Given many don’t have the luxury of a garden, or even a living room, we did what we were told last week, and stayed home the whole weekend*.
Saturday’s gardening activities included cutting trees back, clearing leaves, weeding and some ivy clearance (all his work).
Saturday’s lazy activities included lounging about on the grass, dicking around on our phones, dicking around on my laptop, and occasionally interacting with our child.
Tee hee hee etc.
Sunday was more relaxed but the husband did clear a load of ivy and mixed some postcrete to fix a corner of the rockery, very industrious. And even I got off my arse to saw logs and kindling for our new wood burner.
Rafe took his clothes off at some point, and we had a lovely picnic during his nap – sausages in a pitta with wholegrain mustard and mayonnaise. Yum!
* Tell a lie… I did pop out on Saturday to get a prescription for a friend who is in self isolation.
It is quite frustrating not having anything of real value to do at the moment, but every little thing helps the brain, and I do loathe not being useful.
Finally went through all our photos from the past two years to find some shots of us all together for framing. Ordered them through Photobox the other week and they are now all on display in some lovely gold frames from Homesense/TK Maxx
I rearranged the dining room so we have more space for play, as we don’t know when the living room carpet will arrive
We switched Rafe from his too small sleeping bag to a duvet with no trouble. One step closer to the big boy bed!
Went for a walk to Shrewsbury Park for the first time, such a lovely spot! And the child walked 0.8 of a mile too!
Another walk through Oxleas Woods, this time down to the secret pond by the Rochester Way / Welling Way junction. The ducks in the pond chased each other about which was a big hit. This time he managed 1.2 miles all the way down the hill and back again to home!
My brain feels like a yo-yo at the moment, constantly up and down. I seem to flit between content and calm, and listless and down – on a day to day basis at times. Sigh.
I look forward to the daily nap, hope it lasts 2 hours instead of the average 1 and a bit, and then fanny about for most of it. On Thursday, he’d been asleep for 1 hour, 25 minutes and I managed a grand total of 15 minutes focusing on this blog. There is always something else to do that I always prioritise first – let alone actually being inspired to write. Hence no blogs for 9 months!
Weekends are better as the husband isn’t working – I can run away from him and the child at regular intervals. Which is good and bad because I don’t have anyone else to be with, or anywhere I can really go, so then I want to run back to them. Ngggh.
Two weeks ago I lost my part-time job, my son’s nursery closed, and the husband started WFH full-time. It is quite a big adjustment after working for six months.
Since I wrote the above on Thursday, I’ve been feeling a lot better and haven’t had a low day since Wednesday. Hurrah!
Given this, I’ve decided to set myself the goal of writing a diary post each day. Hopefully the structure of the task, and it’s informal nature, will help keep me more glass half full than glass half empty…
I’ve been accepted as a Huffington Post blogger, oooooooh! This is a free gig and there are about 11,000 contributors on the site, so it isn’t exactly The Guardian front page, but it is a start so yay!
My first post isn’t exactly a barrel of laughs, but it is the kind of writing I want to get published, and I want to explore a different writing style from this delightful blog.
So, have a read and give me some feedback if you like. 🙂
Some of you might be aware that my father died last November, aged 62. He had been suffering from colon problems and it was decided that an operation was the best course of action.
Unfortunately, after a successful operation, my father had a cardiac event whilst still in theatre. The event restricted the flow of oxygen to his brain, and because of this he was kept permanently sedated until the doctors thought it safe to gradually bring him round.
Sadly for the family, my father never regained consciousness. His behaviour also indicated a loss of higher brain function and if he was ever going to wake up, he would never be my Dad again.
Two weeks after the operation he passed away. As sad as we were, we were grateful he hadn’t been in that situation for too long, he would have hated it.
Twenty years after my mother died I decided to write a blog about her life. I’m not doing the same now, but I am sharing the eulogy I wrote for his funeral on the 6th of December.
I started planning the eulogy shortly after his death and it gradually evolved into a long ten minute speech, a length I’m sure he would have been proud of! I’m glad I wrote everything down, not only to share with you, but because reciting it was a nerving experience, and having the bit of paper to read off was quite stabilising.
I asked to talk first as I wanted to talk about Dad’s life in London and Northamptonshire, a life many of you might not know about. I also wanted to talk about my Mum as I was too young to have this kind of opportunity back in 1991, aged seven.
