50: Diary Of A Middle-Aged Woman July 2019 - July 2020

By 50diary

A hilarious and brutally honest exposé of a year in the life of a middle-aged single mother. Think modern Bridget Jones age fifty. With kids. In a pandemic. And every word is true!

50 Diary is comfort reading for anyone approaching their fifties with a feeling they still haven’t arrived at their proper place in life. A feisty (sometimes positive, sometimes tragic) journal chronicling living as a newly “mature woman” struggling with ageing, dating, and budgeting in a time of great uncertainty and change.

Written during the emergence of the coronavirus pandemic, 50 Diary documents world events as they happened alongside the everyday experiences, mishaps, and challenges of mature middle-age.

The funniest, most poignant WHERE HAS MY LIFE GONE?! book of the decade!

• Language: English
• Publisher: 50diary
• Release date: Jan 12, 2021
• ISBN: 9780992928766

50diary

My children cannot believe I was born in the 1900s.1969 is ancient history to them.There's no denying it.It IS ancient history.So when I reached my 50th birthday in July 2019 I decided to write a diary for one entire year to record my life, my normal every-day comings and goings, thoughts and fears about ageing, death and the menopause, and the challenges of dating while being a single mother to SEN twins.I had no idea a global pandemic was coming, no-one did.'50' has become an accidental work of witness to the coronavirus pandemic as well as a vivid chronicle of an English woman’s middle-age; a sort of thinking woman's Bridget Jones with health anxiety, under extremely stressful circumstances.

Book preview

50

Diary of a Middle-Aged Woman

July 2019 – July 2020

Copyright © 2021 A specific middle-aged woman

Enigma Wagon

50diary: https://50diary.wordpress.com/

50diary Afterparty: www.coronavirusdiaries.co.uk

Email: [e-mail]

Paperback ISBN: 9780992928742

ebook ISBN: 9780992928759

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved

The poem The Same Boat reproduced in full by kind permission of the author, Julie Sheldon.

Claimer: The characters in this book are entirely real. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is entirely intentional. No events have been fabricated.

Contents

July 2019

August 2019

September 2019

October 2019

November 2019

December 2019

January 2020

February 2020

March 2020

April 2020

May 2020

June 2020

July 2020

July 20th 2019 My Birthday

Today is my fiftieth birthday and I’ve woken up with a sore throat and headache, which is disappointing but not surprising. Last week in ASDA just as I drew level with a man cradling a savoy cabbage he suddenly turned his head towards me and sneezed. I appreciate his hands were full and he was surrounded by people and vegetables, but I was silently outraged by his decision that my face was the least troubling surface to contaminate. I walked past as quickly as I could holding my breath and making a mental note to notice whether I later developed a cold, which I have. But I won’t let it hold me back. Becoming fifty is a momentous occasion and I’m determined to mark it in a way that reflects who I (still) am. So I’ve stuck to the plan and flown to Marrakesh with five good friends for a blissful week of exploration, adventure, and celebration.

We travelled in a boisterous group of four women and one poor man, ranging in age from thirty-seven to sixty-six. Everything went smoothly until we got to the airport where traces of explosives were found in Tessa’s luggage and she was detained by security. We were already the last ones to check-in, so we were anxious we’d miss the plane altogether, but luckily things were quickly resolved when she explained that her son had been using the bag to store fireworks. Nobody asked why. Accepting the bizarre is an intrinsic part of parenthood.

What was odd during the flight was that I had to go to the toilet five times. It’s only a three-hour flight and yet I was absolutely desperate for a wee each time. Everyone else either went only once, or not at all (I made it my business to notice). Is this something to do with ageing or just my particular bladder, or some kind of reaction to the conditions of the flight? How long will it be before I’m catheterised and put out to pasture? I suppose I’ll find out in the coming years.

It’s July and Marrakesh is extremely hot and sultry. It’s smelly, noisy, confusing and tiring, but also colourful, exciting, lively, and very beautiful. Despite the leering men and aggressive touts I’m the happiest I’ve been in a long time. I feel as if I’m where I belong — not in the sense of the country itself, but more the idea of adventuring, pushing boundaries, and going out of my comfort zone. Or perhaps it’s just that I’m free of the responsibility of looking after the kids and can prioritise myself and my own interests for the first time in years, which I must admit, feels glorious.

