As I mentioned previously we have exclusively taken our holidays in the UK. Often it has been in a holiday cottage in a rural part of Yorkshire or Devon, although we have made journeys as far as Oban and on one famous occasion the Isle of Tobermory.

In the last few years we have chosen Buxton, famous for its clear water. We have enjoyed being closer to other people, being accessible to places of interest and local amenities. And for the last few years we have loved being in a brand new flat with a top drawer kitchen and quality furnishings.

In one of our more rural settings however we stayed in an old property near Whitby, in a cottage which was attached to stables. The twins – aged about 2 – would watch the horses trip past the kitchen window whilst they were eating breakfast. At other times we would go outside and watch them running free in the fields.

The cottage was in the evenings devoid of any external light source and we would look out of the downstairs windows and stare into complete darkness. Going to bed was a bit of a challenge for me, as the landing and downstairs was then plunged into utter blackness. I would lie in my room almost in a palpable darkness and move around with an arm extended in front, so as not to bump into doors, cupboards…. or anything else. This then gave me the inspiration for my story below. Whilst not my first piece of creative writing, it is possibly my creepiest.

THE WATCHER

One says that he who waits learns patience and self-control. Some say that that he who watches learns from others. But the One who watches and waits, learns all of these and cleverness, and the art of good timing.

It is as if the black arts merge with the white arts, and add the skill of invisibility, of being able to blend……

He had been waiting for these visitors. Long days and interminable nights went past
without any decent conversation. He heard a family was moving in during the summer and wandered idly around waiting
for the new arrival. A married couple no less, that was always fun, not just one person to try and make conversation with!

He looked round the cobblestone
yard at Skenrith and wondered if their arrival would mark the beginning of a new era. The buildings in the courtyard were newly renovated since he had first
arrived, with smart timbers at the apex and thick stone walls round the family dwellings. The owner joked it was to keep the mediaeval spirits out.

Skenrith was a bit off the beaten track. Nobody came here by
accident, but a stroke of good fortune had given the new owner the wisdom to put Windmill House back on the map, by advertising the newly built family home on the internet for summer rentals. He – who was always watching – would never had thought of that. He laughed silently and somewhat meanly. When he was in his prime, the internet hadn’t been invented, so it left him now wrong-footed and behind the times in technology.

The last visitors had brought a teenager with them, a lanky arrogant young fellow who’d spent all his waking hours attached -as if by an invisible lifeline – to his machine. Even when he’d gone to bed, he’d left the machine buzzing next to his bed. He’d complained of bad dreams which his parents put down to too much dabbling with technology. Definitely too much
dabbling, he snickered…..

He shuffled round, peering into the stalls where the horses
would return later. He checked over the animal feed and whether the stalls were clean. He walked with a slight gait. Since his accident he hadn’t felt his old
self, now much older than his years. As he crossed from the stables to the Big House he called out gustily to Sally, the farmhand, but she strutted past, oblivious
to his calling. He’d get even with her some time.

He thought the place was becoming too commercialised now. There was a desperate need to be stabling racehorses from season to season and then offering pony rides to visitors in an attempt to break even, or so he’d heard Margaret the new owner saying. She didn’t know he was always listening in to conversations. She would be pretty unhappy if she saw him sneaking around.

The family arrived in a minibus one Friday afternoon. That was an interesting development, usually families rolled up in domestic vehicles, usually estate cars crammed with luggage on the roof and with bicycles hanging unhappily off the back. That particularly upset him, the carelessness with which their belongings were treated. The last family had seen their bikes all fall off as they’d left in a bit of a rush, speeding off up the lane. They’d stopped only for a few minutes to hastily throw them back onto the racks, yelling and blaming each other, oblivious to the fact that someone had obviously tampered with the fixings. He chuckled again, remembering how he had loosened the brakes on the car as well….

Let’s face it, the Watcher was not a very nice person, but then no-one was perfect. This new family looked almost perfect to him. A
family of six with two boys and two girls, no dog and lots of gear. The bus was crammed with all types of holiday baggage including highchairs, boxes of
nappies and bicycles and trikes. He watched from the corner of the stable yard standing next to Clipper the new horse; Clipper whinnied as he stood there,
uneasy at his presence. They tumbled out of the bus, father looking tired after a long drive, mother looking miserable as if this was already promising to be the ‘restful’ holiday she’d anticipated all year. The boys immediately started racing
round the yard causing trouble as they went, and out trailed two sweet little baby girls, like chalk and cheese, with matching skirts and wellies. They were each clutching matching rag dolls. Twins, he smiled. That would make a change.

He left them alone for the first day before deciding whether or not he’d introduce himself. He noticed they seldom left the house, so he could not easily go over and try and learn about them. He heard Margaret moaning in the kitchen of the Big House about all the work having them would create, but heck, business was business.

The family had divided themselves around Windmill House. Mum took the small room at the top which was the most suitable to share with the twins who were sleeping in a single big cot. It was also the darkest room of the house as it had only a tiny window. Dad had an adjacent room to himself, which
was a relief with no-one to complain – finally – about his snoring in the night. The 2 boys slept downstairs in a room overlooking the stables. They got a good look at Clipper, the race horse every time they looked out of their window. Once or twice they had looked out and almost seen him standing by the horse, watching them keenly. The little ones were slightly scared of the tall horses.

The family hadn’t spent any time in the downstairs lounge which was at the back of the building. It had a vaulted gallery which ran all the way to the back of the building and the upstairs bedrooms.

On the second night when all the lights had been extinguished, the Watcher managed to get in to the house through an unlocked kitchen door and take a look around. Silly me, these townies always fell for the ‘safer in the country’ notions. The house hadn’t changed too much since he’d been last been in it: there was the large kitchen with table for 8, the open plan downstairs with a gallery, vaulted ceiling and the big timbers. Just seeing the room gave him the wobbles; set eerily against the blackened sky with occasional
moments of moonlight, it sent shivers down his spine. This was not his favourite room, too many spirits could roam here. Superstition was rife out here in the country.

The woman had her first bad night, due to an appalling
mattress which you could fold over and which was hellish to sleep on. Her mood on the second day was therefore not much improved. The woman still looked
unhappy on the third morning, to the disappointment of her husband, who put it down to bad mood or woman’s troubles.

The Watcher thought it would make no matter by the end of
the week. She would stop complaining as she’d be gone by then. On the third night he decided to be bolder.
He slipped inside again and wandered upstairs to try and watch them all sleeping. The room he favoured was the dark one as no-one could see a thing against the stark darkness outside; he opened the door wide and watched the twins breathing. Well with the total absence of light he actually just stood and listened in the darkness to the undulation and united rhythm of their breathing. The woman who was
asleep on the bed at the back of the room sat up suddenly and looked at the door. She waited expectantly as if for him to say ‘hello’, but then she lay back down, shifting uneasily. He slipped out and made his way back downstairs, as softly as he could. The woman lay awake for a while before drifting back into an uneasy sleep.

