RETIREMENT - IT'S NOT CRICKET

The weekend after the break up (in both senses) from school, I tried to fill the empty spaces in my brain by writing some pieces for the London competition, right up my street you might say. Born and bred in Lewisham in ‘Sarf’ London, with roots in Peckham and Camberwell, I have always lived in this part of the capital, even having had a brief spell in posh Dulwich, during my short-lived first marriage.  And I do love London, good bits and bad, and have always been inspired by it even before the competition was announced. Not too much time to wallow in self-pity however, as I was detailed to take two of my grandchildren out to lunch on the Monday, 25^th July 2016. Which meant a visit to one of the more salubrious Croydon McDonalds, which took over an historic pub, the Shirley Poppy, some years ago. 

Ironically, this child-magnet is very near the site of the former Shirley Oaks childrens home, which has been in the news lately for all the wrong reasons. Many of the houses are still standing and occupied as private residences; I bet the occupants now wish they had bought elsewhere.

Anyway, McDonalds was delicious as ever, especially the vanilla milkshake so thick that you risk sucking out your fillings when trying to consume it, though the burgers seem smaller each time.  My 5 year old grandson loved his toy, and I am informed we will be coming back to get another the following week. His sister, now being a grown up 12, is above all that now of course, keeping her nose in her gadget.

I was already beginning to see my ‘retirement’ from school as a sort of bereavement, though I was soon to be reminded what real bereavement is, as we had to attend the funeral of a friend of 35 years the next day. The deceased, only 71, a lovely gentle man (in every sense) with a brilliant mind and a great love for his family, which included a new born granddaughter , was born in India, only arriving here in his teens. The great number of attendees, including those watching on a ‘streaming’ system from India and Australia,  paid homage to his popularity, and the love of his beautiful family was very apparent. It was a lovely day, and the sun shone in the ancient cemetery which included the grave of W G Grace, as well as Mr Crapper who invented, as my Dad (who loved Eugene, the deceased) would say, the flushing carsey. And after the burial we moved on to a nice reception at the local pub, named after the aforementioned great cricketer.

Next day my other half went off to meet his former M.O.D. colleagues (whom I always refer to as The Old Gits) as they do regularly.  The venue was the Civil Service Club near Charing Cross.  This gave me the chance to wallow in misery and self-pity a bit more, well; for a few minutes at least until the request to look after previously mentioned grandson for the afternoon. There’s nothing like a 5 year old, a couple of bubble guns and a garden for taking you out of yourself.

Next day, Thursday, himself at work, I decided to go for afternoon tea with a friend.  This was put on hold however as Mum in law (an amputee)  had omitted to tell us that she needed me there to deal with the OT, which I duly did. Not I may say to Mum’s satisfaction as the therapist told the carers they were not to help her up so much (H&S) , which leaves Mum fighting for breath. But that's another NHS rant I reckon.