What do you do with those tears?

I sat on the Oxford Tube heading to London this morning. Beautiful, beautiful, warm sunshine. Listening to an accidental playlist I don’t remember making. As we approached Lewknor unexpected tears kicked in. Alan Silvestri’s Forrest Gump? Christ. Silent weeping at the back end of a packed coach to London. 

I started the surreptitious eye wiping routine. Left cheek. Swift wipe with the back of the hand. Wait a mo. Right hand, right cheek. Swipe. 

The woman sitting next to me studiously studied a Housing related journal. Two beautiful young boys on the other side of the aisle silently swung their legs, gadgets charging. Absorbed in technologies that weren’t a distant speck when we used to chug up to London on days out. Bus and heavy haulage spotting. Waiting to get there.

Are we nearly there yet?

I stared up at the skylight trying to back the tear flow. A half arsed study of sky through dirty streaked tinted plastic. Forrest Gump. Where did that come from? Those fucking tears. Falling in a space of strangers.

What do you do with those tears?

The Bayswater Road was closed. I got off at Shepherds Bush.

Wave for Change Day. Muswell Hill. Mixing, mingling and fun. Thorny issues around who speaks for who discussed in a space of openness and acceptance. I rolled with the waves. Listening to people talk about lives and experiences. Imagined futures and fears.

My phone ran out of charge on the way home.

Home.

I turn to memories. Dusty photos and love. The kind of love that makes tears tumble at the drop of an unexpected tune.

Pembrokeshire. Circa. the good times. Paddling in the shallow shallows. Orange binoculars. Early Learning Centre police tabard. Baseball cap. Hoofing up your shorts. Living your best life.

I love you.

Videy Island and the Bravo bar

A short ferry hop to Videy Island, a small, beautiful island packing a punch and cracking cup of hot chocolate. The first building built of stone in Iceland. A space of blues and greens and heavy clouds. Shades of grey and layers of mustard. Last ferry back 6pm.

Given the Reykjavik coach tourist industry we kind of assumed a lot of people would be tramping round Videy. It was deserted. A couple of people on the ferry we never saw again and the odd figure in the distance.

So much to see, absorb, wildlife, wildflowers and silence. Dotted with artwork and memorials. Yoko Ono’s Imagine Peace Tower; a blue light installation visible between 9.10-8.12. Fifteen men died when HMCS Skeena sank off the island in 1944. Einar Sigurdsson and rescue team saved 198 men via a line secured to the island over several hours during the storm. The men who died set off on floats before the ‘abandon ship’ call was cancelled.

Later, the Bravo bar. Pints of Viking and brighter colours. Reds, yellows and orange. Turquoise and sunshine.

Eight days in Reykjavik (2): Approaching Videy Island

Day 2. Rain. Solid, grey, vertical rain. And little response to it. No dramatic posturing, rushing or jostling in doorways. Locals and tourists, snug in a smorgasbord of artic-type weather gear, ran with it. Without running. We walked to Laugardalslaug public pool. Twenty minutes along an office lined road into a neighbourhood of grey, pebble-dashed chunky residential buildings with open garden areas. Scattered bikes and BBQs.

I learned the pool rules during my summer research: shoes off outside the changing room; naked showering with important areas for suds highlighted in posters; cozzy back on and out.

I hadn’t realised two shower inspectors would sit in a booth opposite the open shower. Minutes later, after asking a few, nerve generated (did I pass muster on the sudster?) clarification questions answered with charm and politeness; “Er, you can take your towel if you want but it is raining outside”, we were basking in a steaming geothermal pool. The now light rain peppering our faces.

That evening we discovered ‘happy hour(s)’ in the Bravo bar on Laugavegur.

Day 3. The sun was out. We had a plan. A trip to Videy Island. Would you just look at this:

Mount Esja beginning to reveal unimaginable strength and beauty. And Videy Island that thin slice of mustardy coloured land laid out in front of her (although we didn’t realise it at the time). A walk around the headland to find the ferry port.

No words really. An Icelandic director’s house next to the Sigurjon Olafsson Museum and artwork to graze en route. Heavy haulage action I could only dream of talking to Connor about. And a short wait for the ferry across to the island.

Postscript. In writing these posts I keep coming back to the composer Olafur Arnalds.

Particularly this:

He apparently refused to translate Georg’s poem because it would lose some of its beauty.

