wotnopeoplecarrier

I thought I had plenty to think about - the play opens on Dec 9th and no.. I still don't quite exactly know my lines, oh then there's the small matter of moving house on Friday - and no I still don't quite exactly know what packing a house should involve....and of course the relentless demands of a job that's getting so big I think my blackberry is getting stretchmarks....OTHER than that everything was fine. Busy but fine.

Until Wednesday. Don't want to get too detailed about things but let's just say that I began the day taking my 4 yr old on an adventure which ended at the doctor's for pre school jabs (look I know how important they are but please don't try to tell me that the look of hurt betrayal in their eyes when the needle goes in isn't more painful than measles and tetanus put together after a month of diptheria because I won't believe you) and ended the day with poorly eyes.

Poorly eyes...hmm....have had them before. Have poked them over the years with masacara sticks while trying to drive, have bleached them inadvertently with contact lens cleaner, have even scratched one once...but this poorly eyes thing was a bit more serious.

Ironically, I had bounded into the opticians flashing my 'I'm 40 now so I get free sight tests because my mother had glaucoma' smile at everyone and joked about how useful it was to be short-sighted and to be able to benefit annually from my late mother's affliction. Not that I'm mean - it was just a bit exciting and possibly the only good thing about turning 40 as far as I can make out. Unless the periods stop and I can save tampax money every month.

Anyway this optical rapture came to a swift end when the serious optician stopped waffling on about how scratched my glasses are and how I should rest my eyes from contact lenses (yadder yadder) and the gravely told me I had what appeared to be a symptom of glaucoma. Well two symptoms to be precise, each eye was bulging with pressure it shoudn't be. Not that I look like Marty Feldman (in case you're wondering) but something isn't right.

Immediate reaction

'I'm too fucking busy for this'

Followed by

'Sodding typical - utterly bloody typical so that's it I'll be blind by next week - I knew something would stop me enjoying my new house'

Followed by

'Er, how bad is it?'

Stupid question

'Bad - bad enough for you to come back'

'OK, er let's see, how about second week of Jan?'

''How about next Monday?'

'How about I rewind my day to some time before Henry looked at me with confused bewilderment in his eyes about being stabbed twice' I thought

'OK - you're upset'

'No, not really - just wondering if it could be anything else?'

'Not really - come back in an hour - we'll test again'

So I wandered off for some retail therapy and timed my only clothes buying trip for ten years in M and S (definitely getting old... surely this is a more conclusive sign of old age than the onset of glaucoma?) precisely 7 hours before they announce their 20% sale.

Went back muttering about badly calibrated equipment and the result?

Even fecking higher.

OK...it's not life threatening, it's only sight threatening and yes I KNOW it can be controlled with eye drops etc.

But....but....my eyes are the only body parts I like, and it seems a bit unfair that 6 months past my 40th birthday my corneas are diseased. This will be confirmed next week in the next round of tests no doubt. Why couldn't my cellulite have got some kind of random medical issue? Why the only two parts I have never criticised despite them being a bit near sighted?

Hmph.

Which is unusual - I am usually an expert sleeper - strictly only till 6.45 am however....my sleep pattern doesn't care about weekends but this is useful when you have 2 young sons and a husband who spends many long nights out and about doing brave stuff.

Last night he answered his mobile and said that a tanker was on its side - just another Friday night then - I tried to lighten the impending seriousness of the situation by proclaiming that a wanker on its side must indeed be very serious and couldn't they just roll him the right way up.

Made me laugh.

So today I had a 4 hour rehearsal for what is rapidly becoming the biggest regret of my 'yep no problem' attitude to life. I can't remember my lines, I can't remember which ones I can't remember the most....and it's all going wrong. Opening night could well be the final curtain on my acting career. Should have stayed in retirement.

The boys began the day by trying to set the house on fire, and ended it by flooding the upstairs. At least the elements were balanced, but I could do without the place falling down before my triumphant departure scheduled for November 28th. They are snuggled together in the eldest one's bed - and it's the most peacful time of the day/night/morning.

I don't know why I can't sleep. Perhaps I'm nervous for DO Robinson doing his marching thing at the cenotaph tomorrow. He has to report to the drill ground at 6.15am. But I suppose compared to going over the top or a spell in Helmand province it's peanuts.

I'm a bit cross about being awake if I'm honest - but luckily by writing drivel I am boring myself to sleep. Sorry if I lost you 3 paragraphs ago....I'm listening to a track from a very upsetting Kevin Bacon movie (Death sentence) which I hated. But this song, 'I will love you' (NOT WHITNEY THAT HAD AN ALWAYS IN IT) by Fisher is just wonderful. Kind of sad, kind of happy, the perfect song to stroll through the leafy avenues of the long term memory.

And with that (AND NO IT REALLY ISN'T WHITNEY'S NAUSEATING BASTARDISATION OF DOLLY PARTON'S MASTERPIECE) I'm off to stay awake doing something useful like ironing.

