We moved house, and as there was a week between selling and buying (back to the vagaries of property purchasing in England), we stayed at Mum’s for a week. She was on reasonable form, we ate out to celebrate the sale, and generally caught up. Rob worked away in the week and we chatted, ate, drank. She looked after me as far as possible in her own random way. I thought, at some points, that this was all good, something to look back on when, at somewhere around 98, like her mother, she went.

Within a week of us moving to the new house, 30 miles away, she was in too much pain to eat (‘it only really hurts when I breathe or move’); after six horrendous, chaotic, brutal weeks, she died, having only just made it, I think through sheer will power, out of the nightmare of UCH Walsgrave, to the peace of Myton Hospice in Warwick. There is a tale to be told there, perhaps, but first I need the response from UCH, as to how it quite got so we didn’t get a formal diagnosis until five days before she went. That maybe is just the way it is; but I would like to know, anyway.

So there we were with a house reno, with no kitchen, 1980′s bathrooms last cleaned in the 1980′s, another person’s fridge mank, and a new role for Rob. I really don’t recommend moving, losing a kitchen and your final parent in the same month; it’s fair to say I was as confused, distressed and scared as I have ever been. So far. We orphans, and refugees of parents’ unquiet deathbeds, are not naturally optimistic.

We got through. Today I worked out the final costs of the project, and it all worked within budget, and we didn’t die or split up. We went through some horrendous times though, have lost touch with people, argued with people and each other, cried. But we are here not there.

And here is good. We have made good friends, and made a lovely house. I’m so proud of Rob’s hard work and skills; and of what we achieved here. He is now running his own business doing similar stuff for others, I continue at the RSC, entranced and frustrated by it.

Notably I stood at Mum’s funeral in the good linen dress and jacket and told 150+ people about her (excellent fit after the 1.5 stone weight loss); I have presented to the great and the good of the RSC as well now, but there’s nothing like your Mum’s funeral speech for that ‘Fuckit, it’s not as scary as that was’ moment beforehand.

I had the worst flu ever, and piriformis sciatica – there may be a politer way of putting this, but effectively a key muscle in my right bum seized up and trapped the sciatic nerve so the leg stopped working properly. It took 3 months and 5 medical professionals to get the right diagnosis and hence treatment (exercises not surgery, I am lucky). Can be brought on by stress and muscle tension apparently. I still limp a little but it’s getting better now.

I had counselling and went through some very dark places with Betty holding my hand and being there for me, and found perhaps they weren’t as dark as they were when they were stored in my childhood memories (the whole parent dying, retreating thing happened early as well), and I am in a better place for it. I feel both very alone but also very free – like being at the top of a hill on a windy day. No-one between me and the stars.

I found out that however I got here, whatever the route and the restrictions and the motivations from my past, it’s a good place to be really, and could be a good place to spread my wings from. So here we go on the next part of the journey…

Having sorted the wine, and ordered the food (calamari with a chili dip then spaghetti with chicken, prawns, chili for me; king prawns in a chili and tomato sauce then spaghetti bolognese for the boy) we settled, to discuss plans and for me to do a little people watching.

This was mainly triggered by the arrival of a young lad, who looked around 12 but must have been older. Full on goth/emo black, arse exposing jeans, bouffant and spiked hair (how do they do that?). He sat by himself at table in the window, and I intermittently worried about him in a vague way for 1-15 minutes as he fiddled with the menu, and looked a bit uncomfortable. Then he looked up and out and smiled, and then a beautiful goth/emo girl came in - all in black, mini skirt, stunning make up in that pale vampiresque kind of way, more bouffant spiked hair - with an enormous card for him. They looked very happy then, which maybe misses the goth/emo point, but is actually lovely to see.

The couple next to us looked very smart, very cool. Cutting edge hair, this season’s clothes (though what would I know -  they looked new though). He was also quite big and tough looking. They were aware of how they looked, a bit of posing going on. Until she handed him his Valentine’s present, whereupon they gave each other their full attention as he unwrapped it, and he was reduced to unselfconscious sentimental gooeyness and ‘awww’ noises by a small teddy in a mug. Teddy then was sat on the table between them for the remainder of the meal.

