hairdressing visit

Today Cecil has mainly been musing on mortality - mainly his own.
Very pale, wan and depressed and it shows in my hair - his depression that is.
At least he used the comb on my hair exclusively, this time, rather than using it on his own hair halfway through the comb-out.

Small, lantern jawed, old women shuffle into the shop; some of them Cecil has picked up on his way in.
He hands out cups of coffee, they collect up damp towels and roller pins. He barks phrases into deaf ears and the women move from shampooing basin to setting chair, to hair dryer, at his nudge, doing small jobs as they go.

Cecil's chatter is endless. The trouble is he ceases work while he recalls an anecdote and I watch the clock move on nearer to the time I should be at home. Edna and Norah nod in the right places, dutifully hand up the pins as required and watch the traffic go by. Other callers pass through to visit the chiropodist and provide yet another distraction and delay.

Cecil is desperate for a ciggy. His feminine "tut" and pout exaggerated by twitchy fingers pulling up his trouser waistband to just below his paunch. Immediately it slides back and his hands stray to his back pocket. He tries to pretend they weren't reaching for the packet.
His mournful voice recites a catalogue of doctor's visits and medical tests, the strain on his marriage because he doesn't feel Sheila is giving him all the sympathy and support he feels entitled to. After all, look how he cared for her through her "dark time" and it's only right he should have his turn.
Then he reveals that none of the test results are through yet - all these ifs and maybes.
He has his grave booked and an appointment with the undertaker on supposition alone!
I have to say something, I really do or I'll still be here at teatime.
"Still working at the home are you Dear?" He's studying his reflection, turning to look at the profile of his gut, not thinking, really, about what he's saying.
"Yes! And I have to be on duty by two."
"Oh you should have said!" He continues back combing Norah's hair with a brush, then choking her with hairspray. There are no refinements like face shields. Norah's medical history is exposed without reference to her. She nods vacantly as he recites the details of her long standing leg ulcer and the vagaries of her digestive system.
Edna, under the dryer, is oblivious as her talks about her without interruption. She sees a stray, wet towel that has missed the linen bin and makes to get up and retrieve it. "Leave it - don't move!" She complies and Norah tuts.

At last! My head is pushed back into the shampoo sink and soft finger tips briefly massage shampoo, in small circles, before tepid water trickles down my neck and into my ears. Cecil continues to speak but now his voice is indistinct and muted because my hearing aids are tucked under the coverall, clasped in sweaty hands. The battery compartment closes, inadvertently, and the aid screams. Cecil prods me. "Yer whistling". Obediently, I fumble under the folds trying to adjust it.
Once he has shaken my head in the towel I can put one aid back in and rejoin the monologue.
"What's the future for me now? High blood pressure, diabetes - it's so depressing." Once again he pauses and the comb waves in the air instead of through my hair. He plugs in implements - clippers, curling tongs and then searches for the blow dry brush, which is a wizened, almost naked, set of spikes that he drags through the hair accompanied by blasts of searing hot air. I am choked by the crystal spray he uses to anchor the style but try not to cough and splutter. He is busy spraying a bigger hole in the ozone layer.

Why do I come here? I constantly ask myself as I look at a decor well past its sell by date. The mobile paraffin heater keeps his feet tepid, the customers need the hair driers to stave off the chill. The corners of the setting area have eons of hair clippings which vapid sweeps of the brush have failed to stir.
Yet customers come from quite a distance, week after week, settling for the same styles for years.

Another regular entered, a tall woman with a short body and disproportionately long legs, a dowager's hump and a beehive worthy or a sixties teenager.
Without a word Cecil left me, washed her hair,put me under the dryer and left me to spectate.
Her hair was spun sugar, an ebony black that accentuated her pallor and heavy, tight, jaw. I felt I had been transported back to an eighteenth century boudoir as he sectioned her hair, rolled each one over a pad and anchored them with squadrons of hairpins that she handed up robotically. As each roll was completed is was sprayed heavily. The final creation was immovable, wisps at the nape of the neck deftly tweaked and tucked under the confection. Her heavily ringed fingers replaced huge button earrings.
Cecil carefully draped a chiffon scarf over the creature - because it did seem to have an independent existence. She, decomposing, sank while her coiffure stayed unchanged like a parody of Dorian Grey.
All her colours were poster blocks, bright, unsubtle, but the frame seemed too fragile to carry the exhibition.
She is the sort of person who beguiles me, holds me fascinated to the point of ogling.

