Choosing a care home.

The continuing deterioration of my Step-mother-in-law is a prompt to write about this topic because most of us, faced with the responsibility of caring for a demented family member, are going to have to make decisions about the next step, which may well be residential care.

In the cartoon, the Simpsons. Marge says: You should be nice to your children because they get to choose your old folks home.

It’s funny because it is as true as it is depressing.  As usual I’m not going to attempt to advise you, just relate my experience and research in case it’s a help to you.  The reason you need to be happy with your choice is that your demented person will almost certainly predecease you and you will subsequently have to live with your choice and the outcomes it generated.

There is another possibility, you may not outlive your demented person, in which case the choice of care becomes even more crucial.  I was faced with this possibility for two reasons.  The first was that my mother’s location and mine were an hour and a half’s drive apart.  Sometimes the roads were not good, sometimes the traffic was terrible, in the five years of commuting, once, twice or more times a week, there were some dodgy moments.  We had had a terrible road traffic accident a couple of years previously on the return from my father’s birthday, I was nearly decapitated by a tree trunk, clipped by the car in front, rising into the air and heading for our windscreen.  The OH rapidly steered the car into the middle of the road and the trunk, which was at least five feet long (it was a wooded area in which tree management had been taking place) glanced off the screen.  For years I had problems in the car and still do have a feeling of panic if I am in the the car and a car next to me goes backwards without warning.

The second reason was that I knew after a few years of caring for my mother that I was not well.  I had tests for cancer during her care which came up borderline.  As you know if you are a regular reader, I have been ill ever since my mother’s death and am only now finally on the mend but still under the care of the hospital on two counts.  Caring for someone can be very stressful, stress is not good for your health.  My mother had previously been abusive, whether caring for someone who has been nasty to you is harder or easier than someone who has been lovely to you is difficult to say but makes little difference practically speaking if the responsibility is yours.

Therefore you need to research not only various care homes near to you or near to your demented person, if you live at a distance, but also what the policy of the care home is if the relative (that’s you) dies.

As always the finance is the sticking point, it can affect the care in unexpected ways.  For a few weeks SMIL has been very difficult to talk to; very aggressive, very inclined to throw the phone away.  On a few occasions the care staff advised me not to talk to her if she was swearing or shouting.  Later I learned that SMIL’s medication had been reduced in an effort to save money.  It has now been restored and she is able to talk again.

Why would a care home reduce the medication?

Dementia medication is horribly expensive.  Pharmaceutical companies exist to make money, if dementia is everywhere (which I know from your emails) then that’s a lovely worldwide customer base.  There is no incentive to work to cheapen production in any way.  Certain types of medication are more expensive to produce, for example, liquid sedatives are many times more expensive than pills.  I’m sure I told you that SMIL had developed a technique of holding the pills in her mouth until the administering staff disappeared and then spitting them out.  If you are running a care home to whom do you give the more expensive liquid sedative?  Is the the noisy one, is it the one who is on the way out?  Is it the younger one?  How do you choose?

There are several types of care home.  My mother was fortunate to have near her a complex of care homes founded between the wars and run as a charity.  Because the care home was a charity it was not allowed to make a profit.  Consequently the staff were paid good wages, attracting good and experienced carers and proper career carers.  Also my mother was allowed to choose her own decorating scheme both paint and carpet in her little flat with her own bathroom and her own furniture. A walk in wardrobe was built for her, when I explained how important clothes were to her wellbeing.  To her last week she enjoyed dressing up and making an entrance to the sherry afternoons with the small orchestra.  There was a minibus to take ambulant residents to a very nice upmarket supermarket, shops and places to visit.

SMIL’s home is run as a business and has just changed hands again.  If you run a care home as a business you are doing it to make a profit, if it is your livelihood, you have to do so.  Care homes are often huge houses that have become homes because they are too expensive or enormous for one family to live in.  Demented people, sitting around, can become very cold.  In the current fuel crisis, if you are considering turning the heating off to be able to pay for it, how would you feel if the care home you were running as a business suddenly quadrupled its heating bills?  You can’t turn the heating off, you’ll kill the residents and then you won’t have a business.