Eight days in Reykjavik

Eight days in Reykjavik*. A long time for us to be on holiday. In a city with temperatures around 10 degrees and steady rain forecast. We went plan-less having planned the trip the whole summer. Hiring a car: ditched. Iterations of the same tour in a range of different colour and sized coaches: ditched. Temperatures steadily rising at home. I stopped googling. And reading.

Day one. A five minute walk to the sea early morning and glimpses of Mount Esja beneath heavy clouds. Following the sea wall alongside a dual carriageway and backdrop of highish rise flats we passed the opera house and reached a picture postcard harbour. Whale a minute!  This was never in our non-plan.

Kitted out in thick red onesies, goggles, life jackets and gloves we were bouncing out to sea on a speedboat within 30 minutes. Our guide a Prisoner of Cell Block H guard type with layers of understated charm, humour, orders and persuasion. Vertical arm for help. Horizontal arm and clock position shout out for whale spotted. The puffins had pretty much left for the winter. We waited, engine off, bobbing in the North Atlantic. Grey drizzle. Deep, dark waves. Exhilaration, joy and intense horizon studying. Minke whales and a porpoise dolphin whale pitched up, late season. Thank you.

That first day was particularly blue. With tots popping up in the nearby Punk Museum and a shop window display.

*There’s a kind of non back story behind this.

An honorary graduation

Crumbs. This was last Friday now. A wondrous day, memories of which have almost been punted over the fence with a right old ‘knock the stuffing out of you’ type cold this week. Oxford Brookes University wanted to award me an honorary doctorate. A letter from the Vice Chancellor last June. Blimey. A week before the 2018 graduation ceremonies I assumed someone had dropped out at the last minute.

‘Oh yes, I’m around all next week’ I replied… [always the dependable and practiced filler-in].

The invitation was for 2019. A bone fide jobby.

I headed down to Brookes in early morning sunshine with Rich and Rosie. The day started a bit stressful as I realised I should probably get a copy of my 6 minute speech printed rather than stick my phone to my nose during the ceremony. And Rich pointed out a ladder in my tights.

Mike across the road obliged with the printing after replenishing a print cartridge while Rich bought a selection of tights from the local Co-op (which has consistently featured on this blog).

We met up with my mum and dad outside the main Brookes entrance and got swept up by Beth Hill, Events Manager, who looked after everyone, did a stonking job of erasing stress and made me feel like a legit honorary graduate with her humour, warmth and sass. A walk through the ceremony, gown on, professional photos (the first since I was at school) and non stop pep talk.

There was a moment when she took me into the hall before the ceremony. An unexpectedly rebuilt version of the space I graduated in 18 years ago. A time when life had different texture, tone and colour. And a beautiful young dude bouncing around in it.

Beth had a vice grip of understanding (physically and emotionally) because she does.

What seemed like moments later, a ceremonial entry through a hall heaving with students, families, love, pride, excitement and achievement. Professor Jeremy McClancy (love him) nominated me for the award. In his introduction he said the job of academics is to enable students to become active, critical citizens who act on the world and he couldn’t think of a better example. [Sob] I sat in a sea of memories from back in the day. The enormity of everything, my heart swelling and utter sadness was something else.

Then it was time find the white cross on the stage, be given a framed certificate by Pro Vice Chancellor Anne-Marie Kilday, have the certificate magicked away and pointed towards the lecturn. Speech printed and carefully folded in my pocket.

‘You’ve got this’, said Anne-Marie, firmly.

Yep.

It was an unexpectedly extraordinary day; moving, powerful and fun. Rich, Rosie and I spent a lost and lazy afternoon sitting outside a rooftop restaurant in the sunshine. Eating, talking, drinking fizz and chuckling… We went home and slept soundly spread across settees.

I so appreciate the warmth, delight, support and recognition of staff who taught me back in the day at Brookes. Those rollercoaster years of juggling young pups, study, diagnosis, despair and ways of making sense of what seemed, at the time, to be unthinkable. Years that had a preciousness we didn’t understand at the time. The comments from parents and students on the day were equally warming. A resounding ‘thank you’.

Last night David Harling published his latest animation Not from Where I Stand. More brilliance capturing the strands of service brutality and the awesomeness of people like Connor. This week has seen cracking campaigns/developments #strippedofhumanrights, #homesnothospitals and #SENDnationalcrisis. Movements, action, collectivity and commitment to improving impoverished lives.