Why are we wasting time?

I listened to Andrew Marr this morning. He is always worth listening to. But he had a bishop of the Church of England, or rather the Anglican communion, talking about the current debates going on in the church.
Now, whatever the rights or wrongs of these debates my problem is a) where is Christ in all this? and b) the world is heading for Armageddon and we are debating sex in various forms! Why? There really are far more important things to worry about and get really het up about.

My concern with a) is that Christ seems to have very little if any say in these matters. They are topics of discussion for those whose first priority is their own self indulgence and gratification. If they really were followers of the Nazarene he would be their first port of call and his reputation would be their first concern.
Instead we see his name and honour dragged through the mud for what? For people who are so consumed with their own ego massaging that the real issues are being overlooked and ignored.
If we are really serious, as Christians, then Christ has to be our one and only concern.
Every thought, word, and action would be referred to him and their consequences for him would motivate the same. My heart grieves for the dishonour to his name and the totally distorted picture presented to none Christians.
Time is running out - that must be obvious to all but those whose minds, souls and consciences have been sealed with a red-hot iron, many of them in prestigious posts in the church - and we must bend our energies and efforts to The Great Commission, not to contemplating our navels and disappearing up our own bottoms!

dream

After a complicated dream that seemed to centre on the Normandy landings (commemoration of D-Day?) with sweeping vistas, close ups and obscure/anachronistic tableaux, in vivid if imprecise detail (oxymoron?), on waking I commenced a conversation with myself - no with the invisible audience if I am honest - about the vicissitudes faced by female fraternizers. The tarred and feathered. My daughter's incandescent fury at their treatment all for trying to protect and feed their children led to the consideration of The Whited Sepulchres who tried to deflect scorn from their own collaboration, who pitched on an easy target.

This led on to "This week I went to Auschwitz..." - imagining my grandson, after a government sponsored school visit, comparing his experience with that of his grandfather's. Jimmy had been part of a Royal Engineers bomb disposal squad sent in to remove booby traps et al before liberation proper could begin. They were warned that things would be bad but who can prepare you for something like that?
"This week I went to Auschwitz."
Anyway, they were led by a young captain. He collapsed and was carried out. Jimmy said he had heard the term "Green at the gills" but that was the one and only time he had ever actually seen anyone that colour. He managed to stay on his feet and finish the job - he was proud of that - but he said that afterwards nothing any human being did to another would surprise him ever again.
"This week I went to Auschwitz."
Will we, at some point, be arranging school trips to Darfur? Just to prove that whatever the horrors we learn little.
Our arrogance in the face of Josef Friezle's revelations - the Pharisaical prayer of "thank god I'm not like that"- and questioning of the Austrian psyche led me to ponder on the nature of abuse/slavery. The two are the same. I smiled wryly at our ability to look without seeing.
"This week I went to Auschwitz."
Abuse, control,slavery, doesn't have to be physical, tangible - it is an attitude of mind, of which we are ALL capable.

It is the attitude of controlling, creating dependence, manipulating anyone to suit ourselves.
It can live in a mansion, wear designer clothes, or next door with Joe Bloggs ; we can find it just as easily in deprivation and abject squalor.
Until attitudes-of-mind change slavery will continue in myriad forms and locations.
"This week I went to Auschwitz".

faces

I sat in the car park at Morrisons, Lincoln, last evening - I couldn't be bothered to walk around another store. We had just traipsed around B&Q and the ASDA outlet looking at toilet seats, voile curtains, lamps and compost etc.etc. Then we decided to eat Mexican so had to collect some of the ingredients.

Anyway, while No.1.son and wife went into the store I remained sitting in the car doing what I do best, people watching. There are really only a few types of people, so I understand, and I suppose given that we are all descended from 6 "Eves" that is not surprising. That seems to fly in the face of the idea of individuality but, of course, it's the detail that makes the difference and the details are infinitely varied. A man went passed with gorgeous hair but as he got closer the proportion of his face in relation to his height and the length of the hair rather spoilt the image. There was the sloppily dressed guy with his eyes looking heavenward who seemed to fit the stereotype of the academic with his head in the clouds. Of course the reality is probably very different and all I am doing is exercising my own prejudices but it makes an interesting past time and beats looking at shelves full of products that I am not allowed to eat or rather aren't good for me. If I am people watching then I am not eating so I pass it off as part of my diet regime!
Categorising people is one thing, confusing it with reality is another. I like to muse on the other lives of the people who pass by, wondering what their mood and motives are. Are they shopping to get away from household tension or simply because they need to replenish stocks. Is it a special meal to impress, placate, buy favour or defuse stressful relationships or because of conditioning? Will the ingredients be chosen for quality or budget, for health or taste - the two should be synonymous but unfortunately aren't!

