When Mums Go Without

Mum bought me a gold ring with diamonds in an S-shape when I was 40.  It was a bit too small, so I never really wore it.  She remembered something about a ring this morning when I told her it was ready to pick up from the jewellers … “I think I remember the ring. … Sonia darling, I didn’t give you a ring yesterday did I?”  No Mum, you didn’t ring me, you bought me a ring.  Do you remember it? “Well, I’m ringing you now aren’t I?”  No Mum, I rang you, but I’m talking about a little gold ring with diamondy stones in it.  “I  like the Rolling Stones”. I assumed it was cubic zirconia, but no, the jeweller told me it was antique gold with real diamonds and would have cost her a relative fortune.  Bang !  Heart thump ! I remembered Mum taking on extra cleaning shifts at the time.

I was listening to a wonderful interview this morning on Radio 4 with the mum and son who inspired the musical “Everybody’s Talking about JAMIE”.  He broke down in tears when his mum revealed how she’d gone short and was happy to do it, to make sure he got everything he needed to make his teenage drag queen life possible.  This beautiful woman with her soft County Donegal accent got me thinking … do we ever really appreciate what our parents have done for us when it comes to going without things themselves to give us what we need?  Probably not, after all they are parents and isn’t that just what parents should do?  I’ve never had the joy of having my own children, so I don’t have first hand experience, but I know that I’d give my precious sister everything if she really needed it. In a heartbeat. Does that count?

Mum was never able to hold a real job down as her attention span is, let’s put it kindly, short.  It always has been.  And she was never going to get the Employee of the Month badge as she was constantly confusing her bosses.  I remember my Dad telling me that she was cleaning for a local family who’s patriarchal figurehead knelt down to pray at least three times a day.  Mum was sacked when she rammed her Hoover into him, telling him to “get up off your knees with all the praying nonsense – you’re in my way!”  Not the cleverest way of ensuring long-term employment.  When she moved to the coast and took a job in a local care home she raided the kitchen kitty and shared it out with all the residents, telling them to buy sensible biscuits as she didn’t like the digestives.  The Scratchwood Services boss let her go when she kept banging on the doors of the hotel rooms when businessmen were “having a rest” with women in tow … she took offence to the “easyshags” (her term) and often banged on their door or chased them out of their rooms early with an admonishment and waggy finger.  I know that waggy finger – it’s terrifying – I used it once recently myself – never again !  Somewhere there may still be CCTV footage of Mum cycling to Scratchwood Services from Hendon – up the M1.  Yes, the M1.  She got very fed up with the police pulling her over all the time.  ALL THE TIME ?  She told me that lorry drivers were the worst … hooting and honking,  flashing their lights, stressing her out.  My little 5’1″ mum with her flowing red hair, cycling on her battered old bicycle on the motorway.  To make it even more perilous, she got so fed up with the lorries that she rode in the middle of the lanes so they couldn’t keep pushing her onto the hard shoulder and yelled at them as they sped by.  The lovely part of all of this – apart from her not being killed – was that she had a huge amount of affection for the police officers who knew her name and were always giving her a lift to the services with her bike in the back of their car and requests that she promised not to cycle back again.  She promised.  She didn’t keep the promises of course.  If anyone ever remembers a friend, family member or fellow police colleague recalling these incidents I want to shake their hand and say thank you.  It always amuses me to think that maybe, just maybe, a car driver who passed her on his way to a secret assignation at the Scratchwood Services hotel would end his liaison with a loud knock on the door and a muffled “GET OUT !”

She was never afraid of work – and worked constantly.  I can remember wondering why I was often at some weird person’s house after school, but got used to it .  Now I realise it was Mum going out to save up for special birthday parties, or a fancy dolly,  a dinghy for my brother, lean cuts of meat (that she’d often combine with very odd ingredients, but that’s another story), or a new pair of shiny shoes.  And this one that slays people when I tell it.  In the television industry we’re nearly all freelancers and when a contract falls down it’s the usual game of chess to get other work in.  On this occasion three things fell down at once and I was worrying about the bills and mortgage.  I called mum to say that I’d wait for a week or so before coming down to see her as I needed to conserve my money.  She, of course, was fine with that as she’s never, ever been one of those mums who gives you hassle for not visiting.  The next morning the postman arrived with a little parcel – Mum’s writing on the packet and a roll of sellotape used to wrap it up.  Inside was her little silver leather purse with £3.84 in it.  I called her to thank her and her words were, and I’ll never forget them … “Well Sonia darling, my pension comes on Monday and I can do until then and I thought you’d need this more than me”.  That purse is one of the things I’d rescue if I ever had to leave the house in an emergency.  That £3.84 would have bought her 2 Salvation Army breakfast bacon sandwiches – her favourite brekkie as she refused to use her gas cooker.  And as always, for my sake, Mum went without.

I’ll never be able to repay her “withouts” but I can always give her respect and love, drive down to the coast whenever I can and have wonderful conversations with her. She’s never asked for anything in return – her only recent demand is for chocolate toffees and to sit calmly with her to hold her hand.  That’s whenever she’s not flinging food or sweets at other residents or wagging her finger at Carol who keeps trying to Nick her biscuits.

5 Mumbelievable Truths

Clive, Colin & Olive are the only Snow White dwarves worth caring about, Michael Pillow is the best broadcaster about train journeys, my head looks like a giant sugar cube, scrambled eggs and toffee will keep you going till 100 and Piers Morgan is the best James Bond ever.  According to Mum, these facts are all true and everything else is fanciful thinking on my behalf.  She’ll often berate me for ‘getting above myself with the intellect’ and corrects me by giving me ‘proper’ stories to relate … and when you think about it, they all make sense – Mum sense.  A load of old Mumsense and I love it.

