27. The Day Gary Barlow Killed Our Cat.

'In the midst of life we are in death', as someone in the Bible (I think, I'm not an expert) once said. How true. Only this morning my portable radio died on me, just as we were getting to the denouement of the play. Very annoying. It left me sitting in the bath shouting expletives at the blameless thing. If you happen to know what I look like, then I apologise for that mental image. Feel free to go and poke out your mind's eye. Those of you who don't are safe.

And the daffodils that have been brightening my kitchen for the past week have now withered, their sap drained, all life fled. It's the natural way. The cycle of life and all that.

But sometimes we find ourselves in the tricky position of having to intervene in the natural process, and that's no fun. A while ago our much loved family cat, Molly, began to display the more distressing signs of old age and eventually, despite our hopes that a bit of extra TLC would revive her to her former, frolicsome self, we realised that she was a very unhappy, uncomfortable little cat and it was up to us to relieve her pain. Not an easy decision, but one that had to be made.

Into her basket she went and we headed for the local vet. My husband and I stood side by side in the Treatment Room, not making eye contact because neither of us wanted to be the one to break down first, awaiting the arrival of our allocated vet. And then the door opened, and in he came. Gary Barlow!

Not the real Gary Barlow, obviously. I'm sure we'd all know if GB actually moonlighted in the world of animal doctoring. Indeed, I'm inclined to believe it could only add to his allure in the eyes of his fans, so I think we'd have heard. But it was him to the life. The spitting image. And then he opened his mouth and those same, reassuringly flat, Mancunian vowels issued forth as he smiled compassionately and took charge of the situation. Good old 'Gary' was bloody marvelous and we will be endlessly grateful to him.

This lovely young vet was everything we could have hoped for. He was totally empathetic with us, as the doting pet owners, assuring us our decision was the right one, and all gentle concern for poor old Molly. He brought in a special, fleecy blanket for her to lie on in comfort and gave her a quick shot to relax her. Then he left us alone with her, to say whatever we felt needed to be said.

Naturally, as he'd left the room, I'd hissed at my husband,
'Are you thinking what I'm thinking?'
Him,  'Yeh, I think so.'
Together,  'Gary Barlow! I know!'
Molly remained non-committal. She was never a 'Take That' fan.

And then he came back to deliver the fatal jab. It was as trauma-free as it could be for all concerned.

After that we sobbed liked bastards.

We took her home and buried her in her favourite spot in the garden.

And then I got to thinking. If it only it could be like that for all of us.

I know the arguments against legalising euthanasia and they are, of course, valid. Nobody wants the families of bothersome old relatives snapping up one way tickets to Switzerland before you can say, 'Where's the will?' But I would argue that, whilst we put so much time, effort and money into finding ways of prolonging life, we give precious little attention to improving the end of it.

I'm sure I'm not alone in thinking I'd take comfort in knowing that, should I ever reach the point where either illness or sheer decrepitude rendered me irrevocably wretched,  then I could rely on those who cared about me to sort me out. Much as we did for Molly.

I can picture the scene. My loved ones are gathered together to discuss the problem.

'You can see she's not happy.'
'I know. I've tried to tempt her with her favourite, gin flavoured titbits, but she's not interested.'
'That's a bad sign!'
'Yes. And she can't even be bothered to move when I tell her it's time for 'Judge Judy' on the telly.' 
(It's my guilty pleasure, all right? Don't...judge...me).
'So sad. Remember how she'd walk for miles if you threw her the promise of decent gourmet pub at the end of it?'
'And have you noticed the state of her hair? Not nice and glossy like it used to be.'
'And her nose is awfully warm.'
'Last time the doctor came out he said there's not much you can do for them at this age.'
'So do you think it's maybe time to....?'
'To be honest, I think it'd be a kindness.'

And it would! It really, really would! The equivalent of Gary would be summoned and in he'd come, with his bag of tricks and, maybe, a fleecy blanket, all gentle concern and reassurance and in no time at all my suffering would be ended.