Each night she had strange and vivid dreams, each one worse than the last, and all of which put her off her stride.

On the fourth morning the Watcher strode off into the fields
when the family drove off to the town for the day. He talked to the horses while they were free in the fields, and to the farmhands when they came up to walk the animals back in to the stables. He walked aimlessly, contemplating his next
move. It was time to escape the boredom of the farm. He had long hoped this day would come.

No need to tell Margaret he was planning to leave, she’d be glad to see the back of him, and to be fair she didn’t pay much attention to
him in any case. The next two nights would be critical. He thought the best person to steal away with was the woman. She looked miserable and bored in the
family she was with, would probably be glad of a change of scene. When they returned from their days outing he would take her for a walk and suggest something…. new.

The family returned about 4pm. The horses had been fed and
exercised and the Watchers time was now his own. He made his way across the farm and waited until the woman was putting rubbish outside the front door. He
caught her by surprise and took her arm, leading her quite forcefully towards the stables. He did not speak a word, and she steered herself as if alone, but feeling propelled by an invisible hand. She peered into the stalls looking at the thoroughbreds, with their new foals, the sight of the untainted new life caused her to raise a sudden smile. The Watcher stood to the side, looking pleased.

The woman remembered she needed to bring the twins back over and see if their fear from the first day had evaporated. The front runner had a red halter and the second in stables had a blue halter. Both were male which it somewhat harder to remember the names as one could not depend on colour, based
on gender. The mares were resting, having been awarded house-arrest whilst they looked after the foals.

She looked back towards the house, and exhaled loudly, then
muttered “I’ve had enough”. He smiled at her, and she smiled at her own remark.

Tonight they would set his plan in motion. Freedom for us both, he thought to himself. He set off marching fast, almost at a gallop, back across the courtyard and into the Big House, where he gave Margaret a big toothless grin and set about his business.

Darkness fell on the Windmill House after 10 o’clock, and by
now the children had long gone to bed. The adults had a quiet evening and sat separately in the lounge. They had lit the wood burning stove and the room
lights were set on low. The father was reading a newspaper with a tumbler of whisky by his side, and the mother sat with a book, but looking quite distracted. The Watcher came in boldly but slowly through the front door this time, his first foray through this route in quite a few years. He bypassed the lounge and strode upstairs to the room where the twins were sound asleep. He lay down on the mother’s bed and waited for her. The softness of the covers and the smell of her perfume triggered feelings he hadn’t experienced in years. She smelt of florals and the linen was fresh. He had drifted off into pleasant thoughts when he heard the sound of her shoes on the stairs. He leapt up as she came into the door way and stood in front of her blocking her way in; she halted as if she had stumbled into something. Honestly she felt she was getting clumsier each day. She hesitated before entering the bedroom and instead a passing notion enter her mind to go and check on the horses, which was totally out of character. The randomness of this thought struck her slightly, but she had a fleeting feeling that hands other than hers were directing her movements. She peered out the window and looked out at the full moon in the
sky. She hurried down the stairs and opened the kitchen door out to the stables. All the racehorses were shifting in their stalls, with the foals snuffling at the mothers’ heads. She satisfied herself that they were fine, picked up the spare bridle which was to the left of the stall door, using the end of it to nudge the latch securely
down as she left. She walked back across the yard, pausing for a second to look at the sky which had suddenly clouded over leaving her shivering with sudden
uncontrollable fear.

When she came back to the house her husband had already gone
upstairs to bed. She walked into the lounge, and looked around with the distinct impression someone was watching her. It was a feeling which had been increasing over this holiday.

She glanced up at the gallery landing which was completely in
darkness, and decided anyway to go upstairs to bed. As she reached the door of the downstairs room, a figure in black was in front of her, standing silently. She saw the huge figure, but with no apparent face, no hands, no definition, no details.

The figure stood completely still. Fear gripped her, as she remembered something
distinctly unpleasant from one of her dreams, concerning her twins upstairs. She had an immediate and uncontrollable desire to check they were okay.

I need to check on the girls, she reasoned. The figure, whose face she still could not see, nodded, and she ran past, with him limping slowly behind her. She leant in to see the twins, and trailed her finger over their soft cheeks. The twins were asleep
with their heads turned to each other and a beatific look on their faces.

She turned back to the door and spoke in a whisper. “What do
you want?” She asked the Watcher, who was still waiting by the door.

“I want your company downstairs”, he rasped in a voice,
totally unlike any other she had ever heard. She followed him down the stairs, struck with her inability to scream but willing the rest of the household to wake up, and come to her rescue. The
Watcher limped downstairs like an advance party, whilst she followed reluctantly.

He led her in to the lounge and stood by the open fireplace. By
now the fire was reduced to glowing embers, and there was only minimal light in the room.

“Up there”, he said. It was neither a command nor a request, but merely a statement.

The woman looked blankly at the gallery upstairs, not grasping anything about this stranger in the midst. “Up where? My girls are upstairs”, she said. “What do you want? Who are you?”

“I want my freedom back”, he said. “You have come here to
bring it to me. I will save the girls if you do as you are told. If you scream for help now, it will be too late. I will take both of them as well, and my freedom will be eternal.”

“But first you deserve some answers since you are both my
helper and soon to be my soul mate. I lived here 90 years ago, when it was still a functioning windmill. The Lairds owned the Big House next door and took us poor folk as working tenants. They worked us hard for very little pay and we were miserable.”

“I am drawn to miserable people as a result,” he said with a hint of irony.

“The part of the house where you are sitting used to be the part where the windmill sails were fixed, and I came and stood here at the end of my sad days and would look up and shout at the sky. At the end of my patience one day I fixed a rope from the sails and threw myself out. My life was supposed to end instantly and I should have found the freedom I so wanted. Instead the Laird put a curse on me for 3 generations that I would have to wander the same land, destined to feel the same misery I had inflicted on him. I thought I would be here forever, and then Margaret took on the farm and brought outsiders here. All I needed was to find the perfect person who would take my place and set me free. Only when I found the ideal family could the curse be broken and I would be free forever.”

The woman held her breath. She could hear the breathing of
this stranger getting quicker and his voice more animated as he spoke.

“What do I have to do then?” She asked, her lip trembling despite
her fixed look at a face she still could not even see.” Go with you somewhere?”

The Watcher laughed a little. “That would be delightful, but I am not able to leave it like that. Besides you are holding the key”. He pointed to the bridle she was still carrying in her left hand. She had completely forgotten about being in the stables but began to feel there was now some sinister motive to her having checked on the horses earlier.

“This is not a key”, she said, as if to herself. She saw a glint in the space where the eyes would normally have been.

“It is my key”, he said. “My key for freedom. Now let’s climb the stairs.”

Realisation now hit her full on, like a punch from a glove. “I won’t do it”, she faltered. “I have so
much to live for.”