We’ve all had those moments when someone says something hysterical in front of a crowd and when that person is completely unaware of what they’ve said it makes us laugh even more, even though we know we shouldn’t – but it’s fun isn’t it?  It’s panto season coming up and Tony and I are the panto band again – this year it’s Bluebeard, not Snow White, but Mum won’t be convinced that there won’t be dwarves in it.  She won’t be able to come and see it this year and that’s probably just as well.  The last theatre experience I took her to was to see Tommy Steele in Scrooge and we had seats at the back of the gallery – always a sensible place for Mum as she can’t resist joining in and causing a few shhhhhh’s and menacing looks over the shoulder for those too scared to do a shhhhhh.  Back of the gallery?  Yes, good thinking as she was so far away from the stage, she couldn’t possibly shout out to the performers .  Wrong.  Shout she did. Loudly, waving arms, mentioning me in every sentence.  “Whoooo-ooooo Tommy Steele !  My daughter here wants to marry you”  and a little later “Whhooo-ooooo Tommy Steele !  Do you have a dog?  My daughter wants a puppy.”  Where did THAT come from?  Neither of these heckles were true of course and even though I’ve told myself a million times that people will only be reacting to Mum’s antics and not associating me with the mayhem, I was wrong.  They did and told ME to shut up and stop encouraging my Mum.  Tommy Steele did eventually respond with a “Hello up in the Gods – I’m the star of this show”.  It didn’t stop her and how we weren’t ejected I’ll never know.  Scrooge was similar to panto with its jokes and crafty asides to the audience, so we managed to stay till the end.  She went to the loo after the curtain call and then I lost her.  She’d gone.  Nowhere to be seen.  It was about twenty minutes until one of the ushers asked me if I was THE Sonia?  Oh dear, here we go, straight back to childhood horrors of being rounded up by policemen as Mum was unexpectedly taken into care.  “Yes – is everything ok?”  Yes, Mum says that she’ll only be 10 minutes or so as she’s hoping to get to see Tommy after the show.  Luckily (for me) she’d not got past Stage Door and came back into the main foyer on the arm of a very camp, red-faced young usher who kept patting her arm.  She’d loved every minute of  Scrooge of course and said she’d felt part of the show.  I think I shrunk at least 2 inches by compressing my spine and trying to be invisible.

When my brother was born, Mum had severe post-natal depression which was, as far as I can ascertain, undiagnosed and written off as eccentricity.  She’s never liked her red hair and when my brother arrived with his gorgeous shock of ginger hair she associated him with herself and didn’t connect.  She was a ballerina who’d been asked to dance with Nuryev, so she couldn’t possibly look after a new baby.  She broke toes going up on pointe in the hospital ward and cut the hem of her hospital gown to look more like a tutu.  I’d heard the stories from Dad and Pop as they were always brought up as funny anecdotes, but underneath I knew that things weren’t right with her at the time and although they were funny antics they were, as I started to realise as I got older, the result of severe mental health problems.  The gap between my parents was 13 years – she was the older one – so it had its challenges as a marriage in the 60s when that age gap was more unusual than now.  She was always very astute though in her own way and in between her muddled thinking and outrageous behaviour, there lurked a philosopher and deep thinker.  I can remember going to the ballet and asking Mum who all the dancer characters were.  I must have been talking out loud as there was lots of shhhhhhh’s dotted throughout this memory.  “Sonia darling, what you have to remember in ballet is that dancing has to be very clear on who is a man and who is a woman otherwise people get confused.  That’s why the men have their willies on show and the ladies wear short skirts.  These were the actual words she said.  Yes, willies on show.  I was confused and asked her afterwards if it was ok for men to show their willies on stage?  Yes she said, as long as they are in a ballet.  I wasn’t convinced but went along with it.  I asked her later if it HAD to be men and women getting married, or could men marry men and women marry women.  Only in America she told me.  Ah, only in America, ok that made sense to my 5-year old brain.  Soon afterwards I remember meeting one of Dad’s friends at a concert he was playing in and this man had a funny voice.  I asked him why he had a funny voice and he told me he was American.  Ah – are you sleeping with a man? I asked. Dad spat out his Guinness and his colleague walked away after smiling at me in that I’m-smiling-but-I’m-not-happy way.  Mum had told me that men marry men in America, so surely that made sense?  Why were grown-ups so confusing?

Mum told me yesterday that the care home has a box of James Bond films and she’s going to watch the Piers Morgan one.  Try telling her that it’s Pierce Brosnan … she berated me again with a friendly chide … Pierce? What kind of a man’s name is that?  OK Mum, which film is it?  Tomorrow Never Dies?  The World is Not Enough?  Die Another Day?  “Oh do be quiet Sonia darling, you’re so depressing at times you know”.   We’re having a couple of excerpts of the James Bond theme in panto – when the baddies gets chased by the goodies, so I’ll be thinking of Mum and her box sets at the next rehearsal, fantasising about Tommy Steele in the main role maybe, wondering if any of the flash, bangs or wallops will happen in the right places.  It’s going to be fun – oh yes it is.

As for scrambled eggs and toffee … Mum woofed down a whole jar of Potter’s malt extract and cod liver oil when the carers weren’t looking and had the inevitable digestive ‘alterations’ to her normal routine and she’s on a protest … only accepting scrambled eggs or toffees to eat … to teach her carers a lesson.  A lesson in what, I’m not sure, but with every day we speak I continue to learn from this extraordinary woman.  Dum diddle-um dum,  dum-dum-dum-dum,  Dum diddle-um dum,  dum-dum-dum-dum, Daaaaa Dum, Da dum dum …

5 Mumbelievable Truths

Clive, Colin & Olive are the only Snow White dwarves worth caring about, Michael Pillow is the best broadcaster about train journeys, my head looks like a giant sugar cube, scrambled eggs and toffee will keep you going till 100 and Piers Morgan is the best James Bond ever.  According to Mum, these facts are all true and everything else is fanciful thinking on my behalf.  She’ll often berate me for ‘getting above myself with the intellect’ and corrects me by giving me ‘proper’ stories to relate … and when you think about it, they all make sense – Mum sense.  A load of old Mumsense and I love it.