Undeterred by the baking heat, wafts of pollution and pungent smells, we’ve so far managed to visit a grand palace, a secret garden, the Saadian tombs, and the famous blue, green, and yellow Jardin Majorelle. I’ve haggled for goods in the souks, consumed couscous and tagines, and felt what it is like to be completely and utterly boiling hot to melting point. July is not the best time to visit Marrakesh. Sensible tourists avoid this time of year, but you can’t change the date of your birthday.

Tomorrow we’ll be riding in a horse-drawn carriage and hiking into the Atlas Mountains, to bathe, if we dare, in one of the seven famous waterfalls. This travelling life is such a thrilling contrast to my usual one of mother and housewife back in the UK. I feel so happy and lucky. This evening there’s going to be a special three-course meal with a birthday cake, and afterwards dancing and music played by local men, and plenty of wine for everyone. Wine is a luxury because in Morocco it’s forbidden to drink alcohol in public. I wouldn’t even know where to buy some, so it’s lovely that there are going to be bottles conjured up to the table this evening. I’m sure we’ll be dancing until late into the night — if I don’t get a migraine and feel too tired.

I’m definitely not young any more. When does being young officially come to an end? Was I still young in my forties? It’s probably a matter of perspective and the age of the person is who’s doing the judging. I know I don’t have the energy to carry on partying all night like I used to do when I was in my twenties. These days I get exhausted sooner, and my sense of tiredness readily overcomes my sense of fun. The problem is that my mind hasn’t aged in counterpart with my body. I’m not inwardly flabby, worn out, and aching, and although I may have wrinkles around my eyes, grey hair under my highlights, aching knees, and hips that give way, my attitude to life is still open and optimistic. I feel fresh, mentally. My sense of adventure and need for fun hasn’t diminished. I want to learn, see, and do new things, and broaden my horizons. I still want to travel the world, experience different cultures, and immerse myself in unfamiliar environments. I love being challenged. The spirit is willing, it’s just that these days the flesh is starting to complain a little.

Over the last few months, possibly years, I’ve been thinking about ageing and death more and more. When I was in my twenties, the concept of ageing didn’t even occur to me. I gave it no thought whatsoever. It was completely irrelevant, although I did have episodes of terror about the finality and inevitability of death. These usually came about when I was alone in bed and the mind demons came swarming out of my interior world. The primal panic of the knowledge of my own unavoidable oblivion would surge into my head in a rush of adrenalin making me sit bolt upright fumbling for the bedside light, heart pounding, eyes staring. Or, when I was even younger, propel me to leap out of bed and rush onto the landing in a mini storm of fight or flight, frantic to escape an enemy that was utterly overwhelming, yet at the same time didn’t actually exist. I was running for the safety of my parents embrace, away from all-consuming danger towards security and comfort, but I never made it. There is nowhere to hide from an enemy that is at once everywhere and nowhere; and had I ever got as far as my parents’ bedroom, opened the door and woken them from their sleep to tell them I was frightened of death, they wouldn’t have been comfortingly embracing or understanding. I knew from experience that trying to talk to them about this subject only provoked frowns, eye rolls, and general disapproval.

Perhaps these episodes were a kind of practice for the real thing. When death comes, it will not be stoppable. I was, for all I knew, unintentionally rehearsing being a tiny helpless fleck in the face of a power greater than the universe. Perhaps death will be like having a general anaesthetic, a wave of, at first, ecstatic relaxation and submission, followed by an almighty cascade of blackness rushing all-consumingly upwards through the body. Thoughts of this nature, producing real physical terror and intellectual struggle, would occur from time to time throughout my childhood, twenties, thirties, and even into my forties. On and off every couple of months I’d have The Panic, a sudden unbearable clarity about my own mortality followed by a rage against its certitude, wishing it could be different, knowing there was nothing that could be done to change it. Life is a binary situation, an on/off, yes/no, night/day two-dimensional temporary condition. One state cannot exist without the other. It’s a fact that can’t be altered. This lack of control over something so fundamental and terrifying has always been infuriating to me.