One of the advantages of my mother’s care home was that they had a policy of keeping long term residents on for free if the money ran out.  Moving my mother from twenty-four hour care in her own home at the cost of £13,000 a month to the care home meant that she had to be, funded, in the care home for long enough to qualify for free care if something happened to me.  I did some very careful sums, whilst fending off the equity provider, who was downloading to me monthly the money to pay the care agency.

SMIL’s daughter sought help from the county council.  In the UK councils have a duty of care to their council tax payers.  If you access this free care, which is most likely to be someone popping in to check on the demented person in their home, you are putting yourself and your cared-for person in the hands of the agencies providing the care.  Because I funded my mother’s care privately by the sale of her house to an equity release agency, I had the say-so at all times and was able to establish a dialogue with my mother from first diagnosis which meant that she actively chose at all times what happened to her.  I provided booklets I had made explaining her disease to her and talked to her about it at all times.  I never made a decision without consulting her, which continued up to and including her move to her care home.

I was helped by my mother’s personality.  She was very difficult, always but also being a battler was not going to give in to despair and was happy to be consulted and to make the decisions.

Whatever you decide about residential care for your demented person will be made easier if you have established the dialogue from early in their disease.  Running away in a panic or expecting someone else to do the work will not stand you in good stead.  Ideally you want to get the trust of your demented person at the outset.  They might be demented but they are still a human being with rights.  At every stage you can know the right thing to do by imagining yourself in the place of the demented person.

Doing the research on care homes fairly soon is a good idea.  Dragging someone demented round numerous facilities in the same day is unlikely to make your demented person easier to deal with. A better strategy might be to do the research and a bit of visiting yourself alone and make a short list, then do the discussion, maybe produce some booklets to look at and then visit the demented person’s shortlist, maybe on a few days with rest days between and then compare notes.

If you live far from your demented person you are more likely sooner to need assistance to care.  Whether to move your person closer to where you live or move them into a residence in the area they are already living is a consideration.  In the main demented people do best and are happiest in familiar surroundings, if you are moving them to a residential facility near to their present location it will help them because they may already have opinions of care homes near to them.  If they are able to be taken on days out of the home they know the area.  The landscape of their lives may have changed, but not the place.  The longer their surroundings are familiar the less demented they will be and the happier, which helps you.  Admittedly this leaves you commuting, but it also means you can escape back to your home.

One factor you need not take into great account is the promises of friends who are not family members, to visit or help, the count of the number of people who were going to visit my mother at home and never did so, was unimpressive but exceeded the number of people who stayed away altogether.  In the care home that number dwindled.  For a while her friend and hairdresser visited and then stopped.  I rapidly became a hairdresser.

It is a harsh reality that if you are the principle carer the only people you can really rely on to help you are those you pay to do so.  All the more reason to get to grips with what help is on offer early on in proceedings.  You may wish to have a plan B in case the care home scenario becomes urgent.  This could be the case if you become ill yourself or if some other misfortune befalls the cared-for.  I lived in fear of my mother breaking a limb and ending up in plaster, amazingly, though she fell many times, the only thing she ever broke was the furniture.

I did say at the start of this column that I would not tell you what to do.  So now I’m going to tell you what not to do.  Don’t pretend it isn’t happening.  The sooner you find out about your demented person’s disease and appear confident and knowledgeable, the more your demented person will trust you and relax, and then the less friction there will be.  You can find out online a vast amount.  Look up accredited agencies, such as the Alzheimer’s Disease Society, use your search engine to find help near you, go to the next doctor’s meeting with your pre-prepared written list of questions, go through all the leaflets in the hospital waiting room and collect any that might be helpful.  Knowledge is power, which is really why I am writing these dementia diaries.  I seek to empower you by my experience, so that, at the end, when the job is done you can feel happy with yourself.