That you get to a certain age, and, interspersed between the invitations to 40ths, divorce celebrations and god childrens' teenage booty parties (or not), you also find yourself at the funerals of other people's parents. This is all rather depressing. I am something of an authority on parent funerals having (mercifully I now feel) got both of mine out of the way for want of a better expression. I don't have to dread the day I lose them, or wonder how I'll cope because I have been there and done it. The only good thing about having lost both parents by 38 is that I will never have to go through it again.

I was thinking about this today as my friend and I turned up to the funeral of another friend's mother. The local crem was busier than Wembley after a stones gig, and really it was the undertaking equivalent of the flightpath at terminal 5 where every 30 seconds another one appears on the horizon, only in this case it was a hearse about every 30 minutes.I looked at the faces of my friends with living parents, and knew what they were thinking. Namely, oh god this will be me before long. The folks won't go on forever. Must make more effort.

It was the usual sombre affair, a reading, a poem and the cracked voice of her only son, and the singular faux awkwardness that is the english funeral. The place smelt a bit odd to me, that horrible mix of souring flowers and broken hearts. I wondered (as we all do) who might turn up to mine. I can't help getting a bit anxious about it....I wasn't sure that the reading about her did her justice. Sounded like alot of lace making and needlework to me, I made a note to ensure that I write my own eulogy.

I looked around and not surprisingly reflected on my own mother's funeral, and how utterly everyday the whole business is. And yet for those in that awful front pew, how just being in that place means that life will never be the same again. I was quite relieved to hear some useful things about earthly pilgrimages and things not ending, but looking around it's all a load of hooey for the man clutching at his son knowing he's on his own now and his remaining years won't be the way he planned them.

Being the 'young friends' we sort of lurked together - all three of us. Rachel said she wanted to smoke but appreciated my suggestion that could be bad outside a crem. She related the story of her grandfather's funeral, and I wanted to fall over laughing but didn't. It's always struck me as odd that every departed soul had a wondeful sense of humour, an infectious giggle and a warm love of fun and merriment, and yet on the one day you might pay homage to that you'd rather eat your own tits than actually laugh out loud. Maybe it's just me. Anyway, Rachels' grandfather...the sad day coincided with a random appearance by the water board to install a water meter, something that had almost brought her parents to divorce anyway. The random visit wouldn't have mattered if they hadn't gone to all the trouble of digging a large coffin shaped hole in the front garden of her parents' house as the funeral cars arrived bearing mourners for the post burial piss up.

Outside the crem, eyeing pitiful flower displays (makes me competitive - I made Rachel promise not to let me be the one with a small mean bowl of pot pourri when everyone troops out - and we settled on a full sized grand piano crafted from black roses in case you're interested -don't laugh.. my uncle had a small 2 seater sofa from cream chrysanths for his late wife - she had apparently missed the delivery of her new sofa and never lived to sit on it) Even in death we can't help forming an opinion of someone because they've got small displays. And there's always show-off Winnie over there who's got GRANDMA in ten foot roses. If you see what I mean. You can't help looking at other people's flowers!Admit it! Blimey they were in there only half an hour ago - being commended and blessed etc. The pamphlets with the same prayers and hymns had Edith/Ted/Joyce's picture on a few seconds back. It's a miracle they don't mix them up.

I related the tale of the funeral cake for mother-in-law's boyfriend Bill, when I cut the damn thing between the B and the ILL and tried in vain to stick it back together for the rest of the wake as various people tutted (I still don't get the funeral cake please tell me if i'm missing something)

We shuffled about, and were awfully polite. That's what you do. We admired the flowers, cloying though the smell was, then deliberated about which way to go to get to the car park. I wanted to avoid swimming upstream through the 4.10ppm mourners, so walked for ages, hopelessly lost, wondering who thought a perilously slippery bridge was a good idea outside a crematorium. Surely they're not drumming up business, the place is flippin packed I muttered as I teetered along wishing i'd worn wellies.

My point is that the whole business is of course terribly sad - nothing shatters the heart more than the loss of someone you can't replace. I still only believe my own mother isn't here when, with each birthday that passes, there is no envelope on the mat with her neat writing on it.. Because she was a stickler for cards, and it was unthinkable to anyone that she might not have one in the post well before the special day. The mat, empty as it is every year of a white envelope with a Boston postmark on it is a jarring and unwanted reminder.

And because of this, I don't think it hurts every now and again to look at a dismal crem, and the borderline thug funeral directors wrestling with flower displays looking as out of place as they would holding a newborn baby, and taking a second to think what I thought...

This is it. This is bloody it. I can see about 25 people here, none of them looks anything like upset enough in my opinion considering I am about to be commended or committed or whatever, there's one over there even smiling. SMILING. There's a bloke I never met ushering my nearest and dearest about, another bloke I never met has just forgotten to tell everyone that I really was ok. Not god, not perfect, but OK. And now there's someone who thinks opening up some kind of soup kitchen in my house is OK and oh dear lord the place looks a tip!!!! I wish I'd told him what I thought, I wish I'd shown I loved them a bit more, I just wish I had one more day.