A privilege to be one of The London Library's Emerging Writers for 22/23 - working on an intersectional biography of the British landscape. Can't wait to hit the stacks & meet some amazing folk. Catch my blogs about the research experience writing this new rural
@dialectwriters
Congratulations to our newest cohort of Emerging Writers who have won a place on the 2022/23 programme. Out of 950 submissions, 40 outstanding applicants were carefully selected across a diversity of discipline and genre.
You can get to know them here:
It was six years ago, and my mate, Pink, had just been told he was going to die. He accepted the news with a grace I can only marvel at, but he said he’d a list of things he’d still like to do.
We sat in a pub one night and read it over. Eight things? Four months? Ok. Deal.
🧵
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Tube on strike, I dawdled to Paddington on Friday. Passing the old wrought iron sign for Pizza Express, I was reminded of an event 30+ years ago, when I got caught up in a drama that resulted in a divorce, two marriages and many changed lives.
It began with a heart attack 🧵
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A while later, there’s a black edged card in the mail. Tom’s heart finally did for him.
Tim says, we got almost 30 years, because you learned CPR on a first aid at work course, that your boss made you do.
Thanks, El, he writes, for saving all our lives.
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Tess had put the shoes on his coffin. Pink was sure you’d met Wayland himself that night, & that they meant he & the horse would come, to take him home, when the time came.
Pink had died holding them. 1 for each of us.
I thought of him, then. A man with a plan. To say goodbye.
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I’ve been emailing a friend every week for the last 4 years. She stopped replying 3 years ago. But my emails never bounced, so I kept emailing. She’s just replied. Long story short, sometimes, it is worth keeping a connection open, because who knows what’s on the other side.
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A few weeks later, Pink’s wife, Tess, phoned. And even though I knew it was coming, I still wept.
His funeral was full of people who laughed as they cried. Angry tears and sorrow, all mixed together. For us, as well as Pink.
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Roll it forwards another few years, when equal marriage comes in, and there’s another invite on my mantelpiece. Tim and Tom.
It’s a glorious day. I wear the same hat, but I’ve got new shoes. Biff and Sheila fund the drinks and flowers. A gay men’s chorus turn up and sing.
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One for each of us. Pink said. Grinning.
On the way to the car I found someone had covered a ‘strictly no camping’ sign with a bin bag. I glared, but Pink swore it wasn’t him.
Back at the car, he produced a spark plug. Ahh, he said, patting the bonnet. This one was me.
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The wedding is fancy & I buy a new hat (dark blue velvet, thanks for asking). It matches my best shoes. Tim & Tom give Sheila away & pay for the champagne & flowers! So, that’s a better surprise than the last one they gave her. Biff says, hey the best man finally got the bride.
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Six weeks in & we stayed overnight in a museum. Don’t ask which one, we pinky (get it?) swore we’d never tell. Not one I used to work in & no artefacts were harmed.
We went for a rainy illegal walk, Pink mooned the CCTV.
We went to a nice collection and had a nice tea.
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In the morning the stranger had gone, with his big pack. He’d left us each a gift, wrapped in a burdock leaf, done up with a bit of string. Mine was a hook made of bone, Tony had a skail knife made of flint, Jan had a scarf made of nettle yarn. Pink had four tiny iron horseshoes.
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More years pass. The hankie is getting tattered, so I stick it in a clip frame on the wall. Occasional postcards still turn up. Then there’s a lull.
I still think of them though, when I walk past that wrought iron sign. Once or twice a year. Or if someone asks about the frame.
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It was one of those nights you talk about, any time you meet. Singing. Stories. Long periods of silence, staring at the stars. Pink told the guy about his list, the guy told Pink a story about finding yourself.
He lost the thread. We did too. It didn’t matter. Sometimes you do.
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Don’t get me wrong, he’d been pissed when he found out. Routine check up. Bit of a cough. Shadow on an X-ray. Bad. His wife had just had an all clear and it seemed particularly cruel.