We all have times in our lives when our lives are not our own.  Having a glittering career, making tons of money, looking good, all these might feel like a point and purpose of life but the real measure of a person is what they do when the chips are down and they are called upon to help a fellow human not only for no profit whatsoever, but sometimes at their own expense.

If you can do it you won’t need me to tell you that you are on the side of the angels, you will know it, enough to conjure happiness with yourself from misery.

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Dressing.

Not mayonnaise, glass eyed dolls.

I haven’t got time to say much, it’s a week and a bit to the show and it takes me several days to dress a glass eyed twelfth scale doll.  Here’s the latest.

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As you can see one of the twenty-fourth scale girls popped in for a look.  The twelfth scale lady is fully articulated, has earrings, brushable hair, glass eyes, eyelashes, hand dyed silk clothing and so on and so forth.

I’m obviously in an orange mood.  I have no idea what next, I think I’ll just have a spot of lunch and do it.

Details of the show as always at www.miniatura.co.uk

I notice it is snowing currently, which we could all probably do without, however, one of the huge advantages of the NAEC, Stoneleigh is that it is all on the flat and parking is right next to the hall, you could run into the hall from your car, parked for free, in less than a couple of minutes (depending on how fast you run.).

I’m going to start saying I’ll see you there any minute now.

Oh I just did.

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More dolls

Here we are at the first of March, the only item of interest in Jane Towers is the dolls.  This is frequently the case but ever more so with only eighteen days to go to the show.

I have not begun the fairies because I am still dressing children.  It has taken so long to develop articulated twenty fourth scale porcelain children, I’m just glad to have them.

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You can understand why it has taken so long when you see them next to a ruler.

It is such a pleasure to dress them.

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Here is somebody and his granny.

And here are the girls.

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Who for some reason, I cannot biggerate.  Sorry about that.  Haven’t got time to fiddle with the picture editor thingy.  Dolls to dress, fairies to furnish, men to peel off walls and put into boxes.

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Better get on.

details of the show and etickets to buy at

www.miniatura.co.uk

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Getting ready.

The usual pre-Miniatura scenario of everything happening in the time you’d set aside to do miniatures, pertains, in the usual way.  The S&H is popping home for a funeral, which does mean that at least I have cleared out the guest room properly before I have to do it for my friend and ex-editor’s arrival.

Nevertheless I have been dressing the dolls.  All 24th scale so far.  Here are a few.

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Should we buy something of dubious attribution from that wide boy’s suitcase, Grandad?

Probably not.

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This time there will be quite a few children.  It has taken me a while to perfect them.  They are one and three quarter inches tall and ten pieces of porcelain.  I’d be interested to know if anyone else, anywhere, is doing this, I’d like to compare notes.

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Worth all the effort, I think.  The children are such dear little things.

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When I say little I do mean it.  That is a normal sized reel of silk thread.

More dolls coming up later in the week.  I haven’t dressed anyone today because I was busy making fortune cookies, as you do.  The GDD had put in some earnest requests for fortune cookies, having seen them in a cartoon.  This grandmother had a blast writing fortunes suitable for a seven year old to discover.  Fortunes such as : tomorrow you will go to school by walking, on foot.  And: the cat will talk, he will say – mew.  And: If you have a bath you will get wet.

It amused me anyhow, though making fortune cookies is painful, they go hard as soon as you take them from the oven, so you have to pop a fortune in and fold them in half while they are still on the baking tray.  Hot, hot hot.  Then you have to fold them over the rim of a bowl and hold them while they cool in the fortune cookie shape.  The person who invented them must have had asbestos fingers.  When mine have healed I will return to dressing dolls.

This week is fairy week.  Nice.