We’ve all had those moments when someone says something hysterical in front of a crowd and when that person is completely unaware of what they’ve said it makes us laugh even more, even though we know we shouldn’t – but it’s fun isn’t it?  It’s panto season coming up and Tony and I are the panto band again – this year it’s Bluebeard, not Snow White, but Mum won’t be convinced that there won’t be dwarves in it.  She won’t be able to come and see it this year and that’s probably just as well.  The last theatre experience I took her to was to see Tommy Steele in Scrooge and we had seats at the back of the gallery – always a sensible place for Mum as she can’t resist joining in and causing a few shhhhhh’s and menacing looks over the shoulder for those too scared to do a shhhhhh.  Back of the gallery?  Yes, good thinking as she was so far away from the stage, she couldn’t possibly shout out to the performers .  Wrong.  Shout she did. Loudly, waving arms, mentioning me in every sentence.  “Whoooo-ooooo Tommy Steele !  My daughter here wants to marry you”  and a little later “Whhooo-ooooo Tommy Steele !  Do you have a dog?  My daughter wants a puppy.”  Where did THAT come from?  Neither of these heckles were true of course and even though I’ve told myself a million times that people will only be reacting to Mum’s antics and not associating me with the mayhem, I was wrong.  They did and told ME to shut up and stop encouraging my Mum.  Tommy Steele did eventually respond with a “Hello up in the Gods – I’m the star of this show”.  It didn’t stop her and how we weren’t ejected I’ll never know.  Scrooge was similar to panto with its jokes and crafty asides to the audience, so we managed to stay till the end.  She went to the loo after the curtain call and then I lost her.  She’d gone.  Nowhere to be seen.  It was about twenty minutes until one of the ushers asked me if I was THE Sonia?  Oh dear, here we go, straight back to childhood horrors of being rounded up by policemen as Mum was unexpectedly taken into care.  “Yes – is everything ok?”  Yes, Mum says that she’ll only be 10 minutes or so as she’s hoping to get to see Tommy after the show.  Luckily (for me) she’d not got past Stage Door and came back into the main foyer on the arm of a very camp, red-faced young usher who kept patting her arm.  She’d loved every minute of  Scrooge of course and said she’d felt part of the show.  I think I shrunk at least 2 inches by compressing my spine and trying to be invisible.

When my brother was born, Mum had severe post-natal depression which was, as far as I can ascertain, undiagnosed and written off as eccentricity.  She’s never liked her red hair and when my brother arrived with his gorgeous shock of ginger hair she associated him with herself and didn’t connect.  She was a ballerina who’d been asked to dance with Nuryev, so she couldn’t possibly look after a new baby.  She broke toes going up on pointe in the hospital ward and cut the hem of her hospital gown to look more like a tutu.  I’d heard the stories from Dad and Pop as they were always brought up as funny anecdotes, but underneath I knew that things weren’t right with her at the time and although they were funny antics they were, as I started to realise as I got older, the result of severe mental health problems.  The gap between my parents was 13 years – she was the older one – so it had its challenges as a marriage in the 60s when that age gap was more unusual than now.  She was always very astute though in her own way and in between her muddled thinking and outrageous behaviour, there lurked a philosopher and deep thinker.  I can remember going to the ballet and asking Mum who all the dancer characters were.  I must have been talking out loud as there was lots of shhhhhhh’s dotted throughout this memory.  “Sonia darling, what you have to remember in ballet is that dancing has to be very clear on who is a man and who is a woman otherwise people get confused.  That’s why the men have their willies on show and the ladies wear short skirts.  These were the actual words she said.  Yes, willies on show.  I was confused and asked her afterwards if it was ok for men to show their willies on stage?  Yes she said, as long as they are in a ballet.  I wasn’t convinced but went along with it.  I asked her later if it HAD to be men and women getting married, or could men marry men and women marry women.  Only in America she told me.  Ah, only in America, ok that made sense to my 5-year old brain.  Soon afterwards I remember meeting one of Dad’s friends at a concert he was playing in and this man had a funny voice.  I asked him why he had a funny voice and he told me he was American.  Ah – are you sleeping with a man? I asked. Dad spat out his Guinness and his colleague walked away after smiling at me in that I’m-smiling-but-I’m-not-happy way.  Mum had told me that men marry men in America, so surely that made sense?  Why were grown-ups so confusing?

Mum told me yesterday that the care home has a box of James Bond films and she’s going to watch the Piers Morgan one.  Try telling her that it’s Pierce Brosnan … she berated me again with a friendly chide … Pierce? What kind of a man’s name is that?  OK Mum, which film is it?  Tomorrow Never Dies?  The World is Not Enough?  Die Another Day?  “Oh do be quiet Sonia darling, you’re so depressing at times you know”.   We’re having a couple of excerpts of the James Bond theme in panto – when the baddies gets chased by the goodies, so I’ll be thinking of Mum and her box sets at the next rehearsal, fantasising about Tommy Steele in the main role maybe, wondering if any of the flash, bangs or wallops will happen in the right places.  It’s going to be fun – oh yes it is.

As for scrambled eggs and toffee … Mum woofed down a whole jar of Potter’s malt extract and cod liver oil when the carers weren’t looking and had the inevitable digestive ‘alterations’ to her normal routine and she’s on a protest … only accepting scrambled eggs or toffees to eat … to teach her carers a lesson.  A lesson in what, I’m not sure, but with every day we speak I continue to learn from this extraordinary woman.  Dum diddle-um dum,  dum-dum-dum-dum,  Dum diddle-um dum,  dum-dum-dum-dum, Daaaaa Dum, Da dum dum .

 

Barbara Windsor’s new job

The nights are drawing in and Mum wants to go to bed around 6pm, even though that’s when Barbara Windsor serves dinner.  She’s started a whole new game … and a great idea for a new television reality show … Celebrity Carers … could that work?  A couple of weeks ago Donald trump had gone to work there (he of the rotten soggy toast) and now it’s Barbara Windsor who’s given up life as a superstar and has dedicated herself to caring for my mum and her friends.  She’s probably getting a bit mixed up with snippets of another conversation that we had a few months ago … take a deep breath … here goes.  “Barbara Windsor … I love her but she chose some very strange men, didn’t she?”  Well, her lovely husband now is Scott and he is the love of her life, Mum.  Maybe you’re thinking of the old days when she was involved with Sid James from the Carry Ons and Ronn … Mum, interrupts with a hilarious aside “Oh yes, Sid!  He was your grandfather, Sonia darling” (He wasn’t of course, but my Pop did look a bit like him with his twinkling eyes, razor-sharp humour and tight, curly hair).  Are you thinking back to Barbara’s links to the London crime scene, Mum?  “Well, wasn’t she married to one of the Two Ronnie’s? Was it Ronnie Corbett?”  No, Ronnie Knight mum – he was the gangster, Ronnie Corbett was the comedian. “He was short too.  She’s short isn’t she?  Little Barbara Windsor?”  I think you’re getting your Ronnies mixed up, Mum.  “Ronnie Barker!  Yes, she was married to Ronnie Barker – no wait – Ronnie Barker??? Ronnie Barker was a gangster?  He never struck me as a violent type. Barbara Windsor – she’s quite short too – that’s probably why she liked him. Did she marry both of them?”  I tried to interrupt her and steer her in the right direction, but tea has a nasty habit of catching in your throat when trying to stifle a laugh, making you cough and staining your new white blouse.

