So far so good!- Novel update #2

With chapter three having been just sent off for reading and re-drafting, I thought it would be a good time to reflect on how the whole process is going now we have gotten through the first few chapters.

The baby steps have now been taken and we are finally beginning to jog. 

That is probably the best way I can describe it without trying to sound annoyingly articulate and cliche. Myself and the individual who I am writing for, his name being Ross for future reference, have gotten a bit of rhythm now. We seem to have found a good middle ground on how we are going to go about writing this novel and set ourselves a little plan.

Every two weeks I send him a chapter for which he would have given me a plan for. He then reads over it, highlights bits he likes and dislikes and tells me what he wants changing, sometimes this is over email or text, sometimes it is over the phone. We then niggle away at the finer details of the chapter until we both are happy with it. Then the whole process happens again.

I have to admit that when it came to chapter one I had a level of pessimism about it, a pessimism I was then told was not needed. It wasn't so much I thought Ross was going to rip me apart with criticism but more if I was actually able to write something of a decent quality consistently over a few thousand words. Hearing that I could was a massive lift and meant going into chapter two I had a higher level confidence than I did before.

The feedback from chapter two was again very good. He said that 'out of all you have done so far, I am happy with 97% of it, the rest are just little things on my part'. Now for the more irritating few out there, 97% could be deemed as a 3% loss, these being the type who get an A in a GCSE and cry about not getting an A*. I was the type however who was quite happy with a B which meant on hearing this news it left me feeling ecstatic. Mainly because it meant I wasn't crap but also that I had given Ross what he wanted, a man who has put a lot of faith and time into me.

Now that chapter three has been completed, the longest and toughest one yet with it standing at over 5000 words, I await the feedback with an element of excitement, looking forward to seeing how it can be improved. Furthermore, I am even beginning to think that this novel is starting to take shape and look like a real project.

So as I await his reply on my work I feel happy with the progress so far and truly feel like a writer with his work going in the right direction. 97% right in my case.

What if uni hadn't happened?

It's late, I have an eight hour shift tomorrow and I am hovering over my laptop like some confused monkey trying to write down the correct words in a sort of correct order.

Why?

Well it seems to be that at this desolate hour every night, I find myself thinking about a lot of things and it has occurred to me that I usually don't write these thoughts down, something I have been told to do. This being by my Creative Writing lecturer at uni, not a therapist. And not like a diary for that matter before people claim I have a little notebook with all my deepest secrets in.  

Tonight I have stumbled upon a particular thought that has become more and more prominent over the last twelve months; the future. 

On reflecting back on two amazing years at university I have realised something rather important, that I have actually learnt something. And before you go, 'Ah yeah, funny that, being at uni and all...', not all of it was what I was expecting to have done as an enthusiastic fresher two years ago. Of course I have learnt about literary realism, the stylistic analysis of language and other peculiar sounding topics you don't care about. But all these are relatively minor in comparison to one thing. That I am now at an age where I have a clearer understanding of what I want to do in life. The clearest idea that I have ever had in fact. And this is not necessarily because of what my degree has taught me, though it has influenced it greatly, but through maturity and interaction through others from all over the place. I have begun to understand that there is so much out there. That the safe and rhythmic life of back home is just a grain of sand that, frankly, is boring and plain. I now realise home is great but not the greatest and that the wetherspoons pub I find myself in often is quite simply, shit.

The security of back home was something I always loved and still do. But now I feel that I'm actually ready to go out into the real world and make something of myself, after one more of year of reckless drinking at uni that is.

What I want to do specifically in terms of career... I am not sure. But I do know that I want to be a writer. Preferably a novelist making millions, selling my stories to film and living the high life. If that doesn't work out then I will be happy to just write the odd novel, hopefully get published and become a name a few know and like.

It just all seems to me that I have only just properly come to this conclusion. That it is after two years of living in a city miles from home, meeting people from all over the place that has helped me come to this decision. A decision that I was expected to have some sort of inkling of at the age of 16 or 18. An idea that is worrying to think I would not have had if I hadn't gone to uni or got in, I would perhaps never have know what I wanted to do.

