21st November, 2021
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| My father this year on the eve of his 102nd birthday (1st May). I love this photo taken by Miguel and could never have imagined then that I would lose him this year. I thought he was eternal. |
Good morning everyone.
It is with a heavy heart that I write this post as now I have lost my most loyal reader, my dear father Charles Courtenay Lloyd aged 102. My father has read everyone of my posts since I began writing in 2005, apart from the tribute I wrote last week and now this one and all those that will come. This week there will be no news of Covid (on the rise) or any other news as I have hardly watched the television and right now am only interested in my father's heritage. No doubt you understand.
102 is very old so no doubt I should have been prepared for his passing away but I suppose I wasn't. The week my father passed away has been a roller coaster of emotions and now that his funeral is over and all the messages of support are dwindling it is only just hitting me. I see him everywhere; opening a cupboard and finding his special bilberry jam, the sight of his abandoned wheel chair in the garage, his biscuits, his tea, his medicines, the newspaper that still comes for him and we don't read and it goes on. His presence is everywhere yet the house seems empty and has lost its joy.
Losing a parent, whatever the age is a huge loss and he leaves a big gap in our lives. We are now facing a new chapter without him. He spent the last 16 years with us when he moved to Spain after the death of my brother and mother. I think you will understand too why this is such a huge loss. It's because only he and I were left of all his family and now it is only me. I feel like an orphan. I don't even have any first cousins or aunts and uncles. He lost his brother Raymond aged 16, his sister Gloria aged 45 and her husband Derek and their children, my adored cousins, Jacqueline (12), Michael (9) and Anthony (7) in an air crash in 1971 - his most terrible tragedy - then my mother in 1999 aged 79 and my brother aged 46 in 2001, followed by Sanya, George's wife. So it was just him and me left. I think we both hung on to each other until his body was no longer able to. I treasured him and looked after him like a frail flower until the very end and I have a good conscience. Watching him decline was the cruelest and saddest thing. Age is horrible. It has been awful to see his body deteriorate so much, heartbreaking for a man who was always fit and handsome. I think that's what hurt me most. He worried me and I felt guilty going away and leaving him for more than a few days. I was worried for him until the end. Now the worry has gone and is replaced by deep, deep sadness. His poor body just got frailer and more decrepit and broke my heart. We could hardly communicate anymore as he could not hear. I had to write everything down in big print and even then he could not always understand. I couldn't even speak to my own father. That hurt me so and him too I suppose. Yet he never said anything, taking each blow to his body stoically. But I wonder what he felt like inside. Possibly he followed his lifetime motto "be a good beast and suffer in silence" He did that to the end until he finally let go.
It was on the day of my last post dated Sunday 7th November, that my father fell ill after having been on the decline for the last month or so. That day he had a temperature, was sick and couldn't keep anything down. He was getting dehydrated and I was worried sick. The Emergency services came and when I asked him how he was he replied "fine thanks to you". That's what he always said - stiff upper lip until the end. He was not fine. His demise continued the next day when in the afternoon I realised it was the end. His dear local GP, Pilar, who was off for the bank holiday was there for me every step of the way via whatsapp. Instead of panicking and sending him to hospital to be sedated she told me to be calm, to keep him comfortable and to be with him. That gave me peace. I didn't leave his side from then onward. Inspiration came and I rang the vicar of the Anglican church in Madrid. He put me in touch with the Deacon who contacted me. I wanted my father to have last rites; so fitting for the son of a clergyman. At first the Deacon suggested doing this by Zoom of all things but later came in person. By then Olivia was here with her family. She wanted to be by her grandfather's side too. We sat together with him and I talked to him gently saying it was alright to go and that I was by his side. I said into his ear "I love you Daddy". His reply "the same" were the last words he pronounced on this earth. They warmed my heart.
