Pensioner Party

Was invited to a pensioner party where I saw quite a few of our punters. One notable woman, now a non drinker, had thoughtfully brought several half bottles of the hard stuff, including rum, vodka, whisky, gin and Southern Comfort for our consumption, and poured me at least quarter of a pint of neat whisky, which cheered me up rather a lot, particularly after I followed this with a few glasses of red wine.

Thus disinhibited I devoured around six sandwiches, some trifle, crisps and cake. There was an excellent noisy disco, so I staggered to the floor and danced several times, hopefully burning up a few calories. The local MP, my former chairman, the mayor, and three councillors were all present.

There were local lady Morris dancers, but my abiding memory will be of the whole company, including many white-haired ladies in their eighties, shouting 'who the fuck is Alice?' in a resounding chorus to the ubiquitous Roy Chubby Brown version of the song. A couple of the councillors looked rather shocked. Perhaps they should get out more.

Still a bit mis, but good Thai meal and chat with Nibs

Had a really great evening at Ken's Thai dinner at Thai Silk. Met lots of people again, including Fiona, who was very sparkly and fun, and another interesting woman, a doctor from South London, who had spent three months in Thailand. Thai Silk is a large restaurant with a very good outside area, the service is excellent and the meal good value: two courses for a tenner.

This morning I was thinking about my ex, but have not yet got up the courage to visit Peckham and make enquiries about what may have happened. I found a fairly recent photograph which will help. There is a library in his street which I am certain he must have visited frequently

Long conversation about my ex with Nibs who was very understanding, especially about the shock of the long time lapse between his death and our recent discovery. I have decided to do a little sketch book project, which will help me work through issues I didn't at first realise I had. We shall see.

My front tooth is falling to bits so I shall have to try and obtain an urgent dental appointment next week. I may also recommence the glucosamine. I am feeling the cold quite badly for some reason, and I remember that glucosamine always made me feel very warm, which could be handy in this weather.

Nibby has had a great time, visiting friend in the Cotswolds and Devon, but all a bit exhausting. She is thinking of getting a group together to go sketching, which sounds like a very good idea.

Coffin and Coke

Here's a coffin (below) from the collection at the Festival Hall. The inside is lined with railway upholstery.


I poured some skimmed milk into diet coke,(right) and this is what it looked like when I turned around again. Nice!

Feeling Blue

And wearing blue top and specs to match. So went to the Paul Gambaccini recording of Desert Island Discs to die to, accompanied by an excellent exhibition of fantasy coffins at the Festival Hall with my first Artslink meetup. Very good, and bumped into Steve Lancashire, a former Southwark Councillor, who had incidentally seen someone else I knew that day. We had both been trustees of the same charity for years, and it was good to see Steve again.

I have realised that I am going through some grief, not a little of it about 'what could have been' and also reactions of anger and blame, which are typical of bereavement, despite not having been close to my ex for many years. The past is still with us, though.

Curiouser and Curiouser

Trying to discover more about the circumstances of the demise of my ex, I have now spoken several times to Southwark Register Office (hopeless) Southwark Social Services (hopeless), hospitals (did not die in hospital), police (no knowledge of the death), and finally, a call to his Housing Officer, who is of course on leave this week, but may, just may, contact me on her return. May try and contact a local councillor, and go to Peckham and try to speak to neighbours, etc. The death seems genuine, as someone at Southwark Council (if only I knew who) recorded his death and sent the report to Bona Vacantia.

I can hardly believe that I have only just heard about his death in March last year. I was in contact with him the previous November, when we spoke and he sent me a card. As I mentioned before, he had a mobile phone which I gave him and had only one number on it, mine. He had my telephone number and address, and the numbers and addresses of several members of the family at home. Don't really know where to turn next.

I would obviously like to know why I am only finding out about this, ten months after the event. Really strange. I suspect a visit to Peckham is in order.

Feeling Rather Sad

My son rang to say he had received an email about an estate. He rang the heirhunter people who had traced him. It appears that my poor old ex-husband (shown above with our son) died in March last year. As we haven't been in touch, we know no more.

Poor old thing. He was so different when young: an enterprising and adventurous teenager, going hill walking and youth hostelling in the Lake District, living abroad and attending a French University, gaining his degree there and working as an assistant teacher in a French School, before getting a scholarship to Oxford and a good Modern Languages degree.

I met him in Paris where he spent time during his Easter university vacation. After completing his degree we lived in Algeria and Saudi Arabia where he taught English. Returning to UK he taught at a Language school in London and Oxford, making friends with a colleague who cooked for the students, Jennifer Paterson, later of Fat Ladies fame. After our son was born he taught at a grammar school in Westcliff, where he was very popular with the children, and spent some weekends in London working for the Simon Community with homeless men.

Unfortunately he went to France in 1968 and was somehow involved in the May riots in Paris and disappeared for the rest of the summer, before appearing again in September, obviously mentally ill, at his parent's house in London. To me, he never really recovered: he had toured France with the Living Theatre during that missing summer, and discovered psychedelic drugs.

We separated after this, and he lived in Barcelona for a few years, with a new relationship and another son, but they split up and he lived alone in London afterwards.

I shall endeavour to find out more about why we did not hear about his death until now, as I gave him a mobile phone which had my number on it, and he had written down several family addresses and telephone numbers. Very strange indeed. And very sad.

And here's the scarves

Not that they show very well. Should have put a bag over my head. Not in good face today.