Housing minister says no to downsizing?

This article from the BBC caused a bit of a broo ha ha in the right wing corners yesterday http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-15362474.

It has been suggested by the Intergeneration Foundation, in a report backed by Labour, that pensioners living in under occupied homes, should downsize to smaller properties to accommodate younger families with children. They'd be offered all kinds of carrots, like tax breaks, or no stamp duty on their smaller property.

To my surprise Shapps has said: "Whilst this report makes interesting reading, we do not agree that people should be taxed or bullied out of their homes."

I agree!! My goodness Shapps, we agree!!

Hang on. This is about private properties.

Not so long ago, indeed, still raging somewhat, is a Tory government plan to oof pensioners out of their homes. OK, just council ones...

http://www.expressandstar.com/money/property/2010/07/05/elderly-may-downsize-in-homes-plan/

http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2010/aug/18/under-occupied-homes-kensington-chelsea

The hypocrisy!! Labour encouraged downsizing too so but clearly not one thing for one group and another for another.

As much as I desperately need a council flat for me and my vulnerable family, I've always understood that older people might want to stay in their homes, might want to keep a room free for visiting grandchildren, visiting friends, regardless of their social or financial status.

Class and money has reared its ugly head again.

In the Mail (of course they'd be against this!) Dr Ros Altmann, director of the Saga group said: "The idea that older people are hoarding housing has come across as quite offensive. The family home is about more that just bricks and mortar and it's unhelpful to point to older people who live in a three-bedroom house and say they don't deserve to be in it." (20/10/11 p4)Hear hear, for all older people, not just those with mortgages.

I hope when debate swings back to council and housing association tenants, Shapps words, indeed, his Party's words, are relayed back to them.

People should not be bullied out of their homes. No people. No-one.

Going with one's flow

Recently in blogland, I've been struggling somewhat with the writing aspect. It's not that I don't have any ideas, it's that I felt I have no focus.

I still feel abit like that!

However, this morning I was really excited. I thought that maybe the local paper had published my letter. I thought maybe the local paper had published my letter because they emailed yesterday to say they amended the mistake I told them I'd made.

Here's what they didn't publish. I'm not surprised. It's a meaty paper and the article I was spinning off was a very small one.

William Jeffrey's death from a fall down the stairs wasn't a simple accident (Accidental fall killed 91 year-old, 3 Feb, p 11). It was an accident waiting to happen. The lifts at (Papier Mache Towers) are constantly out of service, forcing residents to use the communal concrete steps. These frequent, sometimes daily, occurences with the lifts render the disabled prisoners in their own homes and pensioners, like Mr Jeffrey, in danger of losing their lives. There is no cash in the pot to fix these things is the cry. But how many people are going to die under the banner 'Housing'? Wasn't Jennyfer Spencer's death one too many? There is a housing emergency protest outside Downing Street next Wednesday 15th organised by Defend Council Housing. Those of us that can attend should. The borough's been brutalised enough over the years and if it continues, there will be more blood. Which Government wants that?

The Housing emergency rally is next Tuesday, not Wednesday, but the reason I'm telling you about this letter that didn't get published is that for me it's something I have written without placing myself anywhere near it. I'm not in it at all (well, not that anyone would know).

It tells me I know what my heart wants, even if my mind puts up resistance (fear, fear, don't you love it...)

My letter doesn't tell me why I write a blog though. Although arguably, if I hadn't mentioned this pensioners death to you, would I have written to the local paper?

Who knows! What I do know is that I don't have a specific aim for this blog anymore so I have to decide whether I want to stop writing, or accept there is no longer an aim and just carry on instinctively writing, because it's fun and it's freeing and it's a form of ferapy when fings aren't fully fantastic.

Know wha' i mean?

Political reality

Over in Hammersmith and Fulham, the Tory run council is selling off nine buildings that house charities (Evening Standard, 8th feb, p8).
"Critics say the move will force the closure of up to 30 community groups and leave thousands of vulnerable residents without support."
"One of the buildings, Palingswick House, which houses 22 charities, is expected to be sold to author Toby Young's West London Free School." Oh, that's alright then...

Over here, in my 'hood, the Labour run council's not much better. It plans to sell its council offices in Kings Cross and build brand spanking new luxury offices in its place, with leisure centre and library apparently, oh lucky staff! (Camden New Journal, 27 Jan P. - sorry can't find my copy! Tis on internet though!)

Meanwhile children's centres are threatened with closure and painfully, community centres are shutting down forcing pensioners and disabled out protesting. Watch this heartbreaking youtube vid: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xMR98WIOvJc

A similar thing is probably happening near you, probably happening in Hammersmith and Fulham.

Oh I Don't Know
I Don't, Know
Anything
I Don't Know
Party

Accident fall kills pensioner

A tiny tiny story on page 11 of the Camden New Journal. The sad story of a 91 year old retired fork lift driver who fell down the stairs of his home, hitting his head.
The coroner ruled "the 91 year old died as a result of an accident."

Why has it upset me so much?

He lived in Papier Mache Towers, where I used to live. None of these flats have internal steps.
The "stairs of his.. home" are communal; big, deep, concrete steps, dangerous. My son slipped up them once and grazed his cheek. I thanked God when I got a shed for my bike and didn't have to carry that up and down anymore.

This pensioner would have had no choice but to take the stairs because the lifts in that block are constantly out of service. I've mentioned it to you before.

Clearly still nothing is being done about it.

Mr Jeffrey's death wasn't an accident. It was an accident waiting to happen.

May he Rest in Peace.

Birthdays

It's my dad's birthday today. Seventy something! Seeing June 9th on blogspot, I suddenly thought 'call him!' So easy for such simple actions to slip the mind.

