I’m watching old episodes of ER with GB and finally got around to searching Google to find out what a Candy Striper is.

The results from a Google Image Search gives you a surprisingly good idea. Apparently they’re hookers in hospitals… :)

Before he died, my grandfather decided to write his autobiography. Sadly, not much of it made it onto a computer and I now have sheets of barely legible scrawl to work my way through. I’ve just found an absolute gem… Before you read on, remember that my grandfather was the head of what was to become the National Archives…

I learnt to get my own back on the nit picking lawyers by throwing back at them some of my own mischievous legal concerns. My best one was to argue that s5 of the PRAct of 1958 did not create a right for members of the public to see documents which were more than 50 years old (the 30 year rule came later). I argued that the act said that “public records in the PRO [...] shall not be available until they have been in existence for fifty years [...]“. I contested that this did not say that such records must be made available. The Lord Chancellor agreed with me; and I was happy to agree that unless challenged we would ignore this bit of bad drafting.

I was also concerned about the definition of “records selected for preservation [...] shall be transferred not later than 30 years after their creation” when I discovered that two or three departments, including the Press Office, would simply create a minute, date is just before the last paper turned 30 years old, thus keeping the file from the PRO for another 30 years. This was not sloppy drafting, but merely a lack of understanding of [unclear word] procedures when senior officials wanted to keep files closed. This teased my lawyer friends, but I did [unclear word] departments to avoid this function (I expect the result was simply to shred such files and register them as ‘missing’).

Tomorrow will be the 12th of April. He would have been 88 years old.

It’s hard to think that he’s not here any more. I don’t think about him often, but when I do it hurts me so hard. It’ll be strange reasons too. I’ll discover a great recipe that I want to cook for him, or I’ll be told a cool joke. Or I’ll have a choice to make and I’ll know that he would have known the answer…

This branch of the family line is now down to Steven and myself. And since GB and I have decided not to have kids, it’s all down to Steven. God, we’re fucked…

Every second a new blog is started¹. This is the blog for this second…

Anything from this point onwards has been brought over from a different site. Unfortunately comments haven’t come over with them, so the sparkling wit my words generate isn’t here. Unless commenters are as bored as I was when I started the transfer.

For the record “Sodium Lights The Horizon” means nothing. It was a random phrase that came from a random conversation. It seems strangely lyrical but google returned zero hits on the phrase. Simple as that…

1 – I may have made that up. But you believed it, didn’t you…?

As you all know (yes you do) I don’t normally remember any of my dreams. This last week I’ve remembered several of them. They’ve all been weird. Not “I was chased by a giant chicken that was actually my father but also a Ford mustang” weird, just “wtf” weird.

Take the one I had Friday night (which was helped by a bottle of port and a cigar)…

I ended up in a dream-induced lucid dream where I had my car stolen from apetrol station in Harlow. Phoning 999 connected me to a computer operator that tried to route me to the right type of policeman. Except it started getting difficult and started swearing at me, giving me options for how I wanted to swear back at it. “Press 1 to question sexuality. Press 2 to make allegations about parentage. Press 3 to make a phallic reference.” etc…

I decided to walk across the county line into Herts, where the computer was replaced with a real person. A real person who refused to help me because my car was stolen in Essex.

Back over the county line, the computer had decided to have a sulk and refused to connect me to anyone. Instead it started offering me options on how to sweet-talk it into doing what I wanted. “Press 1 to say something comforting. Press 2 to threaten with physical violence. Press 3 to compliment.”

I know that lucid dreaming involves being aware of your dream state and often lets you modify the dream yourself, but apparently my brain likes the idea of a Choose Your Own Adventure dream…

When I was at school, we had one of those days when old people from the town come into the school and tell you all about the dim distant past. One of the guys who came in was a proper old air force type. He wore his best suit with his medals proudly pinned to his chest. He had a huge bushy moustache that nearly joined up with his pure white mutton chops.