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Details of the show, tickets, demonstrations and workshops at www.miniatura.co.uk

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FODTWT

I’m sure you’ve heard of FOMO.

It’s Fear Of Missing Out and it is definitely a first world problem.  I have known entire families afflicted with this, and would like to ask them about it, though it’s tricky to talk to them because they’re usually ferrying their children between venues, or rushing off themselves.

I have never had FOMO, mainly because I’m wonderfully anti-social, I prefer people one at a time, or by email rather than entire rooms full of folk, especially if they are all talking at once.  Once I may have thought that was good, and joined societies and groups, but teaching cured me of the need to have large numbers of people in enclosed spaces, and also, and especially, in fields.

My ideal number of people is one, and it’s me.

However I now realise I have FODTWT quite badly, or extremely thoroughly, depending on how you look at it.

FODTWT Fear Of Doing The Wrong Thing.  Yes, I am a Fodtwit.  Right now I am supposed to be dressing dolls for Miniatura but I am dragging my heels (and the rest of me) because now I am doll dressing my brain is flooded with ideas for card making.  You may say (feel free) that I might not think of that, if I stopped watching crafting channels while I work.  Not only do I watch, I join in with emails.  I’ve been on television, as an email, every day for the last week.  Should I stop watching television while I work?

I tried that and it was worse.  In the silence I write novels, paint pictures and do DIY.  It got so bad yesterday I stopped, changed into my gardening top and painted the inside of the airing cupboard.  It wasn’t until I got to washing the brush that I found I had entirely missed my top with the paint but not my nice velvet jeans.  It washed off with a sponge but I spent the rest of the day worrying if sitting in wet jeans was detrimental to anything.  I would have changed them but I was trying to catch up with dressing, there’s a man been sitting in this room for two days now waiting for trousers. (A doll, it’s a doll.)

When I am making cards I think about dressing dolls.  The only two occupations I have found that are entirely self sufficient in the grey cells are painting a wall (yes it did work with the airing cupboard, when I was in the airing cupboard I was there and nowhere else,) and gardening.  And porcelain pouring but I  don’t do that very often.  And meditating, obvs.

There are more possible connections in the human brain than there are atoms in the known universe.  We know this (someone made the connection) but no one has explained to my satisfaction why all the ends start buzzing when you are doing something else.  Is it a rush of blood to the head?  Probably not.  All the blood in your body goes through your brain every seven and a half minutes.  Is it handedness and the opposite side of the brain?  (If you are left handed, you are really right brained.)  Is it that a train of thought has many destinations, more like a long distance coach journey than a train, in fact?

Whatever it is, it seems to be true that as soon as I settle to one thing I worry that I should be doing something else.  Is the busy brain in league with my lazy OH?  ‘While you’re in the kitchen, could you…?’

I did know someone who was fond of saying that if you want something done you should ask a busy person.  He remained an acquaintance never being that busy himself.

I don’t know.  Well I might if I thought about it some more, but now I’m writing, I feel as if I should be dressing dolls.  If I get started now, in ten minutes our Leonie will be on Create and Craft demonstrating block printing, so in half an hour I’ll have designed my own sari and had ideas for a range of bedlinen, some guest towels and reusable shopping bags.

At least.

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I’ll be taking my dolls to Miniatura.  Details at www.miniatura.co.uk

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A longbow and a loss.

I knew as soon as I saw the letter on the porch floor that it was not good.  I thought at first that it was a hospital letter, then I realised it was hand written.

It was from my little cousin to say his mother had died.  It was only a few weeks since I got the letter to say she had been moved into the care home.

I read it, then I went back to making a longbow cover.

Then I rang my cousin’s sister whose contact details had been given twice in the letter.  She was full of cold, coughing.  Interrupting, chattering over me, listing all the things she had to do, not listening.  Bereaved.

I rang the cousin who sent the letter, I reminded him he was now a full orphan instead of just half an orphan and to look after himself.  He laughed.

And I got on with making a longbow cover.

