Happy New Year to all you darling people out there. I do hope you didn’t over-indulge last night and have merely  woken up with a few good memories,  an appetite  and possibly………….company.fficeffice" />

Last night was spent – where else? – at George’s. The Husband accompanied me for one of his very few guest appearances there and thoroughly enjoyed  the decadence, asking at one point when Christopher Isherwood was going to appear. He was chiefly  amazed at the sight and sound of a completely packed bar  bursting into  an even more  animated state and giving  fine voice when the soundtrack to ‘Chicago’ was played.

He sat there open mouthed.

“It’s like I’m in a musical! Everyone knows the words and the dance steps!”

I was chiefly amazed that he knew ALL of the words to the Ethel anthem “There’s No Business Like Show Business”. 

‘Just Gay Enough’ is what I  firmly insisted to all my friends who had not met him before.

 The Usual Suspects were in attendance. Ms Rocky, Steve, Gavin, Miss Drambuie, Mr Butterfly, Movie Buff,  The Young Man, ‘Elaine’ and  other  people not previously  spoken of in these pages before. There was champagne, there were olives, balloons and gin in abundance. There was unfortunately a small altercation when some drunken reveller  attempted to walk around  with my hat on which he had taken from the hat stand.  The Husband noticed and yelled at him and I, in high dudgeon,  told him  in no uncertain terms that it was my hat and he should give it back  immediately. He  grudgingly and with bad  grace threw it back at me,  where it sadly sustained a small amount of damage from a candle but fear not, it is  repairable. A certain Jail Bird (in attendance and on his best behaviour all evening much to our surprise) immediately  went off in pursuit  and  taught him the error of his ways. Which must be the first time in living memory that two straight men brawled over a ladies hat and one of them was summararily ejected from a drinking establishment.  But that’s what I love about George’s……

Then at midnight, the place erupted in an orgy of kissing and popping corks and The Husband was quite surprised to be firmly hugged and kissed by total strangers but  thoroughly enjoyed it all. 

 We had, with foresight, booked a cab and so left at the relative early time of 2am, waving our goodbyes and kissing everyone with renewed vigour and with the last of our energy.

Mr Butterfly - the tart - did not leave until four with The Young Man and Thomas,  all of them walking home with their arms around each other and swearing  fraternity for ever.

I hope your night was just as fabulous. Here’s to the joy that is yet to come in 2005.

 Christmas is officially over.  I am attempting to put it all  back in  the box today.  I had got down the holly wreaths and the baubles and saved all the xmas cards with addresses on,  vacuumed up all the dust from the pine cones, wound up all the garlands,  washed out all the xmas candles holders and lovingly  wrapped everything up in paper and put it back in the big box and taped it shut.  I then dragged the said heavy box up two flights of stairs,  manhandled it into the little loft space   all by myself and came down, exhausted, to have a soothing sherry and the last of the chocolates.fficeffice" />

 And as I lay back in a state of smugness, surveying my newly cleaned and pristine living room guess what I saw?  Two enormous Christmas decorations still hanging from the bookshelves.

Bloody typical.

 Only with a few like-minded people. Darling Beachutman has started the 'Wrangling Wrinklies' team blog.  And as we're  mostly of an age - give  a decade or two -  and have lots of  tales of horror and derring-do concerning our very own  wrinklies it seemed a good idea at the time*

 So if you can’t find me over here, go and look over there

 *Last time I said that, it meant the uncorking of a few more bottles and I was Very Sorry Indeed...

 I am officially a Friend of Kevin (Spacey)* And yesterday I woke up early knowing there was something wonderful  I had to do. My mobile phone kept bleating with a reminder messge saying 'TODAY!!!' But I couldn't for the life of me remember what it was. Ah! the vagueries of age......

Then it came to me in a flash and I dashed upstairs with my special phone hotline number, kicked The Husband off the office desk and did it.

So on 14th May I shall be heading my way over to London  where I have front row tickets for 'The Philadelphia Story' 

Public booking opens on 24th January  -  miss it at your peril.

*Oh alright then, a Friend Of The Old Vic

....of the unexpected kind that is.

I was merely checking out YOUR recent postings and email when all of a sudden there's a knock at the door and Ed Next Door In Antarctica appears. Along with Mrs ENDIA, whom, for actualement sake shall be known as Jane. (they met out there so for all intent and purposes it's an Office Romance)

 Now we've seen him when he came back at the end of Summer so there's not an awful lot to catch up on from him. Apart from tales of Doctoring from Jane who was also out there at the same time and how one can happily (if one were a psycopath) kill off all your team members and get away with it and catch up on all our stories of Christmas and New Year.

So saying nothing and having nothing of import to tell,  took six hours, three bottles of wine, two coffee pots, a scratch supper (Bread, cheese, ham, toast, pate, olives,  biscuits and nibbles) and an assortment of 'extras' (mainly malt and brandies) so there's not much point in telling you about all this...............

Things are not good around here at the moment. I know I’ve neglected you all dreadfully recently (a Drama Queen needs her audience after all), but  I really am stressed, frazzled, tired and finding it difficult to juggle everything. There’s work, friends, Husband, home and sadly….a dying Granny.  Pop over to  ‘Wrangling Wrinklies and  read the first post I made a week or so ago. It tells the start of this tale.

