The Ominous Cloud and Toxic People

 

Yesterday morning I woke up feeling good. I had a mini lie-in, did a little bit of sewing, had a nice mug of coffee and left my house at 11am to drive the 7 miles or so to my paternal parent's house. I was picking him up at 11.30 for an appointment at 12 at the local City Hospice.

He's 95, frail and has terminal cancer which can't be treated due to its advanced stage and due to his age. Even so he's relatively mobile, very stubborn, and goes out into his garden daily for a potter and although he sleeps a LOT, he's up and about a lot of the time.

I got there and he was faffing. I passed him over a small carrier bag with his 3 sweaty stained blue stringy vests, which he'd presented to me on my previous visit the week before. Three threadbare, blue cotton vests, whose hems had come partially undone. He doesn't bother asking me any more if I'd mind doing repairs for him, he just gives clothes to me in an old plastic carrier bag, tied with a knot. I sew them as soon as I can as they smell bad so I don't want them in my house or in my car. If they were mine they'd have gone in the bin months ago, but he likes them so I sew them. It's easier than arguing. I’ve sewn for years after having learned from my mother as a child. Even so, he still finds it necessary to mansplain how to sew a hem... 'you need to turn it inside - like this...' he then gets irate if I tell him I know.

In his head I've always been and will always be a young, simple and insignificant child. It's mansplaining on a whole new level and digs me at my very core; more and more so as the years go by. I’m an adult with my own life, career, family, and my own house. Whether or not he’s aware of this doesn't appear relevant. He took the skanky vests from me with an 'Ah yes.' and dumped them on top of a 4ft high pile of junk in the kitchen. No mention of 'thank you' I let it slide.

He was faffing around the kitchen putting things in a bag. I asked what he was doing as he didn't need to take anything to his appointment at the hospice. He dropped an envelope, which fell onto another envelope and they both hit the floor. He swore and yelled 'I just can't get anything done; as soon as I do something, someone else wants me to do something else. I shouldn't have to deal with all this messing about. I'm supposed to be resting.' He said this with loud irritation which could only have been directed at me. Nobody else was there.

I don't know whose fault he thinks his severe hoarding is but it certainly isn't mine. One wonders if he realises he can't find anything as the house is overflowing with 'stuff'. Stuff he has put there. I know it shouldn't bother me but im acutely aware it will be my problem one day. Soon. There is nobody else. 

I pointed out it was time to leave and got another mouthful of abuse as he couldn't find anything. He said 'should I bring a box for the shopping?' 

'What shopping?' I said.

'Oh I TOLD you we needed to go shopping.' he snapped, as if that were the end of the matter.

I said he certainly hadn't told me. If he had I'd have suggested we leave it until later in the week when my brother could have come to help. I also wouldn't have planned to go Christmas shopping by myself in town that afternoon.

'I most definitely DID tell you!' he said, 'But then I suppose I can't expect you to remember everything I tell you!'  So that was that then, I was taking him shopping no matter what other plans I had.

I managed to get him into the car, put his seatbelt on him, dump his bags in the boot and drive to City Hospice about 20m drive away. We got there just after 12. The whole way there he chatted about bus timings, his garden, his rhubarb which he grows and other stuff he always talks about He said I'd be proud of him as he'd used the green bin this week (garden waste). He wanted me to sort some old life policy plan for him. He never asked once if I was OK, how my family were, whether I had any news. He never asks.

He carried on loudly telling me all about what he wanted me to know once we got to the hospice reception. I asked if he’d read the sheet of paper I'd typed for him last week after spending many, MANY hours calling his bank and posting documents and power of attorney and everything else. I'd typed a summary on a sheet of A4 to make it easier for him. He snapped back he hadn't read it yet - he'd had far too much to do. He said I had no idea how much he has to do. I just sat next to him, silent and numb.

The hospice doctor called him in. She asked him how he was, then she looked me in the eye and asked how I was... and I totally lost it. Tears started rolling and 32 hours later they haven't really stopped. That's the thing I guess when you think you're barely holding it all together and then someone feels the urge to be nice to you and ask you how you are; the whole facade collapses in a big snotty mess. Of course, I wasn't there for myself and felt bad bawling my eyes out at his monthly check up but the tears wouldn't stop. I sat in the relatives' chair next to him with my head bowed trying to blend into the background, but I had been clocked. Not by my paternal parent of course; he had no idea I was crumbling as he chatted and flirted with the doctor. The doctor told him she was going to take me into a different room so she could examine him in private. I’m SO grateful for that. She took me out and asked again if I was OK and it all came out - huge snotty sobs. No, I said, I wasn't - everyone keeps asking me 'how's your dad?' I don't know what to say. I told her my relationship with him had never been a loving father daughter relationship - he was treating me like his personal slave and despite me usually being a fully functional adult, I didn't know how to handle it.

