Category: Bloggery

Several people have asked why the Facebook absence, why Stella and I are not available, why we have had to cancel various events or are just not making any plans. This is why.

The past few days I’ve found myself saying to numerous people on the phone and in person, my dad’s dying. He’s been dying for some weeks now and I find myself in a weird place, surreal, away from my usual life, unable to write or do anything that doesn’t involve a district nurse, palliative care, carers, a catheter and morphine. And I hate it. I didn’t bargain on my dad dying from secondary cancer in the cruellest way, lying in a hospital bed in the dining room of my parents’ house. The room where they started their business, first an office and twenty five years later their dining room. It seems fitting that he should end his days in a room that has provided much happiness and food and celebration. I thought he’d have a quick death, die of a heart attack, one minute here, the next gone, that’s what we all want for our loved ones. But we mostly don’t get what we want. Mostly we get the unexpected phone call in the night.

Right now I’m sitting in front of my Abba, dad, abbale, Jackson. It’s the only way I can write this, because every time I leave the room he calls for me. I’ve left my south London home, left my darling wife, who is still in recovery from a cancer recurrence and a recent biopsy on her arm, my cat who provides me with joy, and our house, which is going through its own loft conversion turmoil, but that will have a fantastic outcome. I’ve left all of that to be here. My dad is currently talking, sense and no sense and intermittent shouting about wanting to die and can we end it all for him and a repetition of words which are never formed into finished sentences, like a David Mamet play. I quite like the nonsense, how he taps the table with his scratch backer, asks to be sat up, to be moved up and then down and then up and then down and then moved to the side and hold me tight, hold me tight. It’s hard physical work, hard when I know he has bone cancer and I am terrified of breaking something or hurting him. And watching my mum hold him tight makes me cry. Up down up higher higher hold me tight enough enough I can’t take it.

My compassion is filled with anger and resentment. I want my life back, I want to be able to look after Stella, I want to be in my own home. I want my dad to die so that he, and we can have some peace. I never thought I’d say those words, I want my dad to die, but I do. Watching him suffer like this is unbearable. My unbearable threshold is pretty high, but this has pushed me to the limit. Our ‘conversations’ go something like this.

Dad. Shelley, end it, take me away, lift me up to heaven.

Me. I can’t dad, I can’t kill you.

Dad. Why not?

Me. Because I’ll end up in Holloway prison.

Dad. So what?

Yes, I am going to write the play, because it has to be written, because among the suffering there is great humour and tenderness and silence and all that I cared about I don’t care about and so many people have been through this and worse.

My mum is astounding. Bashing at chicken pieces to make schnitzel for dinner. Last night we ate dad’s mattar paneer frozen and to be defrosted in time of need. Thanks dad. Thanks for all the food and love and wisdom and laughs. Your version of Madame Butterfly will always be the best.

Dad was a self sufficient, energetic 86 year-old. Yes, he’s old. His dying is very different to my sister’s. He’s had loads of operations, the last a heart valve replacement some years ago. His pig’s valve is doing very well in his kosher heart, but his liver is not so great. He used to do everything for himself, looked after my mum, looked after all of us, never sat down except to eat, and even that he did with the enthusiasm of ravenous youth. He used to drive and buy fruit and veg for everyone, actually he never bought it. He has a deal with the grocers around the corner. They park in his driveway, thereby not needing a business permit, and in return he gets fruit and veg for free. It’s an unspoken agreement. Manuel from the grocers’ shop arrives with green bags full of produce. My mum says, will they still let me have fruit when your father is no longer here?

He has carers coming in four times a day, two carers each time, not one of them is English. Take that UKIP. They are hard workers and love my mum and dad. And when they are here at 8.30 I run up to the shower, make myself fresh, then mum and I have breakfast. And when they return at 1, we have lunch, and at 5 we have a break and at 8 we have dinner. And so it goes on. We fit our meal times around them, because it means someone is always with dad. My mum hugs and kisses them and thanks them. It is exhausting and frustrating. He wants to die, he calls to his mother in Hebrew to take him. And there is nothing we can do. My sister’s death was bad enough, but this is horrendous. He’s in a kind of living purgatory, not getting out of bed, dozing and waking and shouting and dozing again and calling my name, calling my mum, Esther or my nephew Eyal or my niece Gal or my cousin Cheryl. We four take it in turns to be with mum and dad. One person cannot be here for more than 3-4 days because it is too hard, upsetting, draining. Friends and family members drop in, but dad doesn’t want to see everyone. His undignified death is not how he would want it to be. He would want to go out with a bang, a great big colourful bang, instead he is like a sparkler that never runs out of spark, that sizzles and lights up but is never fully lit. I wish I could dampen that sparkler, but I cannot. So I continue to do what needs to be done.

Making calls to my father’s rubbish GP surgery takes all the energy I have. Then there are the incorrect prescriptions, the bank that give me problems trying to gain power of attorney because now I am in charge of the house, of my parents’ house. Stella had to come over with my passport and my sister’s death certificate so I could go to the bank and sort this out. She, with her own post surgery stress, her work and our house to look after. I miss her. I miss my life. I miss my friends.

There are people who are kind, the carers who come four times a day, who my mother thanks and hugs. The night carer who sits with my dad from 10pm – 7am, so that we can sleep. He has had three night carers, gentle women who have had their own suffering. I am curious, I ask them questions about why they do this job and they tell me. One, at 18 lost both her parents in Somalia. Rita, who is dad’s current Ugandan nighttime carer, lost her mother to spinal cancer. She tells stories of her mother having 8 children, of being in the fields all day, of pain early on and then cancer and death. And all of this while I am in the house I grew up in, Golders Green, north London. Golders Green is full of orthodox Jews, buzzing during the week and silent from sunset on Friday night to sunset on Saturday. I like it best then. I crave the quiet. I love that I can drop round the corner and buy falafel; at home round our corner is rice and peas. I love rice and peas. I love the cake shop and have to stop myself indulging in sweet sickly pastries.

Dad is quiet now. I gave him a diazepam. He was fractious and distressed. Now he sleeps peacefully, mostly. Intermittent calls to ‘hold me Shelley’ and ‘water,’ allow me to write. And I am loving writing. I miss making it up as I go along. Mostly it’s made up for me, with dad calling and doorbells and the phone ringing. And sometimes the doorbell brings loveliness, their kind religious neighbour, Rifka, a mother of five, who wears a wig and sober clothes, and me in jeans and t-shirt and hoodie, my purple converse blending with the plants along the wall. Rifka offers help, gives us meatballs, chicken and noodles. Strangely I have been craving meatballs and chicken with noodles all day. You have five children, I say. So what, she says. If you need to go out I can sit with your parents. And I know she means it.