My sister and I had no comforting thoughts about congenial father figures or angels in a land of everlasting rapture to ease the pain of mortality salience. No, our parents were fundamentalist atheists and we weren’t given any wriggle room for questioning or doubt. What they told us was fact, not opinion or guesswork, and anyone who disagreed was vanquished by a withering outburst about the sheer stupidity of human thought. We once had a Christian babysitter who looked after us while our parents were out on a rare evening excursion somewhere in London. She got us into our pyjamas, let us have one last drink of milk downstairs… and then asked us to say our prayers before getting into bed. I felt a sudden rush of embarrassment and pity for this poor woman. We didn’t do that sort of thing in our house, we knew better! We had been told The Truth by our parents. It was laughable that a grown adult was proposing the idea of a God in the sky as a serious concept. I paused in awkward confusion on our way upstairs desperately wondering what on earth to say, but my sister bounded happily up behind me chanting, God, God, lives in a pea pod! Ha-ha, we don’t believe in God!

Don’t say that! I hissed, mortified, "we do believe in God."

No we don’t! my sister scoffed, telling the truth and obviously rather surprised at what I’d said. She was still young. But I was desperate.

Yes we do, I repeated earnestly, although I couldn’t meet her gaze.

I was horrified at the idea of causing offence and embarrassment to the ignorant babysitter. I knew our parents wouldn’t want us to speak so directly contradicting the woman who was doing them a favour. I also knew that we shouldn’t behave in such a manner as to give other people the impression that a) we were unruly children, and b) they were unruly parents. We were wild, exuberant kids prone to screaming episodes of mirth and mischief, but this was an occasion of supposed best behaviour. I don’t know whether we continued to argue the point, whether we did a quick fake prayer or just went to bed as usual. Knowing me, I probably performed an elaborate Catholic benediction on my knees beside my bed, drawing on memories of films glimpsed in other people’s houses, hands clasped earnestly in front of my closed eyes.

It wasn’t until I reached my mid-forties that the sudden waves of dread and panic stopped happening, to be replaced by a sullen, grudging acceptance of life and death’s predetermination. Now in my fiftieth year, I no longer feel overwhelmed by the certainty and fear of it; my preoccupation is more with the process of ageing, the possible future degradation of mind and body, the forgetting, the lack of creativity, and the diminishment of language, the aches, the pains, the tiredness and can’t-be-botheredness, the sagging, the wrinkling, the greying and the putting on of weight.

When I was still forty-seven and my friend Ophelia was fifty-two, she said, even my earlobes are sagging. At the time I laughed thinking it was a ridiculous comment, not really understanding; but just three years later, I get it. I can look in the mirror and see where smooth shapes used to be, the curve of the jaw, the defined chin. I used to have plumper lips, now they’ve vanished into thin lines. Why? Where has my top lip gone? People say I look young for my age, which is lovely, but always amazes me. Perhaps the effects of forty years of sun damage isn’t as visible now as it soon will be.

I was a teenager in the 1980s, the last decade of gratuitous sun-worship before people properly understood the ageing and skin cancer risk. My eldest daughter, Zoe who is now twenty-seven, was born in the nineties and today has beautiful, unblemished skin. I used to slather her in sunblock to protect her from burning (as I do in the summer now with my youngest two — boy/girl twins age ten). But when I was a child no-one was interested in protecting my skin from the sun. We didn’t keep sunscreen in the house. The best we might find would be a bottle of ‘sun tan oil’ hidden away in the depths of the boiler cupboard — an enticing object with the words ‘Hawaiian’ and ‘coconut’ written somewhere on the side, which made me feel hungry, but also reminded me that my unblemished pink body was a dreadful embarrassment. We all wanted to be the woman in the advert with dark brown skin and bleached blonde hair, eternally reclining on the beach in a white g-string.

As teenagers in the 1980s, we gleefully endured the painful burning stage of prolonged sun exposure before the desired tan set in giving us the natural protection we needed. The pink, violet, and peeling phases were all part of the process and to be expected and tolerated in pursuit of the perfect shade of mahogany. There was nothing we wouldn’t do — no pain we wouldn’t endure — to get the necessary horse chestnut-coloured arms and legs. I remember my friend and me setting up in the garden one afternoon with military precision: drinks, towels, the radio, all laid out on the lawn directly facing the sun. We greased ourselves in baby oil, pulled out rolls of kitchen foil, and lay face up, dry roasting ourselves under the blazing midday sun. Afterwards we put our arms side-by-side to compare hues. How good it felt to see I was a slightly darker shade of purple than my friend.

Nobody told us this was dangerous. The encouragement to get a deep tan was everywhere — in magazines, beauty books, television programmes, and from all our peers. Today, my body is speckled all over with weird moles and tiny brown tags and dots. I give my whole body the once over every year for the possibility of developing malignant melanoma or a basal cell carcinoma. My father has had four of these ulcers dug out of his face and chest. The doctors say it’s the result of historical skin damage. He was a sun-worshipper like I was. I am braced.