Bit of food for thought when you think about the millions of others who could have possibly missed that time in their life whereby they get a real idea of what they want in life. I'm not sure if that makes me lucky, mature or just someone who has made a decision about their life. All I know is that for the first time in my life, I am absolutely grateful for the experiences I have had that lead me to this point now.

Pretty deep I guess.

Some serious writing commences- Novel update #1

Now that the prologue and chapter one have been completed, I had the idea of keeping a sort of diary, a blogdate if you will, of how the novel is progressing. This is for the reasons that I can share with those of you who are reading this in how it is going and also that I can sit back and reflect on my work in pride, though I am  merely 5,000 words in with 75,000 to go...

I have to admit that the prospect of writing something as gargantuous as a novel was first of all exciting. To be able to hold an actual book of some density and say I DID THIS! was the immediate appeal. The idea of creating a story for someone to read, characters to divulge into and provide a revolutionary book of deep meaning and purpose,yada yada yada... that was nice but not all too important at the time.

It was not until I began writing chapter one that nerves began to kick in like a kick in the bollocks. Both painful and unnecessary.




Chapter 1 is done!(ish).

The first draft of chapter 1 is done. It has been sent off to the guy who's given me the opportunity to do this for his feedback and redrafting. Though this is not to say that it was as easy as sitting down and typing away.

To summarise...

700 words in I restarted. 300 words into the second attempt I thought it was all crap and deleted it. On the third attempt I followed the pattern of a novel of the same genre and it off started much better. Then everything started to go inside out, inside in, outside in and outside out,

Tense began to confuse me, words began to confuse and life became a big disappointing piece of shit when I realised that writing something like this was not going to come out of me like air. Every word I typed seemed wrong. My description felt cheap and cliche. The way I hit the keys on the keyboard felt wrong. And all this in the first chapter!

I felt demotivated and stupid. As if I shouldn't have taken on this project. But I laboured on and eventually finished it.

I was happier with it than I imagined. It started to read like a novel and something a little greater than my previously thought skill level. So before I started to question what I had done, I gave it a quick once over for spelling etc and deemed it was ready to send. Happy with my resilience and first breakdown recovery.

When it came to clicking to send, I was terrified and hesitant. More than sending off any piece of coursework I have done at university where things such as a plagiarism, failure, embarrassment or some other life threatening result could occur. And even though I knew I was sending it to someone who would give me quality feedback and do it in such a manner that I wouldn't collapse emotionally and destroy every piece of creative work I have ever done, I still felt an air of pessimism as it came up with 'Sent'.

Almost immediately he replied saying that he would get round to reading it in the next couple of days when he found some time and that he was greatly looking forward to it.

I was happy with this, knowing I could rest my mind from the novel for a couple days and focus on doing nothing.

However, to my surprise, two hours later he emailed me again.

His name popped up on my phone and a sense of dread filled me, not knowing why he felt the need to email me again.

Thinking the worst, I read on.

'Matt. Couldn't resist it and had to read it tonight. My first impression - I love it! Really well done.'

I cannot begin to describe the relief felt and looking back, I did not have any particular reason to be really worried. I had sent him my best work and with all my effort put into it. But I always prepared myself for the worst so that anything above this would lift me into a cloud of complete ecstasy.

I was and am still on that cloud.

My writing style was correct. My understanding of what he wanted was bang on. My added story fillers worked. Everything was spot on.

I now am awaiting for his feedback, which he promised would be minor, so that I can alter it to final copy. Then within the next couple of days I will begin chapter two. A chapter I am now far more confident about approaching.

 So to conclude I have finally taken the first major step. Now it's time for me to learn to jog.

The difference between a student bar and a Spoons pub.

Being home from uni is great. Home cooked food, your own bed, seeing your family, no bills or rent to worry about, internet that works... the list is endless. But one thing that changes significantly is the social life.