And then, for all I care, they can shovel me into the flowerbed next to the cat. Funeral costs are outrageous and I'd rather those I loved spent the money on a damned good knees-up. It makes more sense than brass handles and wreaths. They'd be lost on me anyway.

Sadly, as things stand, poor old Gary would risk being hauled up in front of the General Medical Council at the very least, and might even end up doing porridge for a while, which seems awfully unfair for doing someone a tremendous favour.

But there it is, we're trusted to make the right decision on behalf of our pets but not for each other.

Pity, that.



Thanks so much for reading.

26. Citymapper, Sex And Talking To Baby.

The pretty girl, sitting next to me on the bus, is looking at her phone. She's been looking at it since she got on, ten minutes ago. I'm looking at the baby. It's a dear little thing, sitting in its buggy and getting very excited about its surroundings. It's pointing and babbling. It's smiling at me. I'm smiling back. The girl next to me looks at her phone. She's the baby's mum. I know this because the baby looks at her sometimes and goes, 'Mum mum mum mum mum,' whilst reaching out its little hand towards her, trying to get her attention. The girl goes on looking at her phone.

I have a terrible urge to knock the phone out of the girl's hand and shriek,
'Look at what's in front of you, you moron! It's more amazing and fascinating than anything you'll ever see on that fucking thing! Don't you know how lucky you are?'

But I don't. I'm an elderly woman, sitting on a bus. I don't do things like that. I wish I was brave, but I'd probably get chucked off the bus. So humiliating! And it's pissing down, so I ponder the tragedy of it all and keep my mouth shut. Pathetic.

I see it almost every day. I see small children, experiencing the world for the first time, thrilled, scared, fascinated and desperate for the attention of the adult in front of them to share, interpret or reassure. And that adult looks at their phone. I see couples at restaurant tables, eyes fixed on the phone beside their plate. They might as well eat alone. Or maybe they've reached the point of only communicating via text.

'How's your steak, darling?' Send
'Fine thanks. And the fish?' Send
'Bit dry actually.' Send
'Oh, bummer. Fancy sex tonight?' Send
'If you like. I can probably be on Skype about 11.30. Would that suit?' Send
'Lovely. Gives me time to check Facebook and Twitter, answer my emails, download those iTunes I want and have a bit of WhatsApp time with Barry. Would you believe, he asked me round for a beer?I told him, who does that anymore?' Send
'See you on Skype later then. The black bra?' Send
'Please. Want a dessert or just coffee?' Send

I worry about the young folk. I worry about everyone, truth be told, but them in particular.

It's probably a good idea if I nail my colours to the mast at this point and declare that I really LOVE modern technology and I use it all the time. But I didn't grow up with it. By modern standards I didn't grow up with anything. And our household was considered privileged because we had a black and white television with a tiny screen and a blurry picture and one channel, plus a big, black telephone in the hall that the neighbours would come and use, leaving two pence in the ashtray next to it. And my world was small and limited, but I did go out and look at it, the actual materiality of it.  I could not only see and hear it but touch it and smell it and feel the air and pick up on the atmosphere.

Now we all carry the whole wider world in our pockets. And that's miraculous. It's utterly wonderful when it inspires us to do things or see places that might otherwise never have entered our imaginations. But it's scary when it replaces the real thing. I, like a Cassandra of doom, foresee a time when everyone lives their entire existence through the medium of a screen, with all experiences becoming vicarious as we transmute into cyber-zombies, oblivious to our surroundings, glued to the little patch of light in the palm of our hand. That can't be healthy, can it? But, just like poor old Cassie, I doubt anyone will take any notice of me.

Real life can be a messy, unpredictable bitch. In cyberspace we're in control. That's very seductive. But give me the roller-coaster ride of reality any day.

Phones are fantastic. I have several aids on my mine to help me find my way round any unfamiliar city. I can see how far my destination is, how long it takes to get there, the public transport I can catch and even the number of calories I'll burn if I choose to walk. Amazing. My children urge me to use it. And I do. But sometimes the rebel in me surges up and I think, 'Sod it! I'm going to ask a real, live fellow human being to point me in the right direction.' So I do. What's more, even in the supposedly cold and unfriendly metropolis that is London, I have always been met with a friendly smile and willingness to help. It's sometimes led to a brief, cheery conversation and a bit of a giggle, sending me on my way with a grin. You don't get that from Citymapper.

