On Monday, Dad said he's planning to live for another twenty years. That would be until he's ninety-six.
"Oh bloody hell." I said.
Dad laughed.
Saturday, 2 August 2008
Friday, 1 August 2008
1993
It is 1993 (maybe early 1994) and I am sitting on a bench in the city's second best shopping centre with my friend JM. We think we probably look about 20 but in fact we look 17. Just 17.
We have been mooching about as teenagers are inclined to do, with no particular obligations on our time and no real responsibilities. We looked cool sitting cross legged smoking.
In retrospect I'm not sure what we looked like but I'm sure as anything that we didn't look cool.
JM laughed and said
"It's your dad. Ha ha ha ha ha..."
I thought she was joking in an attempt to get me to drop my cigarette.
"R_." boomed the old sea-dog behind me. "Are you smoking?"
"No." I said, despite holding in my hand evidence that I was, indeed, smoking.
"Put those out." He commanded.
JM and I reached round to stub them out on the side of the bench.
"Not there!" he boomed and made us put them in the bin.
He eventually went on his way and we went on ours, to a quiet corner of one of the parks to smoke more cigarettes.
We have been mooching about as teenagers are inclined to do, with no particular obligations on our time and no real responsibilities. We looked cool sitting cross legged smoking.
In retrospect I'm not sure what we looked like but I'm sure as anything that we didn't look cool.
JM laughed and said
"It's your dad. Ha ha ha ha ha..."
I thought she was joking in an attempt to get me to drop my cigarette.
"R_." boomed the old sea-dog behind me. "Are you smoking?"
"No." I said, despite holding in my hand evidence that I was, indeed, smoking.
"Put those out." He commanded.
JM and I reached round to stub them out on the side of the bench.
"Not there!" he boomed and made us put them in the bin.
He eventually went on his way and we went on ours, to a quiet corner of one of the parks to smoke more cigarettes.
Tuesday, 1 July 2008
The pater
J's paternity test dodging father is getting married in the church where my aunt plays the organ and, coincidentally, the parish administrator.
Of course she told me, and I told the CSA. I also told Dad, who wants to attend the wedding along with his heavies. I'm not sure, though, how exactly a bunch of ex navy old duffers with peculiar hats and beards would scare anyone. Maybe I'm just used to them.
Of course she told me, and I told the CSA. I also told Dad, who wants to attend the wedding along with his heavies. I'm not sure, though, how exactly a bunch of ex navy old duffers with peculiar hats and beards would scare anyone. Maybe I'm just used to them.
Wednesday, 16 April 2008
Dad angry.
Having been told (by me) to leave me well alone for at least a week after the hoover incident, Dad comes round the next day.
I have just put the little one to bed for a daytime nap, J is occupied and I am imminently going to smoke in the garden. There is a knock at the front door.
I just know it is my dad. I hide my cigarettes.
He's looking through the front window. He also now has keys. There is no escape.
I expect he's being sociable but I had no warning that he was going to apparate here right now. I am actually very rude to him but I don't care as I am still angry about the hoover. He's angry that I am angry and tells me that he will lose interest in me.
I know it's unseemly but it kind of makes me want to laugh.
I have just put the little one to bed for a daytime nap, J is occupied and I am imminently going to smoke in the garden. There is a knock at the front door.
I just know it is my dad. I hide my cigarettes.
He's looking through the front window. He also now has keys. There is no escape.
I expect he's being sociable but I had no warning that he was going to apparate here right now. I am actually very rude to him but I don't care as I am still angry about the hoover. He's angry that I am angry and tells me that he will lose interest in me.
I know it's unseemly but it kind of makes me want to laugh.
Tuesday, 15 April 2008
Hoover. Recent.
Unlike previous posts, this is not a historical event. More of that later. This is a random Dad moan.
Whilst away on holiday for a week, Dad persuades me to leave him a set of keys to my house. I gave him Ns keys and told him this so he would not entertain any ideas about keeping them. The reason he needed the keys was to remove the rubble from the remodelling of the garden. This is extremely helpful and very hard work, although, to be fair, before N went away he made sure the chunks were reasonably small and I then put the reasonably small chunks into reasonably light bags that I could reasonably have removed myself. So, I knew really that he just felt left out that several people have keys and he doesn't.
He doesn't have keys because I strongly dislike him turning up without warning, much less able to get in and catch me mooching about in my pyjamas.
Anyway, to explain what pissed me off I need to set the scene.
N has gone away with the Army, I am trying to make time pass faster until he comes back. To this end I visit my mother, abroad. We are late getting off a late ferry, the little one has barely slept and has a temperature, J is being lovely generally and I am themost exhausted I remember having been. When we arrive home the only parking space is 100m away from the front door. It is also raining. Exhausted, I tell J to carry the little one in for me and I attempt to unload the car as quickly as possible. As such I carry two large bags in each hand and the keys in my mouth. I unlock the front door and pick up the bags again hoping to totter my way through the house and put them out of the way in the dining room.
I trip, bruising my legs and my head. It makes me want to cry real tears because I am already tired. I turn on the dining room light which clearly shows my vacuum cleaner plugged into a socket in the kitchen and left in the middle of the hallway.