“Me too”, said the Watcher, flatly. “I have wandered over the fields and the farms for nearly a hundred years, and have had time to realise that my life wasn’t so bad after all. Now I can take yours and carry on in a ready-made unit. No-one will know you have gone. I will become you, and
your twins will love me without knowing I have a bad soul and an evil heart. All you have to do is attach the horse bridle and I will help you over the gallery and it will be done. I will make you disappear and my body will flesh out to be you. May I say how much I admire your lovely
family; I never had the chance to father children, and now I can have it all in an instant. It will give me years of fun, exerting my authority over real people. For all these years I have been an invisible presence on this property, interfering in everybody’s affairs and causing mischief. Now I can do all of
this. In a real body. I will no longer be invisible to all around me.”

“I can’t, I won’t”. she repeated over and over again.

The Watcher’s eye lit with fury. “I can’t make you,” he snarled, “but I need you to do this. You will be free of whatever ill follows
you around, and I can have a life again. You must do this”, he insisted.

At this second, one of the twins screamed, a blood curdling
sound which split the night.

“Mumm-eeeee”, she yelled. “Mummy, come here!!”

The Watcher spun around, and fled out past the stairs, before
the house was alight with alert children and a concerned husband.

“We have to leave this house tonight,” she said tearfully to
the father. “Whatever for?” he asked. “Because I think it is haunted! we have to leave.”

“That is ridiculous,” said the
father. “It’s a family cottage. Whatever could be haunting it?“

“There is someone watching us,
and he needs to free a curse by taking my place. You don’t understand….” her sentence petered out.

It sounded so far-fetched even to her that although she was extremely distraught and the father was concerned, he put it down to his wife’s tendency to have nightmares and vivid dreams. She crept back into the big bed upstairs and pulled the twins in with her.

“I don’t want to let you go,
girls”. She spoke through tears.

“My mummy,” chimed twin one: “no, my mummy,” echoed twin two.

The dawn finally broke, and she
woke up with the twins tangled round her, quite peacefully.

“Let’s go down and make your
breakfast”, she said. “Yes, mummy”, they chorused.

They skipped downstairs to the
kitchen, where she went to the refrigerator to collect the milk for the breakfast. Taking the milk into the lounge with the girls, she stopped dead in her tracks.

In front of the wood burner was the red halter from the horse stall. It was wound round the neck of the twins favourite dolls, with a luggage tag attached.

The writing on the label read. “Love you, mummy”

J.Curzon Aug 2012

Chesed. (kindness) – one of the mainstays of our religion, also seen in other faiths who follow the same G-d.

Receiving Kindness

I have been overwhelmed by the kindness shown by this community. Too many very special people to name here, and it would not be fair to single out a few when a huge number of people have opened their hearts to help me.

Their acts of chesed are truly humbling and unbelievable. And not just centred around the platters of incredible cuisine which arrive with the punctuality of a Swiss train. But also people taking time to say prayers for healing and request a cure over the graves of very special people, saying tehillim at the Western wall in Jerusalem. Kindness is shown by people offering to come with me to appointments and offering to keep me chemo-company.

That’s without certain people helping me to nudge the Doctors into looking at more aggressive regimens – that will be coming next. For I will state here … I have no desire to just lie down and wait for the announcement over the station tannoy…..

….If there’s a Mrs Curzon in the station, could she please report to platform 13 for the last train leaving this World.

No, forget it. Id rather take my chances to survive on the risky operating table of On and On and On (back to Abba) and possibly survive, than sit in the waiting area for Under attack.

In amongst this I want to flag up a couple of kindnesses from outside the community, from people I know – to the majority of you – are anonymous strangers. And consequently I can give them their real names.

These are but a few of them……

Dani is a devout religious Romanian who is settled and works in London. We had been acquainted through his line of work and I had met his wife Esther and his daughters. We were to meet again in very unusual circumstances.

I travelled to Romania in 2015 with a close friend who lived near the border of Ukraine. It was a further hair-raising 7 hour trip by minibus from Cluj airport to her destination. On tne outward trip we travelled together – my friend, myself and my baby Juliette. On the return journey I was coming back just with Juliette and to be honest – I wasn’t looking forward to the alpine, twisting but seemingly endless journey by bus. At the last hour my friend told me she and her husband were taking us back to Cluj by car, which for them was going to be a 14 hour round trip. I tried to dissuade them but they insisted!!!

At the airport I checked in and wondered belatedly how I was going to manage the flight with a baby on my lap and speaking zero Romanian. Inside the terminal I couldn’t believe my eyes, chance had seen to it that our friend Dani was sitting in the waiting area and coming back on the same flight. G-d put us together and he was my maloch (Angel) to share the journey and assist me from time to time with Juliette.

Unfortunately his trip had not been a happy one:- his sister in law had just died from cancer and he was bringing his niece back to London. But we ensured that arrival at Heathrow we were able to bring him and his niece back to their destination. One good turn definitely deserves another.

As we have met up from time to time with Dani and his lovely family he has shown himself to be a real mensch. Who orders in Eli’s kosher pizza for your Jewish guests!

Isobel was a member of my choir around the time that Lindy [see Remembrance blog] was fatally injured. She was a retired orthopaedic nursing Sister, single, feisty and fiercely independent. She lived close to the kirk where I was organist, and sometimes I would go over to her flat and play some of her favourites pieces on her piano. She didn’t play herself, but would always dust it off and make a pot of tea whilst I played.

One evening I had cycled home from the Academy and a young boy had stepped off the pavement right in front of me. I had no time to swerve, and in braking, came over the handlebars, doing damage to both my bike but more importantly my arm. I was in agony, but after forcibly straightening up the handlebars so I could push it (quite a task with one functioning arm) I put the bike away and took a bus to the rehearsal. I buzzed her flat before the practice and apologised profusely for disturbing her at her evening meal. She looked at me and read the pain on my face.

“Now tell me what’s really happened. My dinner can wait”.

“Hmmmm. I think, well I guess I might have broken my arm….. Could you please take a look?”

“Young lady, this is definitely a fracture, and Im taking you up to A&E right now.”

Now bad enough me cancelling the practice, but I was due to play Rachmaninov Rapsodie on a Theme of Paganini in about 8 weeks. Having five absentee fingers in a work that virtuosic was not a good feeling.

I kept the cast on for 6 weeks, still tinkering with whatever free fingers I could reach from the edge of the cast, and continued to practise with my right hand, humming in the other bits plus orchestral part. Finally I had 2 more weeks to complete my rehearsals double handed, before playing in front of the Exam Board. We made it – only just!

I kept in touch with Isobel for over 20 years, visiting her when my travels took me near her part of the world. She ended her days in sheltered accommodation being looked after by a team of nursing staff. Im sure she kept them ship shape and Bristol fashion.

