Fi's Ability - a memoir

By Fiona Ritchie

‘Fi’s Ability – a memoir’ is a charming stroll through a daughter’s early years, and more recently, her experience spending lockdown with her blind, slightly deaf, cynical and wobbly nonagenarian mother.



‘On my Mother’s Life’ is a cry for help, well… that’s how social services interpreted it. Throughout lockdown, many people spent more time with their family than they were comfortable with; the letters convey just how a mother and daughter muddled along. Gin features heavily to deal with the daily frustrations. Following this, ‘Adventures of a Ginger Girl’ is a charming peep at a childhood in Cornwall, through the eyes of a permanently red girl with strong opinions and extremely big knickers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Conrad Press
• Release date: Apr 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9781839784576

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Fi's_Ability_cover.jpg

Fi’s Ability – a memoir

FIONA RITCHIE

Fi’s Ability – a memoir

Published by The Conrad Press Ltd. in the United Kingdom 2022

Tel: [phone] www.theconradpress.com [e-mail]

ISBN 978-1-839784-57-6

Copyright ©Fiona Ritchie, 2022

The moral right of Fiona Ritchie to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved.

Typesetting and Cover Design by: Charlotte Mouncey, www.bookstyle.co.uk

The Conrad Press logo was designed by Maria Priestley.

To my lovely mum and Judi

Contents

Preface

On my mother’s life

Introduction

Epilogue

Adventures of a ginger girl

Preface

I suppose everyone has had different experiences throughout lockdown; it’s been a strange old time for many, but I found myself without a job, and in my mother’s company the whole time.

I’ve been trying to fob her off on neighbours, relatives and friends, especially those living on a far-away continent, but it’s tough when the post office refuse to take her, despite being in a neatly wrapped parcel and ensuring sufficient air holes and enough water to get her across the Atlantic.

Mum is slightly deaf, very blind, intensely negative, naturally critical (‘I can’t hear you, and you’re wrong’), and has the need to wear surgical stockings on both legs. I’ve tried them over her head, but apparently that’s mean and cruel.

She moved in with me ten years ago, when her sight wasn’t quite so bad, and she had a little independence. By that I mean, she could see me in a room and tell me what mistakes I had made, whereas now, she has to ask me if I’m in the room, before starting to criticise.

I took to writing letters to share what we were getting up to. There is a little artistic licence, but you’ll just have to work out which bits are true, and which bits have been reported to the local authorities.

The words that are crossed out in ‘On my mother’s life’, aren’t lazy typing errors, they are my true feelings and thoughts, before my politically correct head kicked in. Should you be wondering if Mum actually exists, then pop along to any Co-op in north Bedfordshire and ask around, she’ll usually be loitering outside one of them; assuming I have my way, of course.

I am lucky to have a fabulous mum, which meant my childhood was a bully-free and generally a quiet, protected existence, my biggest problems were trying to work out how to get my older brother into trouble. I’ve sailed through life in blissful ignorance, with nothing particularly bad happening, and the very least I can do, is now take care of my mother, despite her glaring faults.

The letters started as a bit of fun, however, as there were demands for more, I thought I’d pay a bit more attention to what Mum was actually getting up to, so they continued. Throughout, I come across as a woman with a drink problem; give me a minute while I think of something to counteract this.

It might take a while.

I would love to write a novel that could spark your imagination, and leave you breathless at the end of each chapter, but, I’m not that clever, so instead, I’ve come up with letters I wrote throughout lockdown, and a memoir of my childhood in Cornwall that, at best, will bring on an asthma attack.

The book about my antics as a child was written following the breakdown of my business. I needed something to cheer myself up, so I ignored the present and wrote about my past. It helped shoo away any sad moods, which occasionally crept up on me, especially when I was running low on gin.

Mum was ninety-one in June, and she moaned and harrumphed her way through cornflakes, declaring that she didn’t want to be bloody ninety-one, and who else was stupid enough to live that long. I pointed out the Queen, David Attenborough, Tony Bennett and Clint Eastwood, but it fell on her slightly deaf ears.

We bumble along quite nicely, although Mum’s independence is much less, partly due to her age, but mostly down to her negative, crotchety attitude, and let’s face it, it’s hard work when she’s right all the time. I’m sorting out a care home for respite (well, that’s what I’m telling her), so I can have some time to myself and really push the boat out. You can interpret that as staying up later than nine-thirty and not emptying the dishwasher. Sadly, I’ve reached the age when the bins go out more than I do. My friends nickname me the Olympic torch because I never go out.

I have some fantastic friends and family, many of whom have been supporting me when I’ve needed it most. They’re the ones who have laughed at me, and with me, so these memoirs are for you.