In time the OH surfaced.  I told him.

I did warn you (and me) that as soon as Miniatura hoves into view, something will steal my time.  You wouldn’t think a longbow would need a cover, would you?  When the OH went off on his course to make a longbow, part of which was his Christmas present from the S&H and me, I told him he would need something to wrap it up in, coming home in the car.  When you have spent three days making something long, thin and breakable, you don’t want to just chuck it in loose and let it ping about.  What about sudden braking and roundabouts, would it cause breaking at roundabouts?  The OH was very laid back about it.  He was just going to chuck it in loose.  I thought, after he had made it, his attitude might change.  He rang me after the first afternoon of the course saying he had dreadful back ache.  He rang after the first full day to say everything else was aching.

You don’t fling a thing that has cost you more pain than pounds to make, into a car to rattle round loose.  It was obvious when he returned and demonstrated it, that he was very proud of it.  It is archery this morning, Sunday, and he has not taken the bow to show it off.  No, he has taken it to see if it works. On Friday night he was of the opinion that if I could quickly show him how to operate a sewing machine he could just borrow mine that cost several hundred pounds and run up a bow case, as you do, did I have any material?  It would have to be quite a long bit; a longbow is so called because it is quite long enough to break the shade on the living room light, easily, and nearly did so.

Friday night we examined my stash and found a brown woven fabric, a long thin bit that wouldn’t be quite long enough without joins and looks like the end of a roll of very expensive hacking jacket material.  It frays if you look at it squinty.

On Saturday I put my sewing machine, which I do not allow the untutored to touch, on the table, prior to collecting the post from the porch.

My aunt was, in some respects, very lucky and very unlucky.  She was my aunt twice over.  She was my father’s sister and she married my mother’s brother.  As you know I am adopted; I am like no one in this tale.  My aunt and uncle had four children.  The second, a girl, is only a few weeks younger than me.  We should maybe have been good friends but she was as unlike me as could be.  Perhaps she was like two spinsters on his side of the family who lived together before anyone remarked on that being a strange arrangement.

So the second child was the unmarried one who lived near her mother when all the others had moved away, one across the pond to the States, the third currently visiting a daughter in Australia.

Who stays in the same street, or lives in the same house as their parents anymore, other than the growing band who will have to work until their eighties to afford the mortgage they start in their forties?

The aunt’s bad luck came when her husband died in his early fifties, he was the funny uncle, I remember crying at his funeral.  The youngest child was a student still.

Some years ago my aunt told my mother that she had been a widow longer than she had been married.  She was fortunate in having been left sufficiently well provided for to finish bring up the children and not be reliant on anyone or have to go to work to pay the bills.  She trained and became a magistrate.  This suited her well, she was fairly thoughtful, quite judgemental and not the sort of person to lie awake wondering if she had made the right decision.  She sent me letters if she thought I had done something wrong.  She was eventually a very senior magistrate and got an MBE from the Queen.

As she aged her daughter living nearby became her mainstay, she took her mother round the town with her, did the shopping and arranged for carers to look in.  But it was decided, as the year turned, to move her into ‘respite care’, though her son told me, when they assessed her and told her she could go home, that she told them she knew she couldn’t live alone anymore.

She had a TIA, her health declined rapidly and she died on Tuesday.  Her house is empty and on the market.

With her death I have become the older generation.

I should have been close to my aunt twice over, but I was not.  The funeral is far away, I have been sent a video link.  I will not embroider the lavender bags that I was making for her 99th birthday, in just a few weeks.

I remember a TV programme called Tomorrow’s World that was aired in the late 1960s.  The presenter joyfully announced that we would be living much longer in the future, maybe as old as a hundred.  We would all have many years of retirement, how would we fill it?  The programme never touched on the statistics that were in the newspaper on Friday.  On average every female in the UK can look forward to twenty years of ill health at the end of life, males seven to ten (because they die younger.)