Who knows, maybe the tanker is turning.

Beasts, bombs and brilliance

Beasts, bombs…

Last week we witnessed the Care Quality Commission (CQC) prioritise its reputation over the people it’s meant to serve and protect on live television. It was grim viewing. CEO Ian Trentham and Paul Lelliot were hauled in front of the Parliament Human Rights Committee to answer questions about Whorlton Hall (I previously wrote about this here). The Committee published correspondence between Barry Spencer Wilkinson, inspector, and the CQC from 2015 which painfully and painstakingly demonstrates how the Whorlton Hall provider kicked up a stink about Barry’s negative inspection findings complaining the inspection team was too large. Harriet Harman was on blistering form as she picked her way through evidence of a cover up during the session. Lelliot and Trentham blathered on, refusing to answer or chucking blame at pretty much anyone.

‘We have to wait for the findings of the investigation into the 2015 inspection report…’

‘We commissioned two independent investigations into this… TWO’

‘100s of people went in and out over that period and no one spotted abuse. NO ONE…’

After the provider complained, Barry’s report was shelved until a tiny team went in to re-inspect six months later and found lots of good stuff. The published report regraded Whorlton Hall from ‘Requires Improvement’ to ‘Good’. Things like unregulated use of a seclusion room and complaints of staff bullying fell by the wayside until Panorama pitched up three/four years later to record the abuse. [At this point my brain cannot go near what people must have endured in that time or how often this burying of negative inspections happens.]

Barbara Keeley MP has written a cracking letter to the CQC CEO raising numerous concerns.

An immediate outcome of that revolting performance was the resignation via Twitter of four members of the Expert Advisory Group for the current CQC restraint review; Chris Hatton, Julie Newcombe, Jeremy (Beth’s dad) and me. Others may have done so.

And Brilliance…

The following day Rich, Tom, my parents, sister Tracey and hub Jeremy set off for Ross on Wye for the naming ceremony of #ConnorsRig. The backstory to this is that Rhiannon Davies works for Safe Lane Global, an organisation which ‘detects, identifies and mitigates potential threats on land and in water’. Rhiannon and Richard’s baby, Kate, died in appalling circumstances in 2009. Rhiannon and I hooked up electronically a few years ago and spent many hours sharing swear and drink drenched messages of pain, rage and despair as we faced obstruction and worse from the respective NHS Trusts responsible for our children’s deaths.

A couple of months ago Rhiannon emailed me saying that Safe Lane was taking delivery of a new rig and ‘everyone from the c-suite to the drillers and workshop staff would like to dedicate the rig to Connor…’ Just wow.

We tipped up late morning to a boardroom full of treats and #ConnorsRig high vis jackets. [Sob]

Over coffee and homemade cake, Adam Ainsworth, CEO, Paddy and other staff explained more about the work of the company. It was fascinating to hear experts in such an unusual and important area talk about their experiences. We walked down to a nearby field where #ConnorsRig [sob] was parked next to an army tent. With rain hammering down, Paddy talked us through various types of bombs including the beast on the floor they’d detected somewhere in the UK. So many stories, so much passion and commitment.

Next it was lunch during which a barrage of further questions were answered then back to the rig for the red ribbon cutting, a toast to Connor and demonstrations. The afternoon finished with Tom driving the rig out of the field, through the carpark and onto the truck for its return to Kent (a six hour journey). There are brilliant photos and a video [tissue warning] of this wonderment here produced by Richard.

I can’t put in to words what this day and rig naming meant and continues to mean to us. The tears started when I saw the high vis jackets and pretty much carried on into the early hours of the following morning as I thought about how much Connor would have loved the whole thing. Heavy haulage, World War Two ordnance, his beloved London (the rig is small to enable it to access narrow spaces), health and safety… saving lives. So many boxes of joy and intense interest ticked.

I also thought about the contrast between the two days. Senior CQC figures posturing, conniving and obfuscating in response to clear questions by the Human Rights Committee. Demonstrating no apparent understanding (or even interest) that people are brutalised as an outcome of limitations and shoddy practice by the CQC. Little or no decency or integrity to be detected.

And Safe Lane Global staff just doing humanity. Treating us with respect, kindness and generosity. Adam, Paddy, Julia, Ian, Jaymie and others spent hours with us, answering a billion and one questions and giving us a day we will never forget. Memories to feast on forever and the wonderful #ConnorsRig to look out for as it makes its way around the UK snaffling out ordnance and more.