The people out with small children were dispersing at this point so things were quietening down a bit. I managed to curb channelling my Mother on the subject of small children, restuarants and school nights, because 1. I really don’t want to turn into her, I’m leaving that to my brother (similar theatrical and event driven tendencies) and 2. I remembered it was half term.

The next party to arrive was interesting. Two chaps, probably into forties, two children, boy 10, girl 12 or thereabouts. The lead chap was the father, and quietly arranged  menus, ordered drinks, sorted out the food, in a nicely negotiated and discussed manner – put the kids at ease, encouraged them to try stuff, but with a backout plan, and ensured everyone was happy with the final choices. Nicely done and not often seen. We can’t organise stuff like that at work and we’re supposed to be good at it.

The next time I was aware  of them was when I heard the word Thatcherism – always faintly alarming and on this occasion strangely out of context. It turned out the two chaps were explaining at a fairly minute level of detail what Margaret Thatcher’s government had done and why it was bad for society. The miners were discussed, as well as several other contemporary events, and the thinking behind them. It was also taken to the level of what effect it all had on an individual’s wealth, prospects and choices, and the kids were asked some pertinent questions and asked some back. From my somewhat elderly and ropey politics knowledge (undergraduate, 12 years ago) it all sounded fairly kosher, if from a resoundingly left wing standpoint. Quietly and thoughtfully discussed as well (obviously as I got the gist…).

It was all quite bizarre, but actually quite life affirming; we ended up having an extra glass of rather good red and feeling really quite optimistic…

So when I finally got home and saw stuff I was a bit overwhelmed. It’s taken me a couple of days to appreciate how nice and thoughtful it all was. I got:

• cards
• chocolates and good wishes from my colleagues
• flowers, books, and much attentiveness from the boy, who also sang Happy Birthday to me in the manner of Johnny Cash
• a lovely bottle of wine from his dad
• a full on birthday cake with icing and candles from his mum, and another cake, and a scarf, and jewellery – all tasteful and beautifully wrapped
• a voucher to spend on goodies from his sister and brother in law, with separate cards from them and the niece and nephew.

It was all lovely and on time and very touching. So thank you everyone, and I will be making extra efforts on other people’s birthdays as it was all so nice.

I also got to carry on the eating and drinking project, make my thank you calls, and catch up with people over the weekend – so all in all one of the best birthdays!

In principle I hate that women of my age and older want to look younger, to conform to a particular set of stereotypes, and that this undermines the validity of us all at this kind of age. Also, having been a tomboy, then able to rely on strong general colouring and an era when girly style wasn’t the only option, I have little practice at or patience with the full on grooming regime.

However, there are moments when I catch the view, particularly just before a cut is required, when maybe it’s getting a bit mad old lady, rather than edgy, that are quite scary. Intimations of mortality and all that; plus an awareness that a stranger’s fleeting summary would put me in my 50′s. However having looked at the alternatives sported all around me, the other options are depressing in themselves for me. The dark colours were looking increasingly stark (arising from the grave) and the roots were increasingly white and growing through very quickly. The better alternative would be platinum blonde – I did this for my 40th. Great for a while but high maintenance and time consuming. Still a bit tempted though; and that kind of thing isn’t quite as desperate pretend as some of the options. Part of the problem is it grows so bloody quickly and is thick, and as the rather sweet male boy hairdresser said, is coarse! Any solution is very temporary. I just know that I am two days from a haircut and going a bit cold turkey… I think the key thing here is to make sure next time around the haircut is booked the week before not the week after. And buy something a bit cool and special.

I am currently putatively working from home, having been called by the surveying company at 6pm last night and arranged a 9-10 appointment to survey current house (BP for convenience). Of courst it’s now 9.33 and no sign; correspondence with boss to that effect is merely reflecting his own cynical experience – twice split and currently negotiating buy out of x2. I don’t really mind, I will avoid the traffic that is partly informing the move, can work/post and have plenty of tea available.

