Blackpool again

I understand your curiosity. I asked the same question to my best friend Laura. I’m sure you all remember her. I visited her once a week without fail.  She had the same problems as me and she chose to stay at home. Nurses visited round the clock, and they gave her morphine and other stuff. There was no pain towards the end; she simply went into a coma overnight. I was at her bedside when she slipped away. I was sitting in a chair holding her hand. The thing is, I was napping, only for a few minutes. But when I woke up, she had gone. I put her hand on her tummy, called the nurses, and they were there in minutes.

They nicely asked me to leave the room and suggested I go downstairs and make a coffee while they do whatever it is they do. When I went back upstairs about 20 minutes later, they had fluffed up her pillows, combed her hair, and put the sheets neatly across her chest. She looked peaceful. She didn’t have many friends. I put an advert in the births and deaths column of the local paper later that week. Only a handful of people attended the crematorium – we could have all fit in one car. Makes Henry’s coop idea sound more and more inviting. Don’t you think?

Me, well I have the same illness as Laura, and they say I’ve around 3 months to live. They will be more accurate in November after all the blood tests. My skin is already going a bit jaundiced and my eyesight is deteriorating. I’m not saying this will happen to the rest of you, but this is happening to me as we speak. My memory is fading already. I was married for over 50 years to the same man and only yesterday it took me over 20 minutes to remember his name. So if I give you all blank stares now and then, and call you love or honey or babes even, it’s because the old grey cells are disappearing, and I can’t recall your name.

Please be patient with me, and if you are asking about any pain I may have, well it’s just the usual arthritis and stiff joints at this stage. The doctor has given me some tablets to take should I feel the need to. I can’t tell you what they are, as it’s such a long name to remember. It sounds daft, but I want to feel the sand in my toes once more. I want one last paddle. I want to feel the wind rushing through my hair on one of those fast rides at Pleasure Beach. I want to smell fried onions and candy floss. I want to be held close to a tall dark-haired handsome man, smell his aftershave, look into his big blue eyes, and be held and kissed one last time…

Oops, sorry guys, I was a bit over the top there but just telling you how I feel at this very moment. November, it will be different again, Anybody got a tissue? // Mary is handed a tissue // As for departing, I’ve been paid up at Robinson’s funeral parlour for over eight or nine years now. It’s all organised and paid for; even my wake. You are all invited. They tell me they will have a room booked at the Royal Hotel, a free bar for three hours, and a slap-up buffet.

Like Doris said, we have spoken about this years ago. But just to remind you again, I was a butcher for many years. I ended up buying my old boss out. He made me a very good price for the business. I loved my job. I won lots of awards for my sausages and pork pies. The secret there for me wasn’t the pork but the seasoning. Took me years to get that right. The spices came direct from Thailand. I discovered them on holiday with my late wife. We had a sausage sandwich in this cafe, and it tasted out of this world. No need for ketchup or brown sauce.

I traced the butcher to a little shack down an unswept dirty street in Bangkok. He was a real nice guy. He supplied lots of street vendors. His secret was using fairly unknown spices – most of which he grew in his backyard. But it was the blending of those spices. Where I would use lots of chili, he would use a minute amount. One of his secrets was to toast spice leaves before grinding them. He would make a small smoking oven using cherry wood shavings, smoke juniper berries, and nearly ripe coffee beans, before grinding them. The smell was something else, it was well subtly sweet, pungent, aromatic.

I bought all his stock that night. We agreed on a price to send me a one-pound packet every month, which he did for years. He gave me instructions on how much to use in my sausages and pies and people couldn’t get enough of the product. I supplied the big hotels in town. People would bulk buy my sausages. The word got around and I was invited to make them in a competition and got first prize for six years on the trot.

Well my last job was quite simple really. I worked in a garden centre. I did everything from manning the tills and pouring coffee out in the caféteria, to planting seedlings, making up bouquets, and delivering wreaths. You name it, I did it. Never got bored, of clocking in at 7.30am and clocking out at 5pm – and 8pm on Thursdays. We worked outside in all weathers. Maybe that’s where I got all the aches and pains from.

The café was the place I liked the best. I loved talking to the customers as I collected their trays. The bosses never stopped me talking to the customers because those people I spoke to came in every week and chatted to me. They would sit at the tables near the wall because they were the tables I had to look after. I knew all their names, their grandchildren’s names, and even their pet’s names. They would bring me presents from their holidays and Christmas. Wow, I got over £300 in tips. I loved that job, but arthritis and other aches and pains meant I had to give it up.

The owner of the garden centre had a surprise party for me. All the staff chipped in and bought me a gold watch with the words, “Thanks for all you have done. We will miss you”, inscribed on the back. This is the watch // shows the gang // and what made me burst into tears was that most of my customers walked through that door clapping to the tune ‘You’ll never walk alone’. I just cracked up, floods of tears. They presented me with a box of watercolour paints, brushes, drawing pads, and an easel because they knew I loved to paint. I too have never been back to the garden centre because of the memories. Plus, I know if I go anywhere near the café, I would be collecting plates and wiping down tables just out of habit. I do bump into some of my customers now and then, but with the passing of the years, we can just about remember each other. I’ve forgotten their kids’ names and I’ve forgotten their names to be honest, but it’s nice to be remembered. Your turn George.

Remember when you were on your flights to Spain and Portugal, and you went to the loo? For example, you walked 20 yards or so holding onto the aisle seats as you walked, and when you got back to your seat you fell into it and had to catch your breath. Well, imagine walking up and down those aisles for two or three hours without a break. It played havoc with my knees, and my thighs were stiff as a board trying to keep my balance. Then there’s the arrogant long-haul customers. “Get me this, get me that.” They treated us girls like dirt. Who the hell did they think they were? We would put laxatives in their drinks when they were not looking.

As for sightseeing, we were too tired to go looking at all those famous places. Four times I went to Sydney – only managed Bondi beach once for about an hour. I was too tired. I was glad of the London to Edinburgh flights. At least I got three hours to wander around a fantastic city, and I was home every night. I always remember a pilot on the short hall talking on the plane’s tannoy, asking if anyone was afraid of flying. About three or four hands genuinely went up and he said, “Hh good, not just me then.” That’s the sort of memories I have. I believe it’s your turn Henry and make it quick. I’m getting a bit tired.

As some of you know, I was a buyer for one of the high street shops. I would go all over the world looking for the next big fashionable item. I would buy jeans from America for £5 a pair. The big shops would sell them at between £90 and £120 a pair. I came back once with a dress designed by a famous name. I don’t want to tell you who it was. They, in turn, sold it to someone for £25,000 and people queued up to buy it.

Sometimes I was on the floor selling party frocks and high-end evening wear. My biggest pet hate was serving politicians’ wives. They all thought they were something special. They would buy the dearest gown we had on stock, some costing up to £,3000, which was a lot in those days. The thing that really got me was they would come back into the store a few days later and say something like, “It wasn’t right”, or “It was too tight.” What they did was wear it at a dance or function then bring it back, and ask for their money back. Ninety-nine percent of the time, the management refunded their money… And if you don’t mind boys and girls I am very tired. I’m off to bed. Big day tomorrow.