A couple stroll by, hand in hand, middle aged but still able to express affection, carrying eco friendly bags between them - sharing the load, crusty baguettes poking out like a stockade wall and melons stretching the jute bags to their limit. What kind of meal does that conjure up? Alfresco dining, with a Mediterranean theme. I salivate at the thought of luscious tomatoes drenched in olive oil and lemon, the drippings sopped up by the bread, interspersed with ripe. plump olives and pimentos, and, at some point, a dessert of melon cubes, grapes, strawberries with a syrup flavoured with fresh mint and preserved ginger. I come back from my reverie and shake myself. Too much tv watched I think.
In a rush a pair of women, obviously mother and daughter, overtake the relaxed pair, hugging strawberries and boxes of cereal, thinking of tomorrow's breakfast or embarking on the diet promoted by a current ad campaign? Two meals replaced by cereal and the promise of at least a drop in dress size in a matter of days. If only....

I watch them rushing, ambling, determined, unsure, their faces reflecting the myriad of reasons why we do anything and the needs that drive us. By now my hunger is palpable and I just want my pair to re-appear so we can get home and eat. The desire is overwhelming. I watch my son and daughter in law's faces as they approach the car. If he's been to the cash machine then the meal may be a more strained affair, if she has bought more than envisioned then the strain may make the meal inedible before it's served.

continuation

Mr Fantasy went home and then the phone calls began - from all and sundry. The care package didn't kick in as it should have and he started to phone people who then phoned us for information and advice! We played Pontius Pilate again, unashamedly, and referred them to the experts. This man was ambulant, continent and could wash and dress himself and manage his own toileting but we had doctors asking us if he knew how to open the door. How would he feed himself? Their own assessment referred to the fact that he had cooked a meal for his relative on a recent visit so the powers that be were told very firmly that he was quite capable of getting himself a bowl of cereal and a cup of tea, that he would only starve if he chose to.

He left and I started a holiday only don't run away with the idea that a holiday for me is going away or doing nothing. It began with my children organising some of it for me and so first item on the agenda was Speech Day at my grandsons' school. As promised to No.1 grandson ( although he didn't think I meant it) I wore the big hat and his mother wore a fetching little number, we arrived almost late and he cringed with embarrassment and tried to hide. The face of No.2 grandson was also a picture acccompanied by much head shaking. Once No.1 had received his award the day deteriorated somewhat; the weather closed in so the picnic was consumed hastily indoors. Then came the removal phrase. At the end of said phase there was barely room for passengers, both parents were bathed in sweat and tempers frayed. Mother swore that the start of the new term would find the offspring down sizing and father feared for both his own mental, and the car's,suspension. Coupled with this was anxiety about the funding for No.1's sixth form place, and the what ifs lay upon us all like a leaden blanket as we finally set off home.

I ask myself, constantly, how much more of this I can take? This seemingly relentless requirement for me to keep everyone else steady - and I know I have referred to this before in this place but it does seem to be a recurring theme -and my growing awareness that the ability and wherewithall to do so is draining away. The desire to be released from the continuing commitment is overwhelming at times. How many more times can I scream silently in the bathroom as I try to contain overpowering emotions?
I love all my children and their children to pieces but there is a point where age is creeping up and motivation has to be dug deeper for. In other words the spirit is still relatively willing but the flesh is so very weak.

the fantasy man

This week I have met two rather interesting people, demanding but interesting, that have tested my patience to the limit. Mrs Hyper was the term "in your face" personified. She positioned herself about six inches from my face and delivered everything at about one hundred decibels. Prior to admission she was so depressed she could barely bring herself to lift up the phone. Whatever the doctor has given her has had a significant impact and now she is so pepped up that she can't sleep or sit still, consequently her legs are swelling and she is almost as anxious but in an active sense, as she was before. Trying to get anything done with a whirlwind attaching herself to me and with a constant commentary made me feel drained. She was so emphatic and interspersed her narrative with references to various physical ailments - showing me a sebaceous cyst, her swollen calf etc etc- and her own personal history and that of her extended family, all at the same time. We all felt exhausted by the time she was collected and went home!