Luckily the tea stain came out.  It’s fascinating how the memory can re-arrange life into brand new scenarios.  Mum is very happy in her world – whenever she re-invents people, times, situations or whole periods of her life, it’s as though she’s suddenly remembered a whole new memory that had buried itself.  She genuinely believes that Barbara Windsor works in the care home and it’s not my job to deny it or change that – if that’s what makes her happy, that’s fine isn’t it?  I’ve spent a lifetime trying to re-configure her thinking as I thought that was the responsible thing to do, but looking back on it, that was purely my way of re-aligning my world to cope with her odd views.  As a very little girl I’d apparently passed an audition to go to stage school.  Mum had always wanted to see me on the big stage – saving every penny she had to put on Cinderella, starring me when I was 7.  I remember a huge cut-out carriage stuck to the side of a big hooded pram, little boys dressed in white horse costumes and Prince Charming with his deep red velvet coat and white stockings.  I think we had a piano player and sang songs from the Disney film, but it’s all a bit of a haze as it was in-between Mum depositing me with various friends overnight when she was either working extra hours or having to take time out with her depression.  Each time she did this, my father would return from work as a classical musician to find an empty flat.  It must have been terribly stressful for him of course,  but nothing I ever actually saw, apart from one night that sticks in my memory.  Mum had told me to go and get changed into my new stage school uniform and show Daddy.  I was so excited, but it was another one of Mum’s manic episodes … she’d bought the uniform, despite Dad saying that although I’d passed the audition, I couldn’t possibly go to the drama school as they didn’t have the money for it.  Back in those days I don’t think there were scholarships.  So I had to take the uniform off, put it back in the bag and Dad marched off with it – probably to take it back for a refund … all very confusing.  Hey ho.

People have often said that I’d be a good actress and I guess it comes from being able to put on a whole new skin with “normal” people from a very young age when Mum was behaving in strange ways.  And you get very skilled in finding three very different ways of telling the same story to 3 parents – unpredictable Mum,  sensible Dad who was exasperated by unpredictable Mum and step Mum, the wonderful new breath of fresh air and apparently normal influence in the family.

It’s all been a bit of a drama;  with Mum now centre stage as the character that people are really coming to love.  And Ronnie is now figuring in a very different way – as my beloved step grandson and brand new member of the family.  I hope that one day he may get to meet Mum – I wonder what he’ll think of her with his brand new eyes – one thing I do know is that Mum will adore him and will tenderly stroke his chin, as she does to me every time she sees me.  Love you Mum.  Enjoy your early nights.

 

 

Burn Joan of Arc, Burn

Scrambled eggs and malt extract with cod liver oil are Mum’s current favourites. After a couple of years of refusing to eat anything apart from white bread & butter, the occasional spoonful of peas or half a sausage, she has picked up her appetite at last.  Good luck to anyone trying to tell her that 5 sudden spoonfuls of malt extract on the trot may not be good for her digestion.  Energised and super alert she quizzed me about the people I’m working with. Time for a mind exercise I thought.  Mum – try and think of one of the biggest black male singers the world has ever known.  “Yes, ok Sonia darling.  Shirley Bassey?”  Male, mum. “Shirley Williams?”.  I think you’re thinking about Iris Williams. No Mum, think male singers.  “Andy Williams?”  He’s white Mum.  Think younger, part of a group called The Jacksons.  “Jack Jones?”.  I can almost hear us all shouting out at the screen as I write this, but bear with it … she gets to her answer in the end.  Mum, he did songs like Thriller, Heal The World, I Want You Back.  “Star Wars??? Your father was in that wasn’t he, Sonia darling?”  Where are you going with this, Mum?  “Your father was in Star Wars”  He played on the soundtrack, Mum.  But which black, male singer was in Star Wars Mum? “Chewbacca !!!”.  What?  She’s realised that she’s made a joke and feeling very happy with herself.  Joyful to see.  I Want You Back – Chewbacca.  Yes, I can see in mum’s mind why that makes perfect sense.  She’s completely lost interest in the original question and is now hurling biscuits at Chris, her favourite resident in the home.  Her boyfriend.  “Oh I love him Sonia darling, I really do. Maybe I’ll marry him one day”.  She insists on calling him Keith, which is the name of the mini-bus driver who was the previous object of Mum’s affection.  “He’s left now, Sonia darling” (He hasn’t and still drives the mini-bus, it’s just that Mum’s a little too fragile these days to take the bone-rattling bumps of a long journey).  Chris is a very sweet, docile chap who is obviously fond of Mum and is constantly picking bits of food off his clothes as Mum can’t take anything over to him,  so hurling will have to do.

Back in 1997 food, hurling and games took a very different turn.  She was independent, mobile and self-medicating with whiskey as she was going through the first stages of painful hip degeneration and aware that her mental capacity was waning.  It was always upsetting to hear her wondering out loud why her brain wasn’t doing what she wanted it to do, despite me telling her all the time that she was my Mum and I loved her whatever her brain did.  Looking back of course she needed proper medical help and support with mental illness, but her phobia of doctors and hospitals made it impossible to get her to see anyone and she was functioning in the real world – in a way that always alarmed me, but seemed to suit her.  She was a mother in the 60s and 70s when mental illness was something that people swept away and her bad behaviour was treated as a conscious decision on her part to misbehave and do ‘crazy’ things.  People would smile, throw their hands up in the ‘who knows?’ gesture and hope she’d stop doing it.  These days her illness would have been seen for what it is and she’d be supported,  not dismissed.  Anyway, this particular day she’d drunk what appeared to be half a bottle of whiskey as she turned up to my first wedding in a beautiful shocking pink two-piece with a straw hat and posh shoes. She looked lovely and my heart sank when I clocked that she’d been drinking, despite promises of staying sober.  Oh dear … this was going to be a challenging day anyway with all factions of different families meeting for the first time and Mum … drunk … I told myself to let go, try not to focus on it and enjoy the day. Yes. Right.