Uni seems to be its own little world. It doesn't conform to the usual day-to-day rhythms of life. Sleeping patterns are disjointed and a complete myth. A healthy diet is restricted to those who have a budget that can afford a weekly intake of fresh fruit and vegetables. The uni household will very rarely have an internet speed above 2mbps, ours was actually recorded at 0.4 at one point. Alcohol seems to be cheaper than water and the student bar becomes a second home. Just a blurry pit of booze infused dreams and alcohol driven confessions of opinions or happenings in life which should never be brought to surface. I will admit to being the one guy of the group who is particularly partial to exclaiming a particular emotion towards another individual. This it not to say I regret it.

Back home, or in my case at least, the most common place for a piss up is the local Wetherspoons pub, 'The Oxted Inn'. It provides cheap beers, cheap food and a relatively comfortable setting. However, there are significant differences between getting pissed up at a student bar and getting trollied at a spoons.

The student bar is described in a previous blog but if you have not read it, and why wouldn't you have?!, here is a very brief outline. It is cheap and it is the only point of the week a student is actually content with life.

The Wetherspoons (or spoons as it is commonly referred as) is in itself a different level of pub. The theme of cheap booze still follows as with the student bar but with it comes 'non-students'. Most of them are fine. They are usual people with usual lives working usual jobs with a usual view on life. Some, however, are not.

For example...

You have the 'lone ranger'. This is the person who simply sits by himself with a pint and makes no act of humanly function. He (and it usually is a he) simply sits with one hand on his pint, his other resting on the bar and stares aimlessly into the abyss of the predictable furnishings of a spoons pub. He only moves to take a sip of alcohol or to purchase another. This is it. You don't pity the Lone Ranger because you know he is content with life. Not happy, not sad, just content.

There is the 'self-communicator'. This individual is similar to the Lone Ranger in that he or she (usually he) is sat by himself with an alcoholic beverage. Yet this remarkable being is able to give himself such wonderful company. He will stare at his pint muttering to himself before shouting a word or phrase out in a reply to his muttering. This goes on for hours and provides a humorous but slightly concerning watch. He will have no concern over anyone else in the pub but himself. He will firmly believe that his conversation is quite alright and that no others input is needed. I should add that this person is normally a raging alcoholic and doesn't begin his chattering until he is a few pints down the line.

Now the groups you get are normally pretty universal in any spoons pub. You have the work colleagues, self-explanatory.

You have the students who are either studying closely or back from studying having a catch-up with others whilst on uni break.

You have the teens.  The teens are those who have just turned the legal age for alcoholic consumption and think they are the kings of banter and booze and have all the knowledge into getting wavy; I absolutely detest this word by the way but some people think it is in fact an appropriate term for getting drunk.

You have the alcoholics. They are usually in at opening and long gone before the evenings comes about. Strength in numbers seems to be their motto as they are always in a group of 3-7.

There is the 'family'. This is normally an innocent family who have come in a little too late to get a bite to eat and the parents watch on in horror as the pub floods with people ready to get drunk ASAP. They try to continue normal conversation but it is usually hopeless. They just urge their innocent and perfect kids to eat up so they can leave the abomination they find themselves in before shaking their heads as they leave.

Perhaps the most irritating group is what I like to call 'The Wankers'. The wankers are those with a ridiculous haircut and a dress sense which consists of tight jeans, Nike Roshes and some fancy designer top that they have grossly overpaid for. They are often laughing at other groups so that they can inflict they superiority over the pub. They think they are god's gift to women and thus a complete wanker. They spend their nights either discussing how amazing a lads holiday was four years ago or what female they have recently had sexual relations with.

This mixture of people is not usually seen in a student bar, everyone is there after a week at uni and just wants to get drunk. At a spoons the motives for drinking are completely varied. That is not to say either are better or worse. I love both the student bar and the Spoons. But the biggest difference is that I hope to be only in the spoons during my 20s. Any later and I might become the Lone Ranger or worse, the Self-communicator.

Writing a novel?

Well then...