The fantasy man of the title just demands a book to himself.
He introduced himself to me with a clasp of the hand and hushed voice. "Someone is out to kill me dear, I know a lot of secrets and a lot of important people and that makes life dangerous for me." My heart sank. Life was stressed enough as it was without someone fantasising. He went on to tell me that the room was wired and he hoped that those listening in were getting their money's worth. I kept my face impassive and tried to behave as if it were the most natural conversation in the world. When I could escape I re-read his file and realised that the assessment was very sketchy and superficial - we would have to radically re think our approach. He cosied up to various other clients, whispering in vulnerable ears - I tried to observe discretely without exciting his hostility. He strode into the office and demanded paper and pen, to " record his observations ...." We waited to see what would develop and were disappointed with the result. A rough sketch and random jottings that while not exciting were a graphic illustration of the two people he talked about - never knowing which one would surface first when he woke. By the end of the week nothing would have surprised us and we all learned to assume poker faces. Two photo albums were thrust into a colleague's hands, full of wartime pictures - signed photos of an American beauty in uniform with shades of a Glen Miller style musical back ground. Maybe there is some hidden mystery here. The late marriage to a guarded blonde, who looks into the camera warily, who is photographed staring into the distance from a hill top, who looks unapproachable and icy. His family, such as it is, evinced concern but with such exaggeration that at the end of the interview we began to wonder who was conning who. Were the Oriental volunteers really fleecing Mr F or was it a ploy to keep his money intact ready for inheritance. The more detail the relative gave the more mind boggling it became and we decided to play Pontius Pilate and have nothing to do it with the situation.
Half way through the stay a social worker appeared to assess the situation and quickly realised she didn't know half of it. After a chat and perusal of the notes he'd made it became very apparent that she would have to reassess and possibly look at other options for care. The longer I am with Mr F the more like an iceberg he seems - we are only seeing the tenth of the mass(man) and the further we delve the more dangerous it might be. Watch this space.

you thought you had got rid of me!

Dear Blog you must be so disappointed to find that my hoped for disappearance didnot happen.
I am disappointed with myself for leaving things so long but then, it has given you a breather from my endless navel contemplation - one girl's meat is another's poison.
Things have been hectic and yet the material outcome seems to be negligible, as usual.
I accompanied the grandsons back to school on Sunday and on the way we trailed in the wake of a traveller's traditional caravan, the synchronised clopping of the horses' hooves totally in keeping with the countryside we passed through. It was also a living link with the boys' paternal great grandmother who was probably born in one like it.
We arrived at the school and led a crocodile of other cars seeking the right entrance to the car park. The official one was closed although the electronic barrier kept waving to us from the other side! It seemed to be mainly grandparents acting in loco parentis and then taxis full of Oriental teenagers who appeared to have been shopping for their lives.
The return trip was very quiet with just Mr Charming in the back. It must be very strange for him dealing with the coming and going of his brothers at erratic intervals.
Back to work on Wednesday and had to hit the ground running. Although nothing much seems to change in the lives of the very old if one is in tune with them then you notice the nuances. Thursday brought a surprise in the form of an extra member of staff so that The Boss and I could settle down to a bureaucratic marathon. Basically, we are doing a job that a senior administrator for the regulatory body has been doing in years past. Now we have to assess ourselves and still continue to pay loads of money to said body for doing a large part of their job for them. Unfortunately we won't get their salary. Talk about brainache.

We have moved on now and this weekend I felt as if I was doing mental health nursing. A client with fear that he was going to be killed by a hairdresser. As he said himself he is two people and when he wakes up he doesn't know which person will emerge, neither do we! Further along the corridor another client sits shouting in her room and we are unable to help her. These are the times when I feel most inadequate and dissatisfied. Also, at the weekend, I spent a lot of time steadying staff and by the end of it felt burnt out, asking myself who steadies me, apart from God?
Between work and family I start to feel very small and fragile and ask myself how much more I can carry. But not being a quitter I have to square my shoulders and try to make each day a new start. If only so that I don't have to dwell too long on my own weaknesses. I have had to remind myself not to become complacent and imagine that the Chinese whispers and bitchiness can't devastate me. I am a fool if I fall into that trap and I have been a fool enough times in my life already. Tomorrow is my day off, I have already done the washing and it's flapping gently in the breeze, being bleached my the sun, so once the robot's leg has been dragged around the house get ready dear Blog...