Whilst away on holiday for a week, Dad persuades me to leave him a set of keys to my house. I gave him Ns keys and told him this so he would not entertain any ideas about keeping them. The reason he needed the keys was to remove the rubble from the remodelling of the garden. This is extremely helpful and very hard work, although, to be fair, before N went away he made sure the chunks were reasonably small and I then put the reasonably small chunks into reasonably light bags that I could reasonably have removed myself. So, I knew really that he just felt left out that several people have keys and he doesn't.
He doesn't have keys because I strongly dislike him turning up without warning, much less able to get in and catch me mooching about in my pyjamas.
Anyway, to explain what pissed me off I need to set the scene.
N has gone away with the Army, I am trying to make time pass faster until he comes back. To this end I visit my mother, abroad. We are late getting off a late ferry, the little one has barely slept and has a temperature, J is being lovely generally and I am themost exhausted I remember having been. When we arrive home the only parking space is 100m away from the front door. It is also raining. Exhausted, I tell J to carry the little one in for me and I attempt to unload the car as quickly as possible. As such I carry two large bags in each hand and the keys in my mouth. I unlock the front door and pick up the bags again hoping to totter my way through the house and put them out of the way in the dining room.
I trip, bruising my legs and my head. It makes me want to cry real tears because I am already tired. I turn on the dining room light which clearly shows my vacuum cleaner plugged into a socket in the kitchen and left in the middle of the hallway.
Tuesday, 18 March 2008
Fast forward
New boyfriend A and I have lived in the pretty rented house in an upmarket area for about three weeks when the company he works for announces that his department is being relocated.
After six months we move again. The new location is convenient for one of the universities I applied for. It wasn’t my first choice and my decision is based mainly on its proximity to new boyfriend A’s workplace.
Living in a small flat, A and I begin to dislike each other. Still, we look for a house to buy together. In fact, I am there at his mercy. As a student I have no assets to contribute to a house but we are a couple and have already decided we’re in it for the long haul, so I don’t see that as a problem. I will be able to contribute more when I have a degree, anyway I do all the housework (badly), cooking (badly) and laundry (badly).
I rake through local papers and estate agents’ listings and eventually find a house around the corner which seems to be the right size and right price.
New boyfriend A is able to afford to buy the house because his grandparents are giving him £75,000 for a deposit. Even now, looking at that figure makes me feel dizzy.
We complete in December and intend to move in the first week of January.
After New Year he tells me he doesn’t love me. I can’t remember why I don’t leave then but we move in as planned. In order for me to be able to move in with A, I sign a disclaimer. I will never be entitled to a share of the house’s value. At the time I don’t consider the long term implications of this.
Things pick up, I lose weight and look pretty again. I’m doing well with my degree, though not yet so well that it has gone to my head.
Dad makes a request. A and I are invited to his Royal Navy old boys’ reunion.
Great.
After six months we move again. The new location is convenient for one of the universities I applied for. It wasn’t my first choice and my decision is based mainly on its proximity to new boyfriend A’s workplace.
Living in a small flat, A and I begin to dislike each other. Still, we look for a house to buy together. In fact, I am there at his mercy. As a student I have no assets to contribute to a house but we are a couple and have already decided we’re in it for the long haul, so I don’t see that as a problem. I will be able to contribute more when I have a degree, anyway I do all the housework (badly), cooking (badly) and laundry (badly).
I rake through local papers and estate agents’ listings and eventually find a house around the corner which seems to be the right size and right price.
New boyfriend A is able to afford to buy the house because his grandparents are giving him £75,000 for a deposit. Even now, looking at that figure makes me feel dizzy.
We complete in December and intend to move in the first week of January.
After New Year he tells me he doesn’t love me. I can’t remember why I don’t leave then but we move in as planned. In order for me to be able to move in with A, I sign a disclaimer. I will never be entitled to a share of the house’s value. At the time I don’t consider the long term implications of this.
Things pick up, I lose weight and look pretty again. I’m doing well with my degree, though not yet so well that it has gone to my head.
Dad makes a request. A and I are invited to his Royal Navy old boys’ reunion.
Great.
Wednesday, 12 March 2008
Table
New boyfriend A and I have moved in together. We have left my hometown and moved an hour's drive away, so that A can be close to his new post-doctoral job. Dad is very proud of A for having a PhD and of me for bagging him. My university applications have gone in, three of which are London colleges, one for teaching, one for Sussex and one for Kent. So far I have offers from two. In due course I will receive offers from all of them.
Our new house is pleasant and light but bare. I am not working immediately, until J settles into the local school.
This is the closest I have come to living in a pseudo-nuclear family in my life. I have my nose pressed againstthe cold window of the Ikea catalogue trying to work out how to complete the rosy picture. I am too grateful to A to see, yet, what he really thinks of me.
Dad wants to buy us a kitchen table. He drives us to a country pine warehouse. Nothing here looks anything like anything in the Ikea catalogue. Any item of furniture from here will only add discord to thepicture of family life. It would not co-ordinate with the Klippan sofa, the Gruntdal cutlery or the Svepa glasses. I hate everything here. Dad points to a round table. I hate it and request a square table or maybe a rectangular one, maybe in a fashionable blond wood with cuboid legs and straight backs. There is no such item in the country pine warehouse.