Fiona Ritchie – February 2022

On my mother’s life

Introduction

My lovely mum needed a bit of care, so a few years ago she moved from Dorset to the beautiful countryside in Bedfordshire. She has a condition called Retinitis Pigmentosa; in layman’s terms she’s as blind as a bat. Her sight loss has been a gradual thing since she was a teenager, so you’d think she’d be used to the idea. Mum can wash and dress herself, but is a liability in the kitchen mainly because she is a terrible cook, and she doesn’t know if she’s turned the hob on or off.

Mum has an opinion about everything. Usually negative.

It’s surprising how much you notice when you’re in someone’s company all day, and really helpful having access to gin at all time. I’ve become an expert in undetected poisons, smothering techniques and wrapping bodies in tarpaulin. Mum has become an expert in putting her shoes on the wrong feet, re-tuning all devices to Radio 1, losing dishcloths, and has perfected her pessimistic attitude and ratty disposition.

Writing letters was a delightful way of sharing with friends and family how Mum and I got on throughout the lockdowns. It’s surprising how much you notice when you’re in someone’s company all day, and really helpful having access to gin at all times.

31st March 2020

I thought I’d take some time to give you an update on what Mum and I are up to and hopefully brighten your day. In the village down the road there is a tiny Co-op – in fact it happens to be the smallest Co-op in the UK – and whenever things get tough financially, I suggest that Mum tries to drum up some trade by loitering outside.

Mum and I are trying to get out for a quick walk every day – mainly because I don’t trust my car will start if I leave it for more than forty-eight hours. The last car I had, which had done over 360,000 miles, caught fire every time I moved into third gear. My local garage is shut until April 20th (as the government have extended MOTs by six months apparently) but every time I go there for something to be done, a group of men come out and walk around the Audi, rubbing their chins in a knowing way, just amazed at the mileage, and its fat middle-aged, drunk owner.

Given I don’t know how long I’ll be off work I’ve decided to clear out some of my cupboards. I’m still at the ‘thinking about it stage’ (these things can’t be rushed you know) and I stupidly stated rather boldly to Mum that if we have a run of good weather for a few consecutive days (I reckon that will shorten my odds for a start) that I’d clear out the garage.

We had a bag of logs delivered a few months ago and they took up a fair amount of space in said garage. That’s a lie. They took up a fraction of the floor space, but when I realised I couldn’t actually stand in the garage and turn around, I figured something had to be done. The first obvious thing was to shut the door behind me and not go to the garage unless I needed logs which I could access from the front. There is no second obvious thing.

Mum is hoping things improve, otherwise she’ll be back outside the Co-op. The good news is there’s often a queue these days nicely spaced apart. I’ve said I’ll drop her off with the car in second gear all the way, to make sure she gets there without combustion.

My culinary skills in the short week I’ve been off haven’t improved one bit. That’s almost an impossible achievement, but with more practice I’ve simply produced more disasters. Mum thinks if I cut down on the drinking before I start microwaving (therefore cooking in single vision), I’ll see immediate improvements. I’ve noticed the sun is going over the yardarm a little after six-thirty, but as I don’t wake until seven, I’m wasting valuable drinking time lying in bed.

Bruce, my brother, is still working, if you call driving an empty bus around Cornwall as work, that is. I’m delighted as this obviously means people are being compliant about not making any unnecessary trips. He was telling me that two women resorted to throwing potatoes at each other in Morrisons, this occurred when one woman was caught removing toilet rolls from the other person’s trolley. They really are cultured down there. In an estate agent’s window they were advertising toilet rolls for sale for £350,000 - but it did come with a free two bedroom flat. I think it will catch on.

Anyway, my lovely friend Pam has a piece of land on a local allotment where she keeps chickens – most of which she has reared herself. When new chicks start laying for the first time, they often lay what is known as ‘wind’ eggs. Usually, this means there is nothing in the shell or perhaps just a bit of albumen and no yolk. She emailed me to ask if I wanted to name this chicken so I’ve suggested ‘whirl’.

I’m advising local people who know us, if they should see Mum outside the Co-op not to offer her a lift home. I have an agreement with the manager that she only gets to leave once she’s made £500 or has three toilet rolls.

Keep well and feel free to call us at any time.

16th April 2020

I have just come to realise in these few short weeks how I’ve neglected the housework. I wouldn’t mind if I had an excuse, so I’m spending quite a lot of my time finding reasons to delay making a start. Earlier this week I walked into the kitchen just as the sun was bouncing off the worktops. To my horror they were filthy. How could that be?!