He's 95 now, clearly very fragile, very frail and has terminal cancer. As he's  my paternal parent, I (stupidly) feel obligated to help; bearing in mind there is NOBODY else he can rely on to get around. To be fair he does offer to go on the bus but seeing how frail he is I simply can't allow it. He’s fallen over four times in as many months and is covered in cuts and bruises - some of these from pottering about in the garden. I worry. He's my parent - it's natural. The Doctor listened. I was grateful. At the end of the appointment we both left; me with a red blotchy face and him striding out. The doc promised to put me in touch with someone who could help and my paternal parent completely unaware of what had happened, as always. He's getting by doing what he's always done - being him, being oblivious to everyone else and letting everyone else run themselves ragged for him.

He's stopped driving now, due to his eyesight, rightly so, (drivers of Cardiff can let out a huge sigh of relief). His car tax ran out, his MOT ran out and soon his insurance will also run out. While this is a HUGE relief for me and for anyone who has ever sampled his driving, it means I now have to take him to his appointments, to do his shopping and go wherever else he thinks he can use a personal chauffeur on my days off. 

He has a long-standing distrust of taxi drivers although, to my knowledge, he's never ever been in a taxi. He doesn't have a mobile phone so he can't book an Uber and he is very hard of hearing so he can't phone for one either. He also has selective hearing, only hearing certain people and only hearing me when he wants to. He's always told myself and my brother we don't speak clearly enough and we should 'improve your diction, stop mumbling and speak up.' again oblivious to his own, very obvious hearing difficulties.

We left the hospice and he tried to give me directions to Lidl - the same Lidl I had lived metres away from for 9 years. He then said he wanted to go to Morrisons and then to his GP to have his dressings changed. He said not to go to the GP practice car park but to park in the church opposite. I said I'd take him and drop him off at the GP then I'd go park. He shouted for me to park in the church car park instead.

I asked 'The one by the side of the church?'

He said 'NO the one by the church.'

'Yes dad, the one by the side of the Church.'

‘No. Listen - you go round the roundabout then up the road and then turn left...'

'Yes dad, I know - at the side of the Church, but I can take you to the doctors.'

'NO. Hell why won't you LISTEN GIRL?' he yelled.

I lost it then and screamed at him 'YES by the church I KNOW.'

'OH GOD.' he says. I'm trying to tell you where to park. You never listen! I do love you but these conversations we have are SO DIFFICUT when you shout and you wont listen.' 

I drove there anyway. I just had no more strength to argue. He directed me every step – left here, turn right here… - even though I'd lived in the area 55 years. We parked and walked over to the GP. He had his dressings done then got his prescription. I asked if he'd like to sit in my car while I went to the chemist by the GP for him. He said no he wanted to go to his own chemist as they knew his history as the GP usually sent his prescriptions there by computer. I couldn't be bothered to argue. He'd worn me down to nothing. I was numb. I took him to his own chemist three miles away for his prescription. I took him home, I took his shopping into his house and I left. I left fast. I couldn't handle a moment more of him.

I rang my friend from the car and halfway home I lost the ability to talk as the tears came again, hard and fast. I managed to park outside my house and 'Chiquitita' by Abba came on the radio. I listened to the words for the first time ever and cried a lot more. I lay awake last night just thinking - what is it I'm so mad about exactly?

If I was a friend speaking to me what would I say? Eventually I figured it out. I've never had the kind of father daughter relationship with him that my friends had with their dads. That, I can handle - however now he is dying and old and frail, some inner conscience within my head is telling me I should look after him (just like he never did for me). He's old, frail, 95 and has terminal cancer - anyone would look at him and feel sorry for him and any decent human would offer help - of course they would. Why am I being a decent human? I know plenty of people who have cut all contact with their toxic parents.

If any of my friends or family had ever spoken to me the way he does, I would have cut all contact with them without hesitation. Forever. I'd never allow other people to treat me the way he does. What grinds is - for example, the shopping. He truly believed he'd asked me to take him food shopping. I knew he hadn't. 