A has also been looking at the Ikea catalogue and agrees on thekid of thing we need.
A tells Dad the the yellow pine, flouncy table would be just right. Dad says it would be a good size and sensible. He says it's a family kitchen table, to last a lifetime.
The table is ugly.
A says a circular table would work well in our kitchen. Dad says yes, he's always preferred circular tables.
In that case I think he should get it for himself.
He gets us the table which he delivers and constructs two weeks later.
I hate the table.
Our new house is pleasant and light but bare. I am not working immediately, until J settles into the local school.
This is the closest I have come to living in a pseudo-nuclear family in my life. I have my nose pressed againstthe cold window of the Ikea catalogue trying to work out how to complete the rosy picture. I am too grateful to A to see, yet, what he really thinks of me.
Dad wants to buy us a kitchen table. He drives us to a country pine warehouse. Nothing here looks anything like anything in the Ikea catalogue. Any item of furniture from here will only add discord to thepicture of family life. It would not co-ordinate with the Klippan sofa, the Gruntdal cutlery or the Svepa glasses. I hate everything here. Dad points to a round table. I hate it and request a square table or maybe a rectangular one, maybe in a fashionable blond wood with cuboid legs and straight backs. There is no such item in the country pine warehouse.
A has also been looking at the Ikea catalogue and agrees on thekid of thing we need.
A tells Dad the the yellow pine, flouncy table would be just right. Dad says it would be a good size and sensible. He says it's a family kitchen table, to last a lifetime.
The table is ugly.
A says a circular table would work well in our kitchen. Dad says yes, he's always preferred circular tables.
In that case I think he should get it for himself.
He gets us the table which he delivers and constructs two weeks later.
I hate the table.
Tuesday, 11 March 2008
Tooth
After his initial disapproval of my meeting any man with any intention under any circumstance, Dad gets on quite well with new boyfriend A. A is in his final few months of a PhD which Dad is finds impressive. He doesn’t discuss it much with A but I get the distinct impression that finally I have done something he can be proud of.
I have a week off my low grade and mentally unchallenging civil service job. Late the previous week, on the way home from work whilst eating a strawberry shoelace, I cracked a tooth. It was a bottom tooth. At the time, the sound of the tooth breaking reverberated around my skull and bothered me far more than the negligible pain. Since then, though, I had realised the tooth had split into two pieces, top to bottom, and that the outer half wiggled disturbingly.
I try to make an appointment with my dentist and am told that I have been struck off for cancellingtwo appointments with less than 24 hours notice. I attribute this to my line manager and grumble about it to new boyfriend A. A's flatmate's girlfriend, S, tells me that the same dentist did the same thing to her. I feel less targetted but realise I'm going to have to see the emergency dentist.
After making several phone calls they tell me to go for an appointment at a clinic which isn't on a bus route or within walking distance. I call Dad to ask him to drive me and look after J while I have my appointment.
The tooth has to come out. It is completely beyond repair but the extraction is not straightforward and I am in the chair for around 40 minutes. I am white when I go back into the waiting room. J is pushing a toy car around and Dad is reading an out of date women's magazine. I have a prescription for some extra strong Ibuprofen.
Dad does not take me home. I am supposed to be supervised for 24 hours. Instead we go to the new house, stopping at the village chemist to get the prescription filled. Dad sits in the car with J and I go in to the chemist. Due to the length of the extraction, the anasthetic has almost worn off and I feel as though I have been kicked in the face by a horse. The chemist is quite busy but my prescription will be ready in ten minutes. I sit on a standing stool and try not to cry.
Dad is tunelessly singing 'Wheels on the Bus' to J who has climbed into the front and is doing the actions without singing. I get in the back.
When we get to Dad's new house I take the Ibuprofen, my mouth filling with blood. I phone A and cry. He's coming to pick me up.
Dad puts me to bed in his room. I don't have a nap. It is curious that Dad is now using the lower half of the old bunk bed and his duvet cover of choice is my old Holly Hobby set.
I have a week off my low grade and mentally unchallenging civil service job. Late the previous week, on the way home from work whilst eating a strawberry shoelace, I cracked a tooth. It was a bottom tooth. At the time, the sound of the tooth breaking reverberated around my skull and bothered me far more than the negligible pain. Since then, though, I had realised the tooth had split into two pieces, top to bottom, and that the outer half wiggled disturbingly.
I try to make an appointment with my dentist and am told that I have been struck off for cancellingtwo appointments with less than 24 hours notice. I attribute this to my line manager and grumble about it to new boyfriend A. A's flatmate's girlfriend, S, tells me that the same dentist did the same thing to her. I feel less targetted but realise I'm going to have to see the emergency dentist.
After making several phone calls they tell me to go for an appointment at a clinic which isn't on a bus route or within walking distance. I call Dad to ask him to drive me and look after J while I have my appointment.