So, this is a bit of a story about two people who aren’t with us anymore, but who touched my life, and my family’s lives in many ways.
My mum, Rita Anne Westcott, was born in Greenwich at St Alfege’s hospital – as was my brother Andrew, three minutes walk from my current home with Sam – a fact I only discovered a few years ago when doing the Ruffle-Westcott family tree – but a fact I love and hold dear.
She was born thirteen days before my Dad on the 13th February 1951 and lived in Greenwich with her older sister Yvonne and her parents Bill and Joyce. They lived in a rented house at 9 Circus Street, Greenwich as Bill worked at Greenwich Power Station as an engineer.
A few years later they moved to Catford where my mum and Yvonne went to Rathfern Primary School and where the family settled until the 1970s.
In another part of south-east London, Beckenham – then part of Kent, my Dad was born nine days later on the 22nd February 1951. Like my mum and brother, my Dad and I were also born in the same hospital in Beckenham, but it no longer exists – also like the hospital in Greenwich – they were both closed in the early 2000’s.
My Dad’s parents were Philip Ruffle and Brenda Ward, they married in March 1950 and lived together until my Dad was five when they divorced in 1955. I don’t believe it was a very happy marriage but I do know my Nan loves my Dad to pieces and if I had known my grandfather, I’m sure he would have felt the same.
Philip and Brenda both re-married and had children with their new partners. Philip married Audrey York and moved to Canvey Island in Essex where he had two more children in the 1960s – Alison and Diane.
Brenda married Sidney Hawkes and had Jeanette in the late 1950s, and Dad remained with his mum and grew up in Penge with his step-dad and sister Jeanette.
I understand Dad didn’t see his father Philip very often, but I’ve heard stories of summers and weekends in Canvey, and my Dad always spoke fondly of his time there. Unfortunately, the older he got, the less he knew that part of the family.
For my part, I didn’t even realise that part of the family existed until we all got in touch a few short years ago. And I know he was sad that he missed knowing his other two sisters and that part of the family for many years.
As a number of the people here will know, my Grandad Ruffle died in 1978 when Dad was 27. I never knew him and neither did my brother or my cousins Rob, Emily, Raphael and Zachary. Alison and Diane would have been teenagers when he died as well.
I believe my Dad felt the loss greatly, but he spoke of his Dad often and was very proud of the children’s stories his Dad wrote and had published.
Back in 1962 or so, my Dad had passed his 11+ and went to Bromley Technical High School where he studied various art disciplines as part of his O level and A level studies. Here I’d like to read some information from paulruffle.com – an illuminating guide to my father’s life if you care to read more!
“Our art teacher was Owen Frampton (father of Peter Frampton). He had experience as a graphic designer and guided us through the various skills of drawing, painting, graphic design and typography, very similar to a foundation course at art college. He also taught us history of architecture for the written part of the A level art exam. Another teacher in the art department, Brian Eacersall, taught us furniture design in conjunction with our woodwork lessons. We also had a Polish art teacher called Mr Pilowski, who was as mad as a hatter. This was all quite unique for a group of boys aged 14-16 in the mid-sixties.
Mr Frampton’s aim (we called him Ossie) was for us all to leave the Art stream with an A level in art and a portfolio of decent work. He had contacts in ad agencies and art studios, and he would arrange job interviews for us, and that’s how I got my first job in 1967 with London art studio George Godman Ltd in Fareham Street (off Dean Street). The studio sent me to St Martins School of Art, but I learnt a lot more from Owen Frampton.”
This love of art and graphic design instilled itself in my Dad, and his creative brain took him to Soho and eventually to the bright lights of Kettering, Northamptonshire where I always thought of him as the “RCI time share company multi-language brochure man”. However, before I talk about then I’d like to talk about my parents before Andrew and I came along.
My parents met as teenagers in the 1960s and married aged nineteen in November 1970. I gather it was a wet rainy day as there are photos of my mum standing on a plastic sheet to protect her dress from the rain. They both met through the religion they followed, and they were both Jehovah’s Witnesses for a large portion of their lives.
I believe they might have married young because of their religion, but I also believe they were very happy together for the first part of their marriage and that their lives together in Catford brought them a lot happiness and perhaps a sense of order and control – something I believe you all know my father believes in!
