Lindy Kato (Writer)

I made a dash to the UK because Mum died. My Brother and my Sister-in-law had already arranged so much and I had said that I wouldn’t go, nothing I could do would resurrect her and I struggle with the long haul flights, any flights really.
I changed my mind because I found that her eulogy would be done by a complete stranger, Mum was religious but I don’t know what happened to that particular caring community once she was taken into the care home. Plus, I needed to hug my Dad. Whether it was him that needed the hug or me I am not sure. Whenever he realises who I am, he tries to persuade me that England is all sunshine and happiness and I should return.|

I haven’t really had time to grieve for either of them. I take comfort from knowing that Dad is clean, warm and well fed (I ate at the home with him three times) and he doesn’t have to mow the lawn, yet I wish I could bring him home with me. The reality is that we weren’t able to take him to the funeral and he is walking the corridors of the care home looking for Mum. Something I cannot fix.
I had five minutes for my eulogy. What can be said in five minutes to sum up eighty-nine years of action packed life? FIVE minutes. Everything went without a hitch, I was complimented on my eulogy even by people who know about these things. The problem is, by concentrating on the care of our elderly guests, we weren’t grieving for ourselves. I found myself walking to the care home (or rather the first bus distance since I could walk faster than first bus), and I cried whilst walking, I cried in the Village Eatery in Thundersley/Benfleet (twice), I cried on the second bus and I cried on the train (I will give you a train blog when I have recovered enough!).

Dad and I were carved from the same stone. A friend asked if my brains came from him as well as the ants I have in my pants. This got me thinking because if you get to read the prologue (‘Desperate Times’ out on Kindle) to my ‘big book’ (that will come eventually), you will learn that I am not always very smart. I also have to live with the fact that Uncle Arthur (Mum’s marginally younger Brother – occupation ‘milkman’), finished my New Scientist crossword. Mum’s older Brother won a scholarship to the ‘Grammar School’, then blew his chances by signing up to war aged 14. Grandad signed up to World War One on his 14th birthday which meant that he was young enough to be required to show up for World War Two. He was blown up and left for dead, but picked up by American soldiers with their ‘no man left behind policy’, not dead after all.
So what are ‘smarts’? I would say that most 14 year olds are not very bright even if they were before and will become so again. The problem is lack of opportunity, one of the reasons that I have the day job that I do, helping students get the qualifications they should have got at school. I don’t come from a family full of qualifications in the academic sense. Dad was a very good carpenter. Any smarts I may have are not brains but determination. Someone once said to me “how badly do you want it?”. Trouble is, if you are in any way hog-tied by circumstance, then your determination has to be vastly superior to others. So yes, in that sense maybe I did get my brains from my Dad.
Before I finish…and this is loosely connected in that it happened at the airport and involves judging by appearance, I have written about my fleeting experience with another traveler.

You can’t judge a book by the cover.
The airport is crowded, the air conditioning failing to cope. I need breakfast but there is only one spare chair by a guy who looks like a vagrant. The alternative is to sit on the floor.
I can sit on the floor though probably at my age I shouldn’t in case I can’t get back up! The chair and table combo will be easier with the plastic pottle muesli and paper coffee cup. I also need somewhere to balance my overweight ‘carry-on’ as I sling it on my shoulders without wincing and giving the game away. I slip onto the edge of the chair, hoping that the odour is bearable. He has an expensive watch, presumably a copy, but thankfully he smells surprisingly fresh. He has twinkly blue eyes and an easy smile.
Since he looks down on his luck I give him my coffee and we fall into a quick-fire conversation that is more like ‘speed dating’. We have a lot in common despite different dress codes — and trust me, I am neither smart nor fashionable! Both of us thrown out of school without qualifications and have had to create opportunities through effort. We both have a love of cars. He is on an emergency dash to Saudi Arabia due to a sudden death. I am on my way to the UK for a death that started two years ago. He makes drill bits for a living.
There is a tinge of sadness as my plane is called. Settling into the cattle class seat, I flick through the in-flight magazine and spot a photograph of a familiar figure. The context is odd, my recent table companion is wearing an Armani suit and standing beside a fleet of racing cars. The article is about track racing events for the idle rich, the man that owns the fleet also owns a company that makes drill bits for the Australian mining industry.