I Remember Mandy

Do you remember Mandy?

If you ever met my daughter, Shani, when she was little, then you might also remember the slight, bright, pretty young woman who accompanied Shani on play-dates, helped to run a local play group and spent a lot of time standing outside The Gatehouse School, chatting to young mothers and fellow nannies while she waited for Shani to come running out, full of news and trailing the usual detritus of Kindergarten…

Her shiny black shoulder-length hair seemed to bounce and quiver with the very energy that she poured into every daily chore.  Her thick, glossy fringe framed dark, intelligent eyes that noticed and evaluated everything; Judged but never condemned.  Ever the consummate professional, Mandy steered our amateur parental meanderings onto a firm, straight path: naps, mealtimes, outings… sorted.  Mandy soon established herself at the hub of our domestic lives, the solid granite bedrock at the centre of a maelstrom of assaults from the outside world: school bullies, sudden illness and loss of work.

Mandy held firm views: She deplored gossip and rather avoided the regular nanny get-togethers, feeling that the children’s needs were neglected on such occasions.  Mandy preferred to throw herself into the child’s world of exploration and imagination; Creativity and play.

Mandy was never critical.  Whatever she thought privately of my choices as a mother, as I clung to and hovered over my late-in-the-day and unexpected offspring, a sad hen with but one chick, diplomacy never failed her.  Only once did she venture to veto a decision of mine and urged me to allow Shani to start school: ‘She wants to go, she needs to be with the other kids!’  And of course, she was right.

Mandy stayed for almost ten years.  I think she must have decided to go when Shani’s shoe-size overtook her own.  Job done.  She left, we hoped, to find happiness and fulfilment elsewhere.  Always a private person, we had somehow managed to gather that Mandy’s childhood had been overshadowed by adult depression, and that she alone had provided her little brother with the love and support he needed.  Her first marriage ended in appalling tragedy and, though in her early thirties, we still felt confident that she could in time find her way into the life that she was so eminently suited for: a loving partner, a brood of children, a home of her own.  She deserved nothing less, surely?

Mandy travelled, moved jobs, moved locations, but she always stayed in touch.  When she finally met the love of her life we were happy, when her little boy was born we were thrilled but there seemed to be a curse on Mandy…One day the father of her longed –for child went to work and failed to return. Casually slaughtered by a careless driver, he left Mandy, numb with grief, to fight fruitlessly in the arcane legal arenas of insurance, actuaries, appeals and procrastination, trying to secure some part of the compensation their child was surely entitled to as he screamed in vain for his daddy night after night…?

How much courage should one person have to find?  How much pain should one person be expected to endure?  When Mandy tested positive for cervical cancer after a routine scan a couple of years later, I was merely relieved that at least ‘They’ had found it.  Treatment would follow as night follows day, wouldn’t it?  All would be well…wouldn’t it?  Mandy’s little boy has just celebrated his eighth birthday and cannot remember his mother ever being well. 

Mandy has survived mis-diagnosis, mislaid records, mismanaged treatment and all the flak a large, well-meaning but unmanageable organisation like the NHS can put in the way of a vulnerable patient.  And, Oh how the actuaries have gathered, waiting to see if Mandy will die before they are forced to pay out something for her little boy.

For years Mandy has restricted herself to the very expensive ‘cancer diet’ in a bid to prolong her life as much as possible.  Determined to starve the tumour of the sugar it craves, Mandy ekes out her meagre sickness benefit to pay for the ‘superfoods’ and supplements known to slow the growth of tumours – a regime that neither her doctors nor the NHS in general seem able to support, as anyone who has witnessed hospital mealtimes can attest.  Frequent hospital admissions for procedures only sap her precious energy. 

Above all, Mandy needs to live.  She cannot leave her son alone in the world.