I love looking at photos of them together in the early 1970s, they look amazing! And as someone who never really knew her mother or understood her parents separation when I was five, I look at these photos and think of a time when differences in religion, illness and sadness hadn’t permeated the lives of everyone in my extended family. I really look to this time as a happy one and it is important to me to know my parents were happy for a while.
Another piece of happiness for my parents was my brother Andrew, he was planned and looked forward to with such love and came into this world in June 1977, when The Sex Pistols, Kenny Rogers and Barbara Streisand were in the Top 10.
As I grew older I learnt my mum suffered from post-natal depression after my brother was born – how this was dealt with in the 1970s I don’t know, but my Dad said this was a very difficult time and he didn’t know what to do or how to fix the situation.
I came along as a suprise seven years later, or as “an accident” as Dad described to me gleefully a few years ago!
However, by this time, the mid-80s, my parents relationship wasn’t what it was. My Dad was questioning his faith and they were drifting apart. They separated in 1989 not long after we moved from Catford, London to a house near Stamford in Lincolnshire. We moved because of Dad’s employment with RCI and I expect the significant lifestyle change might have finally split them up. I don’t know for sure but by the time I was six it didn’t matter.
My mum got breast cancer. I get the impression she didn’t tell anyone for a while – I know my Dad didn’t know about it until very late in the game. After treatment she went into remission. But this remission was short-lived and the cancer came back spreading quickly to the liver and other organs in the autumn of 1991. By November the 11th she had died aged 40.
As Jehovah’s Witnesses my parents hadn’t divorced, so my Dad was a widower at 40 and had a seven year old and fourteen year old to look after at an awful time.
How I’ve felt about this time, is that my Dad was there, he looked after me, he loved me, and he was my Dad.
I’ve never felt like he didn’t do the best for me, or that he wasn’t there for me.
There were times he had to travel for work but we had family, we had my Nan Brenda and my Aunt Jeanette and they were the best surrogate parents I could ask for. I’ve never felt more loved or looked after by those two people and that has never changed even though we have wildly different outlooks and beliefs.
I’m so grateful to my family for looking after me and my brother, and for my Dad to have always been there for me, in person or at the end of the phone.
I can’t speak for how my brother felt at the time, he was older, he was a teenager, but we both love our Dad immensely and are so grateful to have had him in our lives.
After this horrible time my Dad found a lady called Diana and for a number of years they were happy and I had a really good friend to help me as I became a teenager and went through secondary school. My life felt really secure at that time and was in a very happy situation.
By the time Dad and Diana split up, and Dad had been made redundant by RCI – both in 2000, I was in 6th form and Dad and I became very close. I was old enough to be someone he could talk to, and we would spend hours and hours talking about how we felt and what work and school were like.
This was quite a lonely time for Dad but I look back on it fondly because I really felt I helped him deal with being single again – probably for the first time in his life since he met my mum.
One of my favourite memories from this time is from when I first went out late for an evening with my school friends. We were going to the local rock club to “dance” to the rock hits of the 2000’s and Dad decided to wait up for me before going to bed. He had asked me when I was coming home so I gave him a time. When I came home at that time, his response was to say, “I don’t need to worry about you now because I can trust you to come home when you say you will”. The memory of him waiting up to see if I was safely home has always made me smile and feel safe.
By 2002 Dad had finally finished his undergraduate degree in Physics. Started in 1989 through The Open University he had been building up the degree bit by bit for the last 12 years. This was also excellent timing because we were both able to sell the house and go to University the same year!
This was a brilliant time! I was so happy to leave Kettering – as Dad was! I went to Leeds, Dad went to Manchester and we spent four or five years studying happily either side of The Pennines. We would regularly cross the border to visit each other and our greatest bit of fun was going to the cinema together and both showing our Student IDs for discounted entry!
I was very proud to graduate in 2006 with my Dad watching, and to then see Dad graduate a few months later as a Doctor, a very silly Doctor but still one at that.
By this time Dad had met Rose through the perils of online dating. His fear was that she might be an “eco-warrior” was unfounded, thank goodness! And he managed to not bore her to death with his first date lecture on astrophysics – I apparently rang Dad during the date and this conversation thankfully showed another side to his character that didn’t make him seem like he was only interested in himself.