When I was child my grandmother was generally acknowledged as the family fount of wisdom.  Her opinion was sought, her family all lived near.  She was asked about things that could happen because she had a lifetime of experience and nobody had a Smartphone.  Nobody knew how to put their finger on a screen and, sliding it around, announce themselves as an expert on almost everything.

When she became old there was no problem of care; someone was in her house every day for shopping, coffee, a chat.  All the external care she required was the presence of a nurse for two days before she died, at home in her own bed, cherished, loved, admired.

How did we get from there to here?  Here we are, in Tomorrow’s World.  We can’t afford to turn the heating on.  We can’t look after our elders for the whole of their lives.

I think I may be bereaved after all.

Let’s go back to the longbow; back to the future isn’t doing me much good at all.  Making the cover was like sewing an anaconda, I had to do French seams, when I turned it through the first time, it just came to bits.  Making it took all day.

I am the senior generation, I have had an awful decade caring for my mother, trying to be back up for various friends and relatives at a distance.  It was 2017 when I broke my arm so badly, I have been ill, on and off, but mostly on, for five and a half years now, though I realise I had the symptoms of intestinal blockage for about twelve years.

Will the S&H shove me in a home when the wine finally gets the better of the OH?  Will having installed a lift save me?  Should we remortgage the house now and get someone in once a week to see if we are still breathing?  And. remember, I’m the woman who has been working out every day for twenty two years now.  I keep my brain active, my hands are only still if I am asleep, I have a long list of things I plan to accomplish.

I am trying to take my own advice and enjoy every day but right now the wheel has come off a bit.

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Sad developments.

The last few days of trying to talk to SMIL on the phone have been discouraging. She has started laughing maniacally.  Unable to talk to her for many sentences, I have redoubled my efforts sending cards I have made, sweets and other non-verbal forms of communication.

She has been moved to the wing of the care home for the seriously disturbed.  Listening to her you would not contemplate arguing that she should be anywhere else.  Care homes usually have a range of facilities to help residents with varying requirements.  It does not take long consideration of the number of ailments that can come with seniority, to know that anyone offering senior care needs to provide for some very special needs.  I think the situation was best coped with by my mother’s care home, which was not one but several buildings, each adapted for particular requirements.  There was one with lifting equipment, special beds, ramps and so on for people unable to move.  Another was for those whose dementia was causing difficulties for other residents; the lady who stole my mother’s engagement ring was moved there.

If you run the care home I would think the trick is to spot the special need developing in time to give the extra care.  SMIL had been terrifying residents on several occasions for many months before being moved to the secure wing with more staff per resident.  I think the management have been very tolerant.  The families of the residents whom she terrorised, may consider the management to be too tolerant.  I also believe tolerance may be dictated by practical considerations such as available beds.

What it all amounts to is that I would not run a care home for all the tea in China.  I continue to be grateful that there are people that will do so.  The fact that the majority of workers in the care system in this country are being paid minimum wage for one of the more difficult jobs you can sign up to, and whether care workers are themselves adequately provided for, although the better facilities all regularly train workers and insist on them having up to date certification, not least to satisfy the needs of their insurance agents, is another matter.

If you know someone working in the care industry, for goodness sake give them a smile; plenty of thanks and the odd block of chocolate wouldn’t go amiss, either.  Every time I ring SMIL, which is every day, I thank everyone I speak to along the way until I get to her and my goodness, I mean it.

The laughing crazily is daunting.  She goes ‘ho ho ho’ faster and faster until it ends in a screech and it is difficult to tell if she is laughing or crying.  She presses all the buttons on the phone and then either throws the phone away or the care assistant will gently take it off her.