Solomon, the deacon arrived at about 7 pm. He gave my father the pastoral care he needed and brought comfort to me as well. Seeing the love and care my father was receiving he told me that he was really impressed by it and that I had shown a good example "for all of us to emulate". He went on to say this: "The bible told us to honour our parents and you honoured your father so much I pray that your children will honour you". I really hope so too. I have honoured and respected my father for all my life and not once did we have a quarrel or exchange strong words in the 16 years he lived with us. He was there for me always; my rock. Bless him. This week when I found previously unearthed stashes of photos and documents I came across a birthday card with greetings from him. In it he wrote in his increasingly spidery writing (until he, the great academic and teacher, could no longer write) these wonderful words that bring me so much comfort: "A very happy birthday Masha darling. What an inspiration you have been to me all my life. Much love from Daddy, 8th February 2018". You too were an inspiration to me and much more.
When Solomon had gone, Olivia and I sat on my father's bed accompanying him in his darkest hour. He was half asleep half awake and tried to communicate. By then he could no longer talk or swallow so he communicated by using his poor arthritic hands. He put my hand to his chin. I saw it had stubble and I understood what he wanted; a shave. We weren't sure so Lucy, his wonderful carer whom he called "extraordinary", tried. And he moved his head in the right directions. Yes, he wanted a shave. I can only imagine, that ever the gentleman, he wanted to be prepared for his final journey.
He then slept peacefully for a while and by 8.30 pm or so the awful rattle breathing of death intensified. I was worried stiff he was suffering but my doctor said he wasn't. I read later it is the family that hears this this who suffers. I was alone with him when he took his last breaths at 9.13 pm. I broke down of course and then sat by his side until the doctor came to certify the death and the vulture like funeral people to take away his body in a coffin. I did not take my eyes off him until that moment. I could not watch them closing the coffin though.
In Spain bodies have to be interred or cremated within 24 or 48 hours and it is the custom for the body either covered or uncovered to be taken to a funeral parlour and the coffin on display for people to come and pay their respects with huge wreaths of huge and expensive flowers. I hate these funeral parlours called "tanatorios" here. They are so depressing and soulless that I didn't want that for my father. In any case it would not be fit for an English gentleman who came from another time. It is also custom for the family to go to the cremation. I couldn't. I watched my grandmother - his mother - being cremated when I was 12 and I have never got over it. Instead I wanted to do it the English way which I think is more humane including a wake with food. So we instructed the funeral vultures to bring us his ashes - later to be taken to England to be buried with my dear mother - home and agreed with the Anglican church on a funeral service the following Saturday 13th November, the Eve of Remembrance Sunday. I wanted a funeral of celebration for my father with an order of service thought up by me, not a soulless, meaningless and depressing mass in some anodyne funeral parlour chapel. It had to be in a proper church, the church he was brought up in and done the English way.
It was fitting or coincidental, that my father, a WW2 RN veteran should die that week. Even more reason to honour him.
I don't know what time I finally went to be bed on the night of his death. Ever since I have slept worse than ever and food has not interested me. The only things that interest me, still as I write, are activities that are related to him.
From Tuesday the messages and tributes began to pour in. It was unbelievable and very very comforting. What I did not see coming was his old school, Bradford Grammar School, where he taught brilliantly from 1963-1984, flying the flag at half mast in his honour. That was such an honour. I suspect they do not do this for everyone.
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| His old school, Bradford Grammar School - flag at half mast for my father. |
Ian Stoney - former pupil and colleague: "My sincerest condolences for your loss. Courtenay, the great academic and sailor, one of the last of his generation who served his country and society for so well and so long".
Roger Mosey (ex pupil and now Master of Selwyn College Cambridge where my father graduated) : "I am so terribly sorry to hear this news. But we are also proud, as you must be as his family because Courtenay's life was so spectacularly well lived and he brought so much learning and wisdom to so many".
David Whitlam (ex Head Boy) upon hearing the news of the flag: "this is very respectful. He taught me Norwegian at lunch breaks when I was 12, French then Russian until I went to Oxford to do Russian/German. He even guided me through Swedish 'O' Level in two terms in '78. The most dedicated linguist teacher I ever met".
