Three weeks. See you later.
And now it’s the wonderful Adrian Mole The Musical, which I absolutely love working on. A show whose book, lyrics and score are fresh, wittily complex and surprising, put together by a very talented hard working team, and which is still making me laugh out loud night after night despite having to work through a relentless 414 cues in two hours.
The unfed mind devours itself.
Waiting to open Door 4.
I had three very happy months working as part of Stage Crew for The Twilight Zone, during which I was known as The Spinnerman because I had to deal with the bloody bastard spinners (see above), which eventually I made my peace with. I was also Door 4. No one who worked on the show will forget Door 4 in a hurry.
Just had a very hard session talking about my Mum. He said if together we don’t help me sort out my problems related to her before she dies, I’ll end up on pills. which pulled me up sharp. I know he’s right. So he suggested I need to take a period of time I can control, every day, to think about the “bad stuff” between her and me, and then let my thoughts be as normal for the rest of the day. So job done and I’m moving on to other things – see photo.
(I also acknowledged how much of my coping mechanism through life has been with the weapon of humour, but that’s a subject for another day.)
I’ve just re-read that last post. It’s so gloomy and I’m doing OK, so here’s a photo of a lovely tree near where I live. I have no idea what it is.
So for whatever reason my blogging has dried up for months. Despite all the family nightmares I’ve been through, I stopped writing my diary (partly because the quiet periods I had to do it at work were taken over by busy shows), I paused this and I wrote less social emails. I used to write a handwritten letter to Mum and Dad every week. Dad has filed them all away neatly in a box. I think he hoped I would publish them. Then when Dad died I stopped those, as Mum couldn’t really read them.
On the upside though I have completed two plays, and I am in the middle of a third, and early signs are this latest one will be a breakthrough. So I have been writing (despite the fact that the t key on my keyboard isn’t working properly). And reading, and going to the theatre and exhibitions, and I’m taking a holiday soon.
I started seeing a psychotherapist to help support my mental health through the stress of dealing with my parents, but inevitably I’ve ended up working on myself – and as he says, the magic is beginning to work. I thought I was quite “normal” and problem-free, having no idea of how highly anxious I am because of stuff I won’t write about here. Although I still have a way to go, the changes I am experiencing are amazing. So I guess the talking has taken over from the writing.
Mum is in a care home, something which I promised her would never happen. But she wanted it, and we could no longer afford the care she needed in our family home. Soon we will have to sell the home to pay for her care which will break my heart.
The personal nightmare of the past nine months has played out against the broader canvas of divisive, unsettled times everywhere, which made everything even harder. It’s been a perfect storm. But as my Dad always said, there’s far more people worse off.
I’m still stuck with the Devil Cat, now renamed Villanelle. 18 years old, deaf, arthritic and with years of hyperthyroidism, she’s going nowhere other than into a battle of wills between me every day.
Life goes on.
In February Dad had to go into hospital and he spent some weeks there. Because Mum could not be left at home on her own, my brother and I came to be with them both; one of us at the hospital, the other at home. I’d sit with Dad for about five hours each day. We sat together chatting or in comfortable silence. He would be sitting on the chair next to his bed, the smartest dressed man on the ward as the hospital staff would often comment, and when he became tired he would lean gently forward and close his eyes. Anyone would think he was asleep but for the slight smile I’d see on his lips. What he was doing was listening. Listening to the snatches of conversations between staff and patients, staff with staff, patients with other patients, and patients and their visitors. Not only that, but he’d be listening to every phone ringing, every alarm bleeping, every machine buzzing. The life of the hospital was all there behind his closed eyes.
This was so typical of Dad, a man who was endlessly interested in everything going on around him: in his family, in the communities he belonged to, and in the political and social life of this country and the wider world.
Some years ago, we were having Christmas Day lunch in a restaurant. My partner took a photo on his mobile phone of us all and sent it to a couple of our friends in America whom Mum and Dad had met previously in person when they had visited the UK for a holiday. Minutes later the Americans sent back a photo of themselves. Dad just couldn’t get over the wonder of this, of how technology joins up two sides of the world in an instant. When he had a stent inserted into an artery, he watched his whole operation live on a monitor in the hospital operating theatre. Life has changed so rapidly for us all in the past couple of decades, but Dad always kept himself informed and up-to-date on science and technology even though life changed beyond imagining in his lifetime.
As much as he was fascinated by what mankind has achieved, he never forgot the unsung individuals who created what we have and see around us. One of Mum and Dad’s favourite television programmes was Inspector Montalbano, filmed in Sicily, in towns nestling in mountains dominated by monumental 17th and 18th century buildings. Dad didn’t just marvel at their beauty but wondered about the men who had built the towns, the conditions they had worked in and the tools they had used. Looking at a mobile phone he would wonder about the components it is made of; who had made the individual parts and who had put them all together. His mind was fascinated by all levels of invention and creation.
Dad was an engineer, and I am not. Superficially our interests were very different. I read novels and play the piano and did a degree in Drama, but both Mum and Dad opened the world up to me during my childhood. I play the piano because they bought me a piano, I read novels because they gave me access to Harrogate Library, I work in the theatre because they took me to the Harrogate Theatre. We had holidays in London and I saw many plays and musicals in the West End. We saw Richard Briers in a play, and Mum and Dad took me to the stage door afterwards to see him. He came out long after the rest of the cast, apologising profusely for us having to wait for him, much to Dad’s amusement, We also saw what is now an iconic production of Guys and Dolls at the National Theatre when I was 18. We sat at the side of the Olivier auditorium right behind the band, and Dad was delighted by the bass player who appeared to nod off between musical numbers and then jump to attention the second he had to play. When we were on holiday near Stratford-upon-Avon and they took me to see a Royal Shakespeare Company’s production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and I remember Dad rocking with uncontrollable laughter. I now realise is was a young Richard Griffiths who made him laugh so much. They took me on holidays all over England, Wales and Scotland visiting castles and large houses, wildlife areas and anything of interest.
Amother way Dad believed in broadening life’s experiences was by changing jobs regularly. He broke away from a potential life down the mines, and later gained a degree in Maths from the Open University. After getting my own degree, they waved goodbye to me as I took up just a month’s job at the Victoria Palace theatre in London operating a followspot, Now, thinking back, I can’t imagine the pulling and pushing emotions they must have felt. I’ve lived in London ever since. When I gave up a later career in teaching and took up a part time job in a West End theatre last year (history repeating itself) I thought he would be disappointed in me. But he wasn’t at all. He could see how tough teaching is and wanted me to leave it. Mum’s hearing declined and I started to write a weekly letter to them both. Dad loved my letters and said they should be published. He has them all filed neatly in a box. He was fascinated by my descriptions of the repeated but ever changing nightly performances, of life backstage and the actors and theatre staff I work with. He became interested in the business of theatre, how it’s run, where the money comes from that sets a production going, and how it then makes money. And he also cared about the people working in it, asking me regularly if the shows had good audiences. He understood both how precarious and how exciting it is..
Dad always said he was lucky in his career, by which he defined his life. He said so often he was in the right place at the right time. In his last month he began telling his life story in terms of his working life. It was his way of telling my brother and me to nurture contacts and connections, to think about the people around us, to keep an eye out for opportunities and take them when they come. I don’t think Dad was lucky. I think he was valued and cared for by the people he met in life. He was given opportunities because he proved himself, he worked hard and diligently, he was kind and respectful. He was always learning, always questioning. He was a true life force: reflective, full of wisdom and advice, and simply one of the funniest people I have known, Dad questioned everything, swam against the tide and was always true to himself.
Dad died this morning and his suffering is over.
He helped build the engine of this plane.