Dipti from the post office came to say goodbye, and Manuel from the grocer’s shop cried when he said goodbye to dad. And the women from the bread shop ask about him, and the women in the chemist sighed when I said my dad is dying. Dad has a lot of women in his life. Despite his sickness, his charm still filters through.

So this is where I am. Where I have been, where I will continue to be until he goes to his daughter and parents and little brother. I have told him that he will leave one lot of love to go to another lot of love. He asks me how I know. I know, I say, I know.

Tonight I will drive home and stay home and return next week, dropping in to see them on Sunday, because the break will be too long. And while I am driving, I will remind myself, as I do every day, of how lucky I am, how lucky we are, to have the support and money and NHS to help us. To have the privilege of being with my dad when he is dying, to hear him speak to the carers in Arabic and Italian, his pronunciation perfect. He voices his suffering in Italian very well. When I asked him this morning what an egg was in Hebrew, because I couldn’t remember, he told me.

This morning he asked me to scratch his foot, to rub his foot. Rab it. Rab it. Not a rabbit but a rub it, he said. Rub it. Clever dad. Dying dad. My dad.

Okay, so my latest rant is about the selfies women are posting on Facebook and Twitter without wearing any make up. This is what I said yesterday on my wife’s Facebook page –

‘It’s a gimmick, I detest selfies, what next? Now people are posting ‘selfies’ of their pets for cancer awareness (can your pet REALLY take a selfie?) BE AWARE OF CANCER FOR WHAT IT IS NOT WHAT IT ISN’T. And I know I am being affected because of my wife and my father and countless members of my family and friends who have died – but I honestly think a selfie of a woman without make up undermines the hell cancer patients go through. If you want to make people aware of the chaos it causes, physically, emotionally, mentally, go see the people who have it, hear their pain (my dad in hospital bashing himself to try to stop the excruciating nerve pain), or the damage it has caused Stella, a wound that mostly will not heal, or the face of one of my friend’s fathers, from jaw cancer – look at the reality, the awfulness, and then become aware – the truth is that a woman without make up is still pretty compared to the harsh reality that cancer often leaves in its wake – and people don’t want reality…they want pretty. Well in my experience CANCER IS NOT PRETTY.’

My dad called late last night. For those who don’t know, my dad, Jack, has metastatic cancer (that means it’s spread) in his lower spine, pelvis, liver and liver lining. We don’t know where the primary cancer is, we will probably never know. His time is limited. But he was in pain last night, he has been in enormous pain, extreme, unbelievable, unbearable pain. That is the effect cancer can have on patients. I can only imagine how he feels. I can also only imagine how my wife Stella feels. She’s been cut and stitched in a recent breast cancer recurrence, and six weeks on from surgery, her breast wound would make most people I know cringe, cup their hands over their mouths, turn away, or just stare in disbelief. Because (much as I don’t care what it looks like, she is my wife, I love every piece of her, wounded or whole, but she cares, it is happening to her body, she has to deal with it every second of every day), that is the reality of what cancer does. It’s not about pretty pictures of pretty women without make up. It’s about something entirely different, it’s about life and death, about knowing you’re going to die but not when (yes, that could be applied to all of us), but cancer (just like other life threatening illnesses) brings that whole process forward with alarming speed. I’ve just been on the phone to the north London hospice, to sort my dad’s pain management and I have had to hold back the tears, because I have a good idea of what’s coming and it feels me with fear and sadness. I went through this with my sister, the thought that I will go through it with my dad is a tough one.

When I see pictures of women without make up, taken specifically for breast cancer awareness, my natural and immediate response is, ah, but you still look beautiful. Anyone else have the same response? I don’t think I’m supposed to think that. It doesn’t make me more cancer aware, in fact all it does is confirm that in my opinion, no make up is really lovely. Those who know me, know that I often go out without make up, I only wear it for events, parties, when I want to (not need to) look glossy. But I really like the natural look. I don’t get a reward for not wearing make up practically every day, nor should I. People don’t look at me and think…ah, no make up, she’s trying to convey something about breast cancer. Not wearing make up has NOTHING to do with breast cancer (wife, cousins and countless friends), bowel cancer (sister), lung cancer (father-in-law and brother-in-law), fallopian tube cancer (another cousin), bone and liver secondary cancer (father), brain tumour (friend), kidney cancer (cousin and friend) ovarian cancer (friends), lymphoma (friend), mouth/jaw cancer (friend’s dad), another rare cancer which affected our neighbour’s father, the result – his leg was amputated. If you saw the physical and emotional effects of all these cancers on all these people, you’d realise that selfies are no more than self promotion, people saying LOOK AT ME WITHOUT MAKE UP, whether they mean to say that or not. If you want to do something, do something real.

I admit that the walk I took part in a few weekends ago, the walking I will be doing for CARE, the swim for SPORT RELIEF, are actually about ME, albeit me doing something for a cause. If I really wanted to help I would volunteer my services in a cancer charity shop (or any other charity shop), give my time to those who need it – as any one of us could do, and some probably already do, rather than putting selfies on Facebook without make up. To make matters worse, all the selfies I have seen are accompanied with trepidation…how could I possibly let you see what I look like without make up. See how brave I am? Well you’re NOT brave. See how it becomes about how brave you are, rather than the cause you hope to raise awareness for.

Everyone wants to do something, our friends have rallied round, they have actioned their need to make a difference, they have not taken photos of themselves, they have not put themselves in the spotlight. As another friend said on Facebook, if you want to do something, offer to drive people, cook for them, take them for a coffee, sit with the patient while their wife/husband/sons and daughters can go out and spend some time for THEM, away from illness and all that comes with it. Putting up selfies does nothing, other than say, we can look beautiful without make up. CANCER IS NOT BEAUTIFUL.

Anyway, we’ve all been taking pictures of ourselves for YEARS, and now that someone has named them selfies it has suddenly become a new and fashionable activity. Unfortunately all the selfies are of women, because generally men don’t tend to wear make up, but that’s a whole other blog which I will save up and let out in a balloon of rage at a future date.

I’m adding this, because someone posted about my blog, and mentioned men and Movember and growing a moustache. This is my response:

‘…generally, men are so far behind (IMO) talking about most things let alone illness, God knows most of the more mature (70+) women I know who had cancer, couldn’t bring themselves to say the word, Cancer, until recently. So if men become more aware of their health and what could affect them, then good. But Movember is about growing a moustache for the whole of November, it’s not about taking a photo of yourself without something that society deems women must/should do in order to look like…women. (V garbled…) I’m delighted at the ££ the campaign has received, but such a shame it takes photos of women without make to make that awareness happen…how about women go without makeup for a month…every day…that would work for me. Any takers?

