Workmen

 

There are men in our house.

We’re having a new central heating boiler fitted.  Changing from oil to electricity feels like the right thing to do - for us and our planet - so, the oil tank has gone from the garden and now the boiler is being replaced.   

But that means there are men in the house. There’s one in the loft, sorting the wiring, one outside filling a hole in the wall where the old flue has been taken out, another with his head in the cupboard under the sink, talking about water pressure.

Philip and I sit opposite each other at the kitchen table, wrapped up against the cold. I’m wearing my biggest jumper, a scarf, fingerless gloves, he’s in more layers than a man from the north should ever respectably wear.

He’s working, managing to concentrate through the noise of drills and hammers, the sounds of strange men talking above our heads, the blasts of cold air from doors left open.

The old boiler was here a very long time – it’s seen several families come and go. It made everyone feel welcome and kept them all warm. It didn’t stop because there were strange men in the house.

But me? I can’t settle to anything.

I should have been....

At the start of the year I wrote a list, not of New Year's resolutions, but of the 60 things I'd like to do in 2020 - the year I became 60. Though I knew at the time I might not achieve them all, I didn't quite envisage the struggle I'd have to make even the first ten.

On 23rd March, with the Corona Virus spreading, the Prime Minister announced that the country would go into lockdown. The next day, my 60th birthday, I stayed at home. 

I didn't run the London Marathon, I didn't go to see Paul Heaton at the Palladium or on a wine-tasting tour of the local vineyard. In May I should have been in Wales with Philip, in June I should have been watching my son running across the Yorkshire Three Peaks. Though technology helped me to see my children and grandchildren on their birthdays we all missed out on hugs and birthday teas. 

And so it went on.

In April, my eldest daughter Claire had her fortieth birthday, and last week, in what might well have been the highlight of my year, we should have gone together to watch the tennis at Wimbledon. 

Instead, I've been watching old matches on the BBC. I've revisited the mighty battles between Federer and Nadal, seen Murray finally beat Djokovic. I've laughed at how hairstyles and tennis kits have changed, and cringed at the old commentaries that insisted on using women's married titles, yet referred to them as girls. I've witnessed the introduction of tie-breaks and yellow tennis balls, and listened to the change in volume as the crowd moved from polite applause to raucous cheering. Seeing these matches has brought back memories of a whole lifetime, of rushing home from school, then work, for two weeks every summer, to sit in front of the TV to watch Wimbledon.

Today, the featured match was the men's final of 1980, Bjorn Borg against John McEnroe, one of the greatest finals ever played. Watching it though, I found I couldn't remember it at all; not the amazing shots, or the rallies that turned the match first one way and then another. I couldn't recall the fourth set tie-break, or the final outcome.

Forty years ago, as that final played itself out on the grass courts at Wimbledon, I was twenty and my beautiful Claire was just six weeks old. As the match wound its way through all five sets, I would have been holding her, or feeding her, or willing her to sleep. As Borg and McEnroe showed off their skills as tennis players, I was only beginning to learn what it meant to be a mother. 

Today, I can hardly believe how quickly forty years have passed. While the world has been changing, I've seen Claire grow from a funny, chatty, clever little girl to a strong and caring woman. If things had been different, we might  have been sitting together at Wimbledon last week, but I don't need to feel sad about that. It turns out that what I should have been, is exactly what I am, her very proud Mum.

What is it you see first?

 

What is it you see first?

            Is it the worst, the mindless, thoughtless deed,

            the violence, the selfish greed,

            the cutting word, the slur you heard

            the disregard for you, your creed?

Or is there something else you see?

            A vision of humanity,

            where each and every one has worth, 

                regardless of their place of birth,

            where what we say, and what we do, 

                is measured by a different view,

that sees the good and shouts it loud

and spots the kindness in the crowd

and looks to soothe another’s pain.

And tries its best.

Again, again.

 

Leaving...

In 2011, we left Shoreham. 

We didn't know for sure if we were doing the right thing, but we'd thought about it long and hard and it seemed the best option; a way to secure our future, a chance to buy a house of our own, an opportunity to feel more independent. 

We'd chosen carefully, but there was no way to know how things would be once we'd actually left. 

We didn't go far; everything that Shoreham had to offer was still in touching distance. We could visit whenever we wanted to, and we did, but it never felt quite the same. It was no longer our village, we were no longer part of it.

We'd left Shoreham, but the village never quite left us. 

A few years later, we had the chance to return, our former neighbours hadn't forgotten us, they hadn't taken offence that we'd chosen to go away. They welcomed us back with open arms - they knew this was our home, just as much as we knew it ourselves.

And today, on a day when I feel so desperately sad that we are leaving the European Union, my wish for all of us, is that one day, in the not too distant future, we'll have another chance to return.