Poor SMIL.  Her life disintegrated.  She had already had clinical depression years ago.  Determined to avoid that again, when my father-in-law died she carefully constructed a life for herself with an outing to a group or activity every day.  All that was snatched away by Covid, so that, instead of being busy getting ready to go out to an activity and walking there or getting the bus, she was just getting up and sitting down.  It wasn’t too bad; her son did the shopping, popping in a few times a week, once a week her granddaughter came with him and they had a fish and chip supper.  Then he committed suicide and she got a diagnosis of dementia and her daughter, at a distance, arranged Council carers to come in and then moved her quickly to a home near her, when a council worker, visiting unannounced, put in a report that she needed care in a home.

For the first two weeks she enjoyed the company then asked to go home.  Then she told her daughter nothing more would be said if she could go home.  Then they started changing her medication.  At some point she must have realised she was virtually in prison, having done nothing wrong.  Now she is laughing maniacally.

Wouldn’t you?

If you have independence, your brain is working correctly and you can live the life you want, more or less, be glad.  Enjoy every day.  If you can’t enjoy the whole of the day, celebrate the good bits. Don’t feed any egrets, plant seeds in the bluebird of happiness  as it flits by*, be kind to people working in dark places, and if you can move, do that, don’t just sit in a heap.

Tomorrow it could all change and you would look back on today as the golden era when you had so little idea that you had won the lottery of life, that you didn’t even know to be grateful.

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*By having a hobby, dolls’housering is a good one.

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12th scale.

I have no idea why it is, the minute I start preparation for the show, everyone in sight steals my time.

The OH decided we could save some money by having a water meter installed.  Good plan, why did it have to involve me?

I washed the kitchen floor because the engineer would have to kneel on it; half an hour.  I cleared all the worktops; half an hour.

When I redesigned the kitchen I sacrificed a cupboard to make a space under a worktop so I could sit and pour porcelain, at the back of which is a fake door with the stop tap behind it and some insulation.  The OH wondered if he should get his electric screwdriver out, remove all the uprights that hold the boards that keep the fake door in place.  A spirited discussion ensued, in the end I had just prevailed on him – half an hour – to wait until the engineer arrived and see if that was necessary.  He got my spanners out of the garage instead. Then the engineer arrived.  There was considerable discussion about whether the stop tap in the pavement outside of our house was just for us, as stop taps for the properties either side were not in evidence.  The OH tried to ring next door that way while I popped round to next door the other way to tell them that their water might go off for the afternoon.  Then, as the OH, who believes Smart Phones are the answer to everything,  was still on the phone, I went round the other next door, let myself in and turned on their water, having stopped to pat the dog, who was interested and hoping to help.  Having established that their water was not joined to our stop tap, the engineer told us we can have the meter in the road and not inside the kitchen, job done, everyone sorted and the OH removed my spanners and got on with oiling his bow, as you do.  A whole hour.

Adding up, that was two and a half hours stolen from me and they won’t fit the meter for another two weeks at least.

Therefore it was mid afternoon before I sat down to finish stringing the 12th scale toddlers, here they are.

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One of them is patting the head of a 24th scale child, so you can see the difference.  Pates next, then I can begin dressing.

The  glass eyed 12th scale child is three and a quarter inches tall, in case you are interested, which is not very tall at all.  If you have dressing requests for a little 12th scale boy, please let me know.

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www.miniatura.co.uk

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The Full Fawlty.

Have you ever had an hour and a half where everything went wrong?  No?  Allow me to share the one I’ve just had.

Like so many minor annoyances it started with smooth and uncomplicated promise.  I was going to set doll’s eyes, a difficult task, which few people in the world do in miniature.  Having had thirty years of practise, I thought I might enjoy it.

Moreover the OH was settled down at the computer on a conference call with a load of other old astronomers, which meant he would be quiet for a couple of hours and I could get on in peace.

To start off I had a bit of a health scare.  Once you have had plenty of time in hospital and/or under anaesthetic if something drops off, or you have a sudden pain, or there is unexpected oozing, or you feel sick, you no longer expect it to be nothing.  Naturally I imagined I was dying (still here, you may have deduced) but decided to work through it.