He told us when we were on a dig, heads in a trench, bums in the air. Dignified? Not.
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Most of his list was easy - just things he’d never got round to - steer a boat on the Thames, visit a particular collection, see a fancy show - a few seemed harder - publish an essay, trespass, do a gig - and 2 seemed impossible - rough camp at a longbarrow, hide out in a museum.
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We saw a show and ate too much ice cream during the interval.
Jan’s printer mate did a fancy chap-book of Pink’s whacky landscape theory.
Tony’s brother-in-law owned a pub & was willing to let Pink sing.
We went on the Thames on a narrow boat and Pink lost his lunch.
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Roll it forward a year. Apart from a Christmas card, a bunch of birthday flowers & a postcard to my pa (idk, it’s a thing) it’s gone quiet. I think no more it except when I walk down the Marylebone Road or blow my nose.
Then a wedding invite turns up on the mat. Sheila & Biff.
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What do you do when your friend says one thing, his wife says another, and you can hear death knocking at the outside door?
I dunno about you.
We went to Wayland’s Smithy.
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It was a single voice, singing a folk song, full of mighty deeds & beer (they’re always full of mighty deeds & beer, or dragons & beer) & eventually, its owner arrived at the site. Big bloke, big voice, big pack he dropped beside us. He was thrilled to see us. Or maybe the grub.
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At that point he’d had a few weeks to get used to the news. And what he wanted to do. Never mind us wailing & gnashing our teeth. (Yeah, yeah. Very dramatic. Over it? Good.)
He had a plan. A great plan.
Mind that bit of pot & that jawbone. He said. I’ll tell you, over a pint.
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We split the list four ways - Pink would sort two, the easy ones, duh, he said. With a snort. Jan would do two. I’d a museum pal I thought I could bribe and a boating pal in a basin on the Thames, and Tony, with a frown, took what was left and promised he’d drive.
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It was just the 4 of us, eating Tony’s bacon & eggs, feeding cardboard & bits of punk & debris into the rocket stove to keep us warm. We drank more tea & shared a packet of biscuits. (Chocolate hobnobs. The best of the best.) In the quiet dark Pink said he could hear singing.
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Maybe tell him, I say. Maybe. Tim replies. Neither of us checking in on what exactly that means.
Three weeks later there’s a hankie in the post. Washed and pressed. A little note inside.
He’s ok. I told him. We’ll see. Xx T.
Alright, I think. We’ll see.
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The last few days I’ve been woken by murmuring voices. At first I thought it was because we’d opened the windows just a crack and there were sounds coming in off the street. The conversations were always brief, sometimes just a few words, before they were cut off. Interrupted.
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Tony and I did a spot of reconnaissance and schlepped between different sites in Wiltshire and Berks. Private land. Private land. Ancient monument. Shit. Pink’s wife phoned. Maybe just an afternoon trip, pals? I think a night might be too much. Pink though? Such a stubborn git.
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So. Tim has told Tom he loves him. Tom has told Sheila he might love Tim (sorry and all), Sheila has cried at anyone who’ll listen. And now Biff has written to me. He loves Sheila, do I think he should say? I ask him if there’s a reason why he shouldn’t. I wait. And wait.
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We’d all been there plenty of times before. And walked the Ridgeway, & argued about the White Horse, cut in the hill. And discussed why hill forts are called hill forts at all.
It was a good afternoon. We ate our sandwiches, drank a huge flask of tea. Walked back to the car.
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Not surprisingly, given the location, one of the stories was about Wayland and the horse he’d shod to take him across the sky. Did we know that version? The stranger asked. Yes, No, Maybe, we chorused, tell us anyway!
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There was a bit of tarp in the car, plus a couple of picnic blankets & the portable wood stove Jan’s dad had just fixed for me. (There’d been a small accident on a field trip, best not to ask.) Tony had got half the weekly shop in the boot - it was just meant to be a quick trip.