Another major issue I have to contend with at the age of fifty is the menopause. My poor body is so confused. The other day I went outside to admire the natural wildlife meadow that is my back garden, when I sneezed and slightly wet myself. Sometimes I put on a jumper because I’m feeling cold then immediately break out into an intense sweat all over my body — I’m cold enough to need a jumper, then literally one second later so hot I can barely stand to be just in my bare skin. The menopause is a constant irritation, a battleground of extreme temperatures, a never-ending reminder of my stage of life and bodily misfortune. I never feel comfortable. I’m twitchy all the time with a niggling, perpetual aggravation, whatever I’m doing, wherever I am. If I’m not sweating and wetting myself, my back is aching, my knees and hips are giving way, or I have a hideous, painful migraine. And I’m rapidly putting on weight in the middle of my body.

Recently, I got so fed up with all this, that I made a doctor’s appointment to try hormone replacement therapy, hoping that perhaps it’ll stabilise the migraines and sweating. I’d try most things if there was a chance of living without this continual discomfort.

In case by some miracle the HRT works and the hot flushes reduce or disappear, I will describe what they feel like:

Everything is normal, then suddenly it begins with a mini explosion of heat originating around the ears and neck, before swiftly radiating out over the shoulders. The heat then expands in all directions over the head and down into the body in pulsating waves of such extreme heat that it demands immediate adjustment of clothing. Perspiration breaks out everywhere, including in places I've never sweated before: on my chin, shins, stomach, back, and inner arms. The back of my neck becomes moist, and hair clings to the skin as if I’ve just done a work-out at the gym. Rivulets of sweat run down my chest between my breasts. Sweat breaks out on my face and forehead, which shines and glints in the light, even if it’s an overcast, gloomy day. The temperature remains at an unbearably hot intensity for about three minutes, pulsating in slow waves from extreme, to impossibly extreme, before it suddenly, rapidly dissipates and I feel a magnificent relief. Sadly, this is instantly followed by being unpleasantly cold as my body instantly cools, the sweat useless on my body, my clothes hanging in chilly wet patches. This happens about twenty-five times per day and every time I wake at night, which can be up to five or six times. Bed sheets, pillow cases, and pyjamas have to be changed every few days. I need to wash frequently, especially under the arms. The need for antibacterial soap is paramount. Everything about this is tedious and irritating. It’s not painful but it’s deeply unsettling and exasperating.

Other effects of the menopause for me are:

1. Having to vacuum wearing only a bra and knickers. Trying to do housework while wearing clothes is simply too hot and sweaty. The only way to comfortably get things done is by wearing nothing but underwear.

2. Being prepared that the punishment for drinking a cup of tea is a hot flush. You can’t just sit down and enjoy a cup of tea, you will have to sweat so profusely that you need to, once again, take off all your clothes in order to bear the inner furnace.

3. Having to deal with hot flushes where it’s impossible to take off your clothes, like work or in public, or in fact anywhere at all that isn’t inside your own home. This means wearing layers which allow you to take off as much as decently possible, even if it means wearing a spaghetti-strap base layer, in February. It’s unprofessional for me at Macmillan (where I volunteer) when people are telling me about how ill they feel and how little time left they have to live, and all I can think about is opening the windows and how surreptitiously I can take my top off. The cold weather doesn’t stop the hot flushes happening, it merely means that when the flush is over it’s even more uncomfortable. You sit there in a top made for mid-summer, all damp and freezing cold, rapidly trying to put all the cardigans and tops back on and still look normal.

4. Migraines, which for me occur about fifteen days out of thirty. I make sure I have my medications case with me at all times in the event I need a triptan or a massive high dose of ibuprofen (and I might also need an anti-sickness tablet and a stomach protector). This, in turn, means always having to carry a bottle of water with me. All this extra clobber I’m compelled to carry around has meant I’ve had to buy a new bucket-sized handbag.

Those are the only symptoms I have of the menopause: sweating and headaches. I don’t have brain fog, confusion, mood swings, exhaustion, or a dry fanny, like so many others do. I’m grateful for small mercies.

July 29th 2019

I’m back home from Marrakesh after the most amazing birthday I’ve ever had. I didn’t expect it to be as good as it was — birthdays usually being stressful and disappointing events. But this time it was the opposite. I loved every minute.