Elisabeth Jacobs was my piano lecturer at the Academy and under her incredible tutelage I flourished in my study of Russian repertoire. She was Australian, had studied in Russia, and finally settled in Glasgow. She was a classic example of a tutor who went the extra mile for her students. We – her students – were considered an elite bunch of pianists, but I think our enviable success had more to do with sheer dedication, her work ethic (hard work) and a positive self belief. I held her in great esteem and I later named one of my twins after her: Melody Elisabeth, twin to Harmony Sophie. Under Elisabeth’s rigorous instruction I was fortunate to win the prestigious Recital Prize and various other awards, including the Bach competition. I am often asked who I would take to my musical desert island, and in the absence of Gary Barlow being available (purely for duet writing, of course) it would be a close call between JS Bach and Sergei Rachmaninov. Not too sure how they’d get along if I brought them both.

Marc is an old friend, a talented and aspiring writer who I met through my children’s school. He has been a periodic guest but a true friend. If I were to need a kidney I don’t think he would hesitate to give one up. We struck up a friendship when he needed some support for his creative writing. Again the most unlikely of friendships can arise from a moment of generosity. Fortunately for him I am not in need of a kidney…..

Anita is a discreet professional friend who has helped me in a variety of ways. Ok – the truth is as a midwife she has been instrumental in making sure Harmony and Melody got the best antenatal care, and I would take them occasionally to her office to show them off. She has kept in touch all these years and she always went above and beyond. I will forever be indebted to her. x

Maxine & Leigh-Anne are two incredible sisters who i met totally by chance in a teaching capacity. They are both high level professionals in the field of medicine and dentistry respectively. Having discovered their talents and generosity of spirit, I count myself blessed to have them in my circle of friends. They have accompanied me to critical appointments and lent an empathetic ear to my very difficult situation. From South Africa – a country close to my heart – we share an understanding of a vibrant culture. To those of South African descent I also highly recommend Madam & Eve, a hilarious satirical cartoon view of an evolving and highly political country. As the adage would say…. you’d never believe it if you didn’t see it with your own eyes.

These two ladies are in a super-class of their own and I am privileged to know them.

My last child in the family – the last daughter of the sheva – was a very happy addition to the family, finally nudging the balance to 4:3 for the girls. Hana and Nikki were the professionals who ensured little Juliette made the duration of the course, start to finish. The staff at UCH were taking bets on how heavy she would be on arrival, as gestational diabetes was making her a reliable bet for a ‘heavyweight’. Hah! – she was a mere 8lb 8oz, and no-one took the prize money. We opted to have Harry Connick Jnr accompany her arrival by c-section, but Nikki was super-fast on the the scalpel and she was born before the end of (Marvellous night for a) Moondance. Highly unsettling from a musician’s perspective.

Ionela – an absolute Angel. This young lady has become an irreplaceable member of my family. Having met her some 9 years ago, she has been a rock and helper beyond comparison. In the same way she has kept my home running like clockwork, I have been there for her when the chips were down. We have also shared happy times and amongst these are fond memories of us sharing her wedding celebrations – in Romania. I would probably give my left arm for her, but from a purely selfish perspective I wouldn’t be able to play very well. So we’ll leave things the way they are.

Colin is one of my oldest, most long standing friends, and lives in Cleveland. We go back as far as our Glasgow University/ Academy days. He and I played concerts together and shared the same teacher for a couple of years. He came to our wedding and we keep in touch as the years move by.

He heard me mention last year the wonderful girls choir (MFS !) I train, and was sweet enough to send me the CD of Miami (boys choir) so i could indulge my passion for some dynamic repertoire.

Time may have marched on but our friendship was cut from granite and therefore will be ever enduring. We have always supported each other through ups and downs and share a similar intellectual foundation. Almost like an old married couple (although we are both married to other people) we think of the same jokes and appreciate the subtleties and nuances in politics, current affairs and the arts. Friendship transcends both Distance and Time.

Not everyone is capable however of showing kindness, and some individuals seem to have had an empathy bypass during their lives. Some – who may be reading this blog right now. Feelings of ambivalence about the author etc. Let’s be honest. Not everyone has to be my friend or be like-minded.

If you identify with that sentiment I ask you to please stop reading this, especially as we are aware G-d has no favourites, and anyone out there could wake up one morning, and discover they may share a similar fate. One day is all it takes. I don’t wish this on anyone, but I need journeymates fully on my team.

Showing kindness

From the age of about 8 I was often encouraged to bring my piano accordion to old folks homes, friends homes and the like, to entertain. Whilst my repertoire was initially by lack of experience limited, it expanded exponentially, such that I remember playing a top of the charts Bay City Rollers hit Bye bye baby to a captive audience (1975) and songs from the 2 world wars to the elderly in Homes for Ex-Servicemen. My great uncle (mentioned with the bullet hole in his shoulder in a previous blog) served his last days in such a place, surrounded by aged compatriots who doubtless sat around reminiscing about the halcyon days of their youth. I was also ‘volunteered’ to use my developing piano skills to accompany adult groups and operatic societies which was actually a very useful tool for sight-reading!

I remember us dragging the big portable grand piano up to Barnet Hospital children’s wards one xmas day to play carols and jolly children’s music for those unlucky enough to be spending their family time there, rather than at home. My twins came with me, aged almost 3, and danced around the wards with the other little ones, adorned in tinsel.

On two memorable sojourns to Beis Brocha (mother & baby home in Stamford Hill) I signed up for pampering after the arrival of Harmony/Melody and again with Juliette. We brought my keyboard in on motzei shabbat and gave the new mums a chance to sing a variety of Yiddish and Hebrew melodies. Achdus and Harmony – It was very special.

One lady – Elky – was so touched with a rhyme I made up spontaneously that she asked if I would write her a poem. She had beautiful little twins. Here it is:

Hashem gave me a miracle. That no-one could have guessed. He knew what lay deep in my heart, and told me I was blessed.

We davenned each in secret – to fill our hearts desire.
HE answered us with knowledge that of our wish He’d never tire

We knew this blue arrival – for which we truly strived, would see our menschlich family of four – becoming five

Our long awaited bochur
would make mishpacha thrilled, and our many trips to Homerton Showed our hopes were now fulfilled

My friend you see the derech, which none of us can know- that Hakodesh Boruch’Hu will give them parents who’ll really help them grow

How can I express my gratitude
To the one who rules the world? No empty words nor platitudes
His gifts we can behold!

My story’s at an end now
for indeed he gave us TWO !!!!These brochos from shomayim
Coloured pretty pink, and blue.

Babs was my adorable next door neighbour when I studied for my Masters degree. She had been war widowed 40 years previously and had no children. What she had was personality by the bucket. She would surreptiously keep an eye out for me [.. you were a bit late getting home last night..] to keeping me up to speed on my domestic duties [… you do a lot of hoovering, I notice]. I would pop in and see how she was most evenings, make sure she had eaten supper, and sometimes watched Coronation Street with her. She became an adopted grandma and we became firm friends. On her passing, I was the one who found her ‘asleep’ in bed, and called the doctor to pronounce. It was a sad day, and she was greatly missed.