Simon Hewitt: COURTENAY LLOYD (1919-2021)
"My Bradford Grammar School Russian teacher C.C. Lloyd, better known as Clarence and shown here as a schoolboy himself, died in Madrid today aged 102. He was a linguistic and educational genius, yet modest and humorous; a truly great man. As he liked to say:
"Repeat, please, in your most musical voice!"
До свидания, Tоварищ. (Goodbye Comrade)".
James Crookes: "Your father was indeed a great man and an inspiration who, in his genteel and understated way, did so much good for so many people throughout his life. First and foremost, of course, for you and your family. But also for countless numbers of people - whether the people of Norway, or of Germany, but also for generations of us who studied with your father at BGS and to whom his passion for languages has left such a lasting legacy".
So you see it's not just me blowing his trumpet, it's his "old boys". Some of the British press echoed my father's story too when I informed the Bradford paper, the Telegraph & Argus, the Yorkshire Post and the Bristol Post and The Cambridge News; areas of England that my father was most connected to. Here are some of the clippings. I was very pleased to see that the T&A put his story on the front page. He deserves that.
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| Just some of the clippings from the British press the week I lost my father. |
As befitted a WW2 veteran and such an excellent and inspirational "educator" to quote the Yorkshire Post I also put a notice in The Times. He was a suscriber to it for many many years. This is it.
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| The notice I placed in The Times |
Every time I got an article or important message of condolence, my first thought was to share it with my father and then I realised I couldn't.
I found some comfort though in his bedroom study and the things on his desk which in a way symbolise his life. He was so frugal. Here it is:
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| Notice the poppy and my book. |
From Tuesday, the day after his death, I was busy answering countless messages and tributes and began preparations for his funeral. I made up the order of service myself and this was it. I think he would have liked it. With the help of my dear friend Juana who created the leaflet from my word document I was able to print copies for the memorial service. As the granddaughter of clergymen, I was quite proud of my efforts. This is it:
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| The order of service leaflet |
The next day, Wednesday 10th November, I had an important appointment I couldn't get out of. It was to swear the oath of allegiance to the Spanish king and the laws of this country in front of a notary. This is not quite yet the culmination of my application for Spanish nationality but it is the beginning of the end. So, with a heavy heart, Eladio drove me into the city that day for the appointment. It was nothing like a citizenship ceremony that they have in England. This was cold, just a bureaucratic step of the process after my application had been approved - note that I have lived here for 40 years. At the same time I had to swear to give up my British nationality (ouch) but thankfully this is only in theory and not in practice. I remember my mother describing how she became British and sang the National Anthem with all the pomp the Brits are so much better at than the Spaniards. I knew that neither my father nor my mother would be proud of me but I suppose they would understand I did this because of Brexit, something that appalled my dear father who fought for peace in Europe.
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| Swearing the oath of allegiance to the Spanish King and the laws of this country |
From the notary we went to the Anglican church in Madrid in Núñez de Balboa. What a beautiful place it is. When Eladio and I were planning our wedding we were in touch with the vicar there to arrange for it to take place there. Silly us, we were too honest and said that Eladio was still a Catholic priest. I remember the big "NO" and the answer from the vicar that he would need approval from his Bishop in Gibraltar which he never got.
We were received by the administrator - a very efficient type of person but not very warm. She confirmed the funeral could take place on Saturday 13th and we went over some of the details. Then I had to liaise with the Chaplain, Revd. Canon Dr. Medhat Sabry of Egyptian origin by the way. He quickly approved my order of service and made very few corrections. We discussed the hymns - I had chosen "There is a green hill far away" and "Onward Christian Soldiers". I knew the congregation, mostly Spanish, would not be able to sing along so Father Medhat offered to do so himself and explained he was a tenor but it's a pity he didn't tell me he sang out of tune. If only I had known. I then had to write my homily and Eladio was to write another. The girls would sing Mozart's Ave Verum and Handel's Cante Corum in harmony. We never had time to rehearse nor could we try out the sound system or the network coverage - all rather lacking I'm afraid.