Sometimes, in the weekend broadsheets, I read an article on the lines of, 'I Switched Off My Phone For A Week!' The following piece is written much in the style of somebody who's been terribly deprived and how heroically they survived. You know, like a hostage, chained to a radiator for five years or somebody who came through the Blitz. They say stuff like, 'Need to let Jacinta know that Waitrose is completely out of Cave Aged Cheeseyshit. Oh God! What to do? Feel faint, but push on to the fish counter, praying they'll have the hand reared, individually stroked scallops we so desperately need for the starter.'

 Come on people, get a grip. It's a useful tool but you can switch it off sometimes and the world won't end. So instead of looking at crap on Ebay, checking the weather in Buenos Aires or searching for pictures of Benedict Cumberbatch in his pants put the damned thing away and, whilst you're wondering what on earth to do to fill the time, talk to a baby....when you've finished reading this.

Thanks so much for your time.

25. Secret Santa and Some Shouting.

This year the youngest and her lovely partner are hosting the family Christmas celebration.
Their hearts are large. Their flat is small. There are a lot of us.

An email arrives from youngest asking how we'd all feel about a Secret Santa arrangement?
That way we each arrive with just one parcel for under the tree, thus saving valuable space. I consult her father, as follows:

'How d'you feel about doing Secret Santa this year?'
'What's involved?'
'Everyone buys just one present and there's a limit of twenty quid.'
'And that's it?'
'That's it.'
'Let's do it. Every year. Forever.'

Thus, we're in and so, it transpires, is everybody else. Those involved are scattered around the country but, as with everything in this day and age, the arrangements are made with the help of a handy website. We all eagerly await the email that will tell us who we're to buy for, which duly arrives. Even better, it includes a useful wishlist in which every recipient can mention those items that would definitely bring them pleasure when they rip the paper off their gift. I think this is an excellent idea. It doesn't ruin the element of surprise, as you don't know which option the giver will go for, but it avoids the spirit crushing possibility that the one and only pressie you're going to receive is something you hate so much you'll think there must be members of your family who've never even met you.  And surprises are all well and good, except when they turn out to be more of a bloody shock. So I put a couple of suggestions on my wish list and consider it a job well done.

I find the whole thing quite delightful. And then I notice that the thoughtful website even includes a list of helpful suggestions for those who might have to buy for someone who hasn't given them any clue as to what they'd like. I'm intrigued.

The links are divided up by sex and age. I note there is one dedicated to 'Women  - 60 to 70.'
'Look,' I say to my husband, 'There's a list of things for me.'
I should probably add that I only just squeeze into the latter end of this category.
'Don't look at it,' he advises.
'Why not?' I ask.
'You might not like it. It might make you shout.'
'So?'
'You're scary when you're shouty,' he says.
'I'm going to look anyway,' I tell him.
'I'm going to the shed,' he says.
 Two and a half minutes later I start shouting.

Whoever compiled this list....and I picture them as having skinny jeans, a beard, a man-bun and living in a trendy Shoreditch loft....has some very odd ideas of what I'd like for Christmas, as in 'no fucking idea whatsoever.' Apparently, my little old wizened face will light up at the sight of any of the following: Stationery, Photograph Frames, Calligraphy Set, Cross-Stitch or Embroidery Kit, Scrapbook (what for??) Knitting or Crochet Kit, Rag-Rug Making Set, Thermal Underwear, an Electric Blanket or...wait for it...Ugg Boots. UGG BOOTS! Now, my days of being a fashion victim might be fading into the past but, I ask you, UGG BOOTS!?! I'd like to think I retain a vestige of style.