Do I mind taking him shopping? Not usually, as long as I have notice and I can plan a mutually convenient time. So why did I mind yesterday. BECAUSE - his version of reality appeared to take precedent over mine. Whether he had asked me to take him shopping or not wasn't the point - the point was that even after he discovered I hadn't planned on taking him shopping, because he believed he had asked he therefore felt he was entitled to go.

A normal person would maybe have said 'I thought we were going shopping, but never mind if you had other plans - could you take me tomorrow, or could we just get the essentials and then go another time?' Not him!

So why do I do it? I'd tell anyone else to get out of there, Highly Toxic person. Don't put up with it. Walk Away! So why is it different for me talking to myself? I don't know! I feel trapped, like waiting for some huge storm to hit. It's mental torture. I feel even worse knowing what happened to my mum and feeling I know exactly why and I'm determined not to let him wear me down too. I do it for my brother. My brother is a saint. My brother lives with him. Every single day he is shouted out and he is told how stupid he is - every day.

My brother is not stupid, My brother is Autistic. I think this is his super power in this scenario as it maybe gives him a thick skin. 

It means the axe stays in the shed...

So PLEASE don't ask me how my dad is as I can't guarantee you won't regret asking (sorry if you do - I know you probably mean well.) and only ask me how I am if you have a spare box of tissues and a LOT of time. x

How to re-point your garden wall when there are more gaps than brick (for girls).

Gaps in the garden wall like this. Push the premixed cement in the consistency of a thick paste. Fill the gap.

I moved house in 2021 and though my new house ticked ALL my boxes, every singel one, there were a few things I noticed which I wanted sorting but would have to wait until I could do them properly but which I felt wouldn't have damaged anything in a worst case scenario. I have NO experience with bricklaying whatsoever other than I once did a course in a room next to a brick-laying course room and I once really, really fancied a builder who specialised in bricklaying. (trust me, he was also perfection). So, my new huose had LOTS and LOTS of garden wall - all more of a 2-3 brick high decorative wall rather than a supporting wall but the house originally was a showhouse for the estate and I think they must have had a lot of bricks spare, or maybe lots of work experience staff who were hanging about doing nothing. I believe the process is called pointing or re-pointing, where the cement in between the bricks has either fallen out, was never put in properly in the first place. Much of the cement in my walls had crumbled and over the years the weeds got in, the mud got in, rain got in and insects got in. Clearly if rain gets in and freezes, it caused further issues and as the house is on a mountain, we gets LOTS of wet weather and cold weather (and, for the balance we have lots of lovely sun in Summer too). The result was bricks held together with little more than mountain air. The more the cement fell out, the looser the bricks became and the more they wobbled. Replacement was not in the budget, neither was a professional. (Sadly neither was my fancy builder). So down to me then. As you can see from the photos, the cement was missing so I used a pre-mixed cement in a bag from the builders. Less than a tenner for a large bag, no messy mixing and I could mix a small batch at a time - just add water. I was nice to the chappie in the builders merchant and he loaded a bag into my car boot for me. I just had to lug it to my shed once I got home. I used an old small plastic (clean) ice cream container and filled it halfway with cement powder - I used a trowel to shovel the dry mix out and used a mask to prevent me inhaling it while I was faffing about. I added water a bit at a time from a plastic cup and mixed it in until it was like a paste - don't put too much water in it as it will cause a stain on the bricks and won't stick properly. Once mixed, it should stick on the trowel if you hold it upside down. I did buy some brick pointing tools on e-bay - you can get a pack of about 5 for under a tenner but it makes the job SO much easier. They come in different widths - my wall had gaps all different sizes so I used all of them. 1) Remove all loose cement, stones, mud, weeds and insects as you can from the gaps before you start. Use a brush. a stick, a screwdriver, whatever it takes to get it all out. 2) Grab a watering can, filled with water and head to the wall. Wet the wall bricks to be pointed as much as you can until the bricks are saturated, then get mixing with the cement and water - if you use the premixed cement you won't need anything else other than water although I hear if you use a little squidge of washing up liquid it helps it all bind together. However, of the MANY batches I made, I forgot on quite a few occasions and didn't notice any difference. 3) By now the wall should still be wet but the water should have absorbed into the brick by now so it will feel damp and not still be wet enough for water to run off. Great, that's what you want. Grab a blob of the prepared cement and squidge it hard into the gap - really get it in there, fill that gap and push it into the gap. Keep going until the cement is almost flush to the edge of the brick and then smooth it off with the pointing tool. Brush any loose bits off. Move on to the next brick and so on and just keep going over and over and over. It's quite theraputic. Really! It gives a sense of satisfaction. If you need to do a side piece I find it handy to put a bit of card on the floor to catch any bits and hold a blob on the trowel while pushing it into the gaps, smooth with the pointing tool and carry on. Keep going until you loose the will to carry on, finish the batch and then I will let you finish for a while. Scrape out as much of the mix as you can into the bin and rinse out any residue - NEVER put the mix down the drain. NEVER! Also you will need to rinse the tools - don't let the mix dry on anything as it will set forever.