I can hardly remember the rest of the week. I was on a high the whole time telling everyone I was fine and that the funeral would be the celebration of my father's life. The support I got was incredible. The low would come later.
Friday came and there was so much to do but I did it. Suzy arrived in the evening which meant the family was complete. I was so happy the girls would sing at their grandfather's funeral. A beautiful huge bouquet of flowers arrived too from my dear friend Anne in Finland who knew my father well. They would be splendid for the church. I also had to organise the catering for the wake at the church after the ceremony. Thankfully I had Lucy to help me at home and Zena and the girls' friends and sisters,Elena and Chati to set it all up in the church hall.
We had a family dinner that night and all noticed the absence of my father. Sitting at the dining table without him at the head of the table is painful. That night we were united in our sorrow for his loss.
Saturday 13th November was the day of the funeral. I had further help from our neighbour, Julio who would make sure there was music to play during the service and to accompany Suzy's final song, "Hallelujah". I had another Juli - the girls' friend - to take photos and videos but then I was asked if we could stream the service. So Juli arranged that and I forgot about the photos. Thankfully Miguel took some which I didn't know about until Thursday. They are a wonderful keepsake.
We created a whatsapp group of people who wanted to attend virtually - bless them. My dear friend Sandra wrote this which I want to reproduce here as she is so right: "I'm smiling at the thought of what Courtenay would say if he knew we were having an international event in his honour on Whatsapp! He was born in an age when the planes and automobiles were a novelty and is being celebrated for his final farewell on the virtual stage in the digital revolution! What journey". How right she is.
All in all the funeral was lovely; as I said a celebration of my father's life. No doubt Spaniards might have found it irreverent. It would have been irreverent for anyone departing life too early but not for a man like my father who had lived for 102 years. I don't care; I wanted to give my father an emotional send-off. The streaming did not work well, the vicar sang out of tune, there are few photos but oh my goodness the emotion of it was wonderful. A big thanks goes to all my friends and family who joined the Zoom meeting and sorry for the bad quality. A big thanks too to all our friends who came. Some of you knew my father, others didn't . That day my father reunited us all.
The girls sang beautifully and with so much love for my father. You can hear one of their songs - Ave Verum - here, thanks to Zena, my father's Ukrainian weekend carer who is now out of a job. Both girls sang.
I read the Psalm The Lord's My Shepherd - the old fashioned version. It is a psalm I have loved all my life.
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| Me reading the old fashioned version of the Psalm, The Lord's My shepherd |
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| The girls singing at their grandfather's funeral last Saturday |
Soon it was Eladio's turn to read his wonderful homily. It is in Spanish but if you are interested you can read it here. It was during his speech that my dear husband who has been like a son to my father, broke down and nearly cried. I was in the front pew and dashed to his rescue. I put my arm around him and he slowly regained control. I have never loved him more than in that moment.
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| Eladio reading his beautiful homily |
The girls sang again after my husband's emotional tribute and soon it was my turn. I'm sorry to say I realise now my homily was far too long. But it was heartfelt. Its pretty similar to the tribute in my blog, so nothing new.
The end of the service after the final prayer and the blessing was the best. It is when our darling daughter Suzy sang Hallelujah to her grandfather. I think she has never sung better. Juli live streamed it on FB where the quality is better. I also have a video from Zena where the quality is not so good but it's what I have to keep. It was the perfect end to a beautiful service.
The wake was like a party with all of us gathered together to celebrate my father's life. If only he could have seen it.
Once the funeral was over we headed home and Oli and family joined us for dinner which was some of the leftovers from the wake, including the food my dear Spanish family (Gerardo, Irene, Pili and Lucia) had brought. It was then I broke down again but I suppose that is natural.