I set about making good (which took bloody ages) and then turned to see the glass-top dinner table had gone from clear to frosted in appearance. My initial thought was bollocks, and then it dawned on me. We have no visitors; no one likely to peer through the windows, so I figured as long as I didn’t write in the dust or disturb it in any way no one will be any the wiser. As it happens Mum was telling me this morning, that the reason the stained glass windows in Notre Dame were saved from the fire last April was because of 100 years’ worth of dust coating them. You can see where I’m going with this…

Before I drive Mum to the Co-op each morning she gets herself a large bowl of cereal. This is invariably Crunchy Nut or cornflakes, and as these boxes are stored in the utility room, she fills her bowl over the sink and adds milk from the kitchen fridge next door. Sometimes, to save time, (I’m not exactly sure what she’s saving this time for) she preps her bowl the night before. Just to liven things up a bit Mum may not mention this fascinating piece of information to me.

I rarely bother with putting lights on, until it starts getting dark, and if I know my way around a room and am just popping in to do something that doesn’t require vision (like splitting an atom), I don’t turn on the light. The utility room has a strip light which is so bright I start speaking Spanish (think Inquisition) every time I switch it on. So I needed to put something by the back door yesterday, and left the light off. Half way in there was a crunching sound. I have no idea why, but I just kept right on walking; sadly the crunching didn’t stop. It was with me to the back door and also as I went back to the kitchen door where the light switch is.

I turned the light on and waited for my eyeballs to settle down and the stars to diminish, and once they had adjusted, I realised that Mum must have been holding the cornflakes box upside down to walk it to her bowl. Clearing up the powdered cornflakes and washing the base of my slippers are two hours I’m never getting back.

The next day Mum asks if I’m making a shopping list. When I confirm she says;

‘Oh good! Add cornflakes, will you? God knows where they’ve gone – you haven’t been eating them, have you?’

Next time I need to put something by the back door it will be mum-shaped.

Your parents/grandparents doubtless taught you not to waste anything and all; the old bits of string, buttons and elastic always got saved because they’re bound to come in handy one day. The same, it seems in my mother’s case, applies to food too. I bought some Cornish clotted cream just before the lockdown, at her behest, to go with some strawberries. Yesterday I bought raspberries, and she asked me if I could check if there was any cream left.

The lid was slightly bowed and even given this fairly significant clue I still took the lid off. The smell hit you along with a fine dust that came off the mould. Mum asked me if the cream was alright; the bottom layer was deep purple and the top layer was fuzzy, but bearing in mind what I’d been through with the cornflakes, I simply said if she scrapped off the mould I’m sure it would be fine.

She complained to me later that evening that it tasted funny. She still ate it though.

Anyway, it’s been delightfully warm for a few days, so I’ve relished sitting in the garden. Oddly, almost regardless of the warmth of the day, when the night draws in, Mum tends to get cold feet. To this end she wears a pair of bed socks, donning them in the evening while watching television, then toddling off to bed wearing them until she gets up the next day.

These socks were made by an old lady many years ago who was a friend and neighbour. They were knitted using super thick ply yarn soft wool, and a single ball with a two-foot diameter only made one sock. These socks don’t even reach the knee – I mean Mum is only six-stone wringing wet - and they only go half way up her calf. Anyway, she had one sock for her birthday in June and one for Christmas; not because the friend was being mean, but they took so long to make, she thought Mum would like the benefit of one while she was waiting for the other.

On the day Mum moved house we realised the socks took up so much room in the furniture van, it was decided to use them as buffers to stop the sideboard getting scratched.

So I’m pouring my ninth glass of wine (well it was past eleven in the morning), when Mum comes into the lounge to say she’s lost her bed socks.

‘What do you mean, lost?’ I asked.

‘I mean I can’t see them anywhere’

‘But you can’t see me, so how can you not see the socks? I mean they take up half your bedroom floor space’

So I started with the type of question that would obviously be the most helpful;

‘When did you last see them?’

For a blind woman she can throw things with amazing accuracy.

So Sherlock here asked her if she had worn them the night before in bed, and when this was confirmed, I asked her if she had them on when she went for a shower that morning. By now I was tired of the family heirlooms being lobbed at me and went off in search of the socks.

I actually couldn’t see them, but the fact that Mum’s king size bed was pushed half way into the room made me suspect they’d somehow fallen down the back. I never try to ask how things get where they get in Mum’s room, as it takes real courage to enter without the aid of a Boy Scout and ball of string.

Even the sheep in the field opposite were beginning to look worried for fear of their fleeces being required for the possible replacements. Luckily none of them are lilac so they should be safe.

I collected Mum from the Co-op on Saturday and she’d been given a total of £465.15. I asked her who gave her the fifteen pence and she said ‘everyone’.

24th April 2020

As you know Mum really can’t see any more, but she did mention she sensed a certain ‘brightness’ as I passed her coming in from the garden the other day. I was pink I’ll grant you.

