Not a good day

I hate death, I hate funerals, I hate public speaking,  I hate poetry and I’m not a great fan of emotions. So, yesterday was not a good day.

It was my nan’s funeral (not this nan, my other nan) and while I never had a particularly close relationship with her, seeing my dad cry always gets the waterworks started.

Stupidly, I’d agreed to read a poem out at the funeral and while I dislike public speaking and poetry with a passion, I didn’t feel I could say no. I knew my two brothers would never agree to doing it and while my 14-year-old sister was up for it, it was a slightly different experience for her.

She didn’t really know nan, not during the good times anyway, so had less of an emotional attachment, and she’s also a little drama queen – loud, clumsy, and fearless. So, while I saw this reading as an act of torture and humiliation, lil sis saw it as her stage debut and was a tad disappointed that the Vicar didn’t let us use his microphone. Lights please…

I know what I’m like when I read in public, I do it way too quickly in a bid to get it over and done with and, in my haste to finish the words, I forget to breathe properly and end up gasping for breath. Not good. Add emotions into the mix, a weeping dad and a family I was supposed to make proud, and I was bricking it.

Anyway, we both did a decent job, thankfully, and it was over pretty quickly. Lil sis got the worst of it really, as I got to go first (less time for nerves to get the better of me) and I was reading the poem that rhymed, much easier that her wordy prose.  I am so mean.

Anyway, that is the first and last funeral reading I will ever offer to do. Been there, done that and have no intention of getting the T shirt.

PS Why is it that relatives who exclaim: “Haven’t you grown, you must have been five years old the last time I saw you,” expect you to recognise them? Totally clueless!

Nearly 29 and none the wiser

As I rapidly approach my 29th birthday, eek, I wonder if I will ever grow out of doing totally stupid things – like getting totally plastered and feeling so ill the next day I almost call an ambulance out.

Okay, slight exaggeration; no ambulances. But, cripes, when will I learn that teetering around in a dress and high heels, drunk as a skunk and slurring my words, is not ladylike. And the hangover that follows is a complete waste of a day and the closest I’ll get to ever feeling like a corpse. Until I actually die, that is.

It was the volleyball Christmas do at the weekend – dinner, drinks, karaoke and dancing, and yet more drinks. As one of the organisers of this event I feel I ought to make an extra special effort to ensure it goes well and so conjured up a pass the parcel game to start off the festivities – with a framed photo of me and my fellow social secretary as the prize. Superb! It went down well.

But I also feel like I need to get drunk too, for some reason, and usually with some speed. And if I’m not merry by the time the main course comes out, then I feel I have to double up on drinkage. Stoopid, stoopid girl.

Anyhoo, the night was a blast and I particularly enjoyed mine and LJ’s rendition of Whitney H’s I Wanna Dance With Somebody and the volleyball boys’ Bohemian Rhapsody. Tuneful!

I rolled into my mate’s house at 3am ish, remembering very little – except I needed to get to the bathroom quickly! I’ll spare you the graphics, but I awoke the next morning in full make-up, dangly earrings still in place, and feeling like someone had bashed me around the head with a frying pan. Ugh!

A bacon and egg sarnie later – which didn’t stay down long – and I attempted the hour-long drive home as my mate had a family emergency to attend to. Bad move. With barely enough strength to hold the steering wheel and trying desperately not to vom in my own lap, I made the dangerous and no doubt illegal drive home.

On arrival, I collapsed in my bed and there I stayed for the whole day. It wasn’t until 6.30pm that I was able to keep solids down and I just felt awful. Hopefully, a lesson learned, ‘cos at the moment the thought of touching alcohol makes me tremour!

So, when I hit the grand age of 29 next week will this silly behaviour stop? I’d like to think so – and it does happen less and less frequently now I’m getting on a bit – but there are bound to be a few bloopers. Hopefully no more this year though, at least!

An ode to Edith

My mum just called five minutes ago to break the bad news that my nan, who’s been in hospital for a good month or so, has passed on. Bless her.

So, being totally rubbish with emotions and even more crap with death, I’m going to blog about her. I don’t feel upset really, not in the tearful sense; as much as I loved my nan – she had a wicked personality and was a very strong woman – the past year has been pretty miserable for her, so I hope she’s finally found peace.