On the night of the 20th we danced and chatted with our hosts (my good friends Tessa and Elliot who had travelled with us from England) until about midnight. They had arranged for local musicians to come into the inner courtyard and play exuberant dancing music, and I’m happy to say everyone threw caution to the wind and joined in. It was sweaty business. Afterwards we sprawled upstairs on the roof terrace on cushioned chaise longues with coffee and more wine. It was warm outside. Sweet-smelling incense wafted in the night air, and a waning gibbous moon hovered above the shadowy shapes of distant palm trees. It was nothing short of magical.

The riad we were staying in had a fancy-dress room so we’d all added glamorous touches to our eveningwear. I wore a black top hat and feather boa with a figure-hugging mini dress I’d bought from Spain a couple of decades ago and never worn (I could still get it on because it was made of extraordinarily stretchy material). Lindsay wore a fez, and Geeta and Donna found a couple of sparkling sequin shawls to go over their evening dresses. Keith was already colourful enough in his canary yellow shirt and bright orange trousers — standard evening wear for him. As we lounged on the roof terrace my friends gave me the presents they’d brought with them from England (jewellery, scarf, toiletries) and together we finished the birthday cake. We’d had a truly wonderful night and I felt cherished and very lucky.

What surprised me most about Marrakesh was that there are no insects. I wasn’t bothered by moths or flies and didn’t see any spiders, beetles, mosquitos, or scorpion-like creatures at all. I didn’t get bitten once during the whole time we were in Morocco, and I didn’t have to use any of my expensive and specially purchased repellent. Lindsay’s legs turned red and swelled up, but that was more to do with the heat and water retention than creepy-crawlies. In fact, there were no disasters greater than Geeta getting lost for five seconds on our way to visit the palace and having a panic attack.

While I was away my parents, ex-husband, and older daughter looked after my young twins for me. Jack has recently been diagnosed with ADHD and Amy with anxiety, and they both probably have ASC and OCD. I say ASC, for Autistic Spectrum Condition rather than disorder, because I don’t view autism as a personality disorder, rather as another way of being.

They’re not the easiest of children to be with, but they’re very much loved. Over the years I’ve developed methods for helping them cope with life in their particular ways. Amy has to contend with a constant stream of anxious and intrusive thoughts that pull and tug at her mind wherever she is and whatever she’s doing, both at home and school, day and night. She needs lots of reassurance to help calm and distract her from her inner torments, which takes up a great deal of everyone’s time and energy. She taps out rhythms and moves and dances and even breathes to a beat, and has to have her things arranged in a particular order that cannot be changed. She gets very upset by trivialities and any kind of change to our routine, household, or appearance. She needs a lot of attention and hugs. I’m continually having to reassure her that everything will be okay, that I am healthy, her daddy is healthy, that nothing bad has happened or is about to happen to herself or anyone she cares about.

Jack, of course, is the complete opposite. His ADHD means he’s far too cavalier about possible risks and harms, and he throws himself through life constantly tripping up, grazing his knees, banging himself and falling over. He’s a continual danger to himself and others, both physically and mentally. He needs a lot of supervision even for the simplest tasks. He focuses on particular subjects that arouse his interest (this could be anything from fishing, train companies, crystals, and soup-making to collectibles, certain computer games or any other random thing) and becomes completely obsessed by it. His current fixation is a horror of germs (or perceived germs) and contamination, and a love of the computer game Minecraft. He monologues on and on about his chosen subject, oblivious as to whether anyone else wants to hear about it or is bored or uninterested. He stands far too close to people and follows them around outpouring a non-stop stream of babble about his topic, invading any personal space you wished you had.

He uses up every iota of energy I might have left-over from dealing with Amy. It’s such a shame that they’re so opposite because they irritate and frustrate each other, as well as me! Sometimes I imagine how different life would be if they were both filled with boundless energy and wanted to play, or both were neat, organised types who wanted silence and control over their lives. Having one of each makes life difficult and exhausting much of the time.

