30 years.

Posted on November 27, 2024 by sarasiobhan

So Connor turned 30 a week ago last Sunday. Thirty years. I look at the word thirty and wonder what it means. 30. Older than I was when I gave birth to him.

He died 11 years ago, aged 18, before his 19th birthday 5 months later. My maths is rubbish.

These three photos turned up on Facebook this week. Not sure if they were posted in the moment, in the recording of everyday life or later as memories. The latter probably as they landed around Connor’s birth-day.

Artefacts of moments/minutes/hours/days/weeks/months/years of devastation. Of writing, posting, searching, writing, howling, raging and writing some more. Always some more.

Until there wasn’t.

This is a good thing. You can chuck your models of grief in the nearest bin. There is no model. Instead random, shifting levels of sadness, pain, anger, despair, horror, rage, relief and whatever other emotions and feelings you fucking feel. Anything goes.

Oh. And those tears, the broken tap tears that feel uncontrollable? Lean into them. Cry your socks off. How could you not. At home, on a bus, train, walking here, there or anywhere.

I look at these photos.

Summer holidays, a day out, and so much rain.

Cheekiness. Love. Determination. Movement. A brown caguoule among uniform blue. The warm easiness of together.

British Summer time.

Llamas or alpacas at London Zoo.

When a child dies, you study photos, forensically. Attempt to climb in them almost. To be back there for a moment, for the feels and smells.

My mate Fran sends a random pic or two every so often. From school trips or adventures. This new treasure allows fresh exploration. A forgotten hoodie or lunchbox opens a window to a particular time and the wondrous space around it.

What is Rosie holding? How did that sand feel in bare feet? What’s Connor saying to Tom? Where the hell were we heading on that rainy day?

30 is a big one. We went for a long walk on Great Moor. It rained so hard my eyes filled with water. Rain tears.

30 years.

What if Connor was boring?

Posted on July 3, 2024 by sarasiobhan

Eleven years this week. Since that day. That morning.

I’ve dreamed about Connor two, possibly three times during this time. Fleeting absorption, the tantalising, sadder than sad touching, holding, smelling, holding on to, almost knowing within that dream state it isn’t real. Or knowing so immediately after waking, a scrambling to hold onto disappearing feels, smells, warmth.

How is it possible he’s dead?

Two, possibly three, clairvoyant type people have been in touch during this time to say Connor’s been knocking about their space with something to say. I’ve not replied. I don’t know what to say and it doesn’t feel comfortable. I kind of think the boy was savvier than a lot of us and would have worked out some way of getting in touch if he could.

I don’t know how to make sense of his death and as more time passes, I realise words don’t exist to do so. This is probably ok. Well intentioned people talk about models or stages of grief, trying to coax the unsayable into coherence. This maybe important for some. A bit of a roadmap, guidance, perhaps hint of an ending at some point to the searing pain.

I clamped Connor to my heart. He’s just there. I think I did it a year or so after he died, walking to walk one morning along St Giles in Oxford. Looking at the enormity of an endlessly blue sky along that wide stretch of road. Teasing through the agonies and incomprehensible sadnesses for a billionth time. Knowing his woodland grave lay a mile or so ahead on the edge of town. Bus 2, 2A, S4, X4…

Gotcha matey. As I should have.

I sit in work meetings where we discuss the lives of people with learning disabilities or family carers, with people with learning disabilities and family carers, aching for the days when work meetings happened in person and I had a regular ponder about what Connor was doing at school. Reading his school diary; a mechanism of communicating info and an unrecognised at the time log of his thinking.

We have been looking at how Hindu’s celebrate for Diwali. Connor said he is a Pagan and Pagan’s worship Stonehenge, Vince Noir and public transport.

The countdown to July 4 seems different this year. Maybe we because we got over the 10 year mark. Instead of doubling down at home with family and friends, we smashed Kinder Scout with a picnic last year.

Maybe it’s different because of the joy and distraction of Laughing Boy and everything that came with the production. Alfie Friedman (Connor) and Daniel Rainford (Tom), had a joke about what if Connor was boring. Apparently Daniel would say his lines with enthusiasm with Alfie’s lacklustre response;

‘You loved buses didn’t you, Connor?!’