The tooth has to come out. It is completely beyond repair but the extraction is not straightforward and I am in the chair for around 40 minutes. I am white when I go back into the waiting room. J is pushing a toy car around and Dad is reading an out of date women's magazine. I have a prescription for some extra strong Ibuprofen.
Dad does not take me home. I am supposed to be supervised for 24 hours. Instead we go to the new house, stopping at the village chemist to get the prescription filled. Dad sits in the car with J and I go in to the chemist. Due to the length of the extraction, the anasthetic has almost worn off and I feel as though I have been kicked in the face by a horse. The chemist is quite busy but my prescription will be ready in ten minutes. I sit on a standing stool and try not to cry.
Dad is tunelessly singing 'Wheels on the Bus' to J who has climbed into the front and is doing the actions without singing. I get in the back.
When we get to Dad's new house I take the Ibuprofen, my mouth filling with blood. I phone A and cry. He's coming to pick me up.
Dad puts me to bed in his room. I don't have a nap. It is curious that Dad is now using the lower half of the old bunk bed and his duvet cover of choice is my old Holly Hobby set.
Thursday, 6 March 2008
Workshop
After helping Dad move every day for a month, I have got fed up and found myself gainful employment. J is with a childminder all day for five days a week, and I do not yet have the maturity to admit that it is probably better for him than being with me all the time.
As such I have not seen Dad's new house for a while. The house has become rapidly messier and dustier, the dogs installed on the sofa and occasionally rambling between boxes and randomly placed furniture. The kitchen unit has been constructed but the sink is not yet plumbed in. Some crockery has been put away haphazardly and anyway is inaccessible due to the large heap in the kitchen. It is a mixture of odds and ends that complete collections or items that are otherwise lost.
The kitchen is an acidic yellow which Dad is unlikely to repaint, but the afternoon sunshine streaming in gives it a faded nuclear zing, almost pretty. The conservatory is really a glazed lean-to, which now houses a combination of lovely and junk items, which don't obscure the view of the garden from the kitchen.
Dad calls me into the garden. He wants to show me the beginnings of his workshop. The supplies for building the workshop have been delivered and are in the driveway, there is obviously no stopping the project at this late stage.
He has dug out the foundations immediately to the right of the back door. I realise that the workshop will take up most of the nearest bit of the garden, leaving room for a small path. It will take up around a third of the garden. The view will be lost and J will be unable to use the swing which Dad has made him on the apple tree but Dad will be able to get to his new workshop within three seconds of leaving the kitchen.
As such I have not seen Dad's new house for a while. The house has become rapidly messier and dustier, the dogs installed on the sofa and occasionally rambling between boxes and randomly placed furniture. The kitchen unit has been constructed but the sink is not yet plumbed in. Some crockery has been put away haphazardly and anyway is inaccessible due to the large heap in the kitchen. It is a mixture of odds and ends that complete collections or items that are otherwise lost.
The kitchen is an acidic yellow which Dad is unlikely to repaint, but the afternoon sunshine streaming in gives it a faded nuclear zing, almost pretty. The conservatory is really a glazed lean-to, which now houses a combination of lovely and junk items, which don't obscure the view of the garden from the kitchen.
Dad calls me into the garden. He wants to show me the beginnings of his workshop. The supplies for building the workshop have been delivered and are in the driveway, there is obviously no stopping the project at this late stage.
He has dug out the foundations immediately to the right of the back door. I realise that the workshop will take up most of the nearest bit of the garden, leaving room for a small path. It will take up around a third of the garden. The view will be lost and J will be unable to use the swing which Dad has made him on the apple tree but Dad will be able to get to his new workshop within three seconds of leaving the kitchen.
Wednesday, 5 March 2008
Garden
I can't remember how the estate agents actually did describe Dad's new house, but it may well have been something like this:
"1950s bungalow, 3 double bedrooms, lounge/diner, kitchen and conservatory in need of modernisation. Mature gardens front and back with established trees."
That would, of course, have been the shorter version, probably with a tagline 'viewing highly recommended', with an emphasis on the garden.
Before he actually started moving, Dad had some changes made. He sensibly had double glazing fitted throughout, including front and back doors, and had the long window at the back of the dining room turned into French doors, opening into the conservatory facing the garden. It was a really lovely view.
When the bulk of the moving was more or less complete, Dad fixed a swing up for J on a low branch of the apple tree. In the late spring the grass was starting to need cutting, flowers were blooming and the dogs sniffed enthusiastically while J just ran around.
The garage was just about bursting with Dad's pieces of wood and the neighbour had kindly agreed to let Dad store the hefty 1930s kitchen unit from my grandmother's house in his garage. Dad, quite reasonably, decided he should build himself some sort of workshop in the garden.
"1950s bungalow, 3 double bedrooms, lounge/diner, kitchen and conservatory in need of modernisation. Mature gardens front and back with established trees."
That would, of course, have been the shorter version, probably with a tagline 'viewing highly recommended', with an emphasis on the garden.
Before he actually started moving, Dad had some changes made. He sensibly had double glazing fitted throughout, including front and back doors, and had the long window at the back of the dining room turned into French doors, opening into the conservatory facing the garden. It was a really lovely view.