Rhiannon and Richard what can I say? Indefatigable decency and love…. You bloody legends, you.

Thank you.

 

 

The Whorlton Hall disclosures

My blog is developing a bus theme which would delight a certain cheeky chappy we miss off the planet and to the moon and back. I wrote a CQC related post about the shoddiness of Mencrap provision yesterday evening after a longish gap and then, 24 hours later, comes another CQC related post.

After Panorama exposed brutal and cruel treatment at Whorlton Hall recently, the CQC today published the series of edited reports that begin when Barry Stanley-Wilkinson, a CQC inspector, wrote a report about the provision after an inspection in 2015. He found Whorlton Hall required improvement on all domains inspected. The report was not published until today.

We welcome the disclosure today in the rarely seen spirit of transparency. It offers an insight into an inspection process that should probably be chucked into the nearest skip. Coincidentally there was “a large skip within the hospital car park, which contained debris as well as long planks of wood which had large nails attached” when Barry and team visited.

So today we can trace how a CQC inspector writes a report which goes through layers of review. At each stage meaning is stripped back to bordering on the meaningless, words substituted for more vacuous ones (selected by a ‘word coach’ using a quasi scientific tool). The report then, apparently stripped of the layers of editing (audit trail) bounces to a final review stage which, in the case of this particular report, led to it being punted into the, er, nearest skip.

More evidence was needed apparently though it is not clear where that decision came from in the documents released today. Six months [six months] later, nearly 12 months [12 months…] after Barry’s inspection, Whorlton Hall mysteriously received a good inspection rating. And that was history until the Panorama team went in this year.

So what did Barry’s original report highlight?

  • Environmental risks including the skip and parts of the building in which people couldn’t be observed.
  • Incomplete record keeping (including observations) and lack of risk assessment review.
  • Poor quality reporting of multi disciplinary team meetings.
  • Recordings not legible and no treatment or discharge plans formulated.
  • Out of date medication policies and no rapid tranquillisation policy
  • Lack of plans around sexuality and sexual behaviour and poor take up of annual health checks.
  • Inappropriate staffing levels and poorly trained staff who lacked understanding of the Mental Capacity Act and ways of communicating with people.
  • A low stimulus room used without protocols or procedures.

Basically a cornucopia of potential and chilling human rights abuses which were allowed to flourish for another 4 years. Between the CQC, NHS England, Hancock, ineffectual and careless commissioners, limp processes like Leder and self serving and greedy charities like Mencrap, it really ain’t hard to work out what underpins the stark and devastating disparities in the life outcomes of learning disabled people.

I seriously hope the Human Rights Committee are all over this on Wednesday afternoon.

In case readers need reminding of what living lives we all have a right to live look like, here are Dawn, Gina and Jess enjoying a beer after walking 100kms of the Camino de Santiago last March.

 

 

We really need to talk about Mencrap (again)

Struck by the almost radio silence by the big charities over the CQC restraint interim report, Whorlton Hall film and Leder report, I found out this week that Mencap [alleged voice of learning disability] currently have eight supported living services and residential care homes with a ‘requires improvement rating by the CQC.

Eight. Bearing in mind how difficult it seems to get anything approaching a failing rating (Whorlton Hall and St Andrews both had ‘good’ inspection ratings until the shite hit the fan), the Mencrap cluster must be quite something. A quick tot up (by someone better at maths than me) suggests a minimum of 206 people are currently getting sub-standard care from the same bunch who forever call on the government ‘to improve’ things for learning disabled people. The grim irony is almost curling my finger nails back from my fingers.

While they keep on with their relentless self promotion and trying to raise money through terrifying already terrified parents and families, I thought I’d have a look at these eight inspection reports [County House (Swindon), Mencap East Cornwall Support Service, Mencap east Hampshire Domiciliary Care Agency, Plymouth Support Service, Royal Mencap Silverhill Bungalow, Tevershall Bungalow (both in Notts), Royal Mencap Woodlands Residential Home (Norfolk) and Treseder House (Cornwall)] to see what strands of the provision are failing so badly.

Christ. What a thoroughly depressing read…

All eight failed to be well led, 7 failed to keep people safe, 3 failed to be responsive and 2 failed to be effective. I mean how can the voice of learning disability with the groaning resources and endowments they continue to pretty much bludgeon out of families (unsolicited will writing seminar garbage continued to arrive for about 3 years after LB’s death) fail to provide well led and safe services?