That’s what everyone has said when I’ve told them that last week, my darling, 86-year-old dad, the most energetic, generous, stubborn, life-loving man I know, has been diagnosed with secondary cancer on his lower spine, about as close to his nerves as it could get. And this comes a month after Stella’s cancer surgery when she is still recovering, when she is still scared and healing her weeping wounds. I think some of our friends and family probably have compassion fatigue. But I’d rather people said ‘I don’t know what to say,’ than say nothing at all.

Jack, my dad, has been unwell for several months. Visits to the GP, who prescribed pills and more pills, an osteopath recommended by his GP, all of us wanting him to have an MRI, even the osteopath wanted him to have an MRI, but his GP decided that he had a condition that would be eased with a course of steroids. I was finding out about a private MRI, much as I dislike private health care and everything it stands for, but there was no need. Dad called me in a state of distress on Wednesday morning and I told my nephew to take him straight to A&E. Dad’s been in hospital since then. He’s had an MRI, a full body CT, a liver biopsy and this week we may find out where his primary cancer is. He is under the Care of the Elderly team, and their care has been good. But he has deteriorated so fast from a speedy man who walked down the road every day to pick up the paper and some shopping, to a man who needs help to walk. It breaks my heart. It breaks my mother’s heart so much more.

I can’t even believe I am saying the word cancer in relation to my dad. He’s my hero, the man who has been with my mum for 57 years, the man who has troubled me and fought with me and loved me and always told me to work hard, earn a living and always be able to look after myself. The man who is always here for my mum, who wants to be here for my mum, to look after her, because she is partially blind, because he has always looked after her, loves her, argues with her, laughs with her and is her soul mate, as my mother said, her right hand. I watch them and hope that Stella and I have 57 years. And I know I am lucky that at 54 I still have both my parents in my life when so many don’t, when so many parents die young. I hold on to every second I have with the old folks.

Yesterday my mum asked if I could show her how to use the TV. Dad loves all things technological, he records a lot, watches a lot, is online, creating and printing cards for all of us, every festival, every birthday, every anniversary. He records for my mum and they watch together, volume on loud, text up on screen, because my mother is also slightly deaf. My nephew (God bless my nephew), who is our technical expert, showed my mum how to use the TV controls. She has to feel the buttons, their shape and position on the control, because her vision is so bad. She says, we are old, this is what happens. But to witness my dad in such enormous pain, excruciating pain, is not what we ever imagined or want to happen for anyone – family, friends or strangers. And he can’t shout or scream, because he’s in a public place. He writhes like an animal that has been shot, until the pain subsides and he is talkative and positive once more, and then the pain returns and he grows pale and cannot rest. When he is calm again, a glimmer of the Dad as I know him, returns.

I watched him yesterday with my mum and uncle and my nephew and nephew’s girlfriend. I watched him cry out and ask for his leg to be chopped off because the pain was so bad, I heard him ask for his own (long gone) mother to take him, and I found it so hard to witness my hero in such pain. And he has a high pain threshold.

If one more person tells me to be strong I might have to punch them. I am strong but I am also weak and human, just like you. I get on because I have to and I want to. Thanks to W Shakespeare for his borrowed and adapted words:

I have eyes and ears and lips and fingers. I see, hear, feel and taste, just as you do. I love and hate and I have desires like you. I eat the same food, drink the same wine. The weapons that hurt you, hurt me. I am at risk of the same diseases and am treated with the same medicine. The summer warms me and the winter gives me chills. I am a human just like you. If you stick a needle in me, blood will drip. If you tickle me or tell me a joke, I will laugh. If you poison me, I’ll die. And if you are disloyal to me or cheat me or lie to me I’ll never forget it and I will never fully trust you again. If you give I will take. If you take, I will gladly give. I have the same tears that come from the same fear and sadness. I am born like you and I will die like you. Not so different after all.

Jack is my dad, my friend, the man who made my sister’s and my school uniforms when we couldn’t afford to buy them. He cooks in a way most men of his generation might, but can’t. He loves his garden and his gadgets and his red wine. He over does the salt on the challah on Shabbat. He loves to be in control and now he has no control. His way is the only way, his opinions are clear and strong. Everyone in his neighbourhood knows and loves him and my mum. The woman in the corner shop, the staff at the bread shop, the men in the fruit shop who he makes cakes and jam for and entertains with his stories. If ever my parents leave their phone off the hook, I call the fruit shop and they run to check up on my parents. Jack is the man who infuriates me with his politics and fills me with delight when he excitedly shows us a new creation he has made in the kitchen, a new recipe which he found online. My dad is the King of the PC. He said the other day, “Give me my tablet.” So I gave him his tablet. Tablets. Packets of them. He looked at them and shook his head. “No, no, no, my tablet.”
“But here are your tablets.”
“Not that tablet, my TABLET.”
Ah…his tablet, so he can play bridge.

I cry in my house with my wife or alone, not in front of my mum or in front of the people who cry in front of me. I can’t take others who can’t cope with our pain, with my dad’s pain. If you weep, I won’t. My mum feels the same way. If you find it hard, imagine how hard the rest of us find it.

In A&E on Thursday, when I spent most of the day and evening with my dad, he said, “soon I’ll be with your sister.” (My sister who died of bowel cancer three years ago.) And I said, “well if you are, give her my love, tell her I miss her, and that she owes me.” He said, “I’m old, and we all have to die and I’ve had a wonderful life.” And all of that is true. He is old and we do all have to die and he has had a mostly wonderful life. But I find it a little too cruel to watch the man who never sits still, having to lie still and be helped to the bathroom. The man who worries about my mum, who wants to come home and watch his tulips open, who wants to run around the block and cook and drink and be the Jack he has always been. And I hope he will come home soon, so we can pamper and laugh and listen to his stories, so he can cook us biryani and mahashas and make his (highly non-traditional) version of bread and butter pudding and ‘lecture’ his grandchildren on anything from the state of hospital food to mountain climbing and play with his great-granddaughter who gives him enormous pleasure.

I spoke to Dad this morning, he’d had a shower and was about to play bridge on his tablet. Maybe I should call him Moses. I said, “Lessons in life, what would you say, because I’m writing a blog about all this?” And he thought and thought.

Love thy neighbour as you would love yourself.
Try not to harm people for the fun of it.
Smile. If you don’t smile, others won’t smile.
And eat lots of courgettes.

He laughed.
I said, “Did you just say eat lots of courgettes?”
“I’m joking,” he said.
“That’s a joke for your brother,” I said.
“Yes,” he said. (His brother LOVES courgettes, cooked, raw, my dad fills brown paper bags with them for his brother.)

Love, don’t harm others, smile and eat courgettes. Not bad advice for a Monday morning.