He started telling us about WWII, which he spent flying lancaster bombers over to germany to flatten factories. As you may know, when the lancasters went over the channel they took fighter escorts with them, but the little spitfires and hurricanes didn’t have the range needed to protect them the whole way, so the lancasters had to rely on their own defences for the last stage of the journey. This, he told us, was the frightening bit.

“We were flying over Dresden one night,” he said, “when out of no-where a whole squadron of these german fokkers appear and start ripping us to sheds. Before I know it, three of our boys are going down. So I shouted to my gunman ‘Geordie! Shoot those fokkers!’ and he started firing at anything he could get his sights on.”

“These fokkers were everywhere. Fokkers above me, fokkers below me, behind me and in front of me. If I take evading action then I risk hitting one of the other guys in the formation or one of these german fokkers. So I have to hold fast and just hope our gunners can hit the fokkers faster than they can hit us.”

“It was a long fight, but finally the last fokker ran for the open skies and left us there licking our wounds. Half our guys were down. Those fokkers were fast. Maybe even faster than our spits and hurricanes.”

Most of us were spell bound, but there were a few who were giggling at his language.

The teacher steps forward and explains to the class that fokker was a very famous and well respected aircraft manufacturer who designed and built a lot of the planes used by the germans during the war.

“Yes. Yes of course,” agreed the old flyboy. “But these fokkers… these fokkers were all Messerschmitts.”

Holy fuck… where do I start? I’ve been kind of awol the past few weeks.

My grandfather’s pancreatic cancer finally caught up with him and he died back on the 29th.

I spent the last three weeks on part hours, working in the mornings and then spending the afternoons trying to sort his things out. We threw out twenty or thirty bags of scrap clothes. We gave away another 15 or so to charity shops and hospitals. We’ve cleared the loft of crap and we’ve sorted a lot of stuff from the cupboards but we’ve still got a pile of banks, trusts, charities and associations I need to talk to about his death.

Granny is now in a home – a great place near to her house where the nurses look after her beautifully. She doesn’t have any idea who I am. Hell, I’m not sure she knows who she is.

We had a cremation service for him on Friday 13th. It was sad to see so few people there, but most of the people he knew from work are in their 80s and live in the London area. It was never going to happen. Family were there, as were the village. It was a nice service, even if we weren’t able to have the music we wanted (stupid virus precautions).

We opened up the village hall and invited everyone down for booze and pizza. It was good not to have a normal reception but to have a bit of a party. He was a good man who deserved to be celebrated not mourned.

Monday we went down to London, the horrible smelly people filled city that I hate so much. A wonderful woman from Kings College showed us around the old PRO site at Chancery Lane. It was a trip that we’d arranged for me and my grandfather. She happily showed my brother and I around instead. It was a shame that he couldn’t make it with us. He’d have liked it down there. The building has changed a lot since his time, but they’ve been sympathetic to the building at the same time. They’ve kept several of the old ‘cells’ with their metal frames and slate shelves. When they stripped out the rest of the cells they reused the slate shelves to put features around the lift doors.

Next stop was the National Archives. In comparison it’s a horrible 70s abomination. It looks like a brutalist concrete car park with some library/call-centre hybrid inside it. The only upside to the entire building was a decorative edging in the walkway up to the building – made from slate slabs the size of a bookshelf. A nice touch that would have been completely lost on all but a very small handful of other people.

Today (well, Tuesday, since it’s now after midnight) we buried his ashes. It went perfectly according to plan, apart from the fact the vicar didn’t turn up and we had to reschedule for 3 hours later.

I realised something scary though. I’m the oldest male in the family. I’m the oldest sane person in the family. So what, you may ask. I asked the same thing. Until I realised that people have started looking to me for a little leadership. That’s fucking scary.

The other scary thing is that I’ve just spent more time talking about bookshelves than my grandfather’s death.

They’ll be writing an official obit for The Times. Maybe I’ll post a link to it – they’ll describe his life so much better than I can right now.

Overnight there was an inch of snow. One whole fucking inch. How has the world reacted? By panicing. The roads in town are jammed and the police are advising people don’t drive.

You useless fuckers. Learn how to drive.