I will try to make this as brief as possible.

About a month ago I received an email through university about an opportunity to help assist writing a novel. It was incredibly brief and asked for a bit of information about myself, some of my influences and what I thought about the opportunity.

The person who sent the email, Ross, then replied with thanks for the email and gave a bit of information about himself and the project. The novel would be his ideas, plot, characters etc. with myself having the freedom to write in my own style and have my name on the book. Percentage of profits were discussed but obviously that is not for you to know. Money is not the motivation for this at all but let's face it... it sweetens it a little. If the first novel were to go as well as we hope, it would then go on to be trilogy and then on to film.

A couple of emails later, he asked for a small passage of some of my work. I sent him a small piece from a Short Story Coursework assignment I recently did. He found it of a good enough quality to then send me through to the next stage of selection. This was for myself to write out 2 out of 3 scene descriptions he had sent me. One was a car crash, one was a fight scene and the last an emotional dilemma. I did the emotional and car crash scenes. I was lucky enough to have some amazing support from some friends at uni and they gave my work a look over for spelling mistakes and some opinions before I sent it off.

Nervously I waited for a few days for a reply and a few days later he did.

He said that he found my work engaging, saw great potential in me and wanted to work with me if I was interested in committing. I waited a day or two to reply, didn't want to seem too keen, and said yes. He then asked for a day and a phone number to have a chat.

We have since then had a chat and planned out everything. He gave a brief overview of the plot and it all appealed to me immensely. He has sent me some books through the post for me to read from the same genre as our novel will be to have an idea of how it is usually written.

The aim is that in 12 months we will have crafted and perfected a novel that will be published. I do understand the difficulty in getting published, I'm not that naive. But hearing about the connections he has and having two minds work on a novel instead of one, it all seems very promising.

I have beaten others across the country to this opportunity and extremely excited to say that I will be writing a novel!

Writer's Block!

It's late. Like far too late for someone who has to be up early and pack for the tedious routine of moving back home from uni. However, after two heavy nights of drinking and this resulting in late wake-ups, my body clock has decided to give up on me. 

I thought that this would be a good time to write. The silence of the house, the nostalgia that fills me as I think of my second year at uni, the issues of other things, it all feels rather inspiring. I have my Word document up as I read over a short story I did a few days ago and begin to hate myself for writing something dreary and static. With every word that I felt myself to be a genius with, another layer of disappointment mounts up at how wrong I was. Writing has always been something I have had some interest in but only in the last few months have I actually tried to sustain a constant flow of creative works.

It is now that I have hit that elusive and immovable wall. Writer's block.

I have tried writing something new but found that it is more useful spilling my anger out onto my blog. It feels that with every word that goes down, a new fragment of frustration goes down with it. When I am 'in the zone' I actually write with a positive and excited attitude. Now I am just spitting words out of a dry mouth, hoping they will elude the bland nature that sticks to them and actually create something interesting. 

My hope was wasted.

I am now reading over a shrinking paragraph. Each re-read cuts another 5 or 6 words until it is a lonely sentence. So far I have mustered up 'Darkness had placed his hand over the city that night. Without a trace of sympathy he latched himself onto every surface and sucked out the colour like a leech. Slowly the buildings and roads merged into one hole and the man with a box for a home fell into it.' 

To me it just feels like a cliche, boring and amateur lump of turd that I was sceptical putting on my blog in the first place. I can safely say this is the most frustrated I have been whilst writing. I know I am naive 20 years of age and will have to accept that these moments will happen again and again but I would really appreciate some advice.

The beginning of the end?

The craziness of the last few days in Baltimore, USA, has made me seriously think if the recurring riots are to become larger, more common and more violent.

Firstly, I am not going to claim that riots are a good thing and I am not going to state that they are unjustified. I do not wish to offend anyone who feels passionately about this subject and I am merely expressing an opinion on what is going on.