When the bulk of the moving was more or less complete, Dad fixed a swing up for J on a low branch of the apple tree. In the late spring the grass was starting to need cutting, flowers were blooming and the dogs sniffed enthusiastically while J just ran around.
The garage was just about bursting with Dad's pieces of wood and the neighbour had kindly agreed to let Dad store the hefty 1930s kitchen unit from my grandmother's house in his garage. Dad, quite reasonably, decided he should build himself some sort of workshop in the garden.
Thursday, 28 February 2008
Kitchen
We are standing in the kitchen at the old house. J is thirsty and I pour him a little apple juice into one of the blue dotty Bakelite cups which I wipe first with my sleeve. He puts it on the side and potters off to read or at least pull the flaps out of more of my lift-the-flap books.
I feel bad that Mum saved them so carefully and I have let J tear them up.
Dad is looking around the kitchen scratching his head. At this point, he wants to take the cabinets down. I am not sure why. He dismisses the idea for now and decided that instead we should pack up the contents of the big cupboards. Dad takes the cupboard with the white sliding doors and the colony of spiders and I take the corner cupboard with the colony of spiders.
I would prefer the opportunity to remove the spiders first but this doesn't occur to Dad. I suspect he just eats any that walk onto his hand.
Dad decants ancient Amway cleaning products into plastic boxes. There is rust on most of them. There are also unidentified jars and tins which are also placed uncritically in the box for the new house.
I take a bin bag. Almost everything in the corner cupboard that was originally food is years out of date. I find a dusty jumbo pack of plastic plates, probably from one of my birthday parties as a kid, and ditch that too.
Dad comes over to see what I'm doing. He removes from the bin bag some out-of-date oats, some out-of-date moulding icing, a crusted-shut bottle of milkshake syrup and the plastic plates and puts them into another plastic box for the new house.
He pours some unidentified clear liquid into one of the Bakelite cups and sniffs it. He is unsure what it is but to me it smells strongly of turps. I think there must be something up with his nose.
Eventually we have several grubby plastic boxes and two bin bags to take. We load them into the car and go back into the kitchen. J potters in carrying brightly coloured flaps from my old lift-the-flap books. I pick him up for a second and then put him down again and he goes to take a sip of his apple juice.
Immediately his face twists into a grimace and he cries. I realise that he drank from the wrong cup and has taken a sip of the turps. J is crying and there is no sink in the kitchen. I try to carry him to the bathroom sink but Dad is standing in the way. I ask Dad to call a doctor but he refuses. He has to get the trailer back to the hire centre by 5pm or will be charged for an extra day.
Finally in the bathroom I splash J's mouth with water and he's calming down a little. Dad is shouting at me that I want to waste his money by preventing him taking the trailer back on time. I ask him to drop J and I off at Casualty.
He tells me he's had just about enough of me and that I can get myself home. He's not interested, he's not interested.
I walk up to the village pharmacy with J. One of my old primary school friends is working there and we pretend not to recognise each other. I speak to the chemist who reassures me and says that it seems as if J spat out the turps and any residue has been rinsed away.
We need to get a bus home. It has been years since I have taken a bus from the village into town. We wait forten minutes and one arrives. I am 3p short of the fare, and I begin to cry. This is all the money I have until next Tuesday. The driver takes what I have and lets us on.
I feel bad that Mum saved them so carefully and I have let J tear them up.
Dad is looking around the kitchen scratching his head. At this point, he wants to take the cabinets down. I am not sure why. He dismisses the idea for now and decided that instead we should pack up the contents of the big cupboards. Dad takes the cupboard with the white sliding doors and the colony of spiders and I take the corner cupboard with the colony of spiders.
I would prefer the opportunity to remove the spiders first but this doesn't occur to Dad. I suspect he just eats any that walk onto his hand.
Dad decants ancient Amway cleaning products into plastic boxes. There is rust on most of them. There are also unidentified jars and tins which are also placed uncritically in the box for the new house.
I take a bin bag. Almost everything in the corner cupboard that was originally food is years out of date. I find a dusty jumbo pack of plastic plates, probably from one of my birthday parties as a kid, and ditch that too.
Dad comes over to see what I'm doing. He removes from the bin bag some out-of-date oats, some out-of-date moulding icing, a crusted-shut bottle of milkshake syrup and the plastic plates and puts them into another plastic box for the new house.
He pours some unidentified clear liquid into one of the Bakelite cups and sniffs it. He is unsure what it is but to me it smells strongly of turps. I think there must be something up with his nose.
Eventually we have several grubby plastic boxes and two bin bags to take. We load them into the car and go back into the kitchen. J potters in carrying brightly coloured flaps from my old lift-the-flap books. I pick him up for a second and then put him down again and he goes to take a sip of his apple juice.
Immediately his face twists into a grimace and he cries. I realise that he drank from the wrong cup and has taken a sip of the turps. J is crying and there is no sink in the kitchen. I try to carry him to the bathroom sink but Dad is standing in the way. I ask Dad to call a doctor but he refuses. He has to get the trailer back to the hire centre by 5pm or will be charged for an extra day.