She’d brought a whicker basket on wheels and insisted on taking it into the ceremony room.  I wrestled it from her and put it safely in a corner of the registrar’s office before ushering her and her friend upstairs where the wedding guests were waiting.  There was some kind of altercation as she entered, but I ignored it and went back downstairs to carry on the registration process.  She’d heckled me throughout the ceremony of course and had apparently gone up to my friend Nigel in a loud voice saying … ” She should be marrying YOU”.  Eventually, we all got into cars to the Orange Tree Pub for our wedding lunch.  At the main table Mum was sitting next to my new mother-in-law who was sitting next to me.  My friend across the table kept gesturing to me with that jerk-the-head-to-one-side-to-indicate-something-was-happening-in-that-direction way.  Obviously jerking her head towards where Mum was sitting.  No, I wasn’t going to take any notice.  Mum always did weird things in public and this was my day, not to be spoiled by her drunken antics.  More jerking and pleading with the eyes to take notice.  Then I heard it …”I don’t like you!  You and your horrid, stupid hair.  You look like Joan of Arc”.  Mum didn’t like my new mother-in-law as you have probably gathered.  Well, that was rude, but what could I do about that? I didn’t like her much either.  Then I saw my friend’s eyes go wide and panic streak across her face as she went to get up from her chair.  Leaning forward to see what was going on I heard the flint of a Clipper lighter … one, two, three strokes … then a small flame.  “Burn Joan of Arc, burn …” as the lighter’s flame connected with the side of said mother-in-law’s head.  Her name was Pat and pat she did … patting out the flame that had taken hold of the small amount of crew cut hair she had.  Oh dear, oh dear.  I should have seen the portents that this marriage wasn’t destined for success. Thankfully, Mum’s friend took her home soon after that and we all continued the party and I tried very hard not to laugh out loud when I saw that Pat’s hair was salt & pepper grey on one side and singe-orange on the other.  I really did try.  I did.  I think there was a tissue that I managed to stuff into my mouth, disguised as a sneeze and a runny nose.  It was never mentioned again.

A couple of weeks later I suddenly remembered the whicker basket.  Did anyone pick it up?  I know that Mum didn’t have it with her when she went home, so I called the registry office and they said it was still there.  On picking it up, an apologetic, gentle lady put a hand on my shoulder and said “Im sorry, but we had to get rid of the contents.  I hope you don’t mind”.  Contents?  What was in there? “A few things from Selfridge’s Food Hall – a cooked turkey crown, half a stilton, a large fruit cake and a side of salmon – we didn’t realise until the room started to smell”.  I then realised what Mum had done.  From the bottom of her heart she’d wanted me to have a good day, so had scrimped and saved every penny from her pension to buy food for the reception.  She’d not checked of course if we had it covered and was going on what used to happen in her family when people got married.  Everyone in the family got together to supply the food for the wedding party as they were a mining family from Sheffield with very little spare cash.  My heart broke into twenty tiny pieces.  All that effort, all that money, the complication of going to Selfridge’s on a bus and picking it all up, getting to the registry office and having it taken away;  no wonder she was keen to keep it with her.  I had put it in a corner and written it off as yet another one of Mum’s silly things she does … a whicker basket at a wedding ceremony … I ask you!  In a calm moment a couple of weeks later I told her that we’d found the food – just that.  I didn’t explain about the smelly room or the time frame.  She simply said “I’m glad you got it … was it nice?”  At the time I though Yes, Mum it was nice.  It was the kind of the gesture, kindness and pure love that’s always going to be ten thousand times better than ‘nice’.

I love that Joan of Arc was probably a flaming red head – like Mum.  And that she had a short fuse – like Mum.  And she didn’t give a damn about what people thought about her – like Mum.   But unlike Joan of Arc, Mum hasn’t made the history books … yet !

 

 

 

The Clocks Have Gone Back

Mum’s carers have put her to bed early tonight.  The clocks have gone back in the UK and now that the evenings are drawing in, they’re going to try and get her to sleep a little sooner.  She rarely sleeps for long – two hours at the most in any one block – but it doesn’t seem to do her any harm.  A couple of weeks ago I asked her if she was all cosy for bed and she replied “Don’t be silly, Sonia darling, why would I wear a coat to bed?”  No, Mum, cosy for bed. “Four beds?  Did they finally arrive then?”  Yes, I grant you this is a slightly confusing conversation and it has a very touching origin.

 

A great friend of mine, Ian, is a wonderful jazz singer and a star presenter on Jazz FM, one of Mum’s favourite stations. Mum adores the voices of Ella Fitzgerald, Nina Simone, Eartha Kitt and Cleo Laine, but when she sings herself she sounds more like Dame Evadne Hinge with her showy-offy voice – on the whole to attract attention and make people laugh.  It works.  I was telling Mum all about Ian’s amazingly selfless work with the refugees who were living in the Calais camps before they were dismantled.  The refugee crisis was across every news bulletin at the time and some of the world leaders were asked if they would ever consider opening their homes to a refugee.  Some replied, somewhat unbelievably that of course they would open their homes to migrants.  Mum was having a conscious day and was totally engaged in the subject, remembering the words of Angela Merkel (dubbed Angela Murk by Mum) and wondering how my friend was able to give up so much of his precious time.  Then the tea trolley arrived and it broke Mum’s concentration.  She took off from the subject of refugees and the dangers of hiding under trucks to insist that she had 3 cups of tea as I always wanted 2 (I don’t, but I went along with it) and 3 slices of cake as I always ate two (I don’t, but again…) She then turned to me and cupped my face in her gentle hands … “Sonia darling, my room’s big and I’m sure we could get another three beds in here.  Can you ask them if any of them would like to stay here – I’m sure the home won’t mind”?  I’m not sure it’s that easy Mum; maybe it would be simpler to send Ian a bit of money as he’s trying to provide shelters for people over in Calais.  “Yes I suppose so, but honestly, there’s so much extra space here, it seems a shame.  They all look like nice people and I don’t think they’d do me any harm.  Can you buy me three beds – the charity shop ones will be fine”.

 

Such a generous soul and it’s been a lifetime of careful management of her pension to make sure that she didn’t give it all away the moment she got it and not have enough left for food and heating.  When I was little, there was always a new child having toast or cereal in our flat.  They were usually the latchkey kids from school who had to fend for themselves till their parents came home.  Mum would scoop them up, rarely leaving a note for their folks and then bring them home to us for a bit of food and to play a game.  As mentioned before, we didn’t have a television, so there were always things to play with, paper and pens and our imaginations.  Those evenings normally ended in some kind of drama as the parents of the latchkey kids finally found out where they were after hours of worry and searching.  Again, Mum thinking about the children’s’ welfare without really thinking through the consequences.