But what was worse than all these hideous gift ideas was the helpful advice that came with each section. The premise seemed to be that the elderly wilfully sit about, atrophying, so giving them a set of bowls, for example, might coax them off their arses. Personally, when I have time on my hands I'm only too eager to head out for a spot of brisk hill-walking or to do a few road miles on my racing bike. If the weather's vile I'll ring a mate and meet up for gossip and a cocktail ot two. As for passing the wearisome hours with a cross-stitch cushion cover or sticking whatever it is you're supposed to stick in a scrapbook, it's not going to happen. Worst of all, this compiler expressed the opinion, and I quote, that 'few 70 year olds would confidently cater a party on their own.' WHAT?

They go on to posit the idea that any wrinkly foolish enough to try and throw a bit of a knees-up will welcome guests turning up with contributions, to include a 'case of their favourite mineral water' or, somewhat insultingly, an 'attractive tablecloth.' Now, I'm more than capable of throwing a good party and some of the best I've been to were given by mates in their sixties and seventies. And if you think I'd allow you over my doorstep with a bottle of water and a tablecloth, think again. A couple of bottles of decent wine are a different matter. Stroll right in.

Of course there's nothing intrinsically wrong with the gift ideas in that slightly misguided, online site. And I know I'm fortunate in that I'm fit and active and can still enjoy all the same things that I did when I was a young flibberdygibbet. But, as always, my complaint is that the compiler lumped us all together and made assumptions that I find offensive and hints at lazy research.

I'm not alone. I think lots of women of my age are living interesting, exciting lives full of people and doing things that they enjoy and, whilst accepting that not everybody's so lucky, we shouldn't all be shunted into this pitiable, helpless, hopeless mass. We are diverse, just like any other age group.

Happily, my family all know that, should they ever be stuck for a gift idea, a bottle of gin will always please.

Now I'll just pop out to the shed and let my husband know he can come back in.

Merry Christmas.

24. The Election (original title, huh?)

Have you heard this rumour going round, that there's going to be a General Election?

Yeah, me too.

So what do you reckon to the line up?

I'm guessing we can all agree to disregard the gurning buffoon that is Farage, along with his loathsome views? Thought so.

Which leaves us with the rest, and I'm not sure where to go from there.

For me, one of the big problems of the campaign is this insidious trend towards the cult of personality.  It crept over here from America, as most bad habits do, like Trick or Treat. In my day Halloween was marked by bobbing for an apple in a bowl of water whilst inhaling and the aroma of singed turnip. We didn't go round terrorising the neighbours and demanding stuff. I don't know why we fall for this crap. It isn't better, it's just....crap. Basically, it's down to marketing again and you know how I just LOVE marketing?!

But back to the Election. I don't know about you but I don't give a flying fuck about the size of Ed Miliband's kitchen or, for that matter, exactly how many kitchens he's got. I don't care. I'm not interested. It doesn't help me one iota in deciding whether or not he'd make a good Prime Minister. And I'm damned sure the column inches could be put to far better use

Let's go back a bit. Did anybody show any interest in the size of Disraeli's kitchen? No. Was anybody commenting on the fact that Mrs. Gladstone's bum looked big in that frock she wore at the party conference? Of course not. Did the Atlee's have their parenting skills put under the microscope? I doubt it. The candidate and their policies were all that mattered. And rightly so.

Now, the Daily Mail thinks it's the height of wit to point out that Mr. Miliband has a passing resemblance to an Ardmann animation character. So what? Explain it to me.  I'm not saying they're mistaken, just that it's not relevant.

Yeah, I know, I'm guilty of enjoying some of that vaguely insulting stuff too. When the wonderful Charlie Brooker made a reference to David Cameron's '...big, ham head...' it was so perfect I wept. But it had nothing to do with his fitness to be elected for a further term. Frankly, I think it's all too obvious why he falls down on that front, and it's nothing to do with what his head looks like. It's all down to the rubbish he talks out of it, but that's just my opinion.

History fails to relate how Churchill tackled a bacon sandwich, but the I'm sure the people of worn-torn Britain were more interested in his ability to lead the country. As long as he came up with the goods when needed I doubt they'd have cared if he'd inhaled his porridge up his bottom. And whilst it must have been obvious to everybody that he drank, smoked and ate too much, the killjoy brigade kept their opinions to themselves, as indeed they should.  I'm not actually a great fan of the man myself but he's a good example of how we used to judge our politicians by how they did the job, and little else. Oh, that it were still the case.