[Silence and a shrug…] ‘They’re ok.’

I chuckled when I heard this. I mean what if Connor was boring…? ‘Mum, am I boring, mum?

That people are talking about Connor in this way all these years later is astonishing. The play did its job in very publicly sloughing off the destructive coating of the learning disability label, presenting Connor as pretty much who he was. A beautiful, funny and thoughtful young person with a strong sense of justice. Once again, thank you to Steve Unwin, the cast and creative teams, and both theatres. Memories of the whole experience are warm and dazzling.

So, I’ve been cooking a storm for a feast tomorrow as the kids/partners head this way. And here’s a photo of Connor and his cousins on holiday in France back in the day. The attire that year, disposable shower cap and turquoise swimming goggles.

Love him.

But does it bollocks?

Posted on May 29, 2024 by sarasiobhan

Connor’s headteacher and two (more) staff members saw the play last week. Sally Withey, now retired, posted on facebook, remembering ‘that call’ in her office nearly eleven years ago. She commented “and of course […] love for our Connor – we shared lots of stories of him during our day together.”

‘Our Connor…’

Connor sprinkled more than his share of stories across his school years and beyond. I don’t think there was a ‘formal’ meeting which didn’t include a right old belly laugh relating to something he’d done or said. This blog became a mechanism for capturing some of this magic, his humour, his righteous, beautiful ‘outlandishness’. Tales of teaching staff and Connor chuckling at the latest mydaftlife blog post at lunchtime, the absorption of school diary entries and more.

On Saturday, Rich and I were tromping in the peaks with Sid when the matinee was about to start. We bumped into a couple (doubling the number of people we’d seen in two hours of walking) on Revidge hill and got chatting. A semi retired journalist and headteacher. With a 21 year old autistic son now in a supported living gig after an unspeakable spell of sectioning. Talked about against a backdrop of impossible beauty, space. And sadness.

I’ve developed a Laughing Boy ritual before each performance (when possible). I listen to songs from LB’s mixtape (played to the audience pre-show), watch the #107days intermezzo and look forward to the daily show report/post-show comments a couple of hours later. Descriptions of rapturous, warm and tearful applause in the report and more detailed personal accounts on social media…

Then there are the selfie opportunities. Last night, Caoilfhionn Gallagher KC and Molly Osborne added to Michael Buchanan and Norman Lamb’s Daniel Rainford hall of selfie fame photos.

I don’t want to preempt a final London performance selfie with Lee Braithwaite and a certain silver fox… or Charlie Ives and George Julian at Bath. Let’s see what unfolds.

Tonight, listening to Chumbawamba’s Tubthumping from LB’s mix tape before the second performance of the day, I finally listened to the words spoken at the start of the song. Turns out it’s Pete Postlethwaite from Brassed Off:

“Truth is I thought it mattered, I thought that music mattered. But does it bollocks! Not compared to how people matter”.

Connor was clearly writing the script way back then.

Love him beyond words.

Laughing Boy. The ‘around’ stuff…

Posted on May 16, 2024 by sarasiobhan

‘A technically tight performance, LX, SND and VIDEO. All cues fired correctly…’

Back to a Susi Petherick photo of the #JusticeforLB quilt to see some detail of the intricate artwork involved in the making of it. Layers of working around individual patches to create something more than the sum of its patches (as brilliant as each one is). People tend to concentrate on patches when they look at it. The around stuff becomes less visible despite being central. The better the around stuff is done the less visible it becomes…

I mean, what about the colours, intricate joining stitches, shapes, tufts, busy and invisible beauty?

Laughing Boy has an extraordinary ‘around’ cast of brilliance in Holly Kahn, Matt Powell, Simon Higlett and Ben Ormerod. Music, video, set design and lighting.

Matt has come round a couple of times to talk about and collect files, links and the quilt. To show how the tech stuff is developing. Home movie clips of Connor as a tot have been beautifully folded into new footage of school children recording Louis Armstrong’s Wonderful World at a school in London. Headphones, concentration and wondrousness (possibly never seen before on a London stage).

The careful arrangement of photos of children, young people and adults who have died since Connor presented with meticulously selected fonts and sizes.

The intermezzo countdown of the 