Do you believe in happy endings?  Who amongst us is immune to the lure of the Hollywood narrative with a closure that satisfies our longing for balance and justice?  The bad are punished and the deserving rewarded.  Right?  Recently, Mandy found out about a treatment in Mexico that could keep her alive long enough to see her little boy grow up.  It’s not available here, of course.  All she has to do is raise £60,000*.   And get herself to Mexico…All we have to do, the people whose lives she’s touched or brushed by, is help her to get there.

Thank you for reading this.

Maggie Carroll

 *To find out more about Mandy, or make a contribution or help in any way, 

   follow the link: JustGiving

Almost a Punch-Up at the Pop-Up

Being the parents of a teenager has its advantages; Daughter keeps us in touch with life in London and we occasionally find ourselves in some very unusual situations……

D and I spent a Sunday evening squatting on low wooden benches under the A12 flyover in Hackney Wick, eating strawberries and popcorn.  It was Daughter’s idea and she somehow convinced Boyfriend’s Parents to leave the comfort of their suburban home in North West London and join us in what I have recently learned to call an Undercroft. Daughter’s Best Friend came too (the baker of birthday cake: see post no. 1). Boyfriend couldn’t make it; he had a previous arrangement with a hot computer game.

We were there to see ‘The Wizard of Oz’ in an outdoor pop - up cinema; one of many events planned as part of a six week programme entitled Folly for a Flyover. (Produced by Assemble CIC in conjunction with CREATE 2011 and The Barbican Art Gallery).

For once it wasn’t raining; in fact, it was so warm that I almost took my coat off, so as it was already the back end of July, we decided to risk walking along the canal without benefit of umbrella.  After abandoning the cars in Cadogan Terrace near Vicky Park, we joined the tow path via the access ramp that runs adjacent to that delightfully named pub, The Top of the Morning. We picked our way with care, because much of the tow path turned out to be under reconstruction in honour of the Olympics.  Indeed, we gazed in awe at the emerging embryo stadium as we passed respectfully by.  We moved unnoticed amongst the hoards of cyclists; caught between the equally unattractive options of either diving to the side into brambles, or throwing ourselves into the canal to avoid their wheels and handlebars as they weaved unnervingly swift and silent around us.  Later, we joined them again as they ducked deftly under the temporary structures erected expressly to prevent access to the public.

“I can hear a band!” Boyfriend’s Mum pointed in the general direction of distant music.  Sure enough.  A brass band was playing somewhere nearby.  We were not alone either; I could see many more groups of people like us popping up in all directions, climbing under and over fences and cordoned off bridges, all drawn by the distant strains of what sounded like the theme from ‘Star Wars’ which suddenly got a lot louder once we had scrambled up one grassy embankment, crossed a scary road and slithered down the other side to where hundreds of people had gathered to have a beer and a bagel, listen to music and watch Judy Garland do her stuff. It was delightful.

A friendly, freckly, red haired youth handed over our reserved tickets with a smile and suggested that we claim our seats ‘soonish’ as the show was a sell out and seats were not numbered.  There were six of us, so we decided to take his advice and spread our coats, blankets and picnic on an ideal bench where we could eat our ice creams, watch the band and enjoy the spectacle of canal barges and little row boats skimming the water as the sun slowly set behind a distant housing estate.  After frequent trips to the bar below, where the customers were now eight deep, we mellowed while we waited for ‘Showtime’ and watched the seats filling up around us with groups of excited young people, many of whom had dressed up for the occasion; I even saw a Toto look – alike.  Dog, that is.  ‘The Wizard of Oz’  was made in 1936 and I marveled at the staying power of this old classic.  Did all these ‘studenty’ types know the film, then?