This is a sort of micro wait compared with the overall wait. At this point we are a fortnight past the sale agreement, a week past the purchase agreement, and have no real idea when – or even if – the move will occur. No-one is legally or even a little bit financially bound (beyond personal expenditure detailed above) and there are no set timescales. However, one has to believe in order to keep moving forward, thus mentally, administratively and financially going further and further into the unknown… Only when contracts are exchanged are we committed, which I think is maybe another fortnight away. In the meantime everything I do is with a fingers crossed/touch wood caveat.

So what is SUV ownership about? Height, view, control? A statement of superiority because you have a vehicle that in some cases is around 50% of the size of a standard terraced house (and the two possessions are not mutually exclusive, looking down some streets (you have to look, you can’t actually drive down them any more).  A kind of statement about how rich/hard/better than everyone else you are? It seems a very expensive way of doing this, especially as a lot of reactions are not in line with what the driver is hoping to portray. Perhaps they are actually used – but if the truck bit is visible it is empty 99.9% of the  time; plus those in genuine use are usually scruffier and smaller, bought before steroid vehicles were invented.

The best place to see a range of these in my area is in Stratford Upon Avon where they were normally pressed into service to ferry small children in strange and stiff looking uniforms around, or to wait imperiously on Bridge Steet for a parking space to appear outside M&S, impervious to queues of vehicles behind and pedestrians rolling under the bumpers. I used to work near a nursery and pitied the kid who was dropped off by an old Polo, dwarfed by the range of SUVs and other 4 wheel drives.

However, having just driven to work during the worst weather I’ve encountered during my 11 years there I have to admit I could have been persuaded – just wouldn’t have wanted to shell out for the fuel, insurance, tax etc.  And ‘Die Hard’ is a model I would have avoided – I would have wante the ‘Expediency – look, I just have to get to work, ok’ model.

Anyway, after a rest post the actual Christmas bit (too bored and stressed with Xmas to relax before hand – and it’s only round your forties that you realise that it is possible to be bored and stressed at the same time, and actually quite often), and the realisation that if I was recognising everyone else in the pub, they were me, it’s time to get my arse in gear. Hence cut down everything apart from running and having a think about where things are going – don’t really want another Nov/Dec like that for me or the bloke (4am starts and idiot bosses there) and we don’t need to either. So the house is on the market and we will downsize and move to SuA for the final push of the new theatre project and to get said life… into the hands of estate agents again.

He also went down the making it obvious route – socks with graphics. These can be innocuous, perhaps days of the week, or coloured toe areas, down a rapidly descending taste tunnel to cartoons and onward to communicating the idea that the wearer is a sex god (this is something experimented with by our mutual boss, I hasten to add before M sues, apparently as the bosses’ offspring find it amusing. It’s disconcerting for us, probably doesn’t do much for cred in some company areas – but may do a lot in others, where such messages may be construed as an  invitation – which the boss may not be entirely comfortable given we are a diverse organisation). Bit of a bracket digression there, but people in the UK papers are paid for that sort of stuff so I’ll take the liberty. Anyway, even experiments with socks with graphics, completely against M’s nature, have failed. Where do they go? Why? How do they get back?

Moving forward, other colleague J, who is of a practical bent, and had already come up with one brain wave earlier, that of a Pets Accident and Emergency room (built upon speculation that an absent staff member’s cat had gone wrong over the weekend, and could only be booked in for fixing on Monday), then came up with the possibility of integrated socks. Integrated to what needs working on, as do the hygiene implications, but it’s out there for consideration…

The most prolific, and oddest items Mil brings, however, are socks. Loads of them, three or four times a year, always for the boy. A decent variety - some ordinary everyday versions, some thicker walking or working options, and some sporting style ones, to go in trainers, in a variety of go faster stripes, usually in towelling. There’s also the odd pair with writing on them, sometimes even involving his name. The expression on his face when confronted with these was interesting – trying to maintain the right element of gratitude and interest, while disdain and horror are breaking through. Of course graphical and comedy socks can also be quite dangerous – many a meeting at work has been enlivened by the realisation that the serious bloke in a suit is actually wearing Bart Simpson socks…