The Shoe and The Car

Above is a picture of 'The Shoe'. The shoe was not dug from a long forgotten pile of old stuff in the corner of an unused room. No. It was in the kitchen at Imelda's house. It was probably, at some point in history, one of his shoes, although maybe it was more of a sandal. He has no idea when he last wore it. It's in a bit of a state - OK it's in a lot of a state, peeling and in bits, It has no sole. It's covered in sticky dust and of no apparent use to anyone or anything. It was just sitting there, on top of a pile of stuff, not under the stairs, in a box, in the shed or garage or at the back of a wardrobe, no this shoe was sitting on the top of a pile of boxes in front of the worktop in the KITCHEN. The same kitchen where he eats his food and spends a lot of his time. I picked it up and shrivelled my nose. 'What's this?' I said, holding it at arms length. 'Its an old shoe,' he said. like I'm uber stupid. 'It should realy be in the bin!' So, did he put it in the bin while he had it in his hand? No. He put it back on the pile where it had come from on the kitchen worktop, where it, no doubt, will remain until the day he dies. At which point I will put it in the bin. It just makes me so full of dispair. If he'd LET me help him now, I would. It would be so lovely to give him space to move around his house and have a room or two clear for a hospital bed when he needs it. I know it's not going to happen. It's beyond frustrating. He also has a car. It's an old green Ford Focus 52 plate -it's oficially silver but it's not been cleaned in many years and is covered in moss. It has a huge gauge down the side which he has no clue how it got there as the bump he had was only small when he hit a parked car (which was the parked car's fault by the way as it was parked in the dark...) It also stinks really really bad, it's scruffy and unloved and it covers about 500 miles a year. Its tax is due on 1st December. His licence expired in early September this year and so the car is SORNed (or shorned as he calls it). His licence expiring was the best thing for British roads, trust me. His driving terrified me every time I had the misfortune of having to be in a car with him. If anyone knows the mountain road from Caerphilly to Cardiff, he used to switch his engine off at the top of the road and coast down it, bump starting the car again on the way up the other side. Modern cars don't allow this without catastrophic loss of the steering. Back then in a 1965 Ford Cortina. things were different. I have suggested (following a visit to we buy any car, who valued the car at £175 - before I mentioned the rust, moss, dents, scratches or smell), that he donate the car to my son, his grandson who can clean the car and fix whatever needs doing to get it through a MOT and perhaps make himself a profit. He has other ideas. Call him optimistic... maybe. I can think of more accurate words. He wants to get the car MOT's himself because despite him having diabetes, cancer an implanted blood pressure/heart monitor device, almost total deafness and he's NINETY FIVE. He also has various other illnesses he has cateracts for which he goes to the hospital for injections every 4-6 weeks. He can't see properly through one eye but hopes they will be able to operate and remove his cateract so he can re-apply for a new licence as he hopes his eyesight will have improved. He will also have to get new insurance as his will run out in December. I suspect (and sincerely hope) he will never drive again. He could harm himself or someone else. If there's a chance then I will have to do the decent thing and have a word with the DVLA, much as I know if I did, and he found out, he would never speak to me again. I have pointed out a taxi would be cheaper for the mileage he does but he doesn't trust taxi drivers. I don't know a local taxi driver I can introduce him to. So tomorrow the car goes off for an MOT - taken by a friend of his.

Pervy old man or caring loving grandfather - you decide.