The other day, as I stood at the top of the stairs, Jack suddenly decided to hug me. I had a pair of his socks in one hand (I don’t know why — walking around clutching a pair of socks is something I often end up doing) so I hugged him for a few seconds, but I was really on my way downstairs. I asked him to let go but I knew he wouldn’t, he never does, because he enjoys the tussle that inevitably follows with me trying to peel him off and him clinging on all the tighter. He thinks it’s a fantastic game, but usually it’s quite annoying. Unfortunately during this particular wrestling match we started to fall forward downstairs. I stumbled because my legs were entwined with his and as I tried to grab the bannister with my left hand, which was full of socks, it slipped without traction and I realised we would fall the entire length of the stairs. I cried out, no, no, no..! as I twisted round in slow motion with Jack clinging to my body in a kneeling position. My brain had somehow immediately calculated that the least dangerous way of falling for my son was for him to fall forward onto me and for me to fall backwards, breaking his fall with my body. As we hit the bottom thoughts of pain, broken bones, hospital visits and internal injuries flashed through my mind, but after a few seconds of shock and disentangling ourselves, I realised we’d come off lightly. My hip, wrist, and the front of my big toe hurt a lot, and Jack said his knees were painful, but other than that we appeared to be unharmed. I was so relieved, but I couldn’t help myself shouting at him.

Don’t you ever do that again, do you understand? Never do that again, never! I often have to use an overly firm voice with him otherwise he doesn’t take me seriously. He thinks, or pretends, things are a joke or a game when they clearly aren’t, and no-one else would take them that way.

Okay mummy. He just wanted a hug and for me to stop yelling.

Zoe, who happened to be visiting for the night, came running out of the kitchen with a more appropriate response.

Is everybody okay?

She gently and silently hugged Jack while I loudly listed my injuries for everyone to hear. Meanwhile Amy had come running out of her bedroom when she first heard the commotion and had just caught the last part of the tumble. She was whimpering and crying and hopping about with dismay.

I saw you fall, mummy, I saw you fall… It was horrible, I didn’t like it. I hugged her tightly and told her there was no serious injury and we were all okay. It took time and lots of reassurance and cuddling but eventually, Amy, the one who hadn’t fallen at all, was soothed enough to stop crying.

Soon after we were all laughing about how Jack had bounced down every stair in the praying position, and the role of the socks in preventing me from stopping the fall. For some reason the socks greatly amused Jack and despite the pain in his knees he giggled for about twenty minutes, every so often blurting out, the socks! The socks stopped you from grabbing the bannister! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! I hope he’ll be more careful at the top of the stairs in future, but knowing him it’s unlikely.

This morning my mother went into hospital for her long-awaited gynaecological operation, refusing to let anyone wait with her or be there when she woke up. As I’ve grown older, reared three children and had long conversations with friends about our various strange outlooks on life and our feeling of being different, I’ve come to the conclusion that we may have undiagnosed autism running in our family, both my parents, myself and maybe my sister too. A few days ago I had a strange conversation with my mother. We were sitting in her car as she was backing into a parking space at the leisure centre. I’d said nothing as she drove at sixty miles per hour on a forty limited road in third gear, and then slowed to thirty-five while rumbling through town in fourth. She’d just been telling me that she’d had to buy another plastic bag, which she greatly resented, because she was at Sainsbury’s and only had Waitrose branded reusable bags in the car.

And you can’t take a Waitrose bag into Sainsbury’s, it wouldn’t be right.

Mother, you’re autistic. I blurted, without having any idea or forethought of saying such a thing.

There was a pause and she said, you think so?

She appeared to be genuinely interested, which was so unexpected (as I thought she’d be insulted and angry and certainly dismissive) that I immediately felt the need to console her.

I do. But I think I probably am too.

There are many reasons why I think my mother is autistic, from her control freakery and inability to be flexible or change her mind, to her apparent total lack of understanding of how the world works socially, the ease with which she forgives and forgets, and the (sometimes) absolutely logical way her brain works even if it concludes against herself. She is childish, impatient, and intolerant of anyone who doesn’t work to her standards, critical of those she loves the best yet can be ridiculously kind and patient with complete strangers. She’s able to accept the loss of money, face, time, an argument, or pretty much anything if she thinks it’s logical or will lead to a quiet life. I was very surprised at the speed of how she got over the death of her elderly father, even though she was the one who decided to switch off his life support. There has never been a shred of doubt in her mind that she did the right thing, no guilt or anxiety or second thoughts. What’s done is done, and according to her there’s no point in thinking or talking about it ever again. She’s given blood so often she’s received an award. She can be unmovable and unshakable in her convictions and decisions, even if they’re not right; she has a strange mix of rigidity and generosity, exceeding the boundaries of both extremes.