And another piece of advice that Stella and I are planning to act on more often and more readily, when Stella is well and we have time to look outside our small circle again:
Don’t say, “What can I do?” Just do something, anything.
The friend who brought a full (cooked) roast dinner to the door, the friends who drop off food and don’t stay, who dropped off two brownies, who took me out for a coffee, who texts every day to say how are you? Those who offer to drive and mean it. That’s what makes the difference. And some have and some don’t know what to say, so they say nothing. I’d rather you said, I don’t know what to say. And if you can do, do it, and if you can’t do it, don’t offer. We know everyone has busy lives and work and their own problems. But as the suffragettes would have it: Deeds not words.

Okay, so I’ve been thinking about how I feel at the moment, about everything that’s been going on in my life since 3 January, specifically sickness and just where I am with it all. And you know how much I like blogging about me. And Jan and Feb have so far proved pretty rubbish so I thought I’d share some of my rubbish with you.

We went to hospital yesterday for Stella’s results. If I’d been writing a script breakdown about my character’s emotional and physical journey this is how it would play out.

***

Shelley walks from the house to the hospital through the park on a journey she has taken many times. Yellow and purple crocuses poke out of the wet ground. Spring. Almost. At the end of the park is the hospital where Shelley and her wife have been many times for cancer and fertility treatment. Shelley’s stomach churns with nerves, perhaps not so much churns as has a focussed concentrated area of pain due to the anticipation and concern over her partner’s results.

As usual the smokers annoy her, the fag ends squashed into the pavement she walks on. One day she will say something to the woman with the drip, the man in blue pyjamas, a cigarette in one hand, a child in the other. If she says anything today she will explode.

The walk to the breast unit takes them past the coffee shop. She is aware that the hospital smells of school dinners. She used to like school dinners. Today there is a sale of knitwear. Usually Shelley is drawn to shopping of any kind, today she doesn’t care. Her eyes glance at the brown, red, green garments for no more than a second. Her stomach, she thinks, is knitted with nerves. Knotted with nerves that she cannot untangle. Her nerves are red.

Into the breast unit, the shade of raspberry walls is more suited to small children than grown women. There are only two other women waiting which means Stella will be seen quickly. While Stella fills in a form (which hurts her right hand, she has not written anything by hand since her operation), Shelley sits with her hands in her coat pockets, not because she is cold, but because she needs to put them somewhere. She looks at the other two women, they seem relatively young. She is reminded that Stella was young the first time she was diagnosed. Stella was only 36. A woman is called away and in minutes emerges with a consultant. Stella and Shelley notice the thirty something brunette consultant with low heeled black shoes. They both know this is the consultant who will call Stella in a few seconds. Hearts race, Shelley is numb and scared, and what ifs keep coming at her. What if it’s spread, what if Stella has to have chemo again, what if what if what if. What if she has to grow old alone, what if is this it, what if what if what if? Selfish thoughts, she knows, but she has them, she has had them for fourteen years and she will have them forever.

In the room Stella introduces Shelley as her partner. No double take from Consultant M. And then to the results. They are not through yet, not fully. Fear edges away slightly. The doctor assures Stella that there is really, probably, nothing to worry about (but they’ve been there before). On initial investigation the histopathology team couldn’t find any signs of cancer, which may mean that they removed it all during the three very painful biopsies Stella had – however, they still need to carry out further tests to ensure this is the case and no rogue cells are playing hide and seek. And, Stella asks, will I need chemo. The consultant says we hardly ever give chemo with DCIS. And Shelley watches Stella’s body smile.

They will return next Thursday afternoon, after Stella’s brother-in-law’s funeral, to get the final results.

***

That is the narrative of my day. Part of the narrative, part of the day. I walked home through the park with Stella, feeling, strange, hopeful yet not too hopeful, numb, not nervous but not okay about it. Yes of course if Stella doesn’t need chemo, that would be wonderful and time will heal her bloody scars, and they are bloody. Hip to hip stitches, a breast which has been re created, re formed and in the doing has caused Stella enormous pain and blood loss and loss of some use of her right arm, which should, we hope, return with time and exercise. She is my patchwork doll, and each day the patches become more like the main body of the doll, except Stella is not a doll. And IF they have caught the cancer early, this is good. IF Stella’s annual mammogram had been booked three or four or more months further into the year, who knows what the results would be. Time. Everything is down to time and timing, and the older I get the more I accept that there’s not a lot any of us can do about time and timing in work and life and love and sickness.

And there will be people who say how lucky she is not to have chemo, how fortunate that all she had was surgery. It will be wonderful if she doesn’t have to have further treatment, but having witnessed her body hours after surgery and today, two weeks later, her recovering body, all of her body, there is nothing lucky about any of this and it is not a competition. We will continue to worry, every single day, because we can’t help it, because every time she has a cough or cold or backache or some ailment, my worry will rise up. Because that’s how it is, when your wife has had a grade three cancer once, had surgery, radiotherapy and chemotherapy and fourteen years later it has returned as a grade 3 DCIS – Ductal Carcinoma In Situ – that is, it hasn’t broken out of the ducts, it’s confined to one room of a house (grade 3 tumour is different to grade 3 DCIS, we discovered today), you worry every day. I worry every day. And I won’t stop worrying. Ever. But you probably won’t notice the worry, the fear, her fear and my fear. But it will be there, while I smile at you and joke with you, when I am on holiday or writing or at the gym or in the pool or making a cake or buying flowers or playing the ukulele or eating or partying or sitting in the sun or doing absolutely nothing. It’s always there. Yes she is alive, so many aren’t, so many we love aren’t. But we will never fully relax and it will never be okay, our lives will never be what they were pre cancer January 14th 2000. Yes she is grateful that she is alive, I am grateful, but the cost to her – and to me, is great.

With the brilliant Tony Benn seriously ill and staying in an NHS ward, and having spent the past few days at one of our leading London NHS hospitals, I am grateful (yet again) to Aneurin Bevan and Clement Attlee for the NHS. I am also grateful to the incredible support from those we know really well, those we know a little bit and those we hardly know at all, who have rallied around us, sent messages offering help, food, transport, laughter. To me this is a microcosm of what socialism is, helping each other while helping ourselves. We know that lots of our friends are under pressure financially, have sick partners, elderly parents or siblings or children who need care. We know we are not alone in sickness and in health, and yet the extreme and wonderful gifts of love and care that have come our way, make me want to rise up and ensure that the NHS is never taken away from the people.

We all knock the NHS at some point, ultimately they are incredible, giving us a service many countries envy, paying their staff little while giving us so much. And yes, not everyone has great experiences, that’s the case with private health care too, but when private health care fails (I know from experience from a relative) it’s the NHS who literally mops up the mess and comes up with the goods. And some do care for others all the time, while others don’t or don’t know how to. For me, this has been a huge lesson in the kindness of everyone we are in contact with. It’s not hard to be kind, it doesn’t cost much if anything.