For christs sakes, there was a woman on the radio yesterday (the font of all knowledge Sara Cox, no less) talking about how dangerous the roads were and how she started braking and the car just slid, and kept sliding and she couldn’t do anything, and how she had to just sit there as the car slid and slid and danced across the road and…

You know what? Here’s a fucking idea – if you are out of controll with your foot on any pedal, any pedal at all, take a risk, go out on a limb and TAKE YOUR FUCKING FOOT OFF THE PEDAL. You’re already out of control, it can’t get any worse.

This rant was brought to you by the weather condition ‘snow’ and the mood ‘pissed off’.

There was a film I saw years ago which had a recurring ‘joke’/theme about a camera with only one shot left on it. The photographer keeps seeing more and more incredible things and always holding back from taking the shot incase something more incredible happens. In the end the photographer wastes the shot by taking a picture of the co-star, which I’m sure we can all agree is just plain silly.

Mind you, I’m fairly sure the film was in one of the Indiana Jones or Romancing the Stone type genre filmes, so it had to be expected.

I’m currently doing the same thing with my pills.

I’ve got just two 15/500 co-codamol pills left. The 8/500s do nothing for my jaw and the 10/500 co-drydamol pills that I didn’t pilfer from my grandfathers bedroom pharmacy didn’t do anything for me. So, I’m sat here, in pain, with my last two co-codamol, staring lovingly at them, but not daring to take because the pain might be worse later on…

Well…

My grandfather died this morning, 20 minutes after I arrived in a manic dash. It sounds cliched but it was peaceful. I had to go fetch a nurse to confirm he had gone. She was halfway through drawing up a new medication package for him.

Then I visited my grandmother. She’s as gaga as we’d all expect. I was about to explain the situation to her when my back went. Apparently my spine stiffened and my muscles braced to protect it. When I leapt up to intercept a nurse before she spoilt the surprise I pulled and tore the muscles.

One emergency trip to the osteopath and I’m back up, doped up on codeine and wearing a very fetching weightlifters type belt thing.

All in all, it’s not been a great day.

Still… it could have been worse. I could have done to that Focus ST driver what I wanted to when he blocked the motorway then accellerated when I tried to pass him on the left…

Well… He’s getting worse. Every day he’s slightly less alert, slightly less able to talk to you, slightly higher dose of pain killers.

It’s becoming more and more obvious that he’s not coming home.

Which means that he can’t move house. And I can’t sell it, but it needs to be around until my grandmother croaks. Which means I might be about to move house.

Yeah… my grandfather is dying and I’m getting stressed about the idea of moving house. It’s great the way your mind works, isn’t it…?

Why do temporary fillings taste so bad? who was it who decided “the person has a mouth full of hurt and toothy badness, so let’s add that exciting taste of polyfilla”? it’s a horrific bitter taste that just never goes away. It’s obviously leeching some pretty awful chemicals into my mouth right now.

So here is my question. Given that it’s only in the mouth for a short period of time, why don’t they infuse the filling with a mild painkiller and some strawberry flavouring? Less pain, less evil taste, and less moaning from me…

Nurse : “I thought you’d like to know, the bear’s t-shirt is missing because I washed it. It’s hanging on the radiator next to Granny’s bed.”
T42 : “Ah thank you. I’ve washed the pink dog and put it in her bedside cabinet. If you could swap them by the weekend, I’ll take the bear home and wash it. If you can do it overnight hopefully she won’t notice.”
Granny : “No, she never pays attention to anything. She won’t notice.”

Nurse goes off to have giggles fit.

She’s doing well… she called me Granny, Daddy, Mummy and Uncle. We had an argument about whether her ‘Daddy’ was male or female.

We also had a wonderfully playful bickering session about tickling. My argument being that if she tickles me, I’m entitled to tickle her back…

In case anyone thinks my unusual silence on this matter means I have softened my opinions, I’d just like to say this:

Fuck the Israeli government; those who support them, including the American government; and those who refuse to condem them.