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Tim & I are left at the side of the road. The looky loos disperse, & I ask Tim if he wants me to come to the hospital. Better not, he says, they’ll call his wife. Tim isn’t the lover I thought him to be, he’s Tom’s assistant at a fancy merchant bank. Oh. I say. Yes. He replies.
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We swop addresses, me because I want to know if Tom makes it, Tim because he’s been snotting up my best cloth hankie which I’d forgotten I’d given him, and he’d like to return it. We pause then. On the corner of the street, at all kinds of crossroads.
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Back at Wayland’s Smithy we set up camp in the corner, far away from the stones. The sun slowly sank, the blue sky faded to dusk & then dark, the temperature cooled.
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It feels like 6 years, but only 10 minutes later a paramedic nudges me aside. Good job. He says. I struggle to my feet. Tim and I cling to each other as we wait to see what’s coming. Tom’s loaded into the back, and Good Job Jeff tells us which hospital they’ll go to.
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She got my address from Biff, who got it from Tom, who got it from Tim. Who, if you remember, got it from me. Wait. You say. Who the hell is Biff? He was best man at Sheila and Tom’s wedding. Back in the day. I find this out three weeks later after a flurry of post goes each way.
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Like Friday, I was ambling along the Marylebone Rd.
Coming towards me are two guys, one a bit older than the other, nicely dressed, laughing, backs of their hands brushing occasionally, as they walked side by side. It’s 1pm & I assume they’ve just had lunch or are on their way.
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The older man stops in the middle of the pavement & clutches his upper arm. And drops to the ground. The other guy shrieks, I might do too. I’ve just done a first aid course. I throw my jacket on the ground, kneel down, fish out the mouth guard thing we’d been given & start cpr.
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I keep going with heart attack guy (his name’s Tom, btw). His friend, (Tim) wails at our side. In this distance I think I can hear sirens, but it might just be my own heart beating faster than is ideal. Bystanders comfort Tim, someone definitely calls an ambulance.
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the one with a small back-up solar panel. It’s a heavy thing, robust, from when I worked in disaster relief. When I lifted it up I found it was switched on. Ready. Waiting. To use that brief burst of energy to create a little mayhem in my day.
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P.S. You'll have maybe gathered I'm the kind to reply! And keep talking. This is partly a ND thing, partly maybe a trying to be a connecting human thing. A lot more folk than I expected have read this & I'm taking my lovely pa out soon, I'm sorry if I don't reply.
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Today’s is - tell a twitter story - hmm, ok, when I’ve had a spot of tea, I’ll tell you about my mate, Pink and how we met a god the night we accidentally camped at Wayland’s Smithy.
Electra Rhodes - writes a bit/archaeologises a bit
On January first last year, I wrote down 365 nice things to do, on little slips of paper, put them in an envelope and sealed it. Today, I opened the envelope, put all the slips into a jar and pulled one out (eat a piece of fruit). I aim to do one every day, for the whole year. 💖
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When my mum was diagnosed with cancer & told it was terminal the doctor asked her 3 questions - what matters to you most in the time you've left? Is no pain more important than being constantly alert? What efforts do you want us to make to keep you alive, just to keep you alive?
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Me: can you say that again, I’m a bit deaf
Person at border control: I’m really sorry. You don’t look deaf?
Me: oh I know, it’s cos I’ve got my human being disguise on today
Pause
Person at border control: god how rude am I, can we try that again?
Me: 100% - let’s do it!
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Back when I was 10, I threw a message in a bottle over the side of a ferry on the way to France. Seven years later, someone found the bottle on a beach in Norway & wrote back to me. H & I have been friends ever since.