Sunday was a very quiet day. Suzy was still here and Oli joined us with little Juliet who we hardly noticed as she is so quiet. The girls remarked it was the first time in 16 years that we were alone together in the house, since my father came to live with us. But it was wonderful family time to reflect on our blessings and to look back on his life.
Sunday of course was Remembrance Day. It is such a coincidence that my father who was a WW2 veteran should have died this week. Now there are so few of them left. In respect I posted these photos of him as a young man, first as an able seaman and later as an officer after he enrolled in the RNVR in 1939. I think he was very good looking and it hurts me that old age was so cruel to his body and looks.
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| My father aged 21 when he first signed up as an able seaman |
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| The famous photo of him as an officer |
Monday this week, 15th November, marked one week since my father passed away and I couldn't think about anything else. In fact I have to confess that right now all I can do is my father or mother related stuff. Nothing else interests me.
Again I went into my father's room. I mostly wanted to find his old Clifton College school cricket jumper he had kept all these years and his book by Theodore Storm. I didn't find them then but I did find a stash of photos and documents I had never seen and only wish I had when I wrote his book. Here are some of the most significant ones, or the ones that mean most to me.
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| On the back of this photo my Father had written: "Me, with my mother, father and Raymond on our pony (Tommy) and trap. I reckon this was about 1923 as my father was born in 1919 and Raymond in 1922. |
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| My father (right) with little Raymond his beloved brother who died in 1938 aged just 16 of polio. I hope they are together now. |
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| Rare find - the whole family: my father, his father and mother, his brother Raymond and their sister Gloria - died aged 45 in a plane crash in 1971 with all her family. |
These photos lifted my spirits like nothing else. I imagined my father with my mother, his brother Raymond and sister Gloria, her family and of course my brother George. It is easy to say as people do when they offer you their condolences things like "you have his memories", "he will live on in your heart", "he is looking down on you". All that is true but doesn't give me real comfort yet. I suppose I have to go through the whole grieving process and that could last a while. For me, I have lost "my Daddy" and he will never come back.
The rest of Monday this week was a day dedicated to paperwork with calls to England to the Foreign Office and his 3 pension issuers, the state pension, the teachers pension and the University widows pension. That had me busy until about 5 in the afternoon. It was depressing but I was well attended to by people from the "bereavement teams". I suppose Pension entities have to have them.
That afternoon I was comforted much by a Skype call with Amanda. I consider her my family. We met at the age of 11 when we both attended St. Josephs College in Bradford and she knew and loved my parents for the rest of her life.
Monday was one week since his passing away and I was aware of it all day. At exactly 9.13 pm I held the photo of him as a boy with little Raymond and mourned him, crying my eyes out. My dear husband tried to comfort me but I was inconsolable.
On Tuesday this week I had lots of errands to do with Eladio - the bank with coffee out, the laundrette, chemist (no longer for my father's medicines) and a couple of supermarkets. So I should have been able to switch off. But it was that morning that our dear friend Andy - my parents former pupil who did a lot of the research for my father's book, sent me a remarkable article about my mother. It was published by the librarian of the town of Voskresensk where my mother's aristocratic family owned three of their main estates. Voskresensk is about 90 km outside Moscow. The story is about my mother's father, Prince Andrei Lieven and his siblings, my great aunt, Maria (Masha) and my great uncle Peter who I never met. It tells their story in short; some of which I knew and some of which I didn't. This is it (translate into English once you reach the article). I was so fascinated I wanted to know more and thereby began to grow the seed to inspire me again to write my mother's book. I had put it aside when my PC crashed just before the Pandemic. When I told Eladio he remarked, just like the kernel of wheat parable from the Bible (John 12:24-26) he quoted in his lovely speech. Yes my father has died but his grain of wheat has not died; it will bear fruit. Thank you Daddy, thank you Andy and thank you Eladio.