As you will know, I have nothing against the Jewish people. I have problems with the creation of Israel the same as I have problems with any of the external geopolitical medling Europe has so loved over the years (see Iraq, Yugoslavia and most of Africa for examples of how well it’s worked). I have a big problem with those, both Jewish and otherwise, who seem to think that the past persecutions of the Jewish people somehow absolve them of any responsibilities when it comes to protecting themselves.

Hamas (who are a government, godamnit, not a terrorist group – they were elected) fire rockets on a regular basis and have killed a very small number of Israelis. The Israeli military has killed many, many innocent people (the last figure I heard was 400 people) and will keep going until it has “destroyed Hamas”.

How can we stand by and let this continue? More importantly, how can we stop it? It’s clear my boycot on Israeli avocados, peppers and dates has had a crippling effect on the American supported economy, but I know no other way. Standing in the street does nothing. Making one’s voice known marks you out as an anti-semite. Or probably a terrorist in today’s police state mentality.

And we in the western world wonder why the Arab countries despise us for meddling in their countries…

I don’t believe in god, but I know others do, and for all I know one or more of them exist. I hope those gods forgive us for our actions. And our inactions.

We’re sat in the day room at the orthopaedic rehab place. She’s been talking bollocks for the last ten minutes…

“They’re a weird lot here” she announces, clear as a bell. Several nurses turn around, some amused, some concerned.

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” she says, pointing at the piano, “there’s a one-a, one-a, two-a, four-a, three-a, two-a. And a six-a, six-a, six-a, six-a, two-a, three. And a forty, forty, forty, forty, two-a, two-a, two-a, one. And that one’s GREEN.”

Yes. Thanks for that wonderful input. Another recent one…

“A ringer, ringer, ringer, dinger, singer, singer, binger, dinger, singer, winger, dinger, dinger, dinger, dinger, binger, singer, finger, binger… BEV!”

“What’s wrong granny?”

“Nothing. I just wanted to say something different…”

I’m not enjoying this week.

Today i woke up with toothache, earache, sore throat (why doesn’t the throat deserve an ‘ache’?) and a hacking cough. I decided to spend the morning carving the feet needed to level off our sideboard and the new fishtank. At twelve I turned off my PC and gave up on that plan. Decided to have breakfast.

By half one I was down in Letchworth. I witnessed the funniest carpark argument I’ve ever seen, but which I can’t even begin to do justice to without about a dozen toy cars, some masking tape, half a dozen bemused pedestrians and a a woman terrified by her own car. Wandered around, discovered that the shops I wanted had closed. Realised I still needed to have breakfast.

By half two I was at the hospital visiting Granny. I spent an hour just sitting next to her, my arm across the back of her chair while she pointed at the Christmas tree, held my hand, tried to hide biscuits in pockets she doesn’t have and occasionally answered rhetorical questions asked by the guy on the TV program everyone else was watching. No idea when she’s escaping. The social workers can’t get their act in gear until the 30th, and even then it depends on when they can find a nursing placement or enough gadgetry to turn her house into a warehouse. They want us to choose the ‘home’ option. Realised that breakfast was probably a lost cause and wondered about lunch.

By half four I was at a different hospital visiting Pop. He was still in the assessment ward when I got there, but he was sleeping so I settled down to play games on my phone. They wanted to discharge him today, but the consultant discovered that he lives alone and has refused to discharge him until they can get a social consult to put together a care package. No-one knows what this actually means, other than that it won’t happen until at least Monday. Yes, after xmas. By the time I got around to leaving I realised the flaw in my plan was putting a time-descriptive label on the food I wasn’t buying. Solved the problem by buying biscuits and red bull.

I timed the drive home tonight. The traffic was about what it had been on Sunday afternoon and it took 45 minutes. On Sunday it took me just under 30 minutes. It would appear I still know how to drive quickly. Some day I’ll discover just how badly the experience scarred/scared Jean. I only undertook 2 vehicles. I only broke one speed limit by more than 40mph and that was by accident during an overtake. Strangely, When I checked my heartrate against a track on the radio, I discovered that my heartrate was actually lower than normal. Interestingly (and possibly because the Police often use Skoda Octavias round here) twice I had people see me coming up behind them at high speed and pulled over to the side of the road to let me go past.

