We went for an Indian on Friday night. Local curry house. Top quality food, excellent wine, good service. What more can we want?
Walking past the pub we realised that Black Elvis was performing. Black Elvis, or Gay Black Elvis, as he could term himself, but doesn't, is actually barman and friend to the residents of Gert Cottage. He's actually pretty good. Although he was turned down for Stars in Their Eyes, because he doesn't look like Elvis. Being black.
We arrived at about half ten; he had been on since nine, so I guess we missed most of the well known songs. And I was feeling weak and listless, and looking pale. Jimmy reckons I'm anaemic. My bloodtests say otherwise.
Being pale and interesting, I sat and people watched. One of the great things about my area is the diversity of people who can gather in a backstreet pub on a Friday night. All stereotypes, of course, but what a diversity of stereotypes.
There's Richie, who is Educationally subnormal (or whatever it's called these days). Perfect timing is Richie. Just as Jimmy and I start waltzing around in a quasi-romantic way, Richie comes up "Hello" he says to each of us. "Richie," I say. "We're just in the middle of a slow dance together."
Then there's Mick, Renee's Mick. Also ESN. He's the kind of guy who picks up a local street tart, takes her back to his flat (or rather, Renee's sheltered flat) and wonders in the morning why he's been robbed. During my Audit Sabbatical as bar staff he asked me out. As in "Will you go out with me?" No, I said. He was surprised, because, as everyone knows, barmaids are easy. I'm such a two-faced cow, nice to people's face, total bitch behind their back "I bet Mick has an entire bedroom as an Elvis shrine," I opined. Then I looked round. There were a large number of women of a certain age, and, let's be honest, a certain class. All owners of Elvis shrines, the lot of them. I reckon.
There was a group of four on the next table. Stereotypes. Now, I'm not a totally malicious person. I characterise those four as being the sort of women who do the thankless jobs - cleaning, admin assistant, maybe classroom assistant at a pinch, for rubbish money, keeping the public services running. Probably paying their own rent, not expecting hand-outs, perhaps with a husband (and it will be a husband, no cohabitation for them) in a similar unskilled job. Not aspiring to-right-to-buy. The sort that Golden Brown calls 'hard working families' because 'deserving poor' is too patronising. Dressed in track suit bottoms and polyester polo shirts from QS or the market, not chavcrap. Off-colour home dye-jobs. Faces made hard by life. Poorly-applied foundation and ill-judged blusher. and looking daggers at me. Because I'm as different from them as they are from me.
And the public school boys. They're being cool. They're nice chaps. All about age forty. Not braying hoorays. Solidly middle-class. Went to their local independent school. Play rugby on Saturday afternoons. Fascinated to see that P was smiling. Rare event - thought it only happens when Ireland win at Rugby. Seems to have a girlfriend. Never seen him before with a woman. She's a lot younger than him. Not much over twenty. Probably a student. But probably at a Polytechnic. I'm surprised. Not his style at all.
I point out a woman to Jimmy. I had no need, he'd already seen her. He said he'd never seen a pair of jeans fit so perfectly. Just ordinary jeans but perfect for her. Perfect body. Slender, but with curves. Ordinary stripy t-shirt. But fitting perfectly. Good quality expensive haircut and bleach. Moved with understated elegance. Nothing special to look at in the face, but a definite eyecatcher. And Jimmy pointed out her friend. A bit of a look of Saffy from Ab Fab. Behind the utilitarian pony tail, the sensible glasses, the sensible coat, she was beautiful. I wonder if anybody has ever told her. Maybe she doesn't care.
At quarter to, Last Orders was called. The woman sat opposite moaned - it's not on, calling 'Last Orders' early. I said I don't see the problem. If it means everyone gets served. As long as they don't call Time early. As long as they don't end Drinking Up time early. Not a problem. Give me a problem, I find a solution. 'Can Do' mentality, that's me. Not that I ever 'Do', but you know, I ought to have been a Management Consultant. She says they ought to have an extension, have live music every Friday. There's a pub in Stockwell that has live music every Friday, karaoke every Saturday. It's packed. Eventually she came round to my way of thinking - is it worth sitting through three hours of people who sing like me in order to hear that one person who can give a convincing rendition of 'Eye of the Tiger'. Give me a jukebox anytime. Especially if I can take control of it. (In my pre-teens, my ambition was to be a Radio One D-J. Then Prime Minister).
This woman started talking about her husband, who died last year. He had had Alzheimers, and she nursed him for eight years, sometimes when he was violent- it wasn't him, it was the Alzheimers. Finally, she had to put him in a home. I'm so two-faced and hypocritical me. Confronted with that, I remember all the tips I learned on audit and recruitment interviewing courses - positive listening, empathetic body language, nods of affirmation, positive strokes. Actually, I think it's really rude to go to a pub on a Friday night and pour out your troubles to total strangers. But I guess she's lonely and miserable.
I suppose what I find frustrating is that there are countless people like her who care for partners and parents, and it's horrible, shitty (sometimes literally), thankless work, physically and emotionally draining. In the end he had to go in a home; she visited him every day, and all day at weekends. She was clearly defensive about that. His relatives criticised her for doing that. Not that they were ever around to do any of the caring. They turned up for the funeral, wanting this and that, but she did it the way he wanted. She paid £2800 for the funeral and is still paying it off. Neither Jimmy nor I said anything at the time. But we both knew what the other was thinking. It's ridiculous.
Mike who worked in the Labour Group office had previously worked in Housing Benefit. If you have some savings it may reduce your entitlement to means tested benefit. If you have more you lose eligibility. It used to be £6000, but it did increase substantially. He found it frustrating seeing elderly people going without in order to save for a 'proper' funeral. Cardboard coffin, on the car roof rack, he reckoned. And cremation. Did you know that a new grave costs £6000? Cremate me, scatter my ashes in the lake at Nottingham.
I took part in a Best Value Review of carers. There are hundreds of thousands of carers. Many of them are elderly and infirm themselves. Many lack social support, formal or informal. Carers are entitled to an assessment of their needs, and an allocated social worker themselves, separate from the caree. Sometimes a bit of respite care, or a few hours at a day centre. Some have more profound needs.
I did an audit review of domicilliary care and read quite a few case files. One sticks in my mind. This elderly woman had been caring for years for her husband, with some assistance from Social Services. Eventually, he was admitted to a home. They had been married for Sixty Years, but she divorced him as soon as went in the home. Years and years of abuse, mental cruelty, misery. But women of that generation - they put responsibility first.
This woman in the pub, now her husband's dead, she's caring for an eighty-three year-old neighbour. He used to be fit and active, but he was dragged along the road by a 137 bus that set off prematurely. Never goes out now, she's even got Power of Attorney to pay his bills. Renee's Mick also got dragged along by a prematurely moving 137 bus. Modern accessible buses have now replaced the Routemasters on the 137 route. Nostalgics like me may mourn the passing of an era. But, practically, it's a no-brainer.