In 1984 I travelled one day through to Edinburgh with my mother and on the return trip I distinctly recall approaching the train at Waverley station, and me coming to a sudden jarring halt.

“Let’s not get this one,” I said.

“Well it’s there, whyever not?” she said, mystified.

“I …. just…. think… we should get the next one. No special reason”.

I could not explain why I made that decision. We got the next train back but this one was diverted, taking a slower route.

When we got back that evening we were shocked to see on the local news that the 5.30 train from Edinburgh had been derailed with 13 fatalities and 60 injured. I always wonder if my mother realised I had possibly saved her life that day nearly 40 years ago. Just recently, and in the light of my unpleasant diagnosis it occurred to me that perhaps in a twist of fate, G-d had encouraged my hesitation, as a mechanism to actually extend my life. I guess we will never know! In a curious turn of events I now have a diagnosis of cancer. Perhaps my train is approaching the terminus…..

This blog is merely to show how little acts of kindness can truly change the world. I’m sure most people would be similarly public spirited and to all of you I express my thanks.

No music today.

In the great scheme of things I ask my creator to permit me a medical chink of hope, akin to sunlight peeping from between the clouds. I ask it not for my own sake, but in the merit of the many good deeds I have done or tried to do, throughout my life, and in the z’chus and merit of my dear little children.

Jacqueline x

Yippee – holidays will soon be approaching and my girls are giggling with excitement about where to go and what to do.

I think of holidays in the past which we planned, and for various reasons – out of my control – they went wrong.

There was the time I had an unexpected accident on an army assault course (save that for another blog), which led to me arriving in Switzerland for a walking holiday…. on crutches.

There was the time I tripped on a wonky path carrying books whilst working in a school, and subsequently went on our Eurostar break to Paris with a broken foot. The husband enjoyed his opportunity to borrow a wheelchair at our visit to the Louvre, and secure best vantage point by driving the wheelchair as if he was trialling for Grand Prix. “….’scuse me. Please let the lady in the wheelchair get closer. Thank you!” I was mortified!

There was the flight I recently took, only to discover – as we were walking to the aircraft – that the person I was going to visit was in hospital, and not allowed visitors.

So tell the truth. How many times have you successfully tried to extricate yourself from a currently boarding flight and get your luggage off? I managed it, but it was a horribly stressful experience.

There was the time I travelled on trust to a summer post, to work for a prestigious family in Switzerland. They promised to send the chauffeur to pick me up. By a complete fluke I climbed into a car with a similar looking gentleman, who looked mystified, but pleasantly surprised, until I looked hard at his face, realised my error and jumped out in a flash.

There was the time I took a minibus (referred to as a Black Taxi) in South Africa, and only after completing the journey as the only white passenger on board, realised the potential consequences of this misjudgement.

We have planned many holidays in our almost 23 years of marriage. Some perhaps more exciting (without or pre-kids); others less exciting perhaps, but most requiring the military precision of an International campaign. Did you ever take an under counter freezer in the back of your car, because the holiday rental said there was no freezer, and you are bringing everything including the kitchen sink? I guess we were a smaller family then as I can’t imagine where the children sat for the journey.

So the holidays are firmly in the mind of my younger children. Chanuka, Pesach and next Summer. You name it – they’ve considered it: Val d’Isere, Spain and Israel. Lovely.

I’m reticent to plan for a day to Brent Cross next week, next month, far less next year.

Hilarious that for all our married life our holidays have been confined to Sunny (!) Great Britain, where oftentimes we would spend some or all of it in a downpour. For a change I thought we might venture forth to the land of our forefathers and show the girls what Israel is all about.

For the older 3 children they’ve done Tour, so they don’t need a refresher course. For the middle child of our 7- Tour is not that far away, but for the younger girls it would be a nice introduction. Who wouldn’t like to visit Israel. These thoughts and tentative plans – Just before my life flew into a car crash.

Now I’m in a dilemma- wondering if we go, who might go in my place….. Not that I wish to be a damp squib, but 9 months feels more like 9 years at the moment. And this nasty invader doesnt give its opponents any right of appeal.

4:100 000 people will fall prey to p-c; Survival of 5 years is virtually unheard of, unless you are one of the very lucky 3:100 who can make it that far. Most residents have moved out in 4 – 8 months. Now I’m not a gambling person, but I’ll bet you anything you like Ladbrokes wouldn’t allow me to bet I could pick the short straw/ winning ticket, based on those odds.

Now my next big question is:- Who starts the SURVIVAL clock? And when? Is it….

1. when I know I have – excuse me Huston – got a problem?

2. When the Doctors wake up and smell the coffee?

3. When they’ve spilt the coffee (because they were sleeping) and start the clear-up?

Who defines time in these medical situations?

My view of the mechanism of time and space is ever shifting, or possibly breaking down, like a mirror shattered and now slowly falling to pieces. I thought time was regulated and we all followed the same clock.

Minutes and Hours now seem to cross over against a backdrop of ^normality^ – the daily ringing of phone calls showing private number on the caller display (usually one of the hospitals or Chai cancer care) or other appointments.

You find your body is going at one speed (presumed to be normal) but your mind is going at a frantic pace (tipping your heart into arrhythmia and turning off the processing capacitor in your brain).

You look at everyday things completely differently, almost on a subliminal level;

– the falling autumn leaves – and wonder if you’ll be around to watch them fall next Autumn.

– you suddenly notice things which have always been around, but you never paid any attention. And no, I’m not referring to your children.

And each week I feel something new is emerging- a stronger pain or pressure; a pain which wasn’t there before. You wonder if the rotten, sneaky little malignancy has it’s foot pinned down firmly on the accelerator.

Can I send the stationmaster in to remonstrate? What about the unions (the tefillos of our community); the Judges – NO not the ones from Strictly. I refer to the malochim who are presently weighing up my good deeds and bad….

Gosh, if I’d know I would be facing death at this relatively young age, I’d have invested more time in myself and the kids. Sobering, but so very true.

But, of course, we none of us know when our time is coming.

You wonder what reaching the terminus will be like?

Will the train simply slow down and judder to a halt, or will it chug along at its usual pace and suddenly run out of diesel; or will it develop a nasty mechanical fault and be consigned to the scrapyard where it might be considered for spare parts only.

Death per se, should scare none of us, for it is the only certainty and inevitable conclusion to life. However getting a letter in the mail, inviting you to such an occasion, write your bucket list, create your hesped or plan the ‘to do’ list, is an altogether different mental challenge.

Now, back to holidays. I have always wanted to visit New York – maybe because it brings to mind a well known Sinatra number.

Maybe because musicals and theatres are scattered around like pebbles on a beach? (or in my imagination they are). Maybe because there are so many Yidden and eateries to accommodate the diverse Jewish palate.