On Monday 27th of April there was a funeral for Freddie Gray, a 25 year old black man who died in police custody. What has followed from this are protests in Baltimore. These protests then developed into violent riots. These riots are protests against the law enforcement's handling of black Americans and what they believe to be racist acts. Again, I am not completely informed on this matter and only taking my information from news websites.

Now as a British citizens we are only given information from British broadcasters. This means that the information might be filtered or altered in some way. However, as a human it is incredible to watch what is happening over there. The videos of looting, fighting and conflicts between law enforcement and African-Americans are terrifying. When you look at these videos you can't help to compare them to something out of some apocalyptic film not a democratic nation of the west.

Riots are awful regardless of their motive. The destroying and burning of buildings, the looting of shops and beating up of pedestrians is completely wrong. However, what these rioters are doing is getting the publicity they crave.

Peaceful protests are always the correct way to express an opinion. However, do you honestly think the world would be looking upon Baltimore and the corruption that seems to curse America if they simply walked down a street holding a few banners? Are riots a violent and inhumane act or an explosion of frustration at the result of being patient for so long?

There is obviously a huge issue in regards of police treatment of ethnic minorities in America and there are statistics that support this. What concerns me is whether this issue is genuinely being addressed or just forgotten about until another riot happens.

America seems to only pay attention to itself when it starts imploding. We saw it before when Ferguson was declared in a state of emergency. Now it is happening in Baltimore and you can guarantee it will happen again.

What I question is if this will get sorted or just get worse and worse?

Just imagine the riots we see in the news erupting to national level. The worlds biggest superpower will literally fall to pieces. A country that prides itself on equality, democracy and the 'American Dream' will become a land of civil war. I understand this is incredibly far-fetched and a little ridiculous but it does concern me how violent a nation can come after being sparked by one particular death. If there is a building of frustration amongst American ethnic-minorities, when will it eventually surface? There seems to be so much pain in America that is hidden to the rest of the world that it makes you question how free this 'land of the free' is?

Is to be patriotic to be racist?

Happy St. Georges day first of all!

I understand the title might be a little confusing and completely ridiculous. I get that, I would think that too. However, it got your attention and now (I'm hoping) has got you to want to read what I have to say.

Obviously you can be proud to be English. I am incredibly proud to be English, British, southern, a student, a rugby player... whatever else that might have a certain stigma attached to it. But there does seem to have been a horrible abusement of the term 'to be English'.

Today on social media I saw plenty of posts similar to this...

It got me thinking to when the last time I saw something similar to this was and it struck me that there is a common theme to these posts throughout the year,

People only seem to want to promote being English when they wish to claim that being foreign is wrong. It is almost as if people believe we are still an empire and that our traditions and culture are the only ones worth knowing about.

When you look at other nations around the world they celebrate being patriotic as being proud of being from where they are from and all those who inhabit it. Not to make any other point. I can't understand this reoccurring trend to blame immigrants for everything. That to be anything but English in England is wrong.

The most well-known 'cult' that exercises this ideology is the wonderfully medieval sounding 'English Defence League'. The EDL promotes English supremacy. That England is for English people and that anything that could favour this nation should be directed towards people who can trace their bloodline to go back to King Arthur himself. It this group of individuals that claim to be 'patriotic'. There is also UKIP but they have an incredible way of making good points on immigration to highlight a 'problem' with immigrants. *I will admit I have agreed with some of their points. I will also admit that when learning about their policies, they are a tad over the top, note the sarcasm.

Now I for one do not want my patriotism to be based around an English favouritism. 

I hate the idea that other nations could look upon ours and base their judgement of us on how much we loathe people from other nations. 

I watched a video recently of an EDL march in London whereby they were arguing against Islam in our nation. The second lady in command claimed that 'Allah' was a proven paedophile and that how could they believe in such a horrific God. A PROVEN PAEDOPHILE?! I am pretty sure Allah is based around all other god's in that there is no physical evidence that he/she/it existed and that faith is what is needed to follow them. I believe they meant Mohammad, the prophet. But I still believe this is just as believable as Jesus being wed to a prostitute which is ridiculous right?