I also think that often it’s a case of (as with most things), if I’m not affected by it I don’t care. But without the NHS…this country will go downhill quickly. There are some who abuse the system, there are some who abuse every system and they make it hard for the really needy, they give the Tories good reason to privatise everything. Health and education, pay the staff properly so that the young can grow up with a sense of aspiration, a sense of responsibility, towards themselves (health) and each other and the world (education) and make the place better for all, not just themselves and their immediate family.

And then –

Sitting in a clean, bright ward on the 8th floor of St Thomas’ hospital, only too aware that across the river people I didn’t elect make decisions they think are best for all of us, I was and am worried for our incredible health system, worried for us. Talking to a plastic surgeon in relation to Stella’s procedure, she explained to me that in America, insurance companies pay the same to surgeons whether they create new breasts from the patient’s own tissue OR give them silicone. It’s faster with silicone, so surgeons do that, more operations a day means more money for the surgeons. Not every patient has a voice or someone to speak out for them, not every surgeon is money motivated, but I cannot imagine living without the NHS. Can you?

January 2014, so far not so good. January 14 2000 was also not so good. That’s when it all began, Duffy’s cancer. Chemo and radiotherapy and big surgery and recovery and work and holidays followed that first day of findings and fear. And now Duffy has to endure more pain and surgery, intrusion and inconvenience, yes inconvenience and uncertainty about what the coming weeks and months will bring. Cancer (illness) is so inconvenient and takes up such a lot of time and our time is for us to play and be together, with family and friends, to swim and eat and walk and work, and not spend endless hours waiting in hospitals. But if that is what we have to do to get the best results possible, so that Duffy can keep doing what she does best – live – then we’ll do it.

I’m lucky I’m married to one of the most positive women in the world. She is bright and beautiful, funny, has immense knowledge (never watch University Challenge with her) a great teacher to all who meet her, an absolute inspiration, and the hardest worker I know. She champions me every day. See, lucky me. Given all that is yet to come, she takes hold of her life and goes with it. She doesn’t complain, doesn’t shed many tears, is strong and most of all, she loves her life, she loves living. And if I have anything to do with it, she’ll keep living for at least another forty years. She is also scared. That’s okay. I’m scared too. But it’s okay to be scared. Fear can reside alongside happy, content, excited. Cancer will not take away our excitement. I have no intention of being a carer, I care and will care for Duffy, but I’m a worker, I have my work just as Duffy has hers. We will continue to make work, create and imagine.

The other day, while I was driving around in a rage because I couldn’t quite believe that my darling had cancer again, I took myself back fourteen years and thought about all that has happened since 14th January 2000, specifically all the positive things, I left the negative ones out. I don’t need any more negative energy in my life. There’s been enough death, enough sadness, there will be more, I know. Today I choose to be positive.

Fourteen years ago, our relationship could not be recognised legally. Now we are safe from those who oppose everything we stand for.
Fourteen years ago my parents had only met Stella a week before her diagnosis. Now they have known her for longer than they haven’t.
Fourteen years ago I couldn’t swim. Stella taught me, believed in me.
Fourteen years ago I couldn’t play the ukulele. Now I can.
Fourteen years ago I couldn’t tell the difference between a flameproof casserole dish and one that would shatter into pieces…and did…I’m a good cook now.
Fourteen years ago Facebook and Twitter didn’t exist, so we couldn’t share the way we do.
Fourteen years ago the treatment for breast cancer was not as advanced as it is now.
Fourteen years ago Stella was 36 and I was 40. Sometimes we are wiser.
Fourteen years ago my sister, my only sibling, was still alive, was still well. Who knew that she and Stella would become cancer buddies.
Fourteen years ago I knew I was lucky, but now I know just how lucky I have been, how lucky I am.
Fourteen years ago the NHS was not in the danger it’s in now. I’m grateful to the NHS.
Fourteen years ago I had no idea how strong I could be. And how weak.

During those years we never put Stella’s cancer out of our minds. Every cough, every cold, every ache was accompanied with worry, we just didn’t go on about it. The ‘all clear’ doesn’t exist, we know that. Fourteen years is a substantial time for a cancer free period. Duffy has done extraordinarily well.

Many people have e-mailed with the most generous offers and love and words of support. This is my thank you. The love around the world is incredible. I honestly feel people are with us, carrying us in their hearts and minds. And while we go through our experience, Stella’s experience and my experience, I am well aware that there are a whole lot of people who have similar experiences, life and death and illness and pain and sadness and grief. We know who you are, and we send love and strength. You’re still in our thoughts despite our own derailment.

On 10th December 2000, when Stella’s treatment had finished, when she was exhausted yet energetic, we had our first wedding at home, with a few people, lots of champagne, a feast provided by our guests, rings made by a dear friend in Aotearoa and nice frocks, Stella’s in particular was outstanding. A friend made us a certificate, because there was no legal recognition and no piece of paper to bear witness to our union. This is what it said, these are our words to each other, our promise to each other, framed in our home and in our hearts. This is what we will continue to do, for as long as we can, until we are happy old ladies with a skip in our step, a cheeky grin and a story or two to tell.

Love honour cherish worship adore glorify discuss debate disturb challenge explore travel delight taste exalt enjoy nuffle play swim run jump skate scoot dance eat sleep wake smile laugh cry care dream create magnify identify breathe
keep going – together

In response to a Facebook thread after my status update post Shirley William’s comment on Question Time and free school meals. She said of MP Simon Hughes:

“I think Simon is not a parent, if he was he would have never had made those statements.”

My Facebook status shortly afterwards said:

if anyone ever tells me I don’t understand because I don’t have kids, OR I can’t have an opinion about kids because I don’t have them, beware.

This is in response to various comments made by my Facebook friends.