But now – even if I would go, the ticking bomb and the cycles of chemo may interfere with my hopes and anticipation of a jolly good outing.

Today’s plans include a trip to hospital to insert an IV line as prep for chemo. Fun.

Anyone interested in coming up to keep me company on future hospital visits and hear More tales of the unexpected? Let me know!

In the interim I think I might as well plan a trip to the moon.

Jacqueline x

Always the bridesmaid, never the bride.

Well, not strictly accurate because as we all know I got married once. And before any jokers out there ask about any plans for a re-run, i think that’s distinctly unlikely. The cost today is mind boggling.

But I digress. Why Cinderella?

Maybe my domestic roles of cleaning, cooking (!), doing laundry and dishes has triggered a memory of a previous life I spent, sitting amongst the cinders in my younger days.

When I graduated as a 20 something, I found myself in a year with no formal plans. One of my university friends had taken on a vacation job working as a chef to some wealthy clients. Now I may not be MasterChef material but I was by then suitably equipped to create passable menus and manage domestic duties. Or so I thought.

I contacted the agency my friend had used and they were very happy to add me to their books. I was willing to do any reasonable domestic type of work.

Now for anyone who enjoys the following light hearted- but truthful – account of this journey: let me direct you to the following hilarious reads by Monica Dickens

One pair of hands

One pair of feet

Moving on, then…….

My first post was to look after a very lovely 80 year old lady, who lived in Kemnay (Berkshire) and was widowed. She had suffered a stroke but had a sharp intellect and a great sense of humour. I would drive her to the local market shop and we would menu plan. I was effectively her Jeeves and every morning I would greet her with a smile and her breakfast tray. She was like a fairy grandmother, and we forged a connection which lasted a long time. In fact I was recalled to her on a second occasion. She even came many years later with her son and daughter in law, to our Wedding

I worked for a Lord & Lady in the Midlands. I will be careful here for my limited research shows they still operate as a business, and I would not wish to publicly embarrass them. Therefore i will avoid mentioning their line of business.

The Lady was crazy. The Lord was calm. On arrival I was asked if I knew how to pack a trunk for boarding school. How hard could it be, I asked myself?

I soon found out. With no Alexa or Google to ask, I just had to make a bold start. It was evident within the first 90 seconds that I hadn’t done it before, so she snatched things from my hands and did it herself. This was one of my longer placements and I actually survived a month. Several memories of this stand out.

I was allowed one day a week off, but on the condition I did the work planned for that day, spread throughout the other days. ! This meant I often worked from 6am until 11pm . Boy was she a scary person. For this placement I earned a princely £25 a day.

There were 3 grades of everything, be it bed linen, crockery, quarters or food. Eg

1. Guest level (pristine bone china)

2. Family & Friends (regular Tesco style tableware)

3. Slave level (broken and chipped mugs, often with missing handles etc)

I suppose the china for group 3 had graduated through group 2 and finally reached the sub-class.

It was certainly not a joke. I had my quarters up in the attic floor, with a rickety metal framed bed. Old, torn (but clean) linen. There was a tiny heater which she turned off if she noticed it was on. A bedside table which was stained and peeling and memorably a broken lamp and a loud ticking bomb of a clock. Guess she didn’t want us being late on duty.

It was quite cringeworthy and I had to clean the room before I could sleep there. To be honest, it didn’t look as if it was often inhabited.

I was instructed to walk the dogs each day. Now that is a task I welcomed. An animal lover, the fresh air was going to be pleasant. Oh, hold on a moment. She needed to show me how to walk the dogs (one of which was an infirm and somewhat decrepit labrador)

“Come with me!” she ordered.

We got in the car and drove down to the gate. “Now we’ll just let the dogs out here….”

“Now, all you have to do is drive very slowly up the drive to the back entrance of the house.”

Job done. This was about 1/4 of a mile dog walk. So the dogs limped along, next to my borrowed ailing CV4.

We went shopping one day to one of the major towns nearby. Whilst she was doing something important, she told me to join the queue and put something on her account. I joined the queue which made slow progress. I was nearly at the front when she returned and spoke very severely to me.

“What on earth are you doing, girl?”

“I’m in the queue as you requested.”

“No, my dear you misunderstand: you go straight to the front of the queue! Lady X does not queue.”

I looked at her, totally aghast.

“Oh dear”, i said, thrusting her purchases into her hands.

“You better do it then, because I am not Lady X.”

On another occasion before supper she instructed me to make some potatoes with dinner. “They’re in the sunroom at the conservatory,” she says.

I go through and look, but see nothing. I come back and tell her this. “Don’t be stupid, of course they are there.”

I go back and find some soft disintegrating potatoes in a hessian sack. More shoots than the Afghan conflict. Absolutely nauseating.

She walks up behind me. “when you mash them, theyll be just fine.”

I saw frugality on a scale which was inversely proportionate to their apparent wealth and status.

St Mary’s (Calne) boarding school was definitely charging hefty fees if we had to eat bad vegetables.

On another occasion she asked me to join them for dessert at dinner. There was a platter of uncut fruit. I took a nectarine, and promptly took a bite. She stared at me as if i had uttered an obscenity….

I stopped eating. Looked at her quizzically?

“Has no-one ever taught you how to eat fruit with a knife and fork?!”

She proceeded to show me, but believe me: this really does take practise.

She was more than a tad volatile and took no prisoners, and after a few weeks there, you started to feel like you were in Stalag 19.

Whilst I was probably early-mid 20s, she was in her 40s and a raging menopausal monster. Even her husband – a very level and genteel individual – seemed quite resigned and even scared of her.

There was an incident where she took a break (nice for her, nicer for us !) and left instructions that we had joint responsibility for looking after the giant sunflowers which were on the front (and seldom frequented) entrance to the mansion.

It was a lovely summer and we enjoyed the peace and quiet.

The day before she was due to return, the Lord rushed in, in a very distressed state. I thought something had happened to one of their children. But no, it was a sunflower emergency. We ran to the grand entrance with the stone steps grandly leading to the impressive gardens. We looked….

They had held on with superb dignity, but were finally succumbing to heatstroke. 🌻

Neither of us laughed.

“Oh God, she’ll kill me”, he said sotto voce. It was now in the hands of G-d.

We watered them, we talked to them and we prayed. By some divine intervention they recovered sufficiently from the apparent DNR and were just about standing when her Ladyship returned.

She noticed – of course she did!

I confided in Mary the housekeeper, who told me Lady X suffered from nerves, and we liaised my leaving logistics with Steven the chauffeur. I told them i was going to go bonkers if I stayed much longer. We devised an escape plan.

I told the husband it was now unsustainable, and I would have to leave. He sighed.

“No one stays”, he stated simply. “She’ll go mad”.

“That” – I said – “is exactly where the problem is”.

Gritting my teeth, I went to deliver my request for release. She was absolutely seething.

“I have a good mind not to pay you at all”. I suspect she hesitated only because she would then be in breach of contract. Crikey, she had definitely not been keeping up-to-date on her employment law. And reader, do flip back to my princely wage…..