A few other low lights:

  • No (or absent) registered manager (3)
  • Issues about staffing numbers/availability (4)
  • Medication management issues (3)
  • Hygiene and environmental issues (6)
  • Problems with care plans/record keeping (5)
  • Problems with quality monitoring (5)

The story told across these reports is chilling. In one service people are so scared of a neighbour they are too terrified to go out. While noises were being made to resolve this the inspector noted it has gone on unchecked for some time. Another place was so dirty a family member commented they wouldn’t let a dog live there. Across all eight the impact on people’s lives extended to little or no opportunities for going out to do stuff the rest of us can do. Tablets and TVs a substitute for activities including watching church services on a tablet. “Records showed one person’s care plan had been updated and reviewed the day before the (announced) inspection”. On questioning it became clear that the service hadn’t been providing the support described for a significant period. An ex-care home now badged as ‘supported living’ was still run as such with pooled budgets and daily menus. When it was decorated one person went home while the remaining inmates were decanted to two caravans for the duration. There were the usual issues around MCA misunderstandings, lack of training and people’s rights not protected.

Eight failing services with echoes of the shite care provided in the home Danny Tozer died in. Failings his parents repeatedly pointed out and even paid for a second provider to come in and train staff. This simply ain’t good enough. You should be trailblazing dazzling support, care and provision that enables people to lead flourishing lives, have fun and do stuff they want to do. With such a bunch of heavily bloated directors you should be kicking that ball right out of the park.

Instead, your focus is on reputation, raising dosh and muscling your way into any media opportunity. I’m out of words. Well other than get your own fucking house in order before you dare to make claims about changing the world for learning disabled people.

The full panoply

A rare post. I’m on leave for a week. At home. Writing what I’m calling ‘book 2’ about families with disabled children (a contracted gig). This has involved sifting back through time, space, context, hisory, stuff. I kind of got stuck revisiting the documentary The Silent Minority made by Nigel Evans in 1981. About St Lawrence’s Hospital, Caterham and Borocourt Hospital near Reading. Long stay institutions for learning disabled children and adults.

We moved near to Borocourt Hospital in 1982.

Sun drenched summers, fun and laughter. Lager and black booze filled evenings and country pub lock-ins. A different terrain to our Southend childhood. Borocourt standing to attention faintly in the background. Carelessly, thoughtlessly ignored. A magnificently austere red brick gothic building. A place that almost bothered me. Borocourt people muttered.

Nigel Evans is someone I wish I’d met. The humanity and humour he captures in this documentary alongside footage that almost demands a trigger warning before viewing is extraordinary. ‘Inmates’ offer warm, heartbreaking and thoughtful commentary:

Perhaps (I dunno, I found it all beyond moving, harrowing and devastating) the breathtaking stomach punch was when staff noticed that Terry Green was trying to move the wheels of the chair he was sitting in but couldn’t quite reach them. They sorted a different sized chair (temporarily) for him.

Evans describes how

After 40 years in bed, 10 years on a bean bag, Terry Green takes his first inching steps towards independence. For decades the full panoply of the medical profession has tripped through this ward and nobody had the wit, the initiative or imagination to give Terry this opportunity. This kind of neglect invites a whole new definition of the phrase ‘mental handicap’.

No wit, initiative or imagination… The full panoply of the medical profession.

I had to google ‘panoply’. It means ‘an impressive collection’. My respect for Evans speaking these words grew exponentially. And, with a bit more digging, I found out he did some fudging in terms of gaining consent for the film (according to the enraged health boards of Surrey and Reading). It was in the public interest he said unapologetically.

It was. And it is. We have a public and unassailable record of the treatment of learning disabled people in the 1980s.

Today further details of the latest (now already dated while still not published) Leder annual review were leaked by the Health Service Journal (@rebeccasmt). The Times did a piece on Sunday (@RosamundUrwin) highlighting the lowlights. The HSJ offered the 12 recommendations with commentary.

The report documents the usual shite. 38% of deaths haven’t been allocated a reviewer, consistently dire premature mortality rates and more. The recommendations are truly grim. And include a call for guidance that ‘learning disabilities’ should never be an acceptable rationale for ‘do not resuscitate’ or used as the underlying or only cause of death on a death certificate. Forty years after Nigel Evans called out the medical profession for its inability to be human.