So, Rose took a risk and took on the astrophysicist, and even moved to the rural backwater of West Virginia with him when he took a job at the National Radio Astronomy Observatory after completing his PhD. They had a lovely time in The Riley House and it was great to go over and see Dad getting to fulfill his dreams even as an old fart. And standing on the main radio telescope was pretty cool too!
I’m really glad that Dad got a cool job in another part of the world after graduation, he was really proud of his PhD and his time in Green Bank. I think it made his gradual semi-retirement a happy one.
Most of you here will know Dad from his life at Owlers, a very happy life and home in a house that Rose and he built. Rose got her Aga, Dad got to re-wire everything and they even got sheep, six in all!
I’m very glad Dad has had such a happy life these past few years, and that he got to see me meet Sam and see us build a life together. They got on so well talking about programming, even though I was bored to tears most of the time it made me very happy to know they approved of each other.
I know Dad knows Sam will always look after me, and I’m glad we can both tell our children about their grandad Paul and nanny Rita.
I will miss him so dreadfully but like everyone here I will do my best to remember all his silly jokes, how loud he blew his nose, how much he loved me, and how he gave the best, greatest, biggest hugs ever.
Love you Dad.
Paul Michael Emile Ruffle, 22nd February 1951 – 21st November 2013
Twenty years ago today my mum Rita Anne Westcott died of “carcinoma of breast”, more commonly known as breast cancer. She was 40 and died on the 11th of November 1991 on my 7 1/2 birthday, when my brother Andrew was 14, and when my Dad was also 40.
As I understand it she became ill, received treatment and died all in a short space of time, not even a year perhaps. Due to my parents’ separation when I was five the details my dad has are sketchy and I don’t remember much anyway.
I have always described myself as not really having a mum as I remember so little about her and have so few memories of our time together. I did however have two nans, two step-grandads, two aunts, a great-aunt and uncle, a step-mother, two cousins, and my dad and brother so I think I did okay. I also have stories from my nanny Brenda of how she would tell my brother off too much and how she was excessively tidy so things like that help me build a bit of a picture of her life and ways.
As I have grown up I have realised quite how different my upbringing was to my boyfriend, my friends and my work colleagues, but that isn’t to say that I am any less or more than anyone else, just that I can see how my attitude and outlook on things have developed differently. I am quite independent, I have always been used to looking after myself, and until moving in with my Sam I don’t think I realised how much a relationship, living with someone and relying on them means to me.
But this isn’t about me really, this about my mum and marking her life in some small way. So many people live and die in such a short space of time, and if you don’t remember them, who will.
My mum is of Welsh and English descent and happened to be born in Greenwich not five minutes walk from where I live now. This is all co-incidental but makes me so happy. She was born on Tuesday the 13th of February 1951, nine days before my Dad, and her parents were William James Desmond Westcott and Joyce Gwendoline Bishop.
At Sydenham my mum became a prefect and moved up the ranks to become Head Girl from 1968 to 1969. I never knew this until I went through the papers my dad had saved for my brother and I two weekends ago. It made me so proud, my mum represented a whole school!
At eighteen my parents started dating, and then married in 1970 when they were both nineteen. My dad is from Penge but was born in Beckenham Maternity Hospital, as was I, and they met through the church they were both members of. They lived in a flat in Limes Grove in Lewisham at one point, before moving to Glenfarg Road in Catford a few years later. By the time I came along in 1984 we were still at Glenfarg Road but then moved out of London in 1989 due to my dad’s job.
Unfortunately for my brother and I, not long after we moved to Lincolnshire my parents separated and my dad moved half an hour’s drive away to Northamptonshire. Then not long after that I guess my mum became ill, had treatment and then came home again.
Then she got seriously ill and ended up getting admitted to The Royal Marsden Hospital in Chelsea through her London friends. Again, this is partly guesswork as my dad, brother and I weren’t overly involved at this point. My dad feels my mum kept it to herself as long as she could.
By this point, maybe September, I was sent to London to stay with friends from when I was little and I went to school with a boy who was the son of my mum’s friend. My dad was still working, and my brother was kept in school where we lived because he had just started his GCSEs. I think it was a bit messy, I just don’t really know.