Just recently I had to take my father to a hospice appointment. I drove seven miles to his house to collect him to take him 4 miles to his appointment. As I may have said previously, he is extremely hard of hearing and communication is difficult, challenging, frustrating and stressful. This is partly because, for the past 30 years or so, his hearing has been in decline, making it necessary to speak as clearly as a BBC newsreader but at twice the volume and a third of the speed. Even so, he still tells me I'm not speaking clearly, I'm mumbling or I 'need to improve my diction'. Trust me, nobody else has issues understanding me. He gets irritated and nasty if he doesn't understand. to give you an idea, We started with the following conversation as we were leaving a fuel station having just filled my car. Me; Well that'll possibly last me a week. him. Did you fill it full with petrol? me; Its Diesel him; what? me it's DIESEL not petrol what IT TAKES DIESEL Zero? no DIESEL DIESEL D I E S E L Zero? Diesel fuel dad DIESEL - it's not petrol its DIESEL yes you said, but what about zero. not ZERO ... DIESEL it's DIESEL This car takes DIESEL D.I.E.S.E.L Oh DIESEL - right it's a DIESEL car I see. By this time we were at a set of lights which just turned red as I got there. He said 'You'll have to wait 127 seconds here now! I looked at him in WTF mode 'What?' 127 seconds - these lights have a 5 way sequence and it takes 127 seconds. I was somewhat taken aback. That's nothing short of weird. (although he has always had a thing about traffic lights). 'Right' I said not wishing to say anything further on the issue. There was a moment of silence, then he said 'Oh yes. I found a voucher in the house I was about to throw away.' I had a feeling this was going to be interesting, not least because he mentioned throwing something away, but there was something else niggling about it. 'Yes,' he said. I can't use it and Ant can't use it but I thought maybe your girls (his grandaughters) could use it.' I wasn't liking this conversation already. I smelled a rodent. After a short silence he continued... 'it's for feminine products.' OK, not liking this at all. While I am all for discussing this kind of thing when necessary with the right people, it's NEVER been anything I would EVER have discussed with him, nor wanted to discuss with him. He would have told me 'see your mother about that' had I ever asked. He just wasn't that type of dad. I told him 'Nah, throw it away, they like to sort themselves out'. 'Ah so they don't use them then?' he wanted an answer. I said 'I don't know dad, it's not my business any more.' I made it clear I didn't want to discuss this with him. At least I thought I made it clear. He then says 'I read somewhere that when females live together in the same house, this sort of thing happens at the same time. everything synchronises!' 'Oh' I said, not knowing what else to say and not comfortable with the whole conversation. 'Yes and now they're living in a flat with 3 other females, it will probably happen to them all at the same time!' Luckily at this point he wanted to give me directions to where we were going, even though I'd lived in the area all my life and taken him to the same appointment 4 times before. He likes to pretend he's the one who's showing me the way. I changed the subject. It was weird for sure and a little creepy. I don't like the way he refers to women as 'females'. He doesn't say 'the lady at the bank' as most people say or even 'the woman at the bank'. he says 'the female at the bank'. If you ask me it's full on creepy behaviour. I think his obsession with traffic lights are spectrum behavioour. Who does that? Timing traffic lights. He's always been the same - in about 1998 I'd just come back from my first trip to the USA on a Camp America programme. I had been there about 3 months and then had toured the USA on a Grayhound bus by myself. I was SO full of it. SO excited to tell everyone about it. I'd seen the Grand Canyon, Carlsbad Caverns, Lake Powell, The Blue Ridge Mountains, DISNEYLAND, so much. He picked me up from the airport and I was telling him about everything, so excited and proud I'd done it by myself and I was so excited to tell him about it. We got to a set of lights and I realised he wasn't listening to me. No, he was counting. He was COUNTING the number of seconds the traffice lights stayed on red. I stopped talking. '25, 26, 27, 28. Ridiculous! Ludicrous 28 bloody seconds those lights were red - and 22 seconds for the filter light. Bloody council couldn't run a booze-up in a brewery! Absolutely bloody ridiculous.' He said angrily. I didn't bother finishing what I was sasying, instead leaving it until I got home to tell my mum instead.He clearly wasn't in the slightet bit interested in anything other than himself and his weird little interests. I was speaking to someone recently who mentioned that constantly being on the recieving end of Narcissistic abuse can indeed affect people to the extent they change from a happy go lucky cheerful confident person into a mere shell. That happened to my mother.

What to do on a big '0' birthday Birthday?