It's the women I feel sorriest for. All those male pundits just gagging to have a pop at how high the heel, how low the neckline, how fuckable the candidate. If they paid as much attention to their words as they do to their appearance we might get some useful insights and analysis. From what I've seen of them, in debate alongside the men, they're all wonderful! Whilst the blokes engaged in playground standard insults and point scoring the women stuck with answering the questions. If we could have a coalition of Leanne Wood, Natalie Bennett and Nicola Sturgeon in Downing Street I'd go for that. And I'm not going to make any cheap remarks about how they'd synchronise their menstrual cycles and settle everything over a nice cup of tea. I honestly believe they'd get on with the job with diligence, openness and integrity and wouldn't that be a novelty? As Huxley said, 'Oh brave new world, that has such creatures in it.'

And what of those other women, the ones wedded to the men of the three, main parties. They all seem quite lovely to me. I think we can all agree that David's punching above his weight with the fragrant Sam. She's so pretty, and seems so nice. What was she thinking of? Oh hell, now I'm thinking about what Dave's sex face might be like and a bit of sick's come up in my mouth. Hang on whilst I poke out my mind's eye. And Nick and Ed have done all right too. Miriam and Justine come across as wonderfully intelligent, independent people and I tend to look to them to tell their husbands the stuff the rest of us would like to but don't get the opportunity. I love the idea of a shame-faced Ed being berated, over the dinner table, about having made a twat of himself in front of the viewing millions.

So not a very intellectual analysis of the political landscape then. Sorry about that.

And where does it leave us?

I just know I'd rather shit in my hand and clap than ever vote for Cameron and his ilk.

The Greens are an attractive option, but can they really do it? Possibly not. Which is a shame as I bet they'd do a lot more about the state of the infrastructure for cyclists than the rest of the mob, and it's a cause close to my heart.

No, I think I'll be sticking with the values I learnt at my Grandfather's knee, and throw in my lot with Mr. Miliband. Why? Because I think he's that rare thing, an honest man, unlike the slippery, duplicitous Blair, who let us all down so terribly badly. I still get the pink mist when I think about that man.

But whoever we end up with I'll know I did my best because I'll be out there, putting my cross on that bit of paper. Hope I see you there too, which ever party you support.

Happy voting!


Thanks for reading.
Twitter@wharfench

23. Deck The Halls With Boughs Of Cynical Commercialism...And A Bit Of Tinsel.

'And so this is Christmas, and what have we done?' as I believe a Beatle once asked. What d'you reckon? Right now, what strikes me, is the fact that the Capitalist system has spent it's time coming up with the usual festive fayre of hideous adverts. You'd think they could find better causes to put their cash into, wouldn't you?

Do they honestly think we'll all be won over by cynical exploitations of  WW1, stage school kids, unrealistic family tableaux and those fucking penguins. I wonder if John Lewis have thought about all the children who won't even have a bloody tree, never mind anything underneath it, feathered or otherwise?

The ones that really get me are the ones showing some smiley woman, hair and make-up perfect, serving a golden turkey on a table gloriously set with six different vegetables and classy decorations, surrounded by a beaming, appreciative family. You'll make yourself unhappy trying to live up to it. I don't care how careful your preparations are, it's NEVER like that. At the very least your gravy goes lumpy, and one of the kids is being sick having OD'd on chocolate. Sometimes, the whole damn thing's a shambles and enough to wipe the smile off any sweaty, dishevelled, stressed out domestic goddesses face. It doesn't matter! And why aren't there more men in these ads, showing us their perfectly al dente sprouts? Women aren't just for Christmas.

This year I've been advocating small, local businesses and artisans. These are the shops and people that make our communities unique and interesting....and are disappearing fast, leaving us the poorer. Having decided to put my money where my mouth is, I've found this year's Christmas shopping a really lovely experience and, perhaps surprisingly, a hell of a lot simpler. It was so nice to be able to chat to the people selling me their goods. When your shop is your livelihood you care what your customers think.