These same people most probably watched or listened to the likes of Jimmy Saville, Ralf Harris etc. and loved them! These people most certainly did exist and most certainly were horrible, horrible people but because they are white, they are just a bad egg.

I will not stand for people who claim to be English patriots and ruin our saint-day with ignorant and completely racist remarks. 

The English flag is one to be proud of and we have every right to be proud of our nation with the abundance of brilliance that has come out of it. However, don't claim that there brilliance is being tainted by 'foreigners' of today. And don't speak as if you have any of that brilliance because you so happen to be English too. I have seen English people in foreign nations. Notably I witnessed a bunch of drunk and incredibly loud Englishmen in Krakow, Poland. An entire city ringing with football chants and breaking bottles.  I was embarrased and had to tell my Polish girlfriend who took me there, 'we're not all like that'. I do understand I have been a drunken mess in Malia and contributed to this stereotype a little, sorry mum. However, I would not claim this to have been right.

England happens to be one of the most multicultural nations in the world and the fact that people want to emigrate here is a sign of its quality. The only problem England has is that it is becoming more common to be anti-migrants and to not agree with other cultures apart from curry, chinese food, pizzas, foreign beer... 

Now I am sure that this post will get a lot of people educating me on the awful things extreme muslims have done. That the terror they have caused is completely motivated by one book and this only. That child trafficking is done by muslims. That parts of the country are under 'sharia law'.

All I will say to this is that the small minority of muslims that have done this needed motivation from somewhere else and being a student in Coventry, I have met a lot of lovely muslims.

There have been plenty of white terrorists, rapists, child traffickers, drug dealers etc. The only difference is that they are not judged on religion or race but 'just bad people'. 

So if you are like me and proud to be from England then great! I don't alway show it apart from the six nations or other sporting events but that doesn't mean it isn't always there. Just stop the individuals who play off this patriotism so they can vent their anger at immigrants because of our governments mistakes.

Project Cov

Ever since moving here in September, a house party was always expected to happen. Finally we got round to organising it as a last proper piss-up before exams start, not that I have any.

It was expected that around 30 people would come around 10pm (an hour after the official start time) with some +1s with them to fill out the house. What actually happened was that at 10:30pm the actual occupants of the house and a few close mates were sat twiddling their thumbs, drinking their alcohol and questioning whether the lights they had very specifically placed were OK. The first twinges of concern were starting to build into whether anyone would be there to appreciate the very specifically placed lights and enjoy our quality company. 

By 11:30 a considerable amount of people had arrived and the party was starting to become less of a little chatter between friends and an actual party. Shots were being shot, dance moves were being moved by those already quite drunk and the beer bong was in full use.

At midnight I went outside to do the bong and out of determination not to make a tit of myself, focused incredibly hard on it. It was only after my alcohol consumption that I heard 'ain't nobody f-ing with my clique' being chanted from the living room by a huge amount of people. It was on investigating this that I found that the house had become rammed with people, half of which I did not recognise let alone know. When I asked who they were they often replied with 'why do you want to know?'. I calmly explained how I was a tenant of this house for which they replied with 'ahh sorry, good party'. 

In the living area there was at least 30 people in it which is about 25 more than has ever been in it before. The playlist we had carefully put together was now off and black American rap was being screamed out by a huge group of lads. I had had no idea who they were apart from one individual. Ashley Powell, a person I had come to know quite well over the last few years, was jumping up and down in the middle of the group like an intoxicated kangaroo. We did make eye-contact for him to shout a Kanye West lyric at me, which seemed rather innapropriate with him being incredibly white. 

The rest of the night followed as described above with shots, beer bongs, dancing, singing/ rapping and drunk conversation eating the hours away. I had somehow begun talking to two Polish people in my incredibly inconsistent and over confident Polish. They said I was 'very good' but their faces told a different story. 