Finally in the bathroom I splash J's mouth with water and he's calming down a little. Dad is shouting at me that I want to waste his money by preventing him taking the trailer back on time. I ask him to drop J and I off at Casualty.
He tells me he's had just about enough of me and that I can get myself home. He's not interested, he's not interested.
I walk up to the village pharmacy with J. One of my old primary school friends is working there and we pretend not to recognise each other. I speak to the chemist who reassures me and says that it seems as if J spat out the turps and any residue has been rinsed away.
We need to get a bus home. It has been years since I have taken a bus from the village into town. We wait forten minutes and one arrives. I am 3p short of the fare, and I begin to cry. This is all the money I have until next Tuesday. The driver takes what I have and lets us on.
Monday, 25 February 2008
Pieces of wood
We take a break from the house and trek down to the bottom of the garden. Dad wants to take the contents of the garage.
To the best of my knowledge, the garage has only been opened a few times since we moved here but Dad feels strongly that leaving it would be wasteful. The door opens a couple of inches and then jams. Inside, I hope that this will mean we can leave the garage, but Dad shakes the door until it opens wide enough to spray some WD40 on the hinges. Eventually, we manage to open the door about three feet, showering us with crumbs of rust as we edge underneath.
Around two feet of the garage is accessible, the rest of it is stacked with pieces of wood of varying sizes. These are what Dad wants to put inthe new garage. Looking around in the damp, the only light seeping in from a small, ivy covered window, I realise that not only is the new garage much smaller, but that Dad is also using it to house his favourite dinghy. A spatial logic defying feat similar to the one in the loft will be required to do this.
I begin to suspect that the job will be much easier if my brother is on side. As a craftsman, he could, at least, dissuade Dad slightly from the idea that the wood in the garage is all worth saving.
Dad insists that it is worth thousands of pounds and must be taken.
I call M, my elder brother. We discuss hiring a skip but that is too expensive. A few days later, M comes to help. He helps a little but in reality, he and Dad are alike. They fail to leave anything but household rubbish at the tip, instead coming back with interesting items they have bought.
To the best of my knowledge, the garage has only been opened a few times since we moved here but Dad feels strongly that leaving it would be wasteful. The door opens a couple of inches and then jams. Inside, I hope that this will mean we can leave the garage, but Dad shakes the door until it opens wide enough to spray some WD40 on the hinges. Eventually, we manage to open the door about three feet, showering us with crumbs of rust as we edge underneath.
Around two feet of the garage is accessible, the rest of it is stacked with pieces of wood of varying sizes. These are what Dad wants to put inthe new garage. Looking around in the damp, the only light seeping in from a small, ivy covered window, I realise that not only is the new garage much smaller, but that Dad is also using it to house his favourite dinghy. A spatial logic defying feat similar to the one in the loft will be required to do this.
I begin to suspect that the job will be much easier if my brother is on side. As a craftsman, he could, at least, dissuade Dad slightly from the idea that the wood in the garage is all worth saving.
Dad insists that it is worth thousands of pounds and must be taken.
I call M, my elder brother. We discuss hiring a skip but that is too expensive. A few days later, M comes to help. He helps a little but in reality, he and Dad are alike. They fail to leave anything but household rubbish at the tip, instead coming back with interesting items they have bought.
Friday, 22 February 2008
Gaps
Gaps begin to appear in the old house. At first, small gaps appear when junk is cleared, and then larger gaps. Less gaps than holes. The opening in the worktop where the sink used to be is ringed with a dubious grime that is greenish in tone. The Aga has gone, its outline marked by the absence of paint or floor tiles.
Dad is not coping well. He has not yet plumbed the sink into the new house as the current sink unit dates from the 1950s and is too small to accommodate Dad's 1980s maxi-sink. When he realised this, he took it out immediately. Dad bought a new unit but still has not constructed it.
He is now sleeping at the new house, and has moved the dogs to their new home.
I am surprised that he can cope without a kitchen sink and the most cursory of crockery, but I am wrong to underestimate him. He has been using the bathroom sink to fetch water for the kettle and has been washing up when he has his baths.
My inclination is that he's teasing me and probably laughing at me from behind his beard. On closer inspection the bath has the kind of food-like debris that washing up usually leaves.
Dad is not coping well. He has not yet plumbed the sink into the new house as the current sink unit dates from the 1950s and is too small to accommodate Dad's 1980s maxi-sink. When he realised this, he took it out immediately. Dad bought a new unit but still has not constructed it.
He is now sleeping at the new house, and has moved the dogs to their new home.
I am surprised that he can cope without a kitchen sink and the most cursory of crockery, but I am wrong to underestimate him. He has been using the bathroom sink to fetch water for the kettle and has been washing up when he has his baths.
My inclination is that he's teasing me and probably laughing at me from behind his beard. On closer inspection the bath has the kind of food-like debris that washing up usually leaves.
Wednesday, 20 February 2008
The Sink
Dad has sold the Aga.The kitchen at the old house feels even more peculiar without it dominating the kitchen. The wall tiles which were chosen to match this fiery beast now look dejected and pointless in their original packaging, covered in an ever deepening layer of dust.