 

Her question about the new beds was obviously linked to her earlier conversations about sharing her room with the refugees – she remembers little snippets, sneaks them into the conversation and sometimes the relevance only occurs to me hours later once I’ve tried piece it all together.  I used to clear her house up when I visited her – feathers here, old orange peel there, boot polish next to the sugar, ant powder in front of every chair. Out with the hoover and into the bin.  Until one day I asked her what each item was for to see if there was a reason she kept repeating the chaos,  The feather was to remind her to pick up her milk (a pigeon once landed on her arm outside the corner shop), the orange peel was to remember to ring me (she knows I love oranges and she’s always remembered that I once put 50 oranges in an old fire place as a Christmas decoration) and the ant powder was to stop woodlice crawling into her slippers as she didn’t like squashing them.  It all made total sense and I was sorry to have ridden all over it with my own lens whilst ignoring hers.  It’s very easy for apparently ‘normal’ people, whatever that means, to see eccentric behaviour as something that needs clearing up.  Most of the time it makes much more sense than ours and in Mum’s case every rescued child, offer of a bed, fragment of orange peel and pile of powder had love at its heart.  Something that I appreciate now every time I see her or call her at the home.

 

I’ve never quite got my head round the relevance of the boot polish and sugar, but it’s bound to have a deep meaning to her.  She may still be asleep now, however it’s two hours since she was tucked up so no doubt she’s up again, music on full volume, encouraging her neighbours to join in.  Her favourite piece of music is “Danny Boy” which she learnt to play on the piano when she was about 40. Her version is the melody with her right hand, accompanied by the same chord in the left hand all the way through.  Unlikely to ever get airplay on Jazz FM, but it’ll always be her tune – as it was 2 Christmas’s ago when Tony and I woke up at 4am to it being bashed out on the piano … soft pedal disengaged, windows open, loving every joyful second.  Night Night Mum.

 

 

 

 

Dragon’s Den or Chas and Dave

Mum used to watch the television with sunglasses on because she confused the brightness button for the volume control.  “I’m not enjoying this show, but I’m watching because you used to work with these boys”.  Which boys, Mum?  “These boys, these two, you know”.  Any clues?  “The suity booty boys”  Errrr … who might she be watching I wondered?  “They give people money”.  Can you describe them, Mum?  What do they look like?  “Oh you know, Sonia darling, you’ve worked with them … CHAS AND DEN!  Tell them to turn the light off.”  Now there’s a tribute act if ever I’ve heard one.  Peter Jones and Theo Paphitis in braces and flat caps singing “Gertcha” or in their case “Gertchacashflowsorted aaaht !”  Mum told me not to be so silly and respect the people I’d worked with – after all, they’d helped to pay for my Donald Duck obsession.   There are bits of this conversation from a couple of years ago that make sense, in their own way.  It’s one of my favourite Mum mix-ups, the small parts contributing to the beauty of the whole.

Television and Mum has always been a tricky combo.  As a very small child my father insisted that we didn’t have a telly as it would stifle our creativity and turn us into lazy kids.  This meant, of course, that we had lots of lazy kid friends whose houses we used to find any excuse to go to.  The haven of Nan and Pop’s flat always had the telly on quietly in the background until one of the big entertainment shows was on and the volume went up.  It was there that I learned to love Frank Sinatra, Shirley Bassey, Cilla Black, The Two Ronnies, Morecambe and Wise, Chas and Dave and anyone who threw their talent out for the world to enjoy.  Mum would only stop talking over everything when Val Doonican came on as she liked his rocking chair and always wanted one.  We did buy one, but I remember rocking so hard that it nearly tipped over and once rocked over Mum’s new shoe – with her foot in it – so it went out to the rag and bone man.  There’s a point to all this as the rag and bone man used to fancy Mum and once gave her a tortoise which she called Dave after Chas & Dave.  She couldn’t call it Chas as that was Dad’s name and that would have been too confusing.  So Dave it was – slow old Dave, escaping at every opportunity and digging himself into the mud when Summer started to wane.

Our flat was actually small, but I remember it being huge.  Dad would have been practicing his violin in the main bed-sitting room while my brother and I would be in our room at the back, quietly pretending to be superstars in case Dad heard us;  and that might have meant having to confess to watching these entertainers on someone else’s telly.  So imagine my joy many years later at Radio 2 when Frances Line, our wonderful channel Controller, asked me to meet Chas & Dave’s manager to discuss a special programme featuring the boys. I thought … “think BIG Sonia, think BRAVE like Mum does.”  So I suggested to Frances that we should do something huge, book in a proper band to back Chas & Dave, invite superstar guests on and record in a huge cabaret venue in North London.  Worrying that she’d tell me go away and stop being silly, she said “Great idea – off you go”.  So I did and 6 specials later Chas Hodges and Dave Peacock became firm friends.  And through them I met my lovely husband Tony – it’s great when life aligns isn’t it?   So Mum’s always known that Chas & Dave have always felt part of the family, even though she was never given any actual dates or details just in case she decided to pay them a visit.

I was about 7 when I first really understood that Mum had mental health issues.  The full extent of her illness had been kept from me for years and all credit to my selfless step mother Donna who took on two young children and an unstable, unpredictable ex-wife when she married the love of her life, my Dad Charles (or Chas as often referred to by his folks; my Nan and Pop).  My brother and I were once waiting for her to pick us up for one of our regular Sunday visit days out, but she didn’t appear for a while.  So we ventured into the Golders Green Station cafe to wait as it was cold.  About an hour later the cafe owner came up and said, cautiously … “Are you Sonia & David?”  Yes we said, wondering why we were suddenly being addressed by our names.  “Are you waiting for your Mum?” Yes … we were.  At full blast he then leant out of the cafe window and yelled at two policemen outside … “They’re in here!”  We were then escorted out by two young male coppers who refused to tell us anything until we got to the station.  Terrified,  puzzled and suddenly realising that we really couldn’t go to the station with them or “how would Mum know where to meet us?”,  we were told that our family knew what was going on and that we shouldn’t worry.  Huh !  Grown-ups … even the official ones spoken nonsense and we decided that we couldn’t even trust the police.  We sat in a cold, bare room until a lovely lady came in, followed by a very anxious Dad and Donna.  Mum had apparently been taken into care to protect herself and a couple of people she’d accosted and had eventually told the authorities that her children were running around at Golders Green.  The search party had been up and down the High Street, missing children alert, the works.  I found all this out years later, but at the time I just retreated into my safe little world to sing songs and remember lyrics of the great standards.  Mum was trouble and she’s made the police arrest us.  We knew she wasn’t like other Mums, but she always did lovely things in her own way, despite being the MOST embarrassing mum on the planet.  It was all so confusing.