At around 3:30am many of the people had left and it became mine and the other hosts responsibility to finish off the remaining alcohol. This was a mixture of beer, cider, shots and a Polish beverage called bimber which at 70% was described by Liam Quinn (another accomplice from back home) as 'nuclear cat piss'. By this point everyone was incredibly drunk and drinking now was more of a challenge than a pleasure. Mr Powell had now made plenty of new friends and spent a good few hours rapping to all his favourite gangster tracks. I did have my 5 minutes of fame orchestrating Wonderwall by Oasis on my guitar standing on one of the sofas to about 15 people screaming 'AGAIN' as I gave myself an encore.

It is fair to say the clean up the following day was awful. There was a stickiness to every possible surface, still full cans on every table and chair and for some reason the kitchen wreaked of balsamic vinegar with cracked eggs and straws littering the floor. The hangover alongside this mess was equally as bad with my head feeling like it was about to implode and my mouth feeling as if I had been eating sand all night. There was obviously a full fry up the following morning but this only intensified the feeling of vomit beginning to rise in our bellies. 

However, regardless of the hangover, the state of the house after and the damage it had done to my student loan it was such an insane night. I witnessed awful rapping, a brilliant consumption of booze and someone so drunk they tried to switch off the light on the wall with their feet as they lay drooling in their own mess.

.

Slipping under the covers

It would be a lie if I were to say that I have had a very close relationship with my nan. I'm not someone who posts on social media how amazing she is or how inspiring she has been to me but nonetheless, she is family and someone I hold close to my heart. She is the last of my grandparents and there is a peculiar realisation that she is the last of my parent's parents.

Today I made the far too rare visit to see her in the home she is now unfortunately stuck in. It has all the elements to be a lovely, warm and friendly care home. It is situated in picturesque countryside, appears to be large and warm looking and has the ever so fitting name of 'Cranmer Court'. It is a very stereotypical care home and as far as I know, has no faults apart from the odd tinge of urine in the air, something that cannot be helped with occupants that live there.

In her own room by the garden is my poor and physically restricted nan, lying in bed as she does every day. Her company comes in the odd family member, nurse or the birds feasting outside on the seeds purchased by the in-laws. Often or not those who come to visit come in 2s or more. This is not because of nan's popularity but due to her condition, there has to be a conversation she can listen to rather than one she can participate in.

I went today with my mother and met my uncle and aunty there. We discussed the usual ins and outs of everyday life. 'How's uni?' one way. 'How are the cousins' the other. This chit chat lasted a little while but inevitably the chatter simmered down to silence and I found myself focusing more on nan. It felt to me as if in the last 5 times I have come to visit she has slipped lower and lower into the bed. Her facial expression has over time changed from awareness of conversation to a flat faced, squint eyed glare at the ceiling. Almost as if the world was nothing but a fragment of her imagination and the heartache of losing her husband of 59 years 5 years prior being her own reality. Frustration of her condition has been often discussed throughout the family and her lack of effort in trying to pick herself up emotionally being the main reason of her inevitable vegetable state.

There can be the argument that she has not indeed helped herself but it is important to state she does have parkinsons disease and this has been a major factor in her physical decline. However, regardless of her physical state, she had lost her absolute other half. There cannot be anything worse than losing your stability and balance that you gain with someone else over such a huge time frame. You would not expect a man to run with one leg taken away when he had ran with two for 59 years. This was her state but not only had she forgotten to run but lost the ability to walk through life. She has limped her way through last five years to now and it is absolutely impossible to consider her situation. She is part of a generation whereby you didn't divorce at first sign of trouble but learnt to adapt to their faults and live by them. That you would understand that life is not always about being happy but contempt with being solid with another.

I have to admit I did pity her. I was in no position to empathise and I had no wish to put myself in a position where I had to think about living 60 years with someone for them to be gone in a blink. She has had to go through an ordeal I hope I never have to endure but hope to understand. I hope to be with someone as close as that for such a time that I can claim I have had a relationship through everyone of life's ups and downs. She might not have been a huge part of my life but when I sit there looking at her, her pain shows to me how amazing it must be to be anothers true life partner. With her pain shows true happiness before.