I was at a loss recently to know what to do for my big birthday. I had done LOTS around the date with various friends and family members including another visit to Abba Voyage, a weekend in the Forest of Dean, going out to see a UB40 tribute and a cinema visit to see The Sound of Music digitally remastered and whatever for its 60th anniversary (no I didn't notice the difference but it's still a damn good film so I would have gone anyway). All those things were amazing and I had an absolute whale - but on the actual day itself - when your birthday's on a Monday, what do you do? My kids have left home (sort of), my other half is not the type to want to go for a walk or do anything noteworthy or do a weekend away or anything I like. He suggested a trip to McDonalds.. A friend had offered to take me zip wiring - which I was up for but you have to book early and as I had only just had the news about my dad the time we were about to book, I wasn't sure where we would be with him so we couldn't book anything. I fancied a tour around the roof of the Principality Stadium in Cardiff and maybe an abseil from the roof or a zip-wire down, however they aren't doing these tours at the moment. I fancied taking me to see Abba Voyage again - but they're closed on a Monday and I went only a few weeks ago. I fancied seeing Phantom of the Opera in London but when I mentioned it another friend said they would like to come with me but were working on my birthday. I have never climbed Pen-y-fan mountain in Wales. My cousin, good sort that she is, offered to take me up there on the day, however I have a strong sense of self-preservation and so politely declined. So - I ended up using my free bus pass :( and going for a trip to Barry Island. The place made famous by Gavin and Stacey. I went there many times as a child and I like a good walk along the beach. I dipped my feet in the sea - time will tell if my survival instincts are working - the sea was brown with brown froth although the water wasn't too cold. The weather was lovely and while I was there I had a Happy Birthday call from both of my daughters which was lovely. I had chips for lunch with lots of salt and vinegar. I finished the day off with a visit to the Llandaff Cardiff Rock Choir and had a good singing sesh with my mates there. Nice and simple

Abba Voyage - again :) - What to expect.

I had a big birthday redently and went to see Abba Voyage in London for the day. It was my 2nd visit, the first I took my 19 year-old daughter who loved it every bit as much as I did. She knew and sang along to most of the songs which she had picked up from me playing them in the car. We had dance floor tickets, which, in my opinion is the ONLY way to go at an Abba bash. I have seen my fair share of Abba tribute bands over the years but NONE OF THEM sing the songs exactly the same - there's always the odd extended note where it shouldn't be or just something not right. One band were trying to speak to each other in a fake Sweedish accent using the names of the Abba band members which was dreadful and - well just sing the songs ffs. For some reason, for a large chunk of the last, I don't know how many years, it wasn't 'cool' to like Abba. Whether that actually was th case or whether it was all in my imagination, I really don't know. I also really don't care. I'm now totally out and proud an Abba fan and so are many many many others. The Abba show in London has been going a few years now and every time anyone I know has been it has been full. I was on the tube train on the way there and a lady said it was her 14th visit. Some people dress up, some don't, it doesn't matter. The atmosphere is amazing from the minute you see the Arena which is visible as soon as you step off the tube at Pudding Mill Lane tube station. (Tube to London Stratford first, then to Pudding Mill Lane from there). It's right over the road from the station. Prices start from £55 for the dance floor depending on whay day you go and go up to £200 odd for some seats. The view, I would imagine is equally excellent wherever you are, although personally I prefer the dance floor as a person who simply has the urge to dance at any opportunity. I'd not be able to sit still in a seat. Strict warnings are given about the use of cameras during the performance but a view of the forest above is on a screen as soon as you enter the arena. It's a moving image with snowfall and litle imps and elves and the like darting between the trees. It gives a sense of magic and of what you are about to see or what you are about to think you see. I watched my friend's face as the show started. Gobsmacked I think about describes it. She said she hadn't known what to expect but it wasn't what she saw. Of course you know you aren't going to see real people, but if you just allow yourself to be immersed in the show your brain won't know any difference. The lighting is incredible as is the sound. It's just like a show you'd go to a stadium to see but much much better. The group is on stage and also close ups are shown all around. Lights come down from the ceiling and there's lasers and allsorts. In the middle of the show is an animated kind of Sweedish fairytale film for their song EAGLE. This is my favourite song of theirs and guarantees to make me cry every time. So there I was watching the show and crying my eyes out with happiness. Yup I'm a wierdo and I don't care! I saw the show in September 2025 and there were only two songs I didn't really know - everyone politely danced along anyway although not with as much vigour as the ones we all know and love. Everyone was still buzzing when they came out and flocked either to the bars opposite or to the tube station to go home. As luck would (not) have it, London underground had a strike that day which we weren't aware of and although we had allowed 2 hours to get from there to Victoria Bus Station which would, under normal circumstances have been more than enough. On this occasion we had to get a train to Stratford, another tube to another station, then get off there and get the 38 bus to Victoria. We didn't know where the bus was nor which side of the road we had to stand on, we missed a bus, the next bus was delayed so we ended up taking a Starsky and Hutch style taxi drive to Victoria station, praying to the god of green traffic lights to help us (the god ignored us and sent us red lights). The taxi driver was amazing and with the help of a bus station worker managed to jump on the bus just as it was pulling out. Would I go again? Absolutely - already booked again for the end of January next year. I also had a voucher for Abba Voyage so I will just have to go a 4th time :D YIPPEE...

