mum visited him afternoon and evening for all of the nine weeks.

Auntie Pat, shortly after my dad’s death, told me that local people were knocking on her outside walls at approximately three o’clock in the morning. Also, she continued, they were turning her bin over. Despite this claim, her bins were always upright when she got up in the morning. As she told me this, she appeared to be her usual rational self. On Halloween 2002, Auntie Pat’s imaginings, because surely that is what they were, were verging on the hysterical. She was terrified of young people knocking on her door, trick or treating. I had no choice but to go and fetch her and that night she stayed with my mum, who stayed in her own house at night for the first time for several months. Odd really – I presumed my mother’s reluctance to stay on her own overnight was because she feared intruders. But what use did she think Auntie Pat would be against a determined assailant? Auntie Pat was seventy-seven years old.

They have lived together ever since. As a rule, they manage reasonably well, but about three years ago, Auntie Pat became increasingly forgetful. A year ago she received a diagnosis of Alzheimer’s Disease. Naturally she is confused and tells me that she has to hurry because she has to get to work. She tells me too that she is either going or has just returned from holiday. My mum gets cross and says she hasn’t been on holiday. I try to convince mum that it doesn’t matter, but she worries that people will think she’s lying. They won’t of course, but for my mum, lying is tantamount to devilry.

They are set in their ways, they like to get out most days, though my aunt is less keen these days. They bicker, in the way only siblings do. They eat rubbish: cakes, biscuits, sweets and chocolate are the main stay of their diet. One lunchtime I called in and looked at my mum’s plate – two sausage rolls and three small pieces of cake. ‘Are you on a health kick, mum?’ Her reply was, ‘No, not really,’ as if the faint possibility might exist that she was eating healthily.

In her later years my aunt became quite mean with her money. She wasn’t badly off but her purse clips remained firmly shut. Now, I have power of attorney over her money and her Attendance Allowance is paid to me. I tell her about the money and ask her what she would like me to buy for her. She looks at me, smiles and says that she’d like a perm. Old habits die hard. She goes for a perm and for a few days afterwards, she refrains from smearing hand cream in her hair.

Inevitably, at their ages, I can’t help but wonder what the future holds. Whatever that is, I will do my best for them.