When we were kids we had the impression there was nothing she wouldn’t do for someone she had never met before and would never see again, yet at the same time nothing she actually would do for her family. Her actions didn’t make sense to us, the world was reversed. We were jealous of the kindness and respect she paid to people she didn’t know. I can guess now she was exaggerating the social norms and overdoing what everyone else did subtly, in order to fit in. Masking, they call it these days, which women are especially good at. The world must have been a confusing place to her. She must have secretly wondered why she never managed to maintain friendships or became close to anyone, or why people slowly backed away (as they realised the conversation was getting weird).

When we were young, my sister and I noticed that everyone else’s parents seemed to have parties from time to time, or had friends round for dinner or went on holidays with friends and their kids. People did sociable things in groups with other people. We rarely had other adults to our house for dinner, and we certainly didn’t go on holiday with anyone else, or even ourselves. We couldn’t afford holidays. My parents stayed at home every evening, reading The Guardian newspaper, unless there was a good film at the cinema, or a ballet, or musical in London. Then they’d go out, but not with anyone else, just together, there and back directly, sandwiches in bags, tea in flasks. No need to buy anything or go into any restaurants for food.

I think they had one dinner party at home in the twenty years we all lived together, but that in itself was weird and tense. Several men in dark suits and top hats arrived and we children were immediately sent upstairs to be not seen and not heard. Downstairs people laughed loudly behind the closed door of the living room, and then my dad went to the piano and music and singing floated up to our ears. I think they were performing songs from the 1976 musical ‘Pacific Overture’ by Stephen Sondheim which was one of my dad’s favourites. My sister and I huddled at the top stair in our nighties, stomachs rumbling, ears popping, bemused at the unusual hullaballoo. It never happened again.

At least, that’s how I remember it.

The West Indians next door, however, had a buzzing party every couple of months, but this was a time of dread in our house. Doors and windows were closed, ear plugs produced, and frowns settled permanently onto faces. Our parents had nothing against the people, they got on with the neighbours very well, it was the noise they couldn’t tolerate. My father once went to sleep in the bath because it was the room furthest away from the noisy side of the house. We lived in the centre of a terrace and sound travelled easily between the houses. It wasn’t uncommon to be able to hear when neighbours opened their wardrobe door or flushed the loo, so a full-on Rastafarian party was too much — understandably, I now think. It didn’t bother us kids much. I don’t remember it making us sleep later than usual or disturbing us during the night, in fact the regular pulsing sound of the bass was rather comforting as we lay in our beds wide awake trying to amuse ourselves while we waited to feel tired. We were always put to bed much too early, and it took a long time for us to fall asleep. I invented many silent games to keep my mind occupied through those hours of boredom. For several weeks I listened to a German radio station with the radio pressed to my ear under the covers, volume as low as possible. I was excited by the fact that I, an English girl, was listening hundreds of miles away from the broadcast, to foreign words not meant for me to hear. It felt like eavesdropping, as if I was participating in a secret event no-one in my family was invited to. On other occasions I went into my sister’s room and we acted out scenes from television that we’d seen in other people’s houses.

Our parents didn’t believe in television. It didn’t fit with their radical hippy philosophy, so to our great regret we grew up without one. But we knew not to beg or be upset, complain, or even speak about it to them. There wasn’t the remotest possibility that we would ever have one. It had been decided long ago when they adopted their alternative lifestyle in the early 1970s. And minds were never changed in our household.

My mother’s intense need to tightly control situations means that she’d rather suffer alone than have the stress of having to ‘deal’ with a visitor during her stay in hospital. I don’t think she can imagine a situation where the visitor could be a help or comfort. Instead she’d worry we would want to help her in the way we decide, not how she wants, and that she’d have to lie there vulnerable and helpless as we took over and dismissed anything she had to say. I think she’s never imagined it any other way, but never asked herself if that projection was likely and why on earth we’d ever do that. It’s a shame she won’t let any of us help because she’s missing out on the bonding, comforting experience of having a family member by her bedside to help care for her when she wakes.