Stand in any city centre and you'll see all the same shop fronts that you'll encounter in every city, the length and breadth of the country. Go through their doors and you'll find all the same stuff as in the one next  to it. You'll end up overwhelmed, bewildered and too tired to think straight. Go into a small, family run local shop and, the choice may be smaller, but I can guarantee it'll be a lot more interesting and it's much easier to focus when you're not so distracted. And you might just go away with something a bit special. Oh, and you/re less likely to get throat slammed by someone grabbing the last Barbie in the shop.

And it's not just gifts. It's great for food too. And I know the usual argument, that small shops are more expensive, and of course I'm sympathetic to that view. But it's not always the case. A local  butcher will happily sell you one chop or two sausages, and you might even get a chat and a laugh thrown in with your mince. They'll value your custom and want you to come back, so they'll be nice to you. In the supermarket you're offered those nasty, polystyrene trays containing the amount they've decided you should want, regardless of your needs. And an added bonus of the little shop is that you avoid the insidious lure of a stroll round the supermarket shelves, buying things you didn't go in for and don't need. See, it actually saves money.

I even sought out a local, independent wine merchant who spent as much time and trouble helping me choose a couple of bottles of plonk as if I was ordering crates of vintage. It was fun, unlike grabbing stuff off a shelf. And he didn't give me any shit about 'hints of self loathing with finishing notes of mortified tears.' He just told me what tasted nice.

I know, people are busy, There isn't always time to go from shop to shop. I'm just saying it's an option, and a pretty good one.

I'm not going to bang on about how, when I was a kid, we'd crawl down our icy beds to find a darned sock with a tangerine in the toe before having to riddle the grate and fettle the pots and all our other mysterious, working-class rituals......'but we were 'appy.' I'm no Scrooge. I'm up for some over indulgence, as much as the next sybarite.

I really do like Christmas. I'm content to leave the religious aspects to those who believe in them, but I have a lifelong desire for fairy lights, enjoy trying to consume my own body weight in mince pies and I like drinking Baileys, which I only ever do at Christmas. I have no idea why. For me, Christmas is a sparkly little oasis in the darkest time of winter.

I love having family and friends cluttering up the house, and a Christmas tree with parcels underneath. Basically, I like all the superficial stuff. I'm a deeply shallow person.

But I don't like the corporate world, and its blatant, insulting attempts to add yet another lining to it's already over-stuffed pockets, at our expense. We're not all easily duped consumer junkies. I think most people are aware that a lot of advertising is just lying, wrapped up in pretty colours. Of course that face cream won't bestow youth and beauty, that crappy cereal can't make you fit and healthy and using that washing powder doesn't make you mother of the year. We know. We're not dim. We'll buy what we can afford and what we've found, from experience, does the job. So why do they bother?

Sainsbury's try to justify that awful ad by saying a percentage of the profits go to the British Legion.
I don't know how much the whole thing cost to make, but it looks expensive. Couldn't they just have donated that money directly to veterans charities and saved us the squirming embarrassment of watching their mis-judged marketing ploy and its sanitised version of a terrible war. All they really care about is selling more mince pies and Cava. If they can't be tasteful they could at least try being honest. But maybe that's asking just a bit too much.

Happy Christmas!!


Thanks for reading my blog. Please feel free to share or follow me on Twitter@wharfwench

22. Death and the Matron

I recently signed a petition in favour of Assisted Dying. Not that I'm thinking of going just yet mind, but I have thought about how I'd like to go, which is why I decided it was a good idea.

Anybody feeling a bit uncomfortable? I hope not. That's not my intention, but we're all going to go. You'd have to agree with that, right? And when you get to a certain age you are sort of forced to confront the fact. And I have, and I'm reasonably alright with it.

That's because I'm old.

A year or so ago I heard about a death that caused me so much sadness that words are inadequate. I don't think I, or anybody else, should be sanguine about death and especially not when it's the death of someone young. In this case she was not only very young but talented, and using her abilities for the good of her fellow man/woman. She was much loved by a close family, comprising her wonderful parents and equally lovely sisters. A young man adored her, and she him. She was happy and loved life. She was one of the good additions to our tiny, inconsequential planet. And she died, tragically and suddenly, to be much missed by oh so many who had reason to be grateful for her short existence. I wasn't alright with that.