Please don’t be too sad on her behalf. She’s 98 and is gradually slipping away, not eating or drinking and drifting in and out. The last week I’ve been visiting everyday,  spelling Mummy and trying to keep her  prepared and  just holding her hand and talking to her. Sometimes she’s knows I’m there and sometimes not but it’s still important to talk to her  –  or rather at her. She may hear what I’m saying and  I hope if she does die when I’m there  - or Mummy – then her last conscious  moment will be hearing someone  reminiscing about much loved and fun times we all had together.fficeffice" />

And isn’t that the best way to go? Knowing you are loved?

It’s nearly 1.30am and I’m here sat at the PC with glass of wine. fficeffice" />

I don’t know what to say. I’ve just come back from the nursing home where my Granny has died. I don’t know what to say or how to phrase it.    Unlike the death of my other Granny  five years ago, this was not unexpected. Unlike the death of my beloved Auntie Pam last December, this is not an awful wail of despair at taking someone in their last golden years - but too soon. This is expected  and something we’ve been waiting for over the last 10 days. But it’s still too soon for me. I feel child-like and  bereft, totally helpless and out of control.

 She was 98. A great longevity by anyone’s standards but I can’t cope with the tears of my mother. It’s her mother who’s gone and I can’t begin to understand how that must feel. I’m bewildered and desperately trying to comfort my mother, but knowing that I’ve somehow moved up a grade on the ladder of my family. This means that Mummy is now ‘The Older Generation’ and I’ve got the knowledge (suddenly and in my face) that someday, this will happen to me. I’ll be the one weeping at the bedside of my Mummy and it’s too harsh, too blatant to  come to terms with.

 We got there just in time – my sister bringing Mummy after I arrived - and with only minutes to spare. She wasn’t awake, she wasn’t in pain, she just. Stopped. Breathing. No last minute flutter of the eyelids, nothing apart from a (possibly imagined) squeeze of the hand in teh last seconds before. And all of a sudden, she wasn’t there any more. There was just this old lady in a bed.  Looking odd. Not looking like my Granny.

 But.

 I don’t know what to say.

She died, in her own room in her wonderful nursing home. With her furniture around her and the photographs of the family and soft lighting by the bed nd with the daffodils I bought her yesterday on the table by the bed and with snowdrops I bought her at Christmas peeping out and with Mummy and I holding her hands.

We’d stopped talking to her by then. There didn’t seem to be anything more to say.

And my sister and I take Mummy away. Mummy saying she felt guilty (why?) and Dani and I  just saying words, any words, anything  to comfort her. I can’t remember what. Futile.

So who is now the adult, comforting the child against some inevitable force of nature?

Darlings, darlings,  thanks for all your kind words. Those of you whom I know in R/L will no doubt have to put up with the odd tear every now and again – notably next Thursday when the funeral is – but to the  rest of you a big thanks and a reciprocal hug. You’ve been more than kind with your sentiment and I really and honestly am touched by  the sound of your cyber voices.  I’m fine. Really…..fficeffice" />

 I’m more upset on behalf of Mummy who is understandably the more inconsolable. However much you prepare yourself for the inevitable, it’s always hard and you can’t help wishing for just a little more time. But as always happens in these black times, a little humour – however inappropriate – comes to the fore. We’ve been spending the last few days attempting to come up with music for the funeral. Granny was not a great one for music. It was The News on the radio or John Wayne films on the TV for her so it’s more a case of trying to find something fitting for the family. I suggested the usual middle class options.  Chopin etudes, Bach,  Beethoven’s 9^th etc, but all of them seem  a little… well, soulless. All of a sudden Mummy has an idea.

“I remember a piece of music your Granny loved”

“The 1812 overture!”

And I collapse into giggles in front of Mummy’s frown. Imagining Napoleon, fighting squares  and  a couple of brace of cannon  outside on the cemetery hillside in her honour.

So what do we do when someone dies?  Well in my world (read ‘Jew-ish’ rather than Jewish) we cook. We clean the house. We tidy and we Have A Place For Everything.fficeffice" />

  So there’s a roast chicken in the fridge, a shepherds pie in the freezer, a mince meat tart for pudding,  and  the stock pot is bubbling away nicely on the hob (incidentally,  causing Big Ron to drool and wail piteously  in  the kitchen and probably causing neighbours to call the RSPCA).

 I’ve cooked a proper dinner tonight, changed the bed, cleaned the bathroom and kitchen, hung the washing out and cleaned the  bedrooms –  finding an embarrassment of hot water bottles under our own bedstead. Four, Yes, I know that’s  lot but I need one to hug and one for the feet and the others are obviously…. er.. spares.    So when I found myself emptying my lingerie drawers and going through every single pair of tights and stockings for runs, I finally recognised it for what it was.

 Displacement activitiy.

 I no longer live in the ghetto, and  honestly am not expecting to be descended upon by  the hordes of Rabbi,  family, friends and neighbours. But just in case, the house is tidy and I.can feed them all.