The good stuff

I’ve been raging for the last few hours, after reading research evidence about epilepsy and drownings, and reviewing some of the paperwork relating to the last few months. It’s time to refocus on LB and the good stuff. We asked people to jot down memories of him at the ‘after’ do. Here are some highlights;

On Rosie’s 14th birthday; LB swearing under his breath.
LB’s dad: “LB, stop swearing!”
A few seconds of silence pass.
LB continuing under his breath “Wanker”.

I remember Friday nights, pouring with rain (always) and LB going to youth club with ‘those disableds’. Never fails to make me laugh out loud. Even now. So privileged to have been a very small part of a very special dude’s life.

LB. What a fanatastic dude. Not many are able to bring light and laughter to every situation, but LB succeeded on a daily basis. The brilliant stories from LB’s coaches to drum and base are endless, and we will never forget the guy. Sleep well, LB.

On a family holiday in France. LB jumped into the deep end of the pool. I said to Sara “I didn’t know LB could swim.” “He can’t”, she replied.

My beautiful, beautiful LB. You came into school and said “L, I got arrested last night!” I said “Oh no, LB, what on earth have you done?” “I got caught behind the back of the youth club smoking marijuana.” “Oh dear, LB”. I love you. x

LB said the nicest thing any child has ever said to me because it was so spontaneous. The conversation went like this: “LB will you pick up those beanbags.” LB moaned and refused. I was irritable and hot (not that I usually was). “LB, I am the teacher in charge whether you like it or not”. A long pause. “I like it.”

We had a new dinner system at school. Wristbands for meat or veg (no menus). I said to LB “do you want meat or veg option for lunch?” “What will I eat?”, asked LB. “I don’t know. There is no menu.Just a band.” “This is bollocks, isn’t it really?” I couldn’t agree more.

“Newmarket is famous for horses and cucumbers”.

Oh LB, you were such a special person to me, my friend and above all, my garage mate. And do you know what, I will never be able to put that bloody Nissan engine back together. I have so many memories of you. Love you loads.

“Who do you like best LB, Stan or Bess?” “Stan”. “Stan or Richard?” “Stan”. “Stan or John?” “John”. At least that’s how John remembers it. LB will always be at the top of our list. I feel so lucky to have known him. xx

So privileged to have known such a lovely young man. I knew LB when he would always go and do the litter picking at school. He was so responsible and would come back at the specified time agreed. He taught me how responsible these secondary school children could be, with gentle nurturing and direction from the staff. He would also always be checking at the classroom door when we were tube-feeding pupils. He had his beady eye on us. Fond memories. Rest easy LB, you were great.

Fond memories of LB. We hope the buses where you are, are running on time. xxx

Abi (3)


I kind of jokingly tweeted that I’d come up with a set of ‘grief tips’ a few days (week/weeks?) ago. I haven’t got any yet. Antony and the Johnsons, who sat so well in the very early days, soon became a bit irritating. I’ve been randomly selecting music since, none of which I want to listen to. The only thing I have noticed, is the importance of space/s. Sam, ‘little sis’, alerted me to the dangers of being in a car alone early on. Yep. Best avoided. An intense space in which the full horror/distress/misery/nightmare dominates.

We’ve been lucky enough not to have had a lot of time alone so far. With other people around I can forget, or avoid, temporarily. And being outside is marginally better for me. Indoors, pacing is the thing. This new space, of non work, non anything, is so empty, it screams to me to do something. The trouble is, I’m too tired to really do anything.  I’ve been dog tired but unable to sleep. Yesterday afternoon I gave the settee a whirl.  I was asleep instantly, and slept for a good hour or so. But then it’s waking, thinking, remembering, screaming (internally) and crying.

At the moment, I’m really trying not to remember LB though he keeps crashing into my thoughts/movements (at home, out and about, visiting mates) because of dense layers of memories, both expected and unexpected. Rich and I had breakfast in a local cafe yesterday morning. Baby steps with pain. An undercover police operation was happening at the end of our road, and in the London Road. The road that now incorporates LB’s love of London trips, buses, discussions with a funeral director, and his do procession. The intense interest LB would have gained from these activities is physically winding. We all chuckle about how he would have made sense of the past couple of weeks. How, in the couple of minutes silence during the do, he would have repeatedly asked ‘Is he dead Mum?’

‘Pat Butcher’ walked past us, as we sat outside the cafe. And smiled. Yes. Really. Pat Cabs Pat. In our peculiar suburb which I’ve always loved for its diversity. And local characters. A space now framed with the continual scream – ‘HE WAS LEFT ALONE TO DIE IN THE BATH… IN HOSPITAL’. What do we do with this? Where do we go with it? Where will we ever go with it? I don’t know. But we’re off to London to meet the solicitor on Wednesday. New spaces interacting with familiar ones. Some action to fill the emptiness.