“You will make sure your room upstairs is perfect before you leave”.

I turned to face her (bravely but scared nonetheless)

“How dare you”. I said.

” This room was filthy when I got here, and even now is in better condition than when I arrived”.

She marched off.

I had the chauffeur drop me back at the local railway station. I sighed as I went to the counter.

“Single to London please”.

“Gosh”, the ticketmaster said. “you look like you’ve just escaped from prison”.

“I feel as if I have. I have been working for Lord and Lady X”

From behind the counter came uproarious laughter from his colleagues.

…and how long did you last?” he enquired, still laughing.

“One month.”

“Well, that’s longer than any of the others!” he said, wiping tears from his eyes.

footnote: now that I have passed the age of the Lady described above, I completely understand her emotional roller-coaster. Hormone Hell. But one needs to build parameters, a safety net for outsiders. And that she failed to do.

Other placements saw me going as the xmas elf to a family in Hampshire, where – along with several other hired hands – we were catering for 17 additional stay over guests. Hooray! They were very Hoo-ray.

The house was a square built beautiful Georgian building with elegant grounds. The visitors were on the first and second floors, and were accommodated in luxury which I could only dream of.

Two memories stand out (be fair- this was 25+ years ago) – one was of an introduction. 🎓

The family told us that Master James would be coming home for the holiday, and I recall feeling quite amused by the deferential term of address. I thought he must be some aristocrat or family member of note. When he arrived one morning I was on my knees, trying to set a coal fire in the study. I was looking a bit filthy with coal dust, but was getting better at it every day.

So he saunters into the room, ignores me (I am afterall – a mere skivvy. Glamourous, but a skivvy nonetheless). He looks as if he’s fresh out of school

As he walks to the window I say “Good morning, James” ; he stops in his tracks, presumably affronted by my apparent lack of respect.

I continue. “I hear you’re studying at Aberdeen University:

“Yes” he replies. I turn back to the fire, which is now starting to take flame.

“Great place, Aberdeen. What you studying there, if i may ask?”

“Im doing a BA degree”, he replies, proudly.

Standing up, and preparing to go back to the kitchen, I finally bid him farewell by concluding…

“…yup, great Uni. I’ve just finished my Master’s degree there.”

He had never considered that a real life Cinderella might just be a budding Lecturer-in-disguise. (i later took a post lecturing overseas)

It was a very funny moment. He thawed perceptibly after this introduction.

the other memory was helping make xmas dinner. 🎁

This was a monumental task, with buckets of food to prepare. We are talking here of a meal for about 30 guests. Im not going to lie and say ! made some gastronomic delights. I was only the Cinderella, I got to prep the vegetables, make the beds and run errands. I can only tell you sitting in front of an Aga and trimming about 5 kilos of Brussel sprouts all but put me off them for life. I thought I’d be still doing them the next day.

On the other hand, setting the table was a very satisfying task. Beautiful silver cutlery, sparkling crystal glasses (so many per setting that I can’t remember how many there were). Spode dinner service and of course, all set with military precision. Now i knew what it must be like in service at Buckingham Palace. The piece de resistence was…… the Cracker.

No mere Tesco or even John Lewis affair, complete with party hat and whistle. This was a serious purchase. It was absolutely stunning – the staff were each given one…. I seem to vaguely recall – mine had a miniature silver photoframe. Or something of that ilk. Sigh. The wealthy sure knew how to party.

The washing up was of necessity all hand done and we were careful to avoid any breakages. Job well done.

Haha – huge though it was, they would have no idea how many we set for at Seder or extended Shabbat dinners

I spent most of a year doing these jobs; worked as a Nanny for a delightful companion to a young brother and sister for a couple who were in the designer knitwear industry. Also worked for a person who owned stables. Lots of variety

Not all went smoothly in the life of the Cinderella however.

I was booked for a job in Golders Green, and had to take the train down from Aberdeen. Unfortunately the train was running very late. The payphone on the train wasn’t working, and of course no-one back then had mobile phones, so I had no way of contacting the client en route and advising of my delay. I was getting frantic by the time I arrived at Kings cross.

I took an underground to GG and raced to the lady’s house. A very shocked looking lady opened the door. Oh, I thought you weren’t coming so I called the Agency.

…. I stood on the step, foreboding what would be said next.

“They’ve booked someone else for me now” (someone from London as it happened) she said, apologetically.

When I rang the Agency, they said abruptly, you didn’t arrive on time, so you can just go home now. That was a horrific way to treat a person, and so was as a consequence my last posting with this company.

I tell my kids there’s literally no job I haven’t done, so when I ask them to brush the loo or straighten a bed, we’ve all been there and we got the t-shirt.

Hope you enjoyed my reminisces.

Jacqueline x

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old: Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.

At the going down of the sun and in the morning, We will remember them.”

Laurence Binyon

Remembrance Sunday.

A time to reflect and think of those who have gone before us. Principally referring to those who fought at arms in the Great War (boy, what a misnomer that was) and the other sobering global conflicts, it is a sombre day which we are duty bound to honour.

I think of a great-uncle who used to playfully tell us of the (large) bullet hole in his shoulder, in WW1. He was proud of his war wound, but always reluctant to talk about his war experiences. He signed himself up aged 14, and used to say all the boys who went to the front were just cannon fodder. That was dreadful to hear

I think of my great-uncle who died as a result of respiratory cancer from mustard gas poisoning, following his return from the front in WW2. His nerves shot to bits, and perpetually sick and ill, he had no time to recover from his battle trauma, far less inclination to find a bride and hope for a family.

Then there was my uncle who fought in the second world war. He said it was huge joke. – most of his platoon were given shoddy boots (lots of trench feet) and even broomsticks to use as weapons because there weren’t enough rifles to go round. He would tell me stories that were more ‘Allo ‘Allo and Dad’s Army than serious manoeuvres with well equipped and trained soldiers. And all of them had to put their lives on hold whilst hostilities took precedence. This uncle got married to my Aunt on his return in 1945 but by then they were slightly too old to have a family.

Of course we have other non-combatants to remember. I have lost some friends over the years, variously – and often predictably – to Cancer.

But others have been taken in more unexpected circumstances.

I will tell you now about my friend Lindy. She was a recently married member of my Choir. I was the organist & choirmaster to a group of 20 – 50 somethings. I was 20 and Lindy was 26.

This was during the 80s around the inception of the ‘new technology’ of the CD. Out with the cassette tape and in with the new.

She and her husband had come to a performance of Dido and Aeneas*, a baroque opera, at the Academy where I was studying. We all sat in the theatre and watched, riveted. It was divine.

The music is simple, beautiful and with enormous emotional pull. There is a Lament in the opera where the heroine is about to die a rather predictable but noble death, in true Trojan tragic style. In dying she is leaving behind a loved one.