Anyway, after the latest gift of socks (currently languishing in a drawer, still attached to the retail stuff) arrived, and during a tidying frenzy a couple of things occurred to me: that the socks are in fact an expression of love, concern and caring, a way of looking after the boy; but that following on from them, an overload, or even a surfeit of socks, can lead to them being disrespected – to use a word I never thought I would, but that seems to fit. The socks end up worn once maybe for a couple of hours, then shoved in the wash, or in a general heap of clothes that are in the interim stage of worn once but don’t yet need washing (until it’s a question of tidying them properly or just dropping them in the washing thing). A lot end up in the heap of ongoing cycling clothes – not just one pair but loads. Some end up in the garage, some I find in pockets. Of course they are quite often alone; there are half a dozen single socks plaintively awaiting their partners to emerge from the wash, and even an OCD tidy stress freak like me can’t find the other half How, why – does he eat them? I don’t ever lose socks – but then I have a quarter of the amount. Which is the key to it I realise. I respect my socks; I need them. I don’t have an infinite supply of socks. I even plan the use of my socks. Which says a lot for what screws my brain up I guess. So whilst you can have too many socks, I suppose you can also have too few… Perhaps my Mum should bring socks as well.

So I had the final root canal appointment first thing this morning. I’ve been fortunate in one respect as I always forget, or block out, the actual pain and discomfort of the work. Quite unusual for me, given as I am to anxiety about pretty much everything in advance (and I schedule a lot of stuff); I guess the ongoing pain and hypochondria filled that part of the brain. Once you’re on the chair, however, then it all comes back. This time it was the jab. That makes your eyes water anyway, but I have to admit self pity helped with that. Anyway, as it goes, all is well. The job is complete for now, I have been polished as well, while the filling set, and the whole process, nine appointments, two x-rays, and a skip load of filler, cost £45.60.

Now this is pretty good. I work and pay my tax and National Insurance, and receive no benefits, being child free and working etc. I’ve been interested to see the recent debate in the US and aware of the threat of cuts in the UK, and have listened to various tales of woe about the NHS. I can’t say they are incorrect, I’m sure things go badly wrong and people’s suffering is vastly increased; but from this experience I personally can say it can work. It was a bit rough around the admin, and some of the what to expect stuff (but we have Google now), and the surgery is a little compromised and dilapidated – but it worked.

From there I moved swiftly on with a spring in my step and less of a hole in my credit card than predicted, thinking, again, how physically and mentally demanding the process had been and how nice it was to be free of it. This lasted approximately 20 minutes, to the point at which the optician announced there was a mark at the back of my eye… It turns out I have to be referred to the doctors, possibly pending investigation. It’s probably an innocuous freckle or mole style thing; the issue being it probably wasn’t there before. At this point no further information is offered, and I go, somewhat less springily, to the doctor’s and drop the referral letter in. Now I wait, and harass the doctor’s on, I think, Friday. And, of course, in the interim I Google. Best case, just a birthmark thing; worst case, melanoma with a range of treatments from in and out in a day to, well, let’s leave that for now.

So I am getting the opportunity to see some more NHS for myself, possibly at a level beyond primary care, hopefully not. I like to think that this is a process that is working as well, in that having regular optician’s appointments has spotted something early giving the best chance of a good outcome. Or that even an extra zealous optician or new instruments have seen something that has been there all along, but again is using a process that’s in place to help.

Other than appreciating that, so far, things kind of work, what else? Well, I’m a bit pissed off  (a bit about the timing in a black humour sort of way), and disinclined to concentrate on work; also I’m kind of going to that well what if? What would you want to do place? The only conclusions I have reached so far is that I need to give less of a fuck about the unimportant things (and an awful lot is, at the end of the day, unimportant), and suffer fools, and indeed perhaps solipsistic people less gladly. And about time to; having been by far the youngest in a family of fairly dogmatic people  I have spent a lot of time  trying to fit in, not take up any space and say the right things; so it’s time I took up my own space now, regardless of any other issues. Other than that, here in leafy Warwickshire it’s a lovely golden and mild Autumn day, and I think I’ll just make the most of that for now.