Six months today since David died. Someone, kindly, asked me if I’m getting over it. No. It’s not that sort of thing. It’s more like losing a limb. You adapt, rather than recover. And limp.
I cycled to mum’s to fill the bird feeder. I looked through the french windows to where she sits, but she wasn’t moving, the Daily Telegraph scattered around her. ”Mum!” I said, knocking on the window, “MUM!” And she opened her eyes and mouthed ‘fooled you’.
RIP David Coles, died two years ago this night. Loved, missed; I still can’t work the central heating.
Here he is doing roly polys at Milton Keynes shopping centre because I dared him.
Don’t worry about saving Christmas. Christmas can take care of itself. In fact don’t worry about anything except doing right by the people you love and care for and who live and care for you - and try not to be a nincompoop.
It was
@RevDavidColes
’ funeral today. Thanks to everyone who came and contributed and took care of us. And to everyone here in Twitter for your kindness and support.
Bumped into a friend. We talked about D and how much we loved him and how good he was at sorting out those parts of my life in which I am deficient. Then she said, “you know, he’d never have let you out in that shirt and jumper”. First proper laugh since widowhood arrived.
It’s
#WorldAIDSDay
and I remember sitting in the Chelsea and Westminster in 1994 with my friend Steve wondering how long his boyfriend Michael, just diagnosed with AIDS, had to live.
They’re coming to stay this weekend.
“I asked you all, whatever your religion, to pray for me on the day of my Coronation - to pray that God would give me wisdom and strength to carry out the promises that I should then be making. I have been uplifted and sustained by the knowledge that your prayers were with me.”
My lovely sister in law
@lozaamandine
died this afternoon with COVID19. She made lots of people very happy, not least
@RevDavidColes
, with whom she went on extravagant and unauthorised expeditions to her beloved North Africa. RIP, darling woman.
Just vaccinated with the AZ vaccine by my GP Charles, volunteering his weekend, whom I have known since childhood, when we both went to Sunnylands Kindergarten in Kettering, where we were taught by Mrs Gilbert, mother of Prof Sarah Gilbert, who developed the AZ vaccine.
Have I got this right? After seven years of training, fifteen years in ministry, four degrees, a Fellowship of King’s College London, a university Chancellorship and a respectable showing on Masterchef I am officially unskilled?
#underthethreshold
Ten years since London 2012. I remember watching the opening ceremony and thinking “we’ve cracked it — progressive, inclusive, outward looking, and everyone’s cheering”. It’s the most wrong I’ve been since predicting in 1987 that London house prices could not rise any higher.
“He has just gone into the next room”
Check.
“I know that my redeemer liveth”
I know.
“Grief is the price we pay for love”.
It sure is.
I JUST WANT HIM TO WALK THROUGH THE ******* DOOR.
A small but savoury victory. Man pushes in front of me at the barriers at St Pancras, so I switch queues. Alas, the child in front of him has a ticket that doesn’t work and he tries to push in in front of me again but I effortlessly body block him and he loses his place twice.
Called a parishioner, locked down on his own. We chatted for a bit and then he said, “is there anything I can do to help? Do let me know if there is”. He is 93.
Grief makes you stupid: I went to the shop and came out with three kinds of parmesan, I bought an extravagant number of death certificates, I stayed up till 1.30 watching a documentary about the Queen’s poached eggs.
I’m often struck by how many who say they don’t consume BBC output in fact do, in one form or another - the FA Cup, local radio, CBeebies, online, the news etc - and it costs them per day about an eighth of the cost a cappuccino at Costa. I think that’s good value.
Do you ever lie awake at night fearing we’re walking into a tyranny of untaxed young men in t shirts controlling ruthless and exploitative monopolies who think they’re the good guys because they came to work on a skateboard?
I’m very sorry to say that
@RevDavidColes
has died. He had been ill for a while. Thanks to the brilliant teams who looked after him at
@KettGeneral
. Funeral details to follow. “The Lord shall be thine everlasting light, and the days of thy mourning shall be ended”.
Facebook memory popped up from six years ago. I came home from a work trip to find D had installed this and was playing sea shanties to get me in an aquatic mood.
Difficult, I imagine, if you are public sector worker using a Foodbank, or relying on in-work benefits, to be lectured on pay restraint by people who turned our economy into a casino.
99.99999% loveliness from people and then a small but lively correspondence from Christians who wish me to know that D is in hell and I will follow. It’s like the Khmer Rouge suddenly popping up in a stream of condolence.
I had to decide to withdraw life support from a loved one and my sympathies are with all who care for
#ArchieBattersbee
and his family. I felt deeply conflicted, as someone responsible for care, and as someone who really didn’t want to let go. Lets give them all some room.
Tarry no longer! Toward thine heritage
Haste on thy way, and be of right good cheer;
Go each day onward on thy pilgrimage;
Think how short time thou shalt abide thee here.