It seems the death of my father, like the corn of wheat of my father that fell onto the ground, has brought much fruit that is helping me to put my best foot forward.
On Wednesday this week, workers came to take out the old bath in one of the guest rooms on the ground floor where we have our study and where my father's room is. I had spoken to his chemist to give her all the medicines and bandages that he no longer needs so in I went again. Lucy started looking packing this for the chemist when she came across his old school cricket jumper, the one he had kept since he left Clifton College in around 1935. He had kept it all his life and only used it when he had a cold or a flu. I was delighted to find it and as my friend Geraldine suggested I can wear it too when I get a cold. I shall keep it for the rest of my life.
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| My father's Clifton College cricket jumper he kept all his life |
As we rearranged his bookshelves we came across even more documents and photos I had no idea he had. I put them all on his bed and started to sort them into piles. Oh my what a find.
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| A new stash of documents and photos I found this last Wednesday |
I took a quick look and found lots of letters to me from friends from bygone days that for some reason he had kept. In among all these letters I came across a note from my mother to him written on the front of an envelope. This is it.
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| My mother's note to my father - Cambridge 1953 - the year they married. |
The Russian means (thanks Andy) "I love you. Everything will be find and will remain so forever". I also found a lovely note from Olivia to her grandfather when he fell ill and was in hospital, we think for his hip operation. This is it.
I immediately shared it with the girls and I think it brought much comfort to Olivia. They are also mourning,
Called the "Friehetsmedalje" in Norwegian and the Freedom Medal in English, it was bestowed on my father on 20th September 1946. There is a certificate in Norwegian and one in English. In English it says: "The people of Norway wish to thank you Lieutenant C. C. Lloyd R.N.V.R of the British Armed Forces for your valuable services in helping to restore freedom to our land". In 2019 when my father turned 100, the grandson of King Haakon VII, King Harald V sent him a birthday card.
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| A note I found from Olivia to her grandfather. |
I was engrossed at my computer and in and out of my father's room nearly all of the day. It was in the afternoon that I found a pile of old files my father had at the very bottom of one of his book shelves. You see when I first wrote my father's book I thought I had everything. He was already 99 by then and even though he pointed out the old Morrisons' bag with lots of old photos, I suppose he must have forgotten about all the rest of his "archives". And what a find. First I found his medal from the King of Norway, King Haakon VII which frankly I thought he had thrown away. I remember he had the metal medal in his desk in his study in Bradford and looking at it many times. I had no idea he had it together with the certificates in a file at home. This is what I found and what a find and what a treasure trove of photos and documents I found after his death. If only I had had all of this for his book. At least I have it now, especially his medal.
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| Found, my father's "Freedom Medal" from King Haakon VII of Norway |
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| Birthday card from the current King of Norway to my father when he turned 100 on 1st May 2019. |
And there I was thinking my father had thrown it away. I suppose it was too precious for him to do that. What I will not forgive him for though, is that he threw away his Navy officer cap. When I was little I used to go into my parents' bedroom and try it on. Oh why did he not keep it? Well, at least I now have his Norwegian medal and shall treasure it for the rest of my life.
Returning to the topic of my mother's book or research for it, that day I got in touch with the author, Elena Yurova, of the article on my mother's father and siblings and how they fled Russia because of the Revolution. Andy, my trusted researcher found her contact. That night she wrote to me on whatsapp. We messaged for a long time and slowly, using Google Translate as she doesn't know English and I don't know Russian. I was hoping she would send me her manuscript for the short booklet she wrote about the Lieven family for the Lieven readings my father, Aunty Masha and Aunty Valya attended in 2003. She remembered that and them clearly and seemed willing to help. Oh if my parents had only taught me Russian. That is something I always regret. Their reason? Not to make me feel Russian and hanker after the motherland which at the time was Communist. If they had brought me up to speak Russian I think I would probably be a very different person. We have been in contact all week. It's so exciting.