Suddenly, a chill wind rose and the atmosphere changed.  Someone announced that the film would begin in five minutes time and that all the people occupying seats would have to vacate the ‘auditorium’ to have their tickets checked.  There was a sort of hesitant stampede, reluctant and urgent by turns, no one could quite believe what we had been asked to do and in such a hurry.  We had to abandon our belongings and pick our way down to the water’s edge where a young man was waiting to tear our tickets in half.  He looked cross.  It was Freckles.  As D and I shuffled towards him, there was an impatient surge of people pushing behind me and I fell over a low bench.  “You can just go to the back of the queue for pushing in like that!”  Said Freckles, and to show he meant business, he refused to look at my ticket or those of the rest of our party.  While others argued, I’m afraid I took advantage of the diversion and scarpered back to our seats, keeping a low profile, to hold the fort.  A group of young women who had been propping up the bar all evening were squatting on our coats and swearing blind that they had been there all the time.  Did they think I was gaga?  I felt the paper thin veneer of civilization peel away.  I was mad, and I wasn’t going to take it anymore.  My inner harridan, buried deep in my working class soul, rose up and sent them packing as they complained loudly to all who might listen that I was a bossy old woman.

(Har.ri.dan  | ’haridn |  noun  a bossy old woman ORIGIN late 17^th cent. (originally slang): perhaps from French haridelle ‘old horse’ )

Luckily, the others arrived in time to support me just as another group of young women tried to bully me out of the seat I had fought so hard to keep.  There were six of them and they wanted me to ‘shove up’ to accommodate them all.  As there was plenty of room further along I stood my ground, well, kept my bum firmly planted, actually.  “I’ve had this seat for an hour and a half and I’m not giving it up now!”  I heard myself hollering.  For once, D, whose middle class soul shrivels with embarrassment whenever I show my true nature, backed me up. One of them actually put her hands on my shoulders to make her point: she wanted my seat and she felt entitled to it.

I’ll save for another occasion my treatise on the unlooked for consequences of the ‘I’m special’ generation having reached their majority, because just then, the film started.  Dorothy sang and the audience, including my otherwise unsentimental Daughter, swayed in time to the music.  I was only slightly distracted by the constant stream of people who’d drunk too much beer running back and forth to the portaloo; its banging door echoing loudly somewhere out of vision:

“somewhere over the rainbow … “  (clang! clang!)

At the moment of transformation from sepia to full colour, there was a collective gasp as everyone, from baby boomers to digital natives, fell under the spell of a good yarn; united by Hollywood magic.  We sang along and clapped all the set pieces with enthusiasm.  As the Good Witch Gwenda – she of the pink net frock – reappeared at the end to show Dorothy the way home, the picture froze for a couple of frames and from then on the film was out of sync. Enchanting.

Later, we walked back along the canal in total darkness; no moon that night.  We pretended we were following the Yellow Brick Road and that the now rather ghostly looking Olympic structure, mirrored perfectly in the stillness of the Grand Union Canal, was the Emerald City.  We all agreed that it was probably the closest we were ever likely to get to the London Games.

Boyfriend’s Parents have now challenged us to come up with something else that they have never done before…..!

The hunt is on.

How to Survive Your Daughter's 18th Birthday Party

Our daughter just turned 18 and her dearest wish was to have a garden party in her own home.  We've never 'done' a party before.  This is the chronicle of angst leading up the big event.  I'm sure other parents of teenagers will recognise it.

This was a party of many phases.

First of all, there was The Fantasy Party; Daughter's desire to celebrate her birthday in a memorable way, bringing together the many disparate elements of her social life as guests in her own home at last.  After announcing her intentions on Facebook and generously inviting 50 people, she pictured to us, her astounded, hard pressed and poverty stricken parents, with many a sweep of her skinny arm, the dance floor (aka the Dining Room - just remove the dining table and install simultaneously piped music indoors and out, moody lighting and erect a dance pole); the BBQ Patio (just sweep away the bins, the plant pots and the cat and install benches, lighting, a bin full of iced beer, outdoor speakers, outdoor cinema projection - oh! and a new grill); the main Gathering Point, the 'Lawn' (just dump the trampoline, cover up the 5mx6m bare patch underneath that the cats have been using as a toilet for the last 6 years, spirit away the 3 rusting bikes, the rickety lawn mower, the roof rack, the two rotting sets of bicycle tyres (one 'Commuter' and one ' Off Road' ), decrepit garden tools and various other detritus and install more benches, parasols and fairy lights and, finally, the 'Chill Out Zone', aka 'The Bottom of the Garden' or 'The Land Beyond Hadrian's Wall', a magnificent, raised path structure that D spent several weeks constructing a couple of years ago (just dig up a 5mx6m area of waist high 'meadow', cover up the bare earth with err...something or other, and install large, waterproof beanbags, a fire pit, subdued lighting and a 'shisha' pipe.  Oh, and we'll need somewhere for people to leave their coats and bags and somewhere for them to sleep over....That was 2 months ago.