I think it was quick though, I vaguely remember a call in the middle of the night on the 11th and have vague memories of the funeral and a party for the children afterwards. Like I said before, I don’t remember much and it is only now, twenty years later that my dad and I freely discuss this time.
I know from my mum’s death certificate that my aunt Yvonne was with her when she died and that makes me glad. I love my aunt and her children and grandchildren. None of us were particularly close to my nanny Joyce so I am so glad that she is in my life as a representation of that missing part of the family.
Family is very important to me, and whatever differences are in my family (and there are a lot!) I like to spend time with them whenever I can.
I miss my mum, but I didn’t know her at the same time so that is an odd thing. I have my dad though, I love him so much and I think he worked really hard to build a life for me and my brother the best he could.
Everyone grows up differently, I am just glad that my parents were happy together for a good twenty years at least. That is quite a long time.
I was at my dad’s recently and I went through all the papers and photos he kept from his time with my mum and these two photos are my favourites, what a gorgeous couple.
Rita Anne Ruffle (née Westcott), 13th February 1951 – 11th November 1991
So today was the day everyone found out that Steve Jobs had died. My boyfriend told me the news first thing this morning and I was immediately a little sad. Everyone knew he had been suffering from cancer but you always hope things will turn out for the best. Not in this case however, after fighting the disease for seven years he died at home with his family in California aged 56.
My dad, aged 60, has been talking about and using Apple products my whole life and I would say my brother and I are both Apple geeks because of this. I have listened to and participated in endless ‘Mac vs PC’ discussions and listened to my dad avidly discuss the history of Apple, Jobs and Steve Wozniak and their contribution to technological innovation.
Discussing Apple products has always been a common topic of interest for the three of us, and I have always loved our Apple bond. Apple will of course carry on to bigger and better things, and my dad, my brother and I will still continue to love and buy Apple. We just don’t have Jobs anymore.
I started reading his Stanford University commencement address on the train into work this morning and I started tearing up. I have seen the address quoted all over the Internet today but this is for a good reason, this is a superb address and a wonderful example of how to be:
“Remembering that I’ll be dead soon is the most important tool I’ve ever encountered to help me make the big choices in life. Because almost everything – all external expectations, all pride, all fear of embarrassment or failure – these things just fall away in the face of death, leaving only what is truly important. Remembering that you are going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose. You are already naked. There is no reason not to follow your heart.”
Obviously Jobs is just one part of Apple and I don’t intend to overstate his importance within the company and in Pixar, but I just love Apple and I am typing on a beautiful iMac that can trace its history back to 1976 and the Apple I.
I will miss Jobs and his turtle-neck jumpers, and I am so glad he came back to Apple in 1997 and turned the company’s fortunes around. May the geeks reign forever.
As I work in central London I went down to the Apple store on Regent Street to see what tributes had been left for Jobs. There was a small crowd plus two film crews and it was nice to feel I wasn’t the only sad Apple geek in London.
I will be twenty-seven this May. I know it isn’t old, but it does feel that way every now and then. Sometimes I worry that my life isn’t going forward the ‘way it should’, but what does that even mean? More money to buy a house would be nice but I haven’t got much to complain about really. There is no correct way, and it all works out in the end.
I think I like feeling older because I can feel myself getting better at certain things, and dealing with circumstances you don’t like or want to deal with in a better way, especially where work is concerned. At Secondary School I spent a lot of time being known as the person I was when I was eleven. Seven years at the same school and they think you haven’t changed a bit. Gah. Ho-hum. Work is better though, people do notice when you get better at things (and worse of course!). I like being relied on and having my word trusted, there is a lot of satisfaction in this. You become more confident as well, and hopefully don’t get so frustrated at the little things.
And I like how my personal life has progressed as well. I have been the older part of a pair of old farts for over two years now. I am so proud of that fact, and even if my day has been crappy I get to go home to a wonderful person who gives me love and reassurance whenever I want it.* We have a lovely (rented) home, our own space and a lifestyle that we couldn’t afford apart. The simple satisfaction of being able to sit in the same room doing your own thing and feeling comfortable is a wonderful feeling.
And we both like Lord of the Rings and Star Trek and Star Wars. Bliss.
*As long as this doesn’t interfere with programming time.