I love being an aunty, I love being around for all the young people in our lives. For me, it’s more about being told I can’t have an opinion because I am not a parent. Well I can and do have an opinion about everything and will continue to do so. As a friend’s child on Twitter said, she isn’t gay but she has an opinion on equal marriage. Same thing. And often we need the people who are outside of the experience to make the experience a better, more improved one. Of course I don’t know the day-to-day issues with bringing up a child, I never pretend that I do know, BUT I do know when a child is badly behaved. I have watched children do things and watched their parents not say a word, and I have had to try hard to keep quiet. We have two teenage boys living next door (late teens). One is about to go to university, the other is still at school. They are renting the property. Their father has a girlfriend somewhere else, their mother lives half a mile away. They are left in the house alone most of the time, to party, make noise, stand outside on the street with their friends and create chaos. All the childfree and some with children, neighbours have complained. We have confiscated two footballs from our garden, because it was only a matter of time before a window was smashed. The five year old who lives on the other side is a golden child as far as I am concerned compared to these two boys. Yes, a ‘broken home’, but they are not the first and I won’t use it as an excuse for good manners. I was a child, I was well brought up. I can’t speak for all my non parent friends, but whenever I say anything to parents about their kids, I tread very carefully because I don’t want to be told YOU HAVE NO IDEA YOU’RE NOT A PARENT. It is a huge insult. I add that NONE of our friends have ever said that – they are more aware than most. And yes, some people, parents and non-parents, are very heavy handed about kids, but they are probably heavy handed about everything. Every parent has a different experience with their child, every child is different, that’s why there are so many HOW TO books, one size does not fit all. I may not be a parent but I was/am a child. Some people hate old people and are cruel to them, that’s not on, but it exists. I totally get that some people just don’t like kids, just as some people hate cats, which is okay. I am in the loving children camp, but I don’t LIKE all of them and I won’t tolerate bad behaviour or rudeness. Our family and friends let us say what we want to their kids, if they misbehave or look as if they are about to do something which might hurt them, we speak out. Our friends have made it okay for us to do that. I also agree that we don’t know what’s going on with people, with their children and their lives, but we could say that for everyone in every situation, couldn’t we? When my sister died I was so much more aware that other people might be going through the same grief. It’s okay to say that until we experience something we don’t fully understand, BUT it doesn’t mean we don’t have the right to comment. People need to be more aware of other people, truth is, we are not. A sick person becomes more aware that other people may be experiencing the same – just because that sickness does not present itself loud and clear doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. (now I’ve gone off at a tangent). Why should feminists get more vocal/involved about kids – surely part of the point is that they have a choice NOT to. Some parents love their kids but don’t like other people’s kids! Those of us without kids are often expected to be around for those with kids, to provide some kind of care as if it’s our job, as if we have all the time in the world. Society provides more for those with kids than those without. I know a writer, v successful, she was starting rehearsals and had no childcare – husband had a full time job, the kind where it is probably hard to take time off. The theatre provided childcare for the entire rehearsal period AND a cab to and from the theatre. I know it’s one case, but hey…come on…I wonder if that theatre would have paid out the same for a disabled person?

I do use the ‘you chose to have children line’, and I will continue to do so. I am sick of hearing parents complaining about their children – did you think it would be easy? Did you think you could carry on with your non-child life style (this is not aimed at anyone I know!), did you think you could put yourself before your child? That’s why so many of us without kids get angry and speak out and then get told off. And when someone tells me that I am ‘lucky’ not to have children, or ‘at least you don’t have to go away during the school holidays,’ I said, it’s not luck, it’s not even a choice (in our case), it’s circumstance. Don’t tell me we’re lucky. I’ve also witnessed many parents living their lives through their children, and it makes me wonder whether children are sometimes used as an excuse for someone not to keep dreaming, trying, reaching for that great ambition/goal. Kids grow up and leave home – eventually. I think some people don’t consider what it means to have a child, the responsibilities it involves – until they have them. Teachers get told to step up, IMO it’s the parent’s responsibility NOT the teachers. I also wonder if deep down some women (I’m talking heterosexual couples now) don’t really trust the fathers enough and want to hold on to their child care, want to take full control…can of worms, but I just had that thought in my child free kitchen. I’ve had mothers/wives ask me to do things for their husbands and children, and I wonder why the father/husband hasn’t asked me himself. Finally, the other thing is this – parents should not assume all people without kids never wanted them or don’t like them. I’m not saying ALL parents think this, but quite a few do. Everyone’s circumstances are different. We must all be more aware of each other. Oh…and finally finally…just because some people are not able to have kids or tried and didn’t succeed, does not mean that they want to take charge of other people’s kids, step in, have a child for a day etc. etc. It doesn’t make up for their childlessness. I’m going to put this on my blog! And now to work!

Last night at 7.05pm (well actually slightly later because the chicken took longer to roast), I started my fast. For twenty-four hours (actually twenty-five) until 20.05 tonight, when the sky grows dark and we see the first three stars, I will not be eating. Along with countless other Jews I will be fasting for the day of atonement, or Yom Kippur as it is more commonly known. You’ll see orthodox Jews in trainers and crocs, multi coloured feet walking the streets, because on Yom Kippur you are supposed to give up anything luxurious, you are not supposed to wear comfortable shoes,and if it’s leather it means it was killed, you’re not supposed to wear anything that was killed. You are supposed to abstain from most things, like writing blogs let alone being on a computer. At the end of the fast, a ram’s horn will be blown in synagogue. It is something wonderful to see and hear. Then the fasters head home to eat. The more pious will have their reasons, the ‘right’ reasons.

When I was a child we would drive (we were reform Jews) to synagogue for the end of Yom Kippur, with sweets in our pockets ready to eat as soon as we were out of the temple doors. Boiled sweets, I can still taste the orangey, lemony flavours. In the afternoon prior to the fast ending, my sister and I would sit in my parents’ house and play food games. ‘When I went to the shops I bought…’ and so it went on for hours, sometimes with our cousins, until we had to stop because we had made ourselves so hungry and our parents so crazy. As soon as we returned from synagogue, the kettle would be on and my granny Lily’s sandwiches would be placed under the grill. Granny Lily’s Yom Kippur sandwiches were a family favourite – they might sound odd to you, but toasted they were just what our empty stomachs craved. Chicken and mashed potato with coriander in white bread (I may have forgotten something). We never ate them at any other time of the year. When the fast was over we used to congratulate each other on how we had done, whether we had fasted well, some even went over the twenty-five hours, and if anyone had fainted we all knew about it. I remember the stench of bad breath and unwashed bodies in the synagogue, because you are not supposed to brush your teeth in case of drinking water – or because it feels good – or bathe. Remember nothing luxurious is permitted. I brush my teeth, always have and I shower. It feels great and I don’t feel bad about it.

I fasted as a young woman because that’s what they did, my parents and grandparents and I followed. As I grew up I continued to fast, but when I lived in my parents’ house we were not allowed to watch television (no computers then), I couldn’t ride my bicycle, or write, basically we did none of the things we usually did. We sat as a family in the living room and talked (mostly about food). No bad thing. I remember once (when I was very young) I wanted to take my guns to synagogue with me and wear a cowboy outfit. You can imagine the response. I went for several years without fasting, or breaking it fairly early on, because I had no willpower, because I had no sins to atone for, because it was easy for me to open the fridge and eat. But once I broke the fast early I felt guilty. If only I had kept going for a few more hours, how noble I would feel. Then I stopped fasting because I just couldn’t understand why I was doing it. Yeah, okay, dropping a few pounds overnight was great, but it never lasted and I don’t think the Rabbis really meant for teenage girls and young women and more mature women to fast so that they could lose weight on the most holy of Jewish holidays. There were other ways to ask for forgiveness, to atone for one’s sins other than fasting. Over the years I have questioned myself a great deal about it. Now I do it my way.