The young, and the very young die every day, due to illness, accidents or acts of violence and none of them are alright.

But I'm old. I've had a good go. Sure, I'd like a few more years. It's not that I'm keen to rush off. But whenever the inevitable happens it'll be no great cause for either surprise or anguish.

It's the way I go that concerns me. The cliche is that we all want to die peacefully, in our own bed. I can see the appeal of that one, but I'm not specifically aiming for it. There are more interesting options. I'd prefer it not to be one of the violent ones, but were I to be snuffed out whilst in the company of loved ones, eating, drinking and laughing my head off, then that'd have to be the favourite. Admittedly, it might put a bit of a damper on the occasion for my fellow diners. Having an old woman suddenly keel over into her linguine might take the edge off their appetites but, honestly, if they felt able to stick me under the table and finish the food and booze before dealing with my remains I'd be all in favour of it.

And that's another thing. As to what happens to those aforementioned mortal remains, I care not a jot. My only stipulation is that disposal costs as little as possible. I'd be content with landfill. Why should I care? I won't be there. I'll just leave some money in my will for all my nearest and dearest to have a knees up. That's the only memorial I need.

If they happened to play Kirsty McColl singing 'In These Shoes?' that'd be nice. But they don't have to.

They can fight it out amongst themselves over my stuff. If anyone really wants a pile of old tat they're welcome to it.

Back to my demise. I'd really love a spectacular end, something on the lines of being discovered in a drugs den in the arms of my much younger lover, but I've got to be realistic. As the nearest I get to drugs these days is a couple of codeine when my dicky hip's playing up that scenario's really unlikely.

Another possibility is that I'll succumb to a dread disease, or just become enfeebled by age, and this is where I start to get a bit anxious.

I see it much in the same light as being stuck at some dreary party. If I'm not having fun then I don't want to stick around. Call me a cab and I'm out of there.

Is that selfish? I'm not sure. I don't deliberately want to upset anyone who cares about me but it's my life so I reckon it's largely my affair.

I sincerely hope that if, for some reason, I'm not able to administer the fatal dose myself, then a kindly hand might intervene and assist me to my much desired repose.  My innately independent nature dictates that I'd far rather deal with the matter myself. I don't want to burden anyone else with it, especially if there's a chance they'll get slung into penal servitude as a result. But if I've been rendered helpless it'd be a comfort to know that someone's going to take care of it for me.

Or, at the very least, don't keep me going when there's really no good reason to. Just because we have the technology and medication it doesn't mean we have to use it.

Naturally, I've heard all the arguments against euthanasia and of course we have to protect the disabled and the demented. I don't want anyone going when they don't want to. And I'm a tremendous advocate of the theory that we're not all supposed to be the same in the first place. I'm all for variety. Anyone who doesn't embrace diversity has to be half dead already in my book.

I have 'disabled' friends who are living fuller, happier and more purposeful lives than many of the able-bodied wastes of a skin that have crossed my path. I'm very much talking individual choice here. And I reckon that's a human right.

I think we all know it already happens, but the caring souls who currently assist the suffering out of their misery put themselves at risk. So I signed that petition. And I hope it prompts this clever, amazing world, where we can now routinely cure diseases that were once inevitably fatal, and improve the quality of life of so many with ever-developing drugs, to acknowledge that there are times to step back from trying to prolong life and help it to end, gently and with love.


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21. The Very Famous Person And Me.

I'm not normally given to boasting but I once went out with a Very Famous Person.

Indeed I did.

And we're not talking just a bit famous. I don't mean like someone who's been in Eastenders a few times, or made a twat of themselves on a reality show. Not that sort of famous. Oh golly gosh no. I mean really, properly, big time famous. You know people like Bob Dylan and David Beckham and Dame Judy Dench and Bart Simpson? Well I'm talking that level of famous (but it wasn't any of them, obviously). What we're dealing with here is serious, fuck-me fame and a name that's recognised all over the globe.