We saw her the following weekend and as usual she crouched down and held her arms out as we ran towards her.  And we probably went to the zoo where she always managed to get us into bits of the zoo that other kids never got to see.  Through sheer exuberance, charm and never taking no for an answer.

Mum – have you tried turning the brightness down on your telly?  And the volume up?  You might enjoy it more.  “No thank you, I’m fine.  They’ve just given a girl £50,000 – amazing.  Did they ever give you money?”  She was obviously convinced that two of the Dragons were Chas & Dave in disguise.  When Tony and I told Chas & Dave that we were going to get married, they dedicated their hit “I Wish I Could Write A Love Song” to us when on stage at the Albert Hall.  Mum would have loved that, but she would probably have heckled them with “stop singing in that silly voice”  or “Tell my daughter to get more sleep”.  And if that scared, young policeman had been in the audience I’d have asked the boys to dedicate the Sideboard Song to him … “ I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care if he comes round here, I’ve got my beer in the sideboard here, let mother sort it out if he comes round here”.  She always did in her own way and I try to continue doing it when she needs it (sorting out, not beer – she’s not allowed).

 

 

Sunday supper & Trump’s soggy sandwiches

A quick post as Sunday supper approaches. Mum’s convinced that Trump is one of the carers in the home, poor man. He has blond hair, but that’s about it. “His toast is soggy rubbish”, ok mum, I’m sure he can make you some fresh toast. “Not on your life! I’ll just have a sausage” A sausage? At tea time? “Yes, at tea time, although don’t forget about the liver”. Well and truly trumped by that one. I know that there are no sausages and I can only imagine that she’s recalling some of her gastronomic wonders from yesteryear. I’ve told you about the porridge already, so here are a few more recipes: mashed potato with chopped raw liver mixed in (it takes too long to cook both things), boiled egg with cucumber soldiers (so what if the yolk falls off) and eggy milk; yolks, milk and sugar mixed around twice (boxers have it and they’re strong, so it’ll make you strong too Sonia darling). However, mum’s cakes were the best things in the world … light, fluffy, bursting with flavour, jammy and perfect. She told me that her mum had taught her only one thing in her life and that was how to make a Victoria sandwich. Thanks Nanny Ellis – for mum, her cakes, her ‘alternative” cuisine and view on the world.
Mum thinks my Sunday supper of chicken roasted in garlic, honey, lemon and sage is a bit above myself. And as for having salad with it … “keep food simple like I do. I love toast”. Night, Mum.

Kate Mistletoe, Duchess of Cambridge

“Am I coming to your house for Christmas, Sonia darling?” Mum, it breaks my heart, but don’t forget the bathroom’s upstairs and it’s not very comfortable for you downstairs. “I don’t like Upstairs Downstairs, no, no, no” Ah, ok.
I love Mum’s fantastic tangential thinking. It catches me off guard and makes me chuckle which in turn makes her laugh, although she very rarely knows why she’s doing it. “Will Kate Mistletoe be at the hospital?” Click, rewind, Kate? Who? Oh yes, Mum’s name for the Duchess of Cambridge. No Mum, I don’t think so. The baby’s not due till Spring. “Can you tell her to hurry up this time. Christmas Day maybe?”

Much though I’d love to fulfil all my mum’s dreams and wishes, conjuring a royal birth for Christmas Day might be a tricky one to organise. This was our conversation earlier today which has prompted me to recall a couple of Royal Mumbelievable truths.

I was a stick thin, ballet-minded child who spent a lot of time in the wings of theatres when my father was playing in the orchestra pit for the Royal Ballet. My impression of ballerinas was that they were pointy, sweaty, swearing, clod-hopping beauties who bashed their shoes on stage door steps to break them in before wearing them on stage. Those beautiful satin, perfect, ribboned shoes being smashed always upset me, but they were grown-ups of course and grown-ups always did daft things. Mum was convinced that I would be a ballerina, so had told me that one day I would dance for the Queen and I would sing for Cilla Black. She also told me that Margot Fonteyn was my Fairy Godmother, something I knew was real because I’d spent time in her dressing room and she always had sparkly things on. Once I rubbed her cheeks and eyes because I thought she had dirt on her face. She was very graceful in re-applying her make-up and telling me that fairies like me needed to go and see the show from the wings as that was a very special place. Ah – I’d worked out for myself that was why they called them the wings. Margot Fonteyne? Fairy Godmother? Well, that was all obviously true.

A couple of years later when my parents started splitting up it was a bit turbulent, let’s put it that way. Didn’t most parents shout and throw plates? I thought that was normal. And didn’t all Mummies take you to friends’ houses and leave you there for a few days? Horrid, the basis of life-long abandonment issues, but didn’t everyone’s parents do that? Mum would often succumb to depression and “getaways” she called them. She had to take time away from the world and putting me in the home of a safe, normal family who could take proper care of me was her way of ensuring I was ok. Of course I wasn’t. Why would my Mum who told me all the time how much she loved me, abandon me at Sharon’s house when I lived four doors away? Poor old Sharon – sharing her bedroom with a snivelling neighbour and long, silent dinner times. No wonder she ganged up on me at school with the other kids who nick-named me “Ding Dong”. I let them do it, because I knew that it was less hurtful than having my hair pulled. “Ding Dong, Bell Dong, Your head’s gone wrong. Two screws are loose. Your head’s no use”. Quite funny looking back on it and I appreciated the clever play on words even then. In a period of adjustment at home, Dad’s only option was to bring family members or close friends over to look after us when he went out to work. Mum would always phone us, so it felt like she was there, but one evening she decided that it wasn’t ok for us to have Auntie Georgie over twice in one week. Dad told me years later that it was probably the most embarrassing moment of his life when at a Royal Ballet performance at The Royal Opera House that night, Mum wanted to “have a word”. Refused entry via the Stage Door she got round the doorman, claiming to be a late comer. This was in the days when everyone mistook her for Nancy in the film, Oliver, so she could always get round people. What did she do? Quietly slip in and wait for the interval? No. Did she take her place in the foyer and hope to catch Dad coming out at the end? No, of course not. She marched down the central aisle in the middle of act one, looked into the pit and threw her handbag at my Dad in the violin section shouting “I want a word with you”. There would have been crashing of instruments and stunned silence from the audience, orchestra and dancers no doubt. Dad’s only option was to leave the pit and deal with my meddlesome mum in the band room. Of course, he thought his career as a classical violinist was over, but quite the opposite. He probably got more work and compassionate bookings as everybody realised what he was coping with as a 25 year old husband of a 38 year old fiery redhead with two young children to support.