The next phase was Denial.  Yes, she was entitled to ask.  OK, we would attempt to get rid of the trampoline but this party was not happening, not a chance.  We would be delighted to clear up the bottom of the garden but no party, oh no; too many imponderables.  What if teenagers got 'squiffy' and trod on the woodruff that is planted densely either side of Hadrian's Wall? Or tumbled drunkenly into the canal and couldn't swim?  or contracted Lymes disease? Or became prey to the local drug dealers? Or texted all their friends and the guest list swelled to 150?  Or, as happened at a niece's party, someone shouted 'GUN!' and 150 drunken teenagers ran panic-stricken through the house smashing windows?  D went sullenly into his 'cave' (reference 'Men are from Mars Women are from Venus') to contemplate a ‘SOLUTION’ while I pratted about taking measurements, making lists and collecting jam jars from the neighbours and girls at work to make candle lanterns.  I scoured EBay for cheap and cheerful lighting solutions and discovered Sky Lanterns."Very pretty!" I thought, and bought 20.  After all, they had to come all the way from China.  I dreamily pictured the lanterns floating off from the bottom of the garden like so many butterflies, soaring romantically over the trees in Vicky Park and eventually fading into the distance....Daughter, meanwhile, happily began to compile her playlist on Spotify. 5 hours of dire pop music.  (Where did we go wrong?)

Then came Anger.  Several attempts to 'Sit down and talk about 'The Party' ended in walkouts and slammed doors.  Sometimes even Daughter got a little miffed as well.  After several frustrating encounters with the local 'Salt of the Earth' types (you know, Morons) who couldn't be bothered to actually read the description of the trampoline on offer FREE to anyone who would come along and dismantle it ('It's too big!'; 'We thought it would be round and have a net enclosure'; 'You didn't say how much do you want for it') The trampoline finally went to good home - 3 boys under 10.  I tentatively offered up to D items on EBay for consideration that might serve to solve some of the practical problems: coconut matting? A second hand marquee?  And got yelled at for my trouble.  We stared forlornly at the bare brown earth exposed by the trampoline's departure and tried to imagine teenaged girls - in heels - dancing on this

very spot...At this point a routine building inspection - we are privileged to live in a Housing Co - operative - revealed that the blown plaster on the dining room wall must have been caused by the fact that there was no lintel over the window.  No plaster on the walls in time for the party.   By chance (well, actually, a text from Daughter informing me that she had accessed my Paypal Account to buy a black, steel re-enforced corset and long black gloves) I discovered that this was to be a costume party, with prizes.  The 'Building Site Look' could inspire a theme, perhaps?  At this low point, eaten up with anxiety about the possibility of torrential rain on the Big Day and nowhere indoors fit for habitation, the family on both sides of the Atlantic unexpectedly came to the rescue.  Cash and cheques for Daughter's Big Birthday appeared simultaneously from North Wales and North America.  Daughter had worked 5 Sundays in May and earned a small fortune and she insisted on paying for food and drink.  She also paid for a new, bigger BBQ grill.....  D found someone who could lend a projector, fairy lights and ASTROTURF!  He also discovered a suitable furniture hire company and negotiated hard with them for beanbags, parasols, benches, fire pits etc.  There was no wriggling out of it.  Resistance was futile.   We began to check the weather forecast hourly. 