I am surprised to see cobwebs in the hole where the Aga used to be.
The next thing Dad intends to take is the sink. The rest of the house is far from being packed up and he is still sleeping here, but Dad feels strongly that the sink is practically new and in excellent condition. He doesn't want to be swindled out of a perfectly good sink just because he's moving house.
The sink is brown and textured. The plugholes have lost their brown coating from too many occasions of being used to rinse away various solvents. The draining area is covered in an unkown and slightly sticky layer which will not come away despite liberal doses of bleach, white spirit, vinegar and elbow grease. It's not pleasant to look at or smell but Dad really wants to take it. He can do this because the plot rather than the house is being sold.
I am surprised to see cobwebs in the hole where the Aga used to be.
The next thing Dad intends to take is the sink. The rest of the house is far from being packed up and he is still sleeping here, but Dad feels strongly that the sink is practically new and in excellent condition. He doesn't want to be swindled out of a perfectly good sink just because he's moving house.
The sink is brown and textured. The plugholes have lost their brown coating from too many occasions of being used to rinse away various solvents. The draining area is covered in an unkown and slightly sticky layer which will not come away despite liberal doses of bleach, white spirit, vinegar and elbow grease. It's not pleasant to look at or smell but Dad really wants to take it. He can do this because the plot rather than the house is being sold.
Sunday, 17 February 2008
The loft
Having made a small dent in the packing, some things have been taken to Dad's new bungalow. As it is roughly quarter of the size of the house he is leaving, most things have to go in the loft. Before we can put anything in the loft, we remove the contents of one of the attics at the old house in order to re use the boards in the new bungalow, which only has a single, unboarded loft.
Having transferred the boards, the things from the attic go into the new loft. Dad has set up a pulley system around one of the joists. He swings on it to ensure its stength. I expect the roof to fall in but the pulley holds. Thankfully the hatch to the loft is large, easily allowing various wardrobes, dressers, tables and cabinets up.
Dad is at the bottom of the ladder. It is my job to swing the furniture onto the boards and untie it. Labouriously, I push each item to the furthest edge its height can tolerate. It is tiring work but it affords me a little space from Dad as he is absorbed in the process of securely knotting of each thing onto the end of the pulley.
I come down from the loft for a break. I would like a cup of tea but there is not yet any tea making equipment here as Dad is still mainly living at the old house. I drink some of the cola I bought while Dad continues to ready things for their ascent to the new loft.
The furniture has all gone, next to go are the Pampers boxes I packed from the area that was my grandmother's sitting room. They are a good size and regular so it is quicker to shift these than the big things. Halfway through, and the boxes are stacked neatly in one corner. Dad calls up to me.
"I hope you're labelling these boxes."
I am unsure why he's asking me this, long after the boxes have been filled and sealed, but I answer the question. I answer it with a similar logic as that with which it was asked. I don't say "What?".
I say "What with?"
Dad shuffles off downstairs. I watch dust motes swirl in the light of bare bulb lamp. When he returns he climbs a few rungs of the ladder and passes me a marker pen. I should have labelled the boxes as I sealed them, but the truth is that they all contained a medley of rubbish and dust and I had forgotten any significant items. The boxes are all identical so I can't cue my memory either. He won't miss anything that's in them. He's been like an eight year old who insists he still plays with all his toddler toys at the slightest mention of getting rid of them. He won't even know they're gone.
I label the boxes. On several I write "charity shop", on others "car boot sale" and on others "tip". Dad is unaware of this but it has amused me. I suspect the next time anyone will see the boxes will be after Dad's death.
Having transferred the boards, the things from the attic go into the new loft. Dad has set up a pulley system around one of the joists. He swings on it to ensure its stength. I expect the roof to fall in but the pulley holds. Thankfully the hatch to the loft is large, easily allowing various wardrobes, dressers, tables and cabinets up.
Dad is at the bottom of the ladder. It is my job to swing the furniture onto the boards and untie it. Labouriously, I push each item to the furthest edge its height can tolerate. It is tiring work but it affords me a little space from Dad as he is absorbed in the process of securely knotting of each thing onto the end of the pulley.
I come down from the loft for a break. I would like a cup of tea but there is not yet any tea making equipment here as Dad is still mainly living at the old house. I drink some of the cola I bought while Dad continues to ready things for their ascent to the new loft.
The furniture has all gone, next to go are the Pampers boxes I packed from the area that was my grandmother's sitting room. They are a good size and regular so it is quicker to shift these than the big things. Halfway through, and the boxes are stacked neatly in one corner. Dad calls up to me.
"I hope you're labelling these boxes."
I am unsure why he's asking me this, long after the boxes have been filled and sealed, but I answer the question. I answer it with a similar logic as that with which it was asked. I don't say "What?".
I say "What with?"
Dad shuffles off downstairs. I watch dust motes swirl in the light of bare bulb lamp. When he returns he climbs a few rungs of the ladder and passes me a marker pen. I should have labelled the boxes as I sealed them, but the truth is that they all contained a medley of rubbish and dust and I had forgotten any significant items. The boxes are all identical so I can't cue my memory either. He won't miss anything that's in them. He's been like an eight year old who insists he still plays with all his toddler toys at the slightest mention of getting rid of them. He won't even know they're gone.