The UK is suffering a prolonged heatwave and the twins and I have found it so difficult to get through the days. It’s such a struggle, we don’t know what to do with ourselves. Once again we’ve broken the record for the hottest July ever recorded, with 38.7 degrees in Cambridge (only half an hour’s drive from us). It is so boiling hot, it’s actually distressing. Going in the shade makes little difference and isn’t cooling. It’s like we’re living in an oven. A special trip to Sainsburys purely to spend time in their air conditioning brought only short-lived relief. Our core body temperatures were so high and emitting such waves of heat that after an hour in the cold in shorts and t-shirts we still felt hot. And the wall of heat that hit us when we went back outside was frightening and made us almost wish we hadn’t bothered to cool down. We have to sleep downstairs in the living room because upstairs is a no-go zone at night.

The house we rent has dormer windows so it’s cold during the winter and hot in summer, the opposite of what’s desirable. And it’s so energy inefficient with thin walls and broken double glazing that my heating bills are higher than average, even though I sit downstairs in layers of jumpers and coats instead of turning the heating on in the evenings.

And to top it all there’s something wrong with the plumbing. When solid waste goes into the toilet it doesn’t get flushed away, it just disappears for a few seconds then slowly slides triumphantly back into view after the noise of the flushing stops. The only way I can permanently get rid of a poo is by mashing it up in the bowl, or if it’s exceptionally tar-like, spearing it on a stick and scooping it up into the bin, which I then empty immediately hoping I haven’t dropped any flakes on the mat in the process. I actually had no idea shits were so gluey and thick. I expected them to break up easily like slices of cake, but they don’t, they’re like tar — all dense and glutinous and bound together with what looks like grass. It’s not enough to just pass a stick through a turd and expect it to be neatly halved, you have to saw through it multiple times before it breaks apart. Unfortunately, almost as soon as you’ve managed to divide the thing in two, the water turns into a thick, brown soup and you can’t see what you’re doing. Not to mention the smell. It’s hard work and pretty unpleasant… and I have to do this twice per day! My twenty-year-old self would be very amused to know that at the age of fifty I’m a real-life shit-stirrer.

The other week I emailed the letting agent about this problem and a few days later they sent a plumber who happened to arrive just after I’d already managed to get rid of the poo for that day. I showed him upstairs and he stared into the clean, clear loo.

The toilet’s not blocked.

I know, I’ve dealt with it, I said. But it’ll be blocked again tomorrow.

He fiddled about with the pipes at the back, flushed a few times and said the water flow was now greatly improved and he doubted there’d be any further blockage. Then he left.

Naturally, the first time anyone did a number two the following day, the toilet immediately clogged up again and I had to go out into the garden and hunt for yet another sturdy stick. Sturdy sticks are a rare commodity in my garden. I’ve used all the obvious ones.

Of course, I always try to deal with the blockage before a visitor arrives, but I’ve had a few occasions when I’ve not remembered in time or the visitors themselves have caused the problem. I’ve discovered that each person tells me about it in their own way:

Zoe: There's something in your toilet and I didn't put it there! *wild laughter.*

Paul (ex-husband): You’ve got a log in the bog. *gleeful grin.*

Harry (friend from volunteering): There's a sinker in your toilet. *factual information related with a straight face.*

Keith (good friend): I'm terribly sorry my dear but I seem to have caused an obstruction upstairs. *embarrassed stuttering.*

To my surprise no-one’s ever pretended the problem isn’t there, which is probably what I would have done in someone else’s house out of sheer cowardice and embarrassment. I guess people don’t want me to go up later and think it belongs to them.

August 10th 2019

Mum is struggling after coming home from hospital ten days ago. Although she’s up and about, she’s not back to her usual self physically or psychologically. In fact, the personality change is the most troubling thing. She’s extremely tense, as if in a state of perpetual fear. She had an apparent bad reaction to the anaesthetic and although she was given a powerful anti-sickness injection, a day after she arrived home the nausea and trembling began again. I’ve never seen her so weak and unwell. She could barely open her eyes or move. She was white as a sheet and complaining of dizziness, nausea, trembling and weakness. She couldn’t eat and could barely drink. She couldn’t walk. A doctor was called to her bedside and diagnosed a possible post-op infection and Meniere’s Disease — which was unexpected and seemed strange to me, but my mum accepted it straight away. I’m more inclined to think it’s something to do with the operation or the anaesthetic. She was fine before the op, desperately ill afterwards. It would be a huge coincidence if she suddenly got Meniere’s Disease in that short time, but maybe the operation has sparked it off, if that’s possible? I don’t know. But for the last week or so she’s been taking new medication prescribed by the doctor which has given some relief, and she does seem to be recovering.

I feel uneasy