From a musical point of interest the Lament is sung over a ground bass; a descending scale played on a cello, the pattern repeating throughout the changing melody.

When I am laid, am laid in earth

may my wrongs create no trouble, no trouble in thy breast

Remember me, remember me, but ah! forget my fate

song (אישה) …..

There is also an interesting online version sung by Alison Moyet.

(There – now you all understand what a ground bass is) 🎻

I presented Lindy with a CD of this opera on her birthday one Sunday afternoon and she played it on her stereo. As the Lament concluded she said, randomly … “if anything ever happens to me you must play that at my funeral.” “Wow”, her husband said, “let’s hope not”. They both laughed.

10 days later I had the misfortune to have to play at her funeral. She had been travelling in a car with 2 others and they were involved in an accident in torrential rain on one of the major motorways. All 3 in the vehicle were killed instantly.

At her funeral I played both the Lament and With drooping wings which concludes the opera.

Exquisite, pure and with a musical pathos seldom heard in the modern repertoire. It has haunted me ever since.

Her husband never recovered from this sudden departure and I never forgot her or the conversation from a few weeks earlier. I went up to continue my studies for a Master’s degree, and I recall being very traumatised by this personal disaster, even though she was not a direct relative.

Lindy will never grow old, like many, many gone before and after her. And I am very cognisant that – even if I beat this malignant invading predator for a while – I will doubtless grow not old either.

Jacqueline x

* based on Book IV of Virgil’s Aeneid, music composed by Henry Purcell (English) 1688

def… (Italian) moderately slow

I realise that in my struggle to process this devastating illness I am frequently jumping to the end. And doing so at a furious pace.

What if..? how will we/ he/ they ..? who will do…?

All the business arrangements one would usually make for going on an extended trip. But hey, this is no trip with an open return. This is a one way ticket. On a journey lasting an indefinite length.

My conversation with the ticket master starts up again. Me? no! – I don’t have a reservation. It must be a misunderstanding. (Denial)

Because with denial comes a plea for mitigation, for annulment of the sentence. Or hope at least for a commutation.

Yesterday I felt a rising panic, real fear. Partly due to my pending biopsy which is finally happening tomorrow after a protracted and farcical delay by the NHS. (More of that on a different blog page.) Partly because now its written on paper, in black and white, and it is indisputable.

I attach here a Prelude by Scriabin (Op11/4) which captures the reflective mood of beautiful Siberian landscapes. A moment of tranquillity….

So, after a conversation with a chivalrous white knight last evening, I realise I really have to slow down the tempo and try and stop looking into the unknown.

Easier said than done, especially if you like to be organised. I force myself to sit back and look at what I have which is current and lovely.

First and foremost : I’m alive (!) I have a beautiful family, and critically have the support of an incredible team: school staff & community, friends, shul, and all of them are gunning for me. They too want this nasty predator to be gone.

And until my last breath I also have my music. I don’t know if everyone is the same in this, but I have music playing (full tracks not melody lines) in my head constantly. Makes it a piece of cake to sit and improvise but also makes it tricky during Omer and the 9 days, but let’s keep that under wraps.

…. so back to the definition at the beginning. We change songs here to Andante, andante. written by Abba in 1980

I am your music and I am your song.
Play me time and time again and make me strong

I’ve been very privileged to have an incredible meal rota set up, and this has taken the drama out of what to make, especially as I have a very poor appetite. To all those out there keeping my family looked after, and me tempted (!) to eat I say a huge and sincere Thank You.

On the topic of food…

This disease is a big appetite killer. And I mean even before you find out you’ve got it.

You might think you’re doing well on your diet? Hahaha – you’ve been on it for ages and now you can easily suppress those hunger/ chocolate/ carb cravings. (tick)

You think you might just be a tad depressed, and therefore not eating, because of some negative life or work situation. (yup, I can tick those too).

Actually its your pancreas hosting a party for malignant cell mates to which you didn’t send out invites.

You might have intermittent gripping stomach pains, and again you may attribute this to stress, bad diet, last night’s takeaway. It could be any or all of these, but it could be something decidedly more ominous.

Subtle inconsequential details which individually you might choose to ignore, but in combination are a reason to get down to your GP and get checked out. FAST. With more chance of a 50k win on the Lottery than getting p-c this is one to be very aware of.

Tonight I’m taking my girls to a wedding in Stamford Hill. The eldest daughter of someone I’ve known for about 25 years, since she (mother of the kallah) was 14 years of age. And I was young, single and fancy free. It will be a beautiful evening.

It will also be an emotional occasion because the kallah’s grandparents have also known me forever. My family Rav. And for many years they have lived in Israel, but flying in for the chuppa and sheva brochos. So, it may be the last time we meet.

I must go now. But I will drive carefully, Andante – of course!

Jacqueline x

….. so why pick this for a blog title?

I love the music of ABBA and I grew up singing and playing it back in the late 70s and 80s. Even when I completed my professional training I never stopped loving it, and like many Abba fans out there, we knew the songs were show stoppers LONG before anyone dreamt up Mamma Mia – the Musical.

This song has always been a particularly poignant one. The original is decidedly less sentimental than Mr Bond’s film version, and considerably more gritty whilst being very moving.

It sums up all the pain of longing, searching and – despite best efforts – reaching an unhappy outcome.

For the real live Abba band their lives were the canvas on which their songs were painted. For me, I feel I couldn’t have done more in this life to try and spread love, light, laughter and music. 🎶

So it seems fitting to declare that there’s no hurry any more, when all is said and done.

I’m in no hurry to reach the destination currently showing on the departures board. I plan to stay in the station and argue with the ticket-master. Of course!

And now I end my blog with a little music. This is the ‘real me’, the one you may have seen running choirs, assemblies, concerts. Now playing for you all from my heart. I have a repertoire which is truly cosmopolitan. Sometimes it may be classical and sometimes not. If this causes any offence I am sorry but will not apologise. I have been a musician all my life and this is what defines me.

In this unexpected journey I let the music speak.

Jacqueline x

Dear Reader

I plan to share my journey on this “unexpected diversion”. As I had already started writing an autobiographical account for my children (nothing to do with my recent unsettling news) I may share bits and pieces of that here and there. It will lend a bit of perspective to my life, so far.

Where necessary names will be altered, although I’m sure most characters will be unrecognisable to you as my life journey has taken me over many cities, several continents and quite a few decades.

If you like my writing, laced with Black Adder and a dash of Sparkling Cyanide, please stay with me. If you do not like my style of writing or fighting spirit, please concede defeat and read no more.

This is akin to a battle, a sortie – unexpected, unwelcome and by all accounts medically unforgiving. But it is not of my invitation for I choose my guests more carefully !

I will share with you my ups and downs, I ask to be allowed to make you smile or let you cry. Although we may travel along this road together, it seems I may be compelled to continue to an unwelcome destination. I will do my utmost to avoid that. Of course!

Jacqueline x

November 2018