"I'm so lucky to be calling you today!" I said after singing to him.

"Yes, you are, thank you for remembering me," he said.

My dad's a good man.

On Sunday it was my son's first holy communion. The lucky chappy had all his grandparents there. His other granddad has alzheimers. My dad doesn't have that but a succession of on going mini strokes has played havoc with his memory.

"Do I know you?" said my ex father out law to my dad.
"No you don't," replied my father.

My nephew laughed and told my mum, my sister, my brother. We all laughed, these two old men not meaning to entertain us.

My dad's sister has alzheimers. My dad could have genuinely forgotten who the ex father out law was (especially after so many years), but I think he was sparing my son's grandfather. It's painful reaching out and not remembering.

Happy Birthday pappie! To take my son's other granddad's words from that Sunday:

Amen!

Making beds

"Why are you making Grandpere's bed?" asked my son when I was at my parents.
"Well, because Grandpere can't," I replied.
"Why not?"
"Making beds is really difficult. Not for you and me, we have duvets. He has sheets. He has to bend and stretch, he's old now."
"You can leave it," says my son.
"Yes, I could, but if Grandpere goes into his tidy bedroom and his bed's all messy, he's just going to think his whole life is messy too and he can't do anything about it, which will make him sad. His tidy bed is symbolic of his tidy life."
"Oh, ok."

"Bloody hell," I say later to my sister. "Everything I'm doing in this house; the tidying, cleaning, cooking, bedmaking, sweeping, I don't do any of this back home in London!"

Two days ago, after I'd hit the snooze button a couple of times on the alarm clock, my son jumped on me. "Mummy, get up, see what I've done!"

Not only had he made his bed, straightened the blue blanket on top of it, but he'd also tidied up his book case, cleared the books and toys around it, effectively cleared his entire space.

He's inherited my mum's tidy gene. I so want him to have his own room so he doesn't have to deal with my clutter.

I must attack my clutter. Right now. If not for me, for him.

Puccini's Nessun Dorma, sung by Pavarotti, translation messed with by Stigmum

Nobody shall sleep! Nobody shall sleep!
Even you oh prince
until I tidy our room...
.....
.....
At dawn I will win! I will win! I will win!

Accidents

My 'elderly' mamma took a tumble last Thursday afternoon. She was climbing down a ladder when its attachment broke away from the loft. Down she fell, down, down, into a space no bigger than a metre squared.

"Broken bones," my sister told me on the phone. Neck, spine, hip, ankle, what? "Pelvis" she said.

Do you believe in angels? I believe in angels. My mother has tremendous faith. I reminded myself of all of this as Google put the fear of catastrophe in me. Haemorraging, surgery, death. I imagined sending white light to my mum's pelvis then distracted myself with the good ol' tv as it was all getting too much.

My brother rang. "Do you think she'll die?"

"NO."

A text from my sister. Two fractures to her inferior pelvis remus. Enlighten me Google? Academic articles I couldn't get my head around.

"Discharging her tomorrow," came my sister's text. Eh? Google? You said at least a week in hospital.

Son off with the Foca I dropped him off at school and took a train down south. Took the number 10 bus to the General. Saw my mum lying on her A&E bed and cried as I gave her a bunch of flowers I'd grabbed in Sainsbury's on my way down.

They were discharging her, not enough beds apparently. But not to worry, a community service team set up specifically for pensioners would come and visit her three times a day for six weeks. I was somewhat relieved upon hearing this until I discovered it isn't free. Targets, ey...

"Tweedle dum and Tweedle dee," I joked to my brothers as we drove home to sort out a bed for my mum downstairs. My pappy's lost his carer, for the next few months anyway.

Half term, I can go down and help out, shove my son infront of dvds. I'm no use as a driver but I can operate a hoover, administer my dad's medication, customise my mum's zimmer (she won't get a wheelchair until Monday; the hospital told her the Red Cross would be open for an hour yesterday but the community carers told her it's never open at weekends.) Fortunately my sister and her husband live nearby.

What actually happened last Thursday afternoon is a big old story and now is not the time to tell you how extraordinary. I will continue to ask my angels to protect my parents and thank them for averting what could have been a monumental tragedy.

Ten storeys for the 94 year old

I walk down the stairs this morning as both lifts are out and I encounter my 70 year old neighbour a couple of floors down helping her 94 year old mother down the steps. They are taking it very slowly, obviously, but then my neighbour says "It's easier on the way down. Going up is harder." Fear of personal issues is immediately replaced with fury that this shouldn't be happening to these pensioners.

I offer to help but we're going to be late for school again ("Just let me finish this lego car mummy.") but they understand and thank me anyway. An ambulance is waiting at the bottom to take great granny to hospital for a routine checkup.

On the way back I run into the lift engineer. "Are you going to fix both?"
"Well we're going to do the small one for now, get that running."
"Great but people need the big one too."
"There are too many problems with that one."
"Like what?"
"There's flooding, water runs into it, don't you hear it splashing around when you're in it?"
"You can do something though."
"It's not our problem, it's Camden's. We've been asking them for five years to sort it out and they don't do anything."
"Can't you do anything?"
He shrugs his shoulders and swings his head in that gesture that says 'where do I start?'
"I'll try later."
"Thanks, thanks alot."

A little way up the block I pass dad carrying his three year old daughter.
"It's a joke, isn't it?" I say.
"Kids apparantly. Yesterday. They were down at the bottom messing around with them. Someone called the security services, you know, and they called the police and they came in a van."
"Was this last night?"
"No, yesterday morning when I came back from dropping her off at nursery. They were all there."

My turn to swing my head. As time goes on I'm speechless.