The Joys of having a Bestie

Lately life has not been the best for me and the family but I like to think I face my challenges head on. However, sometimes my temper gets the better of me and these moments are not my proudest. The local City Hospice has been in touch as there is a charity called 'Care and Repair' who help elderly people with little repair jobs around the house that they cannot do. They come to the house to do an assessment, see what's needed and then send the appropriate tradesman to fix it. I think it's a lovely idea for those who need it. Last Thursday they called me at work at about ten to five asking if they could come to assess his needs the following day. They have my number as 1) He never hears his phone and 2) if he did happen to be passing when it rang, he wouldn't be able to hear anyone on the other end. I said I couldn't confirm if he would be in but as the slot was the following day I would go to his house straight from work and call the lady back. I went straight round there and he was in the garden with Ant doing a spot of gardening. Ant saw me and said 'Izzy's here dad'. After a few 'What?' and a few repeats, I heard him say 'Oh Hell is she?' Nice greeting but I let it slide. I said 'Right dad listen now and let me tell you why I'm here'. 'YOU WHAT?' he said. 'Dad, just LISTEN ok and I can tell you ... There's a charity call...' 'WHAT CHARITY?' 'Dad LISTEN! It's a charity called Ca...' 'WHAT CHARITY. I DON'T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT ANY CHARITY.' 'Dad Listen please and I will tell you... There's a charity called Care and Repair and they... 'WHAT CHARITY? I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT.' 'Dad please just LISTEN and I'll tell you... There's a charity... 'YES DAMMIT. YOU SAID BUT I DON'T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT A CHARITY I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT. YOU SAID THERE'S A CHARITY BUT I DON'T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT A CHARITY.' 'Dad, Just shush a minute, listen and I will tell you...' I was getting a little annoyed by now. 'The charity want to know if there's any jobs you need doing so they can take a look and see if they can fix them.' 'RIGHT WELL YOU DIDN'T SAY THAT DID YOU?' 'No Dad, you wouldn't let me. Now please listen...' 'I AM LISTENING DAMN YOU. YOU COME ROUND HERE WITH NO WARNING TELLING ME SOMETHING ABOUT SOME CHARITY AND I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOURE TALKING ABOUT.' 'Dad I did try to call first but you didn't answer. So I ...' 'NO OF COURSE I DIDN'T ANSWER BECAUSE I WAS IN THE BLOODY GARDEN SO OF COURSE I DIDN'T BLOODY ANSWER. WHAT A DAMN STUPID THING TO SAY!' 'Dad, My point is I can't give you notice as they only called me 15 minutes ago and I did call but as you didn't answer I had to drive round here.' 'WELL, WHAT IS IT YOU WANT?' he said impatiently. Like he was the one doing me a favour. I won't carry on the conversation here as it went downhill from there and although typing it out here is cathartic, I can feel my blood approaching the boil again just replaying it in my mind. It didn't end well and I ended up telling him what an obnoxious ungrateful old *$"%ing *$*£^er he was - there were a LOT of naughty words in there - very naughty words but they had to come out. I shouted them as well and I'm not proud of this but he's probaby the only one who can take me from calm to axe murderer in about 10 seconds. Anyway, my journey home detoured through the lanes where there are lots of trees and green and it calms me down and I can scream if I need and the trees don't mind. When I got home, I called my bestie and recounted the tale - the full unedited version swearing and all. There was a pause and I thought 'Oh no, I have even shocked her...' there was a 2 second pause and she ROARED with laughter down the phone, lifting a ton of weight I didn't even realise I had, off my shoulders. She's met him. She knows what he's like and she doesn't judge. My bestie is AMAZING and she knows who she is. :)