I’ve fasted for the past few years because I want to observe the day. It gives me a sense of belonging to know that many others are doing the same. I am fasting today, but probably not for all the reasons I am supposed to. I am not fasting to lose weight. There are many things I usually do that I am not doing today – working (this is not work), playing my ukulele, going to my Pilates class and swimming or watching TV, spending hours on my computer. I was going to stay off FB and Twitter, I did for about 16 hours, mostly when I was asleep. Yom Kippur has become a day for me to think more about my loved ones who are no longer here; my sister, my uncle, my friends, my cousins, my grandparents. Not that I don’t think about them anyway, but today it is more concentrated. Today when I would be thinking about buying something, shopping, cooking, I am instead thinking about them.

I should add that I am sipping water, not to is I believe not good for my mind, and I do have to drive north later on so I can be with the rest of the family to break the fast. Sipping water is unacceptable to many, to me it is totally okay. Driving is also totally unacceptable to many.

And of course as today is the day of atonement, I am repenting for my sins, but to be honest, I can’t think of any that I have committed. But if I have, if I have forgotten about them, or someone knows of anything I have done to them or anyone else this is the time I ask for forgiveness. No harm intended. And if that doesn’t work for you, come see me.

To the non believers this may all sound a bit crazy, but I do believe in something, I always have and it has helped get me through the most difficult of times. I do my religion in a way that works for me, in a way that suits my lifestyle – I don’t think it makes me any less of a Jew.

For most, Yom Kippur is a day of atonement. For me it has come to signify a time to be still, to reflect, to be calmer, to not hurry, to be. Not eating focusses my mind on all the other things I would normally do. Am I hungry? Yeah. Only five hours to go.

Think of me later on driving through the north London streets, where croc footed, white trainer women, and men in Converse and big hats walk to and from their place of worship. Think of me at 20.05 in a north London back garden. If the sky is clear I will be outside searching for those stars. The kettle will be on, my mum will make tea, the table will be ready. We haven’t had Granny Lily’s sandwiches for a few years. When I eat I will be grateful for the food, because so many don’t have it. And so many of us take it for granted. I will remember all those we have lost and try to add a little stillness to my days ahead. As I do every year, I will try to take time for me.

Until then, I will sip water and stay away from the kitchen. I will stay away from the kitchen.

Having raged at the TV and radio since last night, and listened to angry Tories who think it’s okay for same sex couples to have civil partnerships but not marriage, I grabbed the nearest dictionary. The Collins Gem English Dictionary.

Equal = identical in size, quantity, degree, etc; having identical rights or status; evenly balanced; a person or thing equal to another.

Marry, marrying, married = take as a husband or wife; join or give in marriage; unite closely.

***

From the Macmillan On line Dictionary

Civil Partnership = a relationship similar to marriage for two people who are of the same sex.

***

I think the definition of Marry, Marrying, Married could very easily apply to same sex couples, but in the definition of civil partnership, it’s the word ‘similar’ that stands out to me. Similar is not equal. People often say, you (us same sex couples) have civil partnership, you have the same rights as heterosexuals, what more do you want? I’ll tell you what more I want and what I think the majority of same sex couples want – there are of course those who choose not to copy their heterosexual counterparts, which is fine by me. At least you have some choice, many the world over do not. You can’t choose unless you have a choice, unless you are truly equal.

I’ve always believed in equality, in many ways we still don’t have that in every part of society, but progress has been made and some progress is better than none. In terms of Civil Partnership v Marriage, I want the choice, I want to choose to marry Stella and not just be her civil partner, although the latter has meant that we are now a little safer should something happen to one of us. And safety, for me, is important. And I don’t just mean financial safety. When Stella was sick 13 years ago, there was nothing legally in place to protect us and worst of all, I was not considered Stella’s next of kin, (nor she mine) if the need arose. Fortunately it didn’t. It would have been up to individual doctors and nurses to accept us as a couple and treat us with the respect they would a married couple. They were under no obligation to do so. And for every heterosexual couple who has chosen not to marry, at least you had the choice to opt out. You always had the choice to marry in a registry office and have equal rights. Same sex couples did not until very recently.

I took my dad to hospital in May 2005. He was having a heart valve replaced and I sat on his bed while my mum signed the various consent forms and I cried. Not because I was worried my dad would die, but because I knew this treatment, this signing of forms, next of kin, etc etc, was not available to same sex couples and it made me utterly sad. Four months later Stella and I had a civil registration at City Hall. We had a party for nearly 200 of our family and friends, spent more on alcohol than food, it was one of the best nights of my life. We bought gorgeous dresses, and shoes from Gina (Stella, green suede) and Ferragamo (mine, red suede with a black bow at the back). My feet were happily numb for days after. I’d do it all over again, every tear, speech, laugh, hug. But our ‘registration’ wasn’t legal. It was only when we’d organised that party, that civil partnership was announced. On December 23rd 2005 our relationship was legally recognised at Brixton Town Hall. We were safer. But we were still not equal. We are still not equal.

There has been much discussion about equal marriage, those for it, those against it, those who don’t care, those who think there are more important issues to resolve, and those who feel same sex couples should be grateful for civil partnership because it gives us equal rights. It doesn’t. And here are seven reasons why same sex couples will not have true equality until we are afforded exactly the same rights as our heterosexual friends. If you want to read about this in more detail go here where you can also read about the atrocities being carried out on same sex couples and discover that, contrary to what many Tories think, it ain’t fixed yet. I credit and thank Gaystarnews for the information below, it is all theirs.

1. Financial rights

Civil partners do not have the same pension rights as married couples. If one civil partner dies, the pension share that the surviving partner receives is often lower and lasts for less time than with married couples. The reason for this is the pension a surviving partner is entitled to is measured differently depending on whether they have been civil partnered or married.

2. Separate is not equal

The culture of many countries, including the UK, revolves around marriage as an institution. Though not all straight people do get married, marriage with a loved partner is an option that is legally available to them. The language of marriage carries a social weight that civil partnership does not. This is a reason why civil partners often refer to their partnerships as ‘marriages’, rather than ‘partnerships’. Those who back equal marriage say using a different word indicates that society attaches less importance to civil partnerships.

3. Living abroad

Travel restrictions apply to civil partners but not married couples. Countries like Sweden, Argentina and Portugal, where same-sex marriage is legal, do not see civil partnerships as marriage. This means UK civil partners living abroad do not enjoy the same rights as same-sex married couples in the 11 countries where equal marriage is legal. In addition, the marriages of foreign gay couples who travel to the UK are not legally viewed as marriages.

4. Gender is written into the structure of UK marriage law.

This means if a married trans person would like to get a Gender Recognition Certificate as part of living in their preferred gender, they must divorce and reapply for civil partnership. Separate marriage and civil partnership regulations mean gender and orientation are the deciding factors in what relationships are legally recognized.