Acceptance.  The Party was inevitable.  We signed the furniture hire agreement, I drew up the final plans of the house and garden, made the final, definitive shopping lists, decorated the final jam jar with sweet wrappers and purchased paper plates.  We'd reached the point of no return.  Thursday.  The bark chippings arrived for the bottom of the garden and I helped D ferry them through the house.  Friday.  8:00am.  The lorry arrived.  A great boy rang the doorbell and, on enquiry, informed me that he had a load of garden furniture.  "Of course you have!"  I rejoindered and proceeded to guide him and his sidekick through the intricate, dog leg route to the back garden 

unscathed.  Then I went to work and left D to it.  Later that afternoon I found him fixing metal brackets on one of the benches, which was not so much Shabby Chic as Bloody Dangerous.  That evening, we visited a local cut - price outlet to buy beer & wine on the recommendation of a neighbour.  This is an establishment where the customers are so bright that they duck under the trolley barrier to gain access to the shop and act threatened when you say 'excuse me' as you pass them in the aisle.  After much frantic finger action on the Iphone's calculator function, we were relieved to discover that Waitrose's specials that weekend were actually cheaper and we left in a hurry before I lost the will to live.  Much later that evening we decided to put up Daughter's dance pole and discovered that it was just shy of the ceiling by 40mm.  She needed an extension.  David decided to play with the projector and discovered that he had forgotten to collect the necessary cables.  Later still he realised that he would need to get hold of another Airport Express to make the music work outdoors - oh and download some more software.

Saturday.  5:30 am found D and I staring miserably at the steady rain that had fallen relentlessly through the night.  We couldn't do anything until we'd put down the Astroturf.  We couldn't put down the Astroturf until it STOPPED RAINING.  Daughter went to Music School as usual and D went shopping for technology.  Boyfriend's mum rang to insist that we use their spare room that night and leave the kids to it.  I was very clear in my mind about this.  I wasn't leaving the house.  I was going to sit on the porch in a rocking chair with my shotgun across my knee, swigging from a jug of moonshine and knitting.  No gatecrashers, no drug dealers, no irate neighbours....!  I was particularly anxious about the neighbours, especially the 'Next Door But Ones' who haven't spoken to us for years over some long forgotten, imaginary slight and who have a very big, black dog.  On D's return we again attempted to set up Daughter's dance pole - nothing doing.  We couldn't make it safe enough. It might have worked just for Daughter to show off on but if some great hulking lad had decided to show everyone how it's done....it 

didn't bear thinking about.........!  pratting about with the dance pole had wasted a lot of time and we were behindhand with the food prep and the garden layout.  Around Midday it stopped raining finally and D and I ventured out to lay Astroturf.  EASY!  I highly recommend it as a solution for turning Soweto into The Savoy at a moment's notice.  Just be sure to have enough long garden staples to fix it down with or it becomes a trip hazard.  Every bench was triple handled back and forth - I couldn't straighten up my back for hours after - The parasols levelled up with shovels full of bark chippings and plant pots jauntily angled for maximum effect - even pots of chives and straggly strawberry plants pressed into service.  Candle lanterns primed, wicks trimmed, tapers at the ready.  Pea lights on, electrics tested, BBQ lit.  The first guests arrived, with Daughter, from Music School.  All boys (one of them wearing a dress and Doc marten's, I remember) they immediately fled upstairs on mass to watch Wimbledon.  So much for our room being out of bounds.  How would that ever have been enforceable, anyway?  Meanwhile, Daughter went into her room to change into her costume:  Vampire Slayer, of course.  The plan had been that a few, maybe a dozen guests, would arrive early, with Daughter, and be hungry.  All the rest wouldn't arrive till much later, squiffy and not interested in food at all except nibbles.  Scratch that.  By 7:00pm ALL the guests had arrived because they'd heard there would be a BBQ and they were all hungry.  D and I laboured to feed the spavined teenagers.  At one point I remember being accosted by an anxious youth in a home made devil outfit with horns that obscured his eyes.  "I like your costume."  I said, lamely.  "When will the chicken wings be ready?" he demanded, anxiously.  Later I realized that had been a boy I've known since a baby.  In desperation, D hurriedly prepared a whole roasting tray full of potato wedges, doused with garlic and olive oil and herbs.  He brought the offering forth and the teenagers fell to like harpies, picking it clean in seconds.  In response to 

the pitiful whining of vegetarian girls, it's always the girls, D broke open a couple of blocks of Halloumi cheese and prepared it for roasting.  Soon gone.  The sausages and home made burgers melted away and then we remembered we'd forgotten the popcorn.  Oh, and the Birthday Cake....  