When I found the file with the Norwegian medal I also found a file on my father's last trip to Russia to the Lieven readings and on my parents' trips to Bulgaria in the 90's after communism fell. There I found
a photo of the 4 sisters who had not been reunited since 1944 - imagine. Let me reproduce it for you. From left to right you have my Aunty Masha, Aunty Olga (Mother Superior) - she stayed in Bulgaria, my mother Elena and to the right, Aunty Daria - became a nun in New York
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| The four sisters reunited in Bulgaria in 1991 |
Finding the new "treasure trove" was very emotional. I shared a lot with Andy and the girls who I think also found it exciting. I could only go through the motions of daily life and I had dinner that night as I had to eat although I wasn't interested. I went to bed knowing I would have a sleepless night again or a lot of interrupted sleep. At just before midnight a new guest arrived and bless him, Eladio went to get him. He left on Friday and 6 new guests were coming for the weekend. Business as usual I suppose and I should be grateful for that of course; it's jut that my mind is on other stuff.
Thursday came and I would continue my research and go through some of the papers and photos - there are so many it will take time. Thursday was something of a down day really. Instead of working on my mother's book I went out with Eladio to buy something for lunch - not being very organised at the moment vs a vs food. I tried to sleep a siesta and felt very tired. Thus I just lay down and watched the end of Season 4 of The Good Doctor. I didn't feel proud of myself. I was worried I was losing the inspiration to continue research for my mother's book. Another thing I have to do is to set up a Wikipedia page for my father and that will take time too.
We had a bit of a break in the evening when we went to Oli's for dinner. It was a delight to see our grandchildren again. Elliot is so loving and came rushing into our arms. Juliet is sweet and cuddly, getting bigger every day. Oli prepared a delicious dinner. Family time helped my mood. We were in bed later than usual. We watched the beginning of a new series, Patria (on HBO) about the years of ETA terrorism in Spain. I fell asleep and then woke up at about 12.30. I had a message from Airbnb. 5 people were coming today after the other 6 guests left but there were some details to tie up before the reservation was complete. That had me worried about the turn over day and then I couldn't sleep for ages. I was thinking about how to manage that but also had my father on my mind. He is in it all the time for good or for worse.
Friday came and there were more messages from Elena Yurova. This time she sent the story; most of which I knew, of the next generation of Lievens; my mother, her brother Sasha, sister Olga, sister Dara, my mother and the youngest brother Nicolai. They are all gone now. That was another find too.
Friday was a complicated day. We had problems with our long term guest of Spanish and Russian origin. He has not paid rent since the end of September and kept sending me receipts of non existent transfers of rent. We even had the police here but they consider him a squatter and it seems squatters have more rights than the owners of the houses they squat in. I won't go into all the details but it was horrible. He is still here and says he is leaving on Wednesday. I really hope he does as otherwise there will be a horrible legal battle we want to avoid.
As if the day couldn't get worse, my 6 guests arrived late that night. It turned out they wanted to have a party and were no doubt going to bring more people. When they realised we lived here - something which is very clear in the listing, they actually left. This is probably my first experience of this kind and it wasn't pleasant either.
What was pleasant on Friday was an email from a journalist from The Telegraph. He wants to do my father's obituary. So I sent him lots of information and he will call me next week. Wow, my father's obituary in a national newspaper. My father subscribed to both The Times and The Telegraph for many years. Apart from the crossword and weather section, he always loved reading the obituaries. Now it seems he will have his own. Oh what a pity not to share that with him.
Funnily enough and despite all of Friday's troubles, I had one of my best nights since my father passed away.
Yesterday was Saturday. Oli and family came for lunch which cheered us up. Elliot and Juliet always do that. And today is Sunday and it has begun to rain. As I finish this post I realise that I shall no longer have to print a copy for my father. He always looked forward to it. I have lost my most loyal reader and that saddens me.
Sorry for this sad post; until next week,
Cheers for now/Masha
c
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