I label the boxes. On several I write "charity shop", on others "car boot sale" and on others "tip". Dad is unaware of this but it has amused me. I suspect the next time anyone will see the boxes will be after Dad's death.
Wednesday, 13 February 2008
Starting to move.
Dad has been in the process of moving for several weeks and yet nothing seems to have changed. Realising that the task is altogether too emotional for him I offer to help move boxes.
He has not packed anything. The contents of the house is hidden beneath layers of dust, dog hairs and papers of every variety. Many of the papers look like they could be important documents so I’m reluctant to throw them away. Instead I try to keep them in a rough pile. There are also receipts and old lottery tickets. I find a receipt for a pint of milk dated 1984 and bearing the old name of the village shop, which has changed hands at least three times since. I’m tempted to keep it as an artefact but it goes in the bin along with other minor debris.
J is pottering about, still very little and often in the way, but easily entertained looking at my childhood picture books.
My system of piling up things that look like documents and throwing away things that could only be rubbish works well until Dad comes in. Apparently I am doing it all wrong and none of this should be thrown away. He takes the bin bag from me and roots through it, retrieving, amongst other things, the receipt dated 1984.
The contents and layout of this house is not really safe for a small child and Dad insists that J and I go with him to the supermarket to get more boxes. This is a pretext. He doesn’t like the idea that I might snoop or try to smuggle out items that belonged to my mother. He’s right, though, I would do both of those things, given the chance.
Dad cruises the supermarket whilst buying things he deems indispensible whilst moving house. His choice consists of kippers, grapes and oats. These items would not be on my list of moving-house essentials. I persuade him to buy some juice in cartons and some biscuits for J, who is getting hungry and fractious.
As we leave, I pile Dad’s trolley with Pampers boxes. There’s room for plenty as Dad has only bought five things.
When we get back, Dad vanishes somewhere into the depths of the house. He has been living alone here for eleven years. Prior to that it provided space enough for each individual to never see any of the other three inhabitants without actively seeking to do so. I really have no idea where he is.
J sits on the floor drinking some juice and eating a biscuit. He’s mauling at a pop-up book which probably won’t pop-up for much longer.
I begin to stack some bits of dad’s stuff into a box. Bigger things that are distinct from the mass of mess. Most of the things in this bit of the house were my grandmother’s, stained and clogged with cigarette tar. I put them carefully into the Pampers boxes, sealing them using the tape dispenser Dad has equipped me with. It was almost definitely bought from QVC.
Realising that packing in this way is not yielding quick results, I revert to clearing surfaces directly into the boxes. This makes a bigger difference and I hope that seeing the change will start to make it easier for Dad.
He has not packed anything. The contents of the house is hidden beneath layers of dust, dog hairs and papers of every variety. Many of the papers look like they could be important documents so I’m reluctant to throw them away. Instead I try to keep them in a rough pile. There are also receipts and old lottery tickets. I find a receipt for a pint of milk dated 1984 and bearing the old name of the village shop, which has changed hands at least three times since. I’m tempted to keep it as an artefact but it goes in the bin along with other minor debris.
J is pottering about, still very little and often in the way, but easily entertained looking at my childhood picture books.
My system of piling up things that look like documents and throwing away things that could only be rubbish works well until Dad comes in. Apparently I am doing it all wrong and none of this should be thrown away. He takes the bin bag from me and roots through it, retrieving, amongst other things, the receipt dated 1984.
The contents and layout of this house is not really safe for a small child and Dad insists that J and I go with him to the supermarket to get more boxes. This is a pretext. He doesn’t like the idea that I might snoop or try to smuggle out items that belonged to my mother. He’s right, though, I would do both of those things, given the chance.
Dad cruises the supermarket whilst buying things he deems indispensible whilst moving house. His choice consists of kippers, grapes and oats. These items would not be on my list of moving-house essentials. I persuade him to buy some juice in cartons and some biscuits for J, who is getting hungry and fractious.
As we leave, I pile Dad’s trolley with Pampers boxes. There’s room for plenty as Dad has only bought five things.
When we get back, Dad vanishes somewhere into the depths of the house. He has been living alone here for eleven years. Prior to that it provided space enough for each individual to never see any of the other three inhabitants without actively seeking to do so. I really have no idea where he is.
J sits on the floor drinking some juice and eating a biscuit. He’s mauling at a pop-up book which probably won’t pop-up for much longer.
I begin to stack some bits of dad’s stuff into a box. Bigger things that are distinct from the mass of mess. Most of the things in this bit of the house were my grandmother’s, stained and clogged with cigarette tar. I put them carefully into the Pampers boxes, sealing them using the tape dispenser Dad has equipped me with. It was almost definitely bought from QVC.
Realising that packing in this way is not yielding quick results, I revert to clearing surfaces directly into the boxes. This makes a bigger difference and I hope that seeing the change will start to make it easier for Dad.
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