Now, it just so happened that several months previously, Daughter had applied for her own Co-op membership.  Normally, an applicant would simply attend the next general meeting but for some reason this didn't happen and Daughter ended up making her speech to the committee about how co-operatively minded she is dressed in a black corset and killer boots; suspender belt over black hot pants and black stockings with dragons printed down the side, a cute little dagger tucked into a stocking top.  Oh, and black lipstick.  That was at 7:30 and we were left to minister unto her guests without her for about 40 minutes, which was nerve wracking.  We felt like Gate - Crashers.  Come to think of it, I've had no feedback yet from anyone on the committee regarding Daughter's startling appearance...  The corset didn't last long anyway; too uncomfortable.  During her absence, Daughter's best friend appeared at the door carrying a cake she herself had made as a surprise.  Best Friend calmly iced and decorated it, only miss - spelling one word:  'Happy Bitday' it said.  Later, when it was getting dark and the pea lights were twinkling, everyone gathered at the bottom of the garden by the canal to sing 'Happy Birthday', Daughter blew out the candles, making a wish in time - honoured tradition, and everyone had a morsel of quite the lightest and most delicious cake ever made by one friend for another.  I watched from a demure distance; there was no standing room left down that end of the garden anyway and I wanted to absorb the atmosphere unobserved.  Well all right I was being a voyeur.  Boyfriend, unfortunately, had my camera in his pocket and was too involved in singing raucously to think of taking pictures.  If any pictures do emerge from a different 

source I'll be sure to include them another time.  After the cake ceremony, I was followed into the kitchen by a Maharajah smoking a pipe.  "Can we do the sky lanterns now?" he asked.  Well, why not?  It seemed the perfect moment, although I murmured a little about the slight wind that was picking up.  "Don't worry!" He said cheerily, "I've done this before."  Maharajah and Boyfriend expertly assembled the sky lantern.  You can imagine my concern when, unfolded, it turned out to be about a metre high.  Before I could say anything the fuel cell was lit, the lantern - resembling not so much a butterfly as a furnace - needed two strong men to hold it down while it inflated with hot air.  Just as Maharajah and Boyfriend let it go I took in the fact that no one was smiling.  The lantern took off like a rocket, darted sideways past next door's garden wall and promptly disappeared into Next Door But Ones.  I flashed forward mentally to next morning's newspaper headlines: "Big Black Dog Incinerated in his Own Back Garden by Sadistic Neighbours!"  Just then, the Flying Furnace suddenly reappeared above the wall, hovered menacingly for a bit, and then just shot skywards and was gone in seconds.  I confiscated the rest. 


   Around midnight, Daughter presented a bottle of Champagne to the fearless youth who had travelled from North West London by tube and walked boldly through the mean streets of Bethnal Green in broad daylight dressed in lime green tights and a lime green tee - shirt festooned with green balloons.  A bunch of grapes, since you ask. 

D and I made our escape to bed around 1:am.  There was no escaping Daughter's appalling taste in music though but we slept through it, absolutely exhausted.  At some point in the night I was aware of Daughter coming to rummage for blankets and I wasn't surprised to find a few bodies on the floor next morning.  Some of the girls had kindly cleared up the mess for us at first light, and put together a property bag: two cap guns, a rather nice lighter, a beard, a pair of devil's horns, an army cap, a Paul Smith glasses case and 20p!  D made pancakes.  Daughter appeared and announced proudly, “Nothing got broken!"  Bye bye, everyone.  Bye bye!

Still cleaning up...