EDIT : I realised afterwards that this post makes me look like an idiot driver. There are people who would say I was, but on Sunday I got a phone call from Pop to say he’d made it to the phone after 5 hours on the floor. Somehow obeying the rules of the road weren’t top of my list of things to do…

I’ve wrapped all my xmas pressies. And all of ours. And all of Steven’s. And all of Pop’s. I then realised that I’d not labelled any of them. Thankfully I dicided that wrapping each cd/dvd/book/whatever seperately was a stupid idea, so each ‘cluster’ of gifts was a different shape. I then managed to trap the sellotape inside Granny’s present.

Since I refuse to wrap xmas presents on xmas eve, the 23rd was officially 2 hours longer today. This means that the 24th should be 2 hours shorter. This is, obviously, not on. So I’m rolling this on until we get to the 27th. I think we can all cope with 2 hours less of the 27th. It just means that I’ll be spending the next few days in the “Mid-Atlantic” timezone. No idea what that means… Ascention Islands probably…

I have 4 minutes of laptop battery left. Time to stop talking crap and go to bed…

Xmas is finally on its way.

I’ve bought pressies for everyone (except Pop) and got things at least partly wrapped. GB’s pressie is wrapped and (according to my grandfather) looks like I’ve gift wrapped a roll of carpet.

The Altzheimer’s society has finally remembered who I am. Unfortunately they’ve sold all their xmas cards in the mean time, so they sent me a cheque as a refund. In an act of pure comedy genius, they forgot to put a stamp on the envelope…

Cambridge – land of sex maniacs. Presumably. It has an Anne Summers and three “Private Shops”.

For those of you outside the UK, a ‘Private Shop’ is a weird English euphemism for a shop that sells adult toys and educational media presentations involving senior administrative nurses. They aren’t allowed to have windows in case they pervert the kiddie winks.

Next to Kings Cross Station (a well known prostitute hotspot) there is a ‘Pirate Shop’. The mind boggles…

Something just occurred to me.

My father’s death didn’t effect me. It really didn’t. I mirrored other people’s emotions a little, feeling shitty because they did, but I felt very little myself.

The reasons for this are many and varied, but there were two important factors…

Firstly, he and I hadn’t been getting on for some time. A little while before he died I discovered he’d written a will that stated that I’d only get some of his worldly wealth if he and I were on good terms when he died. I believe I reacted to this news by sending him a text saying he could stick his will up his arse. You can imagine how well that went down.

Secondly – he died in France. He pissed off without telling me, spent a week away without me noticing, and basically never came back. I never saw his body. I never saw him going down hill – I just never saw him again. It’s a common enough experience in my life that it doesn’t jar. People I consider close friends (like Scott or Stacy) I just simply don’t speak to for months or years at a time. I’m asocial. I just don’t do interaction. I’m happy when I get into a social situation, but I don’t go looking for it.

Now, remember those two factors. And then look at Granny and Pop. A couple who were the parents I didn’t have. The two I love with all my heart, and I see them both on a regular basis. I watch them failing and falling apart.

I fed granny last night. I had to do the “big aeroplane” thing to get spoonfuls of banana and icecream into her mouth. When I arrived she had her ‘sippy cup’ twisted round by 180 degrees, so that when she tipped it up to get the mouthpiece in her mouth the tea poured out of the vent. They look after her there, but they quite simply can’t do 1 on 1 care there.

*sigh*

Me : “Are you drunk…?”
GB : “No…”
Me : “what’s 2 times 2?”
GB : “4″
Me : “what’s five fives?”
GB : “…twenty five”
Me : “What about eleven elevens?”
GB : “132!”
Me : “What’s eleven elevens?”
GB : “…132?”
Me : “Eleven elevens…?”
GB : “…122!”
Me : “… eleven elevens…?”
GB : “it’s 122! I’m NOT drunk!”
Me : “what’s ten elevens?”
GB : “110!”
Me : “what’s eleven elevens?”
GB : “It’s one hundred and twen… SHUT UP!”
Me : “drunky, drunky, drunkard!”