Thy place is built above the starre's clear;
None earthly palace wrought in so stately wise...
Eric from the cricket club came to see me a while ago. “I think I love Lizzie but she’s emigrated to Australia. What should I do?” “You know what to do,” he flew to Sydney, missing a critical United away game. We fitted the wedding in today, last service before lockdown.
I have to attend compulsory BBC Impartiality Training next week. I was thinking about this as I passed the George Orwell statue outside Broadcasting House this morning.
Today I complete my fourth year of widowerhood. It’s not a journey, it’s a slog, but I now have 1,460 days of learning to live in a world without David.
Keep going, right?
Life will continue to offer you surprises, and not all of them will necessitate a GP appointment.
Remembering
#DesmondTutu
: “I would not worship a God who is homophobic… I have to tell you, I cannot keep quiet when people are penalised for something about which they can do nothing… I oppose such injustice with the same passion that I opposed apartheid.”
Born on the kitchen table in a house called Mon Repos.
Died at Windsor Castle just short of a century later.
Condolences, and the assurance of prayers, to all who mourn.
Rest eternal grant unto him, O Lord, and let light perpetual shine upon him.
A friend found this, my first appearance on telly in 1982. Looks like Wurzel Gummidge, sounds like Jacob Rees Mogg, smells like Greenham Common. Those were the days!
It is the fiftieth anniversary of the death of Margaret Rutherford. Her father murdered her grandfather, a clergyman, with a chamber pot, she was the last woman born in the 19th C to win an Oscar, and her cousin was Tony Benn.
Do not judge, or you too will be judged. For in the same way you judge others, you will be judged, and with the measure you use, it will be measured to you.
It costs us c£70k to discount a house for Right To Buy. 40% end up as buy-to-lets, with a significant cost to us in housing benefit. Why not use those £70ks to build new social housing for genuinely affordable rents? Fairer, and better value for money in the long run.
Staying with my two of my oldest friends. Arrived, ate a bowl of pasta e fagioli, lay on the sofa, insisted on a terrible film, immediately fell asleep, woke up with the credits.
Very sorry to hear of the death of Helen McCrory, such a brilliant actor; heartfelt condolences to Damian Lewis, their children, and all who loved her.
Gordon Brown in the Guardian today: “For the first time since the welfare state was created, it is the food bank, not social security, that is now our safety net..”
The PM today tweets her congratulations to Italy’s new far right Prime Minister but a month ago wasn’t sure if the President of France was an ally or not?
Tough but necessary accommodation to new circumstances. Had to say goodbye to Gus and Aud and H, who have gone to new homes. Structural failure of upper lip, but keeping Daisy and Pong, and know the others could not have gone to better billets with family and friends.
Here’s the sort of practical help a widow wants: some friends have offered to start a WhatsApp group to which I will post pictures of my proposed outfit for them to approve, improve or reject.
New awkward moment for our times: the few seconds of resting bitch face between saying goodbye to everyone in a zoom meeting and figuring out how to leave it.
Call Mum: “Has your jab been sorted out yet?” “Has yours?” “I’m not a priority, you are”. “You’re a priority to me. And I fully intend to let the Secretary of State for Health know about it”.
Woke up at six after a dream which ended with me breaking into the basement of a house in Belgrave Square and there having a vicious fight with Dominic Cummings using the Anglican martial art in which we were both adepts.
On the phone to mum I ask, “any news?” “Yes, yesterday I went on my pogo stick to see the Maharani of Timbuktu but she was in her nightie so I came home. OF COURSE I HAVEN’T GOT ANY NEWS”.
Put tulips he planted on David’s grave today.
When our hearts are wintry, grieving, or in pain,
Jesus' touch can call us back to life again,
Fields of our hearts that dead and bare have been:
Love is come again like wheat that springeth green.
The horrible letters: they don’t touch me. I am right now an expert in pain, the real kind, and these are paper darts among the incoming, and just leave me mildly curious about the state of mind of the writer.
Just pressed the door button for the loo on the train which slowly slid open to reveal a lady of riper years in circumstances which required no explanation. She looked at me, I looked at her, we both laughed, and the door slid back. I am now holding on till St Pancras.
When we were in Kintyre on our holidays, D would weave things and I would read things, we would walk the dogs, one of us would cook things, then we’d drink whisky in front of the fire. Could go all day without exchanging more than a couple of words. Bliss.
Just a reminder that Priti Patel, newly self-appointed champion of Subpostmasters, presided over a Home Office which sought to extend the powers of the Official Secrets Act. Post Office tried to use it against the Sub-postmasters … (1/2)
Very sorry to hear Robbie Coltrane has died. We shared a dressing room once and he had the biggest pants I have ever seen, which he wore with tremendous flair. We were friends from then on.