5. Forced outing

Official forms such as the UK census require a declaration of marital status. This often means that civilly partnered people are forced to state their sexuality, ticking a separate box that says ‘civil partnership’ rather than ‘marriage’.

6. Adultery and vows

Unlike marriages, consummation is not a legal requirement of civil partnerships. Neither is adultery recognized as grounds for dissolution. These differences won’t be addressed by the new equal marriage legislation as the government does not intend to re-write these areas of law. There is also no requirement for civil partners to take any vows.

7. Straights not included

Veteran gay rights campaigner Peter Tatchell has complained the UK government is not offering civil partnerships to heterosexuals too, creating another inequality in his opinion. He said: ‘Marriage equality bill is not true equality. It keeps ban on straight civil partnerships. Wrong!’

***

Today, in England, parliament is debating equal marriage in the next, hugely important step of its difficult journey. The big worry is that anti equal marriage MPs will start debating civil partnership for heterosexual couples, and so delay the equal marriage bill for about two years. So there is every chance that heterosexual couples will have equality before same sex couples do, if ever, in England. I already call Stella my wife, but I’d like the choice to do so in a country that I call mine, in a country I love, in a country that recognises us as equal, rather than insisting we use a business term that it really does not take seriously. We can get married in any of the following countries if we want to, though it won’t be recognised here. (Dates that equal marriage came in are in brackets) – The Netherlands (2001), Belgium (2003), Spain (2005), Canada (2005), South Africa (2006), Norway (2009), Sweden (2009), Portugal (2010), Iceland, (2010), Argentina (2010), Denmark (2012), Uruguay (2013), New Zealand (2013), Brazil (2013) and France (2013).

We’re not equal until we’re equal.

Those who know me, know that I am tolerant, open-minded, occasionally very silly, passionate, devoted, committed, hungry (for food and life), youthful, caring, funny and Jewish. People know where I stand politically, they know my views on Israel and Palestine. I try hard not to judge others, though that has been a life long lesson for me and I’d always have dialogue and not war. Ultimately I want a peaceful life with my wife, family and close friends and anything else, as I have said 101 times, is a bonus.

This morning, while I was in my M&S Pjs, half way through changing the cat litter, asking myself questions about a main character in a TV treatment I’ve been working on, while upstairs my mobile was ringing to the tune of Bewitched, the doorbell rang. I shouted Jesus Christ and went to open the door. It was a delivery man with a parcel for me. I asked if he needed a signature, yes, he said, and told me to hold on a minute. While he waited for his technical gadget signing thing to start up he looked at me and said, ‘You’re a Jew.’ Yes, I said, and asked him how he knew. He had remembered that the last time he had delivered he’d asked what the mezuzah was, on the side of the door frame. For those who don’t know, this is what it is – thanks to Wikipedia for this extract. ‘A mezuzah (Hebrew: מְזוּזָה‎ “doorpost”; plural: מְזוּזוֹת mezuzot) is a piece of parchment (often contained in a decorative case) inscribed with specified Hebrew verses from the Torah (Deuteronomy 6:4-9 and 11:13-21). These verses comprise the Jewish prayer “Shema Yisrael”, beginning with the phrase: “Hear, O Israel, the LORD our God, the LORD is One” A mezuzah is affixed to the door frame in Jewish homes to fulfill the mitzvah (Biblical commandment).’ That’s basically it. We’ve always had them at my parents’ house and Stella didn’t have a problem with them in our house. Anyway, back to the delivery man. After confirming that yes, I was indeed a Jew, I also said that a Jew and a Buddhist live in the house. He looked at me, and said, ‘Jews killed Jesus.’ No, I said, the Romans did. ‘Really?’ he said. Yes. Really.

What followed was a brief conversation about Jesus, I explained that Jews accept that Jesus did exist, but not in the way the Christians believe. I reminded him that Jesus was a Jew, he seemed to have forgotten that. I asked him what faith he was, if any, I never like to assume. ‘Christian,’ he said. I told him I wasn’t an orthodox Jew and that I believed in Love Thy Neighbour, I was tolerant etc etc. He asked me if I could give him something to read next time he delivered, I said I would think about it. And off he went. At first I wasn’t that bothered, but when the cat litter had settled and I picked up the message on my mobile, I felt hurt and upset, possibly because no one has ever said that to my face in such an accusatory way, like I was personally responsible for the death of Jesus. I have no doubt many Christians still believe it. I know there are lots of different sects in Christianity with different views, but it’s the first time since I have lived is SE24 (16 years), that I have felt alone in terms of my religion/culture/tradition/belief. In our part of SE London we are surrounded by Muslims and an assortment of Christians, Jehovah’s Witnesses and the Church of the Celestial Christ. It’s never bothered me, why should it? We used to have amazing conversations with our Muslim dry cleaner about Islam and Judaism and being gay and humanity, we exchanged the Torah and the Koran, we talked. People are people, and I like living in such a multi cultural, multi ethnic part of London, not least because north Londoners generally diss south London and, as I have lived most of my life in north London, I wanted to love all of London, and I do. I have always wanted to break down ghettos so people live, as I do, among others who do it differently, because I believe it makes for a more understanding and tolerant world. If we only live with those who are like us, what chance is there for anything but animosity and a deep ignorance and lack of understanding?

The incident this morning has made me think about who I am and what I believe in, and I know it was one man saying one thing, but I’d love to know which church or organisation he belongs to, a place where its believers are still being told that Jews killed Jesus. I don’t usually defend my religion with such vigour, as there are many of aspects of Judaism that I really don’t like or approve of, it’s the cultural side which I enjoy, the festivals and the food. The actual religious practice has little place in my life, though I do keep passover, (because I like to) and I do fast at Yom Kippur (though I admit to drinking water, not to, is harmful to my already shrinking brain). I love spending Rosh Hashanna (Jewish New Year) with my entire family, Passover too. I look forward to Friday night dinner with my parents and at least one of my sister’s children, there is always delicious food and hilarity from my parents, though since my darling sister died, there is a deep absence in that house and in that dining room.

I belong to an organisation, Diversity Role Models, who regularly goes into schools and talks to students about being gay. My nephew’s girlfriend works for 3FF, Three Faiths Forum (actually they do more than three faiths), who go into schools to talk faith in the way I (and many others) have been into schools to talk sexuality. But I wonder if it’s not just the schools that we should be concerned about, I wonder if we need to go into religious institutions, have proper dialogue with each other, ask questions and try and answer them, have a cross section of the religious in one room together, the liberal and the reform alongside the orthodox, because we are all different. The one time I went into a school to discuss my sexuality, I witnessed fifteen year olds rethink sexuality in a matter of hours, and that is world-changing. Imagine having the conversation I had this morning with an entire congregation? Imagine.