Hell yes. THAT famous.

However, he wasn't famous when I had my date with him.

It was a long, long time ago and we were both very young. The honest truth is that I thought he was punching a tad above his weight, going out with a girl like me, but he was quite cute and beginning to attract attention locally, so I thought I could spare him an evening of my time and allow him to bask in my fabulous company.

Our trysting place was the local cinema. My choice. I wanted to go somewhere dark because I preferred not to be spotted with this disreputable looking guy. I was a nice girl. I would later become quite a mucky girl, and being seen with louche looking blokes would be my main aim in life, but I was still in my priggish stage at this point.

We sat on the back row and went through the predictable routine of the date, as prescribed by teenage behaviour in the early sixties. We held hands, ate a choc-ice, had a bit of a snog followed by some unseemly tussling over my blouse buttons and eventually stumbled out in to the night, wondering what the hell the film had been about. He saw me to my bus top, asked if I'd like to repeat the experience the following week, I said I thought not and that was that. We'd still saw each other around. We'd smile and exchange a bit of badinage, but nothing more. That was my relationship with a VFP, in a nutshell.

And then he got famous. Very, very famous indeed. And rich. Hugely rich. And I didn't. Fame and wealth have both given me a wide berth.

And do I care? OF COURSE I DO!

At least, I do a bit....sometimes.

You don't honestly imagine I've never lain awake at night, wondering how differently it might all have turned out if I hadn't put up a fight over my blouse buttons, if I'd gone on another date, and another and another? Would it have been me on his arm in all those news clips, instead of some skinny blonde? Would it have been my wedding dress that made the front page of the newspapers? Could it have been me revelling in all that money, those houses, the private planes, that STUFF? Probably not, actually. I doubt we were sufficiently compatible to survive the stresses and strains of being constantly under observation. And the tabloids would have said hurtful things about my dumpy little legs. And some bastard of a PR man would have advised the VFP to dump the DLN (Dreary Little Nobody) and that would have been me, cast aside. And then I'd have soothed my bruised ego with drink and drugs and promiscuous sex....so not much different to life as it turned out anyway.

Actually, he was a rubbish kisser so I'd probably have kicked him into touch first.

But yes, I've had an occasional little pang about it, over the years, as must loads of us who had dates with Very Famous People before they became household names, worldwide. Yet, at the time, I took it completely in my stride. I was much too busy just being young and having fun to waste my time on what might have been. If he hadn't gone on to become a superstar I'd probably have forgotten him completely.

I have seen him again, face to face. The nature of my job meant that our paths crossed, briefly, a couple of times. And was there a flicker of recognition in his eyes, as memories of the night his heart was broken forever by the girl who turned him down came flooding back? No, of course not. The teenage dollybird, with the firmly buttoned blouse, was long gone. We were just two ageing people (I noted he was using more hair dye than I was) being polite to each other, as protocol demanded, before moving on. There may have been a fleeting moment when I wanted to point at his receding back and shriek to the assembled throng, 'He snogged me! He did! I've had his tongue down my throat!' But I didn't.

And I had moved on, after that unsatisfactory date, to have my blouse, and my mind, opened by men I'd found a lot more exciting and interesting than the VFP.

There have been similarities in our lives. We've both had a couple of marriages, the good and the bad. We both have children we adore and, generally speaking, have weathered some downs along with the ups, and sailed at last into calm and contented waters. Admittedly, his downs made national news and and were held up to public scrutiny, whereas mine caused no more than mild local interest and a bit of gossip in the supermarket queue, but that's the price of fame. I wouldn't want to pay it.

I like being able to nip out for a pint of milk, in the tee shirt I've slept in, with a bit of toast stuck to my face without the paparazzi taking snaps from behind the bins.

My life now is good and I am a happy person. Can you quantify happiness? Are there degrees of it? I tend to believe not. If you're happy you're happy. And I am. I have a nice life full of lovely people doing things that I enjoy. I'm very fortunate and I know it. Could I have been happier with the VFP? I don't think so. I found a man I love and who loves me too.  And he's one hell of a good kisser. No contest.


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