With unexpectedly fab weather and ‘holiday’ time on my hands I’ve reclaimed a patio area Rich built in the corner of our garden 15 odd years ago. A bit of ivy and other weed/rubbish clearance and I’ve ended up with a small, perfectly formed, shaded outdoor office space to sit and work in. The main tree, a Canadian maple we were gifted as a sapling from a garden across town, has in the intervening years grown to form a canopy of brilliantly bright leaves merging with an overflowing grapevine from next door.

This has distracted me this afternoon. My brain scrambling, jumbling and stumbling over the full panoply, the ‘impressive collection’ of people who still, 40 long years on, think learning disability is a cause of death or a reason not to resuscitate.

And our beautiful, beautiful boy, who spent hours in this garden each summer as the Maple tree slowly grew, one of the many dead. Dead. Not by ‘learning disability’ (you ignorant bastards). Death by the full panoply of the medical and other professions.

The home movie

Watched a home movie from 1999 this afternoon. A mate dropped the DVD round a few weeks ago. I treated it as a priceless thing at the time.  Looking at it. Wondering about it. Half remembering those carefree days. Touching the box. Kind of feeling something I couldn’t articulate. Sad, so fucking sad.

I realised we couldn’t play DVDs anymore. Times are a changing.

Last Wednesday

Tom wasn’t well. He wasn’t well earlier in the week. He messaged us about his illness from Sheffield. Rich rang him and said come home. I met him from the station. He wasn’t well.

Thursday

Our GP surgery wasn’t taking calls for standard appointments. Only emergencies. By early afternoon we called it as an emergency, phoned and re-registered Tom. He got an appointment (with cracking support from the surgery staff), was diagnosed with tonsillitis (in a nano second) and prescribed antibiotics.

Rich and I were due to fly to Oslo for a wedding leaving at 4am the next day. A plan involving my mum walking Bess. Owen and Rosie pitching up early evening for the weekend.

Around 9pm we were in a cab heading to A&E. Something was clearly wrong.

Tom was triaged immediately and had a convoluted 3 way IV gig put in the back of his hand. Diagnosis: quincy. IV steroids and antibiotics started in the inner sanctum of the A&E waiting room. Tears (and terror).

Friday

Around 2am a bed was found in the Vascular Ward on the West Wing of the hospital. A long, long walk, Tom and drip wheeled in a chair by a kind and sensitive guy. Bed in a ward/room with two other patients. A youngish guy opposite. And much, older guy next to him.

Rich went home. I sat next to Tom.

Such a long night. Punctured with crying, bell ringing and help seeking noises. The pretty much one nurse run ragged. Sad, dark sadness. Tom slept on and off with a snaggy snore punctured by terrifying silences. Brief whispered convos in the darkness. The odd chuckle.

I went to toilet about 3am.

“Hey, you can’t stay here,” said a new nurse in the brightly lit corridor. “It’s a men’s ward. They sometimes walk round with their tadgers out.”

I ain’t fucking going anywhere.

Rich came back after dawn and Tom was moved to the GP referral unit gig by an equally kind porter. There followed a day of exemplary attention, action, IV bag switching, care and kindness. A sackful of prescribed medication/mouthwash packed and delivered hours before the last bag of antibiotics had discharged its duty. Tom discharged two hours earlier than expected giving him time to watch the Liverpool match.

We went home and hung out.

Saturday

A new return ticket to Oslo was organised by the kindest of kind friends. Rich stayed at home. I set off for Heathrow in the morning. At Terminal 5 I waved goodbye to the cheerful driver unloading cases. At check-in I felt oddly light.

“I left my case on the bus…?” I said to the man standing next to me.

I rang Rosie.

Help. Love action.

“Wait at the bus stop. The bus should do a loop back from the central bus station or your case will be in Cowley to collect next week.”

45 minutes later the bus returned.

“What were you thinking?!” said the driver, pulling out my case.

Sunday

Yesterday

At home with Tom. And his playstation. We were able to watch the home movie.

Beautiful, beautiful footage of our beautiful boy. His curiosity and absorption in the spaces. Like the little kid in the photo above, running down the slope. With joy. Surrounded by people who loved him. There was even a clip of the ‘What a Wonderful World’ school play.

Love, love and laughter.