I’ve asked her about that incident in the past and her best answer was “Well, sometimes you’ve just got to do the thing that gets you noticed.” But didn’t it worry you that people would be upset, let alone the performance spoiled? “Well, they do the same dance every night, so what harm is one bit of interruption?”. That’s mum’s logic. She’s fearless. She doesn’t see how her actions impact on those around her. You know you’re losing the argument when you shout out in desperation “Can’t you SEE how embarassing that is?”. I did that a lot. Quite simply, she couldn’t, can’t, doesn’t. ‘A lack of social conscience’ it was once described to me as. ‘Borderline personality disorder’ at another more recent assessment. Nobody really knows, do they? Or maybe they do. Do you know?

Mum’s never actually met the queen, but she’s been interviewed about her. There was a Royal visit in the 80’s that Mum made a big effort to get to. She’d bought an old hat from the charity shop, stuck a union jack flag on the side, cut out a Fleur de Lis for the other side and painted HRH in red nail varnish on the front. She thought the Fleur de Lis looked similar enough to the Prince of Wales Feathers. Local TV were stopping people to talk about it and apparently she was featured – at the end of the item – the “and finally” slot. It must have been funny to watch her and I’ve seen the hat. It’s not a great design. Unlikely to pass muster at Ascot. Striking, but … no Vivienne Westwood. If I ever find the footage or find out which royal reporter picked my quirky mum and hat out of the crowd I’ll “have a word” myself as she was upset that they asked her a silly question about getting ahead of the crowd. She knew, deep down, that they were poking fun no doubt and that always makes me sad whilst smiling about the reactions she would have got.

You like Kate Mistletoe then, do you mum? “Who?” Kate Mistletoe. “Sonia darling, don’t eat mistletoe will you? It’a parasite” Splutter … cough … tea down white jumper. “Are you choking, Sonia darling?” No mum, I’m ok. I love you. See you at the weekend. “You’re not a parasite darling, you don’t think that do you?”. Err … no of course I don’t Mum. “I gave birth to you, you know” Yes mum, thank the world for that.

Cue … Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy … with Frank Muir’s ambiguous, non-PC words that nobody’s allowed to say any more.

Bowie, Bedtime and Boredom

Mum’s got a pressure mat under her bed so that her carers can tell if she’s getting up or has fallen over – she thinks it’s more fun to do a sitting dance routine on her bed, feet touching the mat, until they come running to see what’s happening in Room 8. I asked her in August if she’d like a lower bed … “No thank you, but I love David Bowie – his hair, not his music”. Ah ok Mum, he was as bit of a trend setter wasn’t he? Did you like his spiky hair or his smooth styles? “Spiky with that sun thing on his forehead. Is it tin foil? You won’t do that will you?” No mum, but about this new mattress … ” Oh yes, ok. You’re getting very boring Sonia, I’m trying to lighten things up a bit”. We tried a little more conversation about David Bowie, but she’d already forgotten who he is and reminded me that she hates ginger hair. Her own hair colour. She’s 87 and no white hairs, just silky, soft auburn ginger hair now down to her shoulders. My lovely Mum has never liked herself much. I once tried to get to the bottom of why she hated ginger hair so violently and I think I got close. When she was little, kids were teasing her in her school in Sheffield. Shouting out the usual taunts – carrot top, gingernut, red robin. She fought back so hard with the chief bully girl and pushed her against a wall which gave her a bruise. It was covered by a plaster for a few days and was a daily reminder to my mum that she’d hurt someone and from that moment she associated red hair with trouble – and trouble with herself. It hasn’t stopped her causing it or getting into it since then of course. When she eventually told me about the bullying I understood why she often cuts herself out of photographs and more recently when she sees herself in a picture she play fights with the image and shouts “BOING!” when trying to rub herself out. She loves the pictures of my wedding day to my beloved Tony – a small affair with my two best friends as witnesses . So far, she’s kept herself in all of those pictures. Photos have always been a bit of theme with us – from when she always insisted that I stood next to brides in their new family portrait – any bride, any wedding, any church, anywhere we were. Up I was marched – stood next to bride and told to stop looking so serious. I’d love to find one of the photographs one day – a confused bride and groom next to a grumpy little girl staring angrily at someone facing the group. As I’ve mentioned before, grown-ups always looked confused – and no wonder. And in those days I would have looked a bit scruffy as mum always swaddled me up in layer upon layer of clothes ‘so that I didn’t catch a chill’. No pretty fluffy pink lacy number in keeping with a wedding picture, no. More like thick tights, socks over the top, a skirt, cardigan, wind-cheater (I think it was called) – with peacock feather coloured material that shone different tones in different light and diamond stitching on it, coat and hat. And that was Summer – Winter weddings always had an extra layer. I always got an elaborate bride doll at every birthday which I normally discarded as it reminded me too much of the wedding portrait sagas. She’d probably worked extra hours to earn enough money to pay for them which only occurred to me once I started work myself. Tony & I got married 2 years ago so that Mum could be there while she was still mobile … she was chatting away to her carer when we walked in. She then fell back in tears when she saw me in a wedding frock and Tony is a fantastic blue suit … “Oh Sonia darling, you look beautiful, my darling daughter and her Prince Blue Charming”. From then on she was joining in at every point, but who cared? That was the reason we married in an old pub and had our big party the following day in Covent Garden. More on that at another point. It’s 3.30pm and Mum’s still asleep – her carers normally wake her up to say hello or pass the phone over, but not today as I don’t want to disturb her dreams. She rarely sleeps for more than 2 hours at a time, so I’m hoping that she’s getting some proper rest – long, luscious red hair coating the pillow, face peaceful, brain calm. I bought her a pair of red velvet slippers recently, which she loves. I’m now thinking that Bowie’s “Let’s Dance” is about as perfect a song as I could get if I needed a soundtrack for the movie of her life … “Let’s dance, put on your red shoes and dance the blues …” Her dancing feet will no doubt alert her carers that she’s trying to get up and about later, demanding scrambled egg with butter and no cold bits.