Don’t you find that everything looks so much more pronounced when you’re sitting in dazzling sunlight? Sadly, the true horror of my leg hair came to my attention while I was trying to apply sun lotion to my lower limbs. I use the word trying in the loosest sense; it was more like rubbing cream into Velcro. My legs looked like Christmas trees but fairer and less dense; although that’s a matter of opinion.

This is not a good look, but having committed myself to smearing over forty-seven pounds worth of cream already, I decided to wait until that evening to shave my legs.

I had a lovely hot shower and dealt with the task in hand, however, just as I was turning the water off I noticed some blood. My immediate reaction was it couldn’t be mine (British Mensa are on to me) as I was not in pain; this was my logic. Anyway, as it turned out I had taken a slice of skin from the back of my ankle.

As it happened I had recently bought some plasters claiming to be ‘extra tough waterproof fabric using Hi-Dry Tex technology’; now if there was ever a made-up technology that would be it. Anyway, a pack of twelve cost slightly more than the national debt; so they had to be good.

They have a waterproof and breathable membrane (probably like your average duck) and claim to stick reliably (although I would imagine that would depend on the user quite frankly), so I pop one of these masterpieces to the back of my leg.

I shower every day, so when I caught sight of the technologically advanced plaster still stuck firmly to my leg four days later, I was actually genuinely impressed and thought I’d better take it off to discover the extent of the self-incurred wound. Some people prolong the agony with a slow removal, I opted for the no pain no gain option, and whipped off the plaster in a nanosecond (it took me five minutes to build up to this nanosecond mind you). The irony of my new grown leg hair being removed with this plaster removal wasn’t lost on me.

Every time I make a decision to do a task that involves a bit of time and effort, I feel that it gives me the right to be smug, and allowed to mention the completed chore at periods throughout the day; until told to shut up.

I got fed up with traipsing through leaves which seemed to gather at the back of the house (it’s like a wind trap) and the birds have had great fun chucking bits of moss and crap from the roof and drains; so with a broom and green wheelie bin in hand, off I go.

It was one of those days where the wind was noticeable, a bit nippy and building up to a gust.

Thicko here hadn’t really taken this into account.

I started weeding. One weed (again in my defence at the back of the house so not easily visible to anyone), was as tall as Mum, and at one point I felt almost proud of being able to grow such a spectacular plant. It was so impressive I was thinking of posing next to it and sending a copy to the local press (like people looking proud next to big game). On second thoughts I wondered why I should be pleased; in amongst the weeds I discovered real plants, many herbs, pine cones and a caravan. The family inside were slightly more surprised than me.

Anyway, I had sweeping to get on with. My thought process was to gather piles of leaves and put them in the wheelie bin as I went. You may think this is a well-thought-out, structured approach, but actually as I started to sweep, the vast amount of leaves became more and more difficult to move. At one point I had a three-foot bank in front of me. So small manageable piles it was. In the walled yard I had about five heaps, the back of the house I had maybe three, and by the washing line two.

It started well. However, by the time I’d got to the walled bit all my lovely piles had managed to fashion themselves back to their original position so it didn’t look like I’d swept in the first place. After the fourth attempt I realised unless I trapped and picked up one leaf at a time, I was never going to get the job done.

When Mum came into the garden a couple of days later, she expressed surprise at being knee-deep in leaves. I haven’t thought of a suitable excuse yet.

So, given Mum’s poor sight, it was a bit of a surprise when she asked me to wipe the bird poo from her bedroom window. She explained that she had already been outside to try and remove it herself but the sun was too bright and she couldn’t be sure where it was.

‘You’ll need a damp cloth, something vast and cotton,’ explained Mum, adding ‘like a pair of your old pants.’ Yes, yes, thank you.

Well suffice to say the poo was considerable and I went back in for a bucket of soapy water. All I could think was the bird must have halved its body weight; it must have shot up like someone releasing a parachute.

I always mention Mum’s eyesight, but she is also slightly deaf in her right ear; not a recent thing. Mum suffered with earache as a child and as this was before the NHS, her mother would treat it with a poultice (wing of bat, eye of toad type of thing), but it transpired Mum really did have a problem and a few years ago got a deaf aid. She doesn’t like to wear it in case it deteriorates and the batteries wear down. It’s a war thing.

It’s a very discreet device and as her hair covers her ears, I usually can’t see it. I only get a clue if it’s in situ and the conversation goes something like:

‘Mum, what would you like for tea?’

‘I thought I heard something!’

‘Sorry? I just wanted to know what you want for tea.’

‘I asked you to check when you went into the dining room.’

‘You did?’

‘Yes, it needs to be released, I could distinctly hear it.’ (yeah right)

‘What?’

‘The bee.’

‘Mum, put your hearing aid in.’

‘No put it outside, not in the bin.’

‘PUT YOUR HEARING AID IN.’

To avoid draughts Mum often puts a piece of cotton wool in her ear. I walked in the sitting