I have a small tin of doll eyes.  The wonderful man who made the incredible hollow blown glass eyes in sizes 5mm downwards (I use mostly 3mm and 4mm) has left the planet, so every eye is precious.

So, of course, I dropped the first eye on the floor.

My knees do not work well at night.  I fell heavily about fifteen years ago and knackered a knee.  Yes I have a knee that is fit for the knacker’s yard which I am keeping going with highly ineffective exercises.  So I got down on the floor and began patting.  I finally found the eye.  It was looking at me way under the table.  Having found the tiny eye it is inadvisable to straighten your back if you are under the table.  Neither should you haul yourself up, your knee being knackered, by the chair on castors.  Normally these stick and will not go over the edge of the rug, however if you are grasping a tiny eye and your knee will not save you, you could be on the road and up into town in a flash.

Eye setting is a matter of extreme patience.  If one goes in, the second will swivel, fall out, get jammed in the neck hole, and when it finally does go in right, manipulated by tweezers which keep pinging off the smooth glass, the other eye will decide that looked like fun, and join in.

They all did that.  Then I realised two sets had stalks that were too long to permit stringing, so I  took the carefully positioned eyes out again, nibbled a bit of glass off with my scissors, which glass swarf, naturally, I picked up with the empty head and ground into my finger.

Having got all the heads prepared, with every eye stuck in temporarily with sticky wax, I repaired to the sink to mix up the plaster of Paris.  I opened the tub of plaster and started opening the internal plastic bag, which, being almost as old as I am, just disintegrated into a pile of dust, right beside the sink.  You should never wash plaster down the sink unless you are a plumber, or you are married to a plumber, or in a civil, or uncivil, union with a plumber.  I subscribe to none of these but I did it anyway because I was coated with plaster, when the intention had been to fill the dolls’ heads with plaster, not the doll maker.

Then an eye came out as it was having the plaster poured behind it, so I washed all that head off and began again by which time the plaster had set, in the only tiny receptacle I could find, but not before covering the bathroom in a light film of plaster dust.  So the second lot of plaster got mixed up in the lid of an evaporating eye make-up remover bottle, which stupidity I shall regret tomorrow.

And rest.  By this time the health panic was over but my back was aching instead.

I did wonder, when I began making dolls thirty years ago why no one else was making miniature dolls with glass eyes.  Why, I wondered, is no other doll maker doing this?

Common sense.  They all had too much common sense.  They looked and thought the job was going to be expensive and too difficult to do in any way commercially, so, sensibly, they did not bother.

The only other daft thing I have done so far this evening is sweep the rest of the shattered glass off the table with my hand.

You can’t see the glass in your hand, just feel it.

I shall now go to bed and begin again in the afternoon.  That is, if I haven’t clonked the OH with the wok he’d been making his tea in.  I told him of my fraught evening and he laughed.

In the morning I am having my hair permed, I do hope that will pass without incident, if you see me with clown hair at the show, you will know.

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Min 2

What a joy it is to be working for the show.  It is also wonderful to have a room to do it in.  Last night I left my table like this

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which I could not have done when I was working on the dining table. Several days of work have yielded 31 twenty fourth scale dolls, here they are

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You can see by the seven inch or eighteen centimetres ruler the sort of size they are. They look as if they have threads sprouting from their heads.  This is the resin elastic which is used to string them.  The next job, having left the elastic overnight in case anyone went floppy and needed tightening, is to cut it down and fit pates to close the holes in the head.

Incidentally the purple back ground is a Pergamano Parchment craft embossing mat.  This is very helpful for small parts, one side has a texture and is better at keeping tiny beads (which are in the heads) from rolling off the table than any beading implement I have discovered.  As I used to make jewellery, I have discovered quite a few.

Please do email dressing requests, if you are going to the show, by clicking on the leave a comment button below.

www.miniatura.co.uk

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