The last few years have seen my nan – or Edith as me and my brother called her as kids, ‘cos we thought it was such a funny name – deteriorate in the health stakes quite rapidly. For someone with such an active brain and stubborn independence to lose her memory, get confused and forget if she’s even eaten, must have been pretty tough.

But even though she was a bit of a wreck on the health front, she still retained her wit. On my last visit to her house, she asked me if I’d found a fella yet. She asked me this about 10 times ‘cos her memory wasn’t so good. Each time I’d say no, that I was very fussy and hadn’t found one I liked yet. And she’d reply: “Well, they’re all arseholes anyway.” Perhaps she wasn’t losing her marbles after all! Some would say that’s a spot on observation!

She was also stubborn as old boots. She hasn’t been able to hear very well for a good five years, but just refused to accept it. She couldn’t hear us because we mumbled apparently and the TV was only at full volume because it was old. Yeah, right. So a few years back me and mum took her shopping and happened to pop into Boots to get her a hearing test at the same time. She was very pissed off and even after being tested and given a hearing aid, she refused to believe there was anything wrong with her ears. We were fighting a losing battle.

Even when she’d had a nosebleed from hell and my brother found her covered from head to toe in the stuff, she went into denial. My bro asked: “Have you had another nosebleed nan?” he asked. “No, I don’t think so,” she replied.

There are many other amusing stories I could tell about my nan, she was a real character, a woman of strength, a real fighter. And I’ve no doubt she hung onto life until she’d said goodbye to all the people she cared about. I think I knew when I saw her a couple of weeks ago that it might well be the last time, and then I did get upset. Especially as I saw a glint in her eye as I left her hospital bedside. She knew what was going on and she knew why I was upset. Even on death’s door, she knew what was what.

So, if I’m anything like her when I’m a tabbard-wearing, blue-rinsed granny, I’ll be chuffed. Here’s to Edith! Love you lots!

Don’t worry folks, I’m alive and well

Have you ever asked yourself this question? If you were to drop down dead at home, how long would it take for people to realise something was wrong?

I’ve heard many a horror story about people lying undiscovered in death for weeks or even months and I have to say it saddens me. Most memorable is the son who discovered his dead mother around three months after she fell down the stairs and broke her neck. Sadly, he made the grim discovery by peering through his mother’s letterbox and seeing her body in a heap on the floor. What was most unfortunate was that her nightdress had ridden up above her waist and her rotten bits were on display. Nice.

Well, I live alone, so if something bad was to happen, how long would it be before someone raised the alarm? Like Bridget Jones says (see full quote here) us singletons could be left for weeks on end to be ravaged by wild dogs. Grim thought.

Anyway, onto the crux of my story. I recently moved house and still hold the lease to my old flat because I couldn’t get moving dates to match up. I’ve been in the new place for a month now and popped back to the old flat last night to do a spot of tidying up before final inspection.

What I found under my door first made me worry, then made me laugh, then made me think “how sweet” and then “how random”. It was a note from the local Police Community Support Officer asking me to contact them as soon as poossible as my neighbours were concerned for my welfare.

No, I haven’t dropped down dead, I just moved house. But I find it a little odd that my neighbours – who I perhaps bumped into once a fortnight on the stairwell – even noticed I wasn’t around. How do they know my name as we’ve certainly never said more than “hello” and didn’t they notice me moving my belongings out for about a month before I actually moved?

I don’t know what prompted them to raise the alarm – maybe because my car no longer frequented the car parka nd they missed it, or maybe I was a noisy neighbour and now it’s gone quiet? I have no idea.

However, the note from the PCSO was dated July 7 and there has been no follow up since then, so they can’t be that worried. I haven’t called the PCSO yet because a) I’m a bit embarrassed to have to say I’m alive and well, I just moved out, and b) I can’t pronounce this person’s surname.

But it’s nice to know someone cares!

Will writing this blog kill me?

I have to confess that since launching Robyn’s Nest in October/November last year I have become a tad addicted to blogging. But will it kill me? I very much doubt it, but this article in the New York Times, followed by this article in The Telegraph and this blog entry from The Guardian make interesting reading.