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On January first last year, I wrote down 365 nice things to do, on little slips of paper, put them in an envelope and sealed it. Today, I opened the envelope, put all the slips into a jar and pulled one out (eat a piece of fruit). I aim to do one every day, for the whole year. 💖
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Papa: You made a speech
Me: I did
Papa: About what a model father should be?
Me: It was about you, Papa
Papa: Me?
Me: Yes
Papa: But you said wonderful things!
Me: Because you are
Papa: you really think so?
Pause
Papa: that's the best birthday present ever
#96NotOut
! 🎂
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Dear friends, my lovely Papa died this morning. Thank you for everything you've shared with him over the last few years. You made his heart sing. He'd want me to share his last words with you - and it was 'I love you, goodbye.'
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A Ghost Story
We lived in the corner of a castle a few years ago. The rent was good, the views were amazing & apart from the chill through the windows & the ring on the cooker that fused the lights, everything went smoothly.
I don’t believe in ghosts. But I liked them too.
🧵
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Today’s is - clean your glasses - I am rubbish at remembering! You know, proper clean, with a cloth and a spray wotsit. Alright. I’ll do that.
(If you’ve recently arrived here, cos of my friend Pink, 👋🏼, most of my tweets concern bins, writing, archaeology & my very elderly pa.)
Electra Rhodes - writes a bit/archaeologises a bit
On January first last year, I wrote down 365 nice things to do, on little slips of paper, put them in an envelope and sealed it. Today, I opened the envelope, put all the slips into a jar and pulled one out (eat a piece of fruit). I aim to do one every day, for the whole year. 💖
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traffic of the usual mid week it was still, the quiet broken only by the liquid song of a blackbird outside. The light poured through the window. And, for the first time, I realised the sun must have hit the radio on the bookcase at the turn of the stairs. The wind up radio,
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It was six years ago, and my mate, Pink, had just been told he was going to die. He accepted the news with a grace I can only marvel at, but he said he’d a list of things he’d still like to do.
We sat in a pub one night and read it over. Eight things? Four months? Ok. Deal.
🧵
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🥳 The happiest of birthdays to my beloved Papa.🥳 95 today!! 🥳Thank you to everyone who has sent greetings and love, he waves very cheerily in reply. 🥳 (That’s tea in that mug. Honest.) 🥳
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I had some great writing things happen in '23 - thanks to everyone who broadcast/published/suported my work. But, my main achievement? Today, Pa got out of bed, got dressed & ate something other than complan for the first time in a week. Whatever time we get?
#HappyNewYear
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Pa: it's a bit odd
Me: I know Papa
Pa: I thought I was dying earlier on
Me: I did too
Pa: comes & goes, this dying thing
Me: it does, but we're with you, 'til the end
Pa: not the last bit tho, through the last door
Pause
Pa: you can stay behind, I'll find my own way
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We held the first of several living funerals for papa today - a bunch of his friends came round, there was cake and coffee and good cheer. He had an excellent time as people laughed, recited silly poems, and told increasingly daft stories. Good times are still to be had. Even now
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It's 4:30am. A second doctor has visited to help make papa more comfortable (he is). This might be the most tired I've ever been. A few minutes ago, Papa said, thank you for the love. So, you know, Christmas has been pretty good.
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Back in 1998, I wrote to Colin Dexter, the author of the Inspector Morse books. It was rumoured he was writing the last book in the series & that in it, he would reveal the detective's first name. My mum had been a fan since the first book. But she'd only a month to live.
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Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.
My grandad, born in 1898, was none of these.
But what he was, was a walker.
🧵
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Shout out to the folk in replies saved by CPR, the folk who tried, and anyone who’ll now go on that first aid course
For anyone wondering - it’s all true
For those hoping for a reply- I’m so sorry, my mentions are a soggy mess
For the friend who found me, after 35 years? 💞😭
Electra Rhodes - writes a bit/archaeologises a bit
Tube on strike, I dawdled to Paddington on Friday. Passing the old wrought iron sign for Pizza Express, I was reminded of an event 30+ years ago, when I got caught up in a drama that resulted in a divorce, two marriages and many changed lives.
It began with a heart attack 🧵
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Yesterday I was woken a little earlier. There was a brief flash of laughter. Glittering. It stopped though, as suddenly as it began. I waited. But it was quiet. When I got up I looked out of the window nearest the road. It was empty. Not surprising in this time of quarantine.
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This morning I was awake before anyone could hasten me from sleep, and I lay in bed, waiting. It was a burst of music. Something military. With brass. Bright. And then silent again. I got up. And though I felt hesitant on the stairs I followed them down. Without the distant
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Death: Alright, Owen?
Papa: No more last words?
Death: Not this time
Papa: Go on, let me leave just one for people to find now and again?
Death: fair enough, you've had time to think of it. Make it a good one
Papa: Thanks. It's the best one I know...
Pause
Papa: Love
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Lovely folk, some of you keep a keen eye on news of my pa. He's experiencing end stage heart failure. There's a certain irony in this, considering all the ways in which he is so stout of heart. He reminds me he aten't dead yet but thinks it'll be soon & sends love & thanks to you
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Lovely Mavis died this afternoon. At an earlier point in her life she kept bees. If you see one, let them know she's gone. Just in case they were pals, you know, once upon a time. 🐝
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My friend Mavis's life is drawing to a close tonight. She lives in the room opposite Pa & has been a lively presence in our lives. Her son, Ade is about my age & is a star. We talked about what it will be like for him when she dies. Quiet. He said. Dead quiet.
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This year I’ve read or judged six competitions and read hundreds of pieces. I said I’d do a thread of things to pay attention to before submitting. So. Yeah. Here’s an awfully opinionated 🧵 written hot, posted cool.
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Tell your favourite writers you love their work. Even if you imagine that everyone does, or you’re only one tiny voice in a tide of delight. Be part of that inundation. Be the flood and the immersion. Those words and that writer. Let them know, while you can.
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I think he might be a little bit right. I think about his journey all the time, but, truth be told, I think it's been too focussed on the inevitable destination. What I realise matters now is travelling with him, because *how* matters just as much as where we eventually arrive.
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Pa: what's this?
Me: a present
Pa: *sounds of tissue paper being rapidly unwrapped & discarded* what is it? Is it a blanket?
Me: it is
Pa: did you knit this? How many stitches?
Me: 72200
Pa: 72200?
Long pause (might have fallen asleep)
Pa: that's a lot of love
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Nurse: off the list now
Papa: not dying then?
Nurse: well
Papa: dying more slowly?
Nurse: you're doing much better than expected
Papa: surprised?
Nurse: honestly? I'm astounded
Papa: Me too. I was all ready
Pause
Papa: now I've got to worry about what I want for my 96th
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I sit in Papa's room with the lights off. He's asleep, his breathing coming and going with long and short pauses in between. Through the window, I can see a Red Kite soaring higher, making the most of an updraft. Calling. Papa murmurs in his sleep. In the tree, a blackbird sings.
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Today's
#SmallJoy365
- learn a new recipe - when I was a kid, my foster brothers' bio mum gave me a recipe for lentil dhal. 20 years later, I was coming to the end of a long-distance path & waiting for a bus that didn't arrive. I got talking with the other folk standing with me.
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The palliative care team is due tomorrow to assess what comes next. All Pa's end-of-life care meds came today. (Cos who knows if the pharmacy is open when they're needed.) I remind myself, daily, we are not just the darkness that we endure but the light that finds a way.
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Big thrill - it's taken a bunch of phone calls, forms, visits & assessments, but today we get an initial visit from a carer funded by the NHS, who will visit Pa twice a day, & sit with him overnight. It's the care that will make it possible for him to die at home. Fucking result!
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@JustStop_Oil
I’m part of your core demographic. Lots of people in the creative arts, conservation, and archaeology are. I contribute and campaign on food security, poverty and oil dependency. As a tactic? This is utterly alienating.
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Happy birthday to me, complete with birthday tree. Why be half-hearted about it when you can hit the fairy lights hard and celebrate with the whole of your heart. Thanks to everyone who has shared joy and delight over the last year, here's to another turn.
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It's his memorial mass tomorrow and his funeral next week - he always hoped for a good death - but for him, this was inextricably linked to living a good life. I think he did both. I'm so lucky - he taught me to celebrate every aspect of really living, right up until you die.
Astounding support from the NHS - palliative care team call, 111 call, out of hours GP call, out of hours doctor visit, district nurse visit still to come, all on Christmas day. All by kind, practical & compassionate people who were sweet to pa, & nice to Sam & me. Very grateful.
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25 years later, I'm still grateful for that clarity. Hard questions, for sure, but it meant that she could really think about what mattered to her. She chose no pain, she chose minimal intervention at the end, and she chose seeing friends & family even though it exhausted her.
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My grandad left when my Pa was 7. He left them utterly destitute, and it’s shadowed Pa’s life ever since. Last year, Pa asked me to find out what happened. It’s complex, but now that he knows Pa is at peace & has been able to enjoy father’s day for the first time in 88 years.
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#TheIneffableCon
a super thread of costumes!
And the Angel Aziraphale in the garden! Principality, guardian of the eastern gate. With an inflatable sword. Don’t at me.
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Me: so?
Papa: bit poorly
Me: what would you like?
Pa: a remember thing
Me: for your friends? So they say nice things?
Pa: Yes! Nice things
Pause
Pa: to me, rather than about me.
Before I die.
(If you'd like to leave a message for pa, please do, He's almost out of time.)
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Electra Rhodes - writes a bit/archaeologises a bit
We've made it as far as the clinical decisions unit. Currently waiting for a bunch of stuff. Someone, to whom I would like to give all my worldly possessions, has just brought me a sandwich & a cup of tea. Will papa make it through the night? Hard to say. Thanks for kind thoughts
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Electra Rhodes - writes a bit/archaeologises a bit
Yesterday, I had a queer love story broadcast on national radio, in the middle of the day. You might not feel that’s a big thing, but I was a teacher & worked in the voluntary sector under Section 28. I’d tell past me it got better, but that it will only stay that way if we fight
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Electra Rhodes - writes a bit/archaeologises a bit
Today, Papa is 95 and 10 months! Outstanding effort on his part. Will he get to 11 months? Will he even get to this afternoon? No idea. But, every minute is brilliant. Ten months. Amazing.
Electra Rhodes - writes a bit/archaeologises a bit
I had some great writing things happen in '23 - thanks to everyone who broadcast/published/suported my work. But, my main achievement? Today, Pa got out of bed, got dressed & ate something other than complan for the first time in a week. Whatever time we get?
#HappyNewYear
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Electra Rhodes - writes a bit/archaeologises a bit
So, I’m grateful to those people. And to my grandad, risking everything to remind us, that whatever our circumstances we should remember that under the sky we are all free.
And, when the time comes to remind others, to trespass if we must.
#Kinder91
#RightToRoam
#FreedomToRoam
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Electra Rhodes - writes a bit/archaeologises a bit
Papa: nice new medication
Me: helping?
Papa: not sure, but O says they're opiates
Me: they are, that OK?
Papa: probably not enough time to get thoroughly addicted?
Me: probably not
Papa: never mind, good enough
Pause
Papa: I always fancied going out as a proper bad boy
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Electra Rhodes - writes a bit/archaeologises a bit
Papa fell last night. The paramedics arrived & were competent, kind & caring. He's ok, & sleeping now. The main problem? Between him falling & them arriving? 13 hours. Not their fault. It's chronic underfunding & pressure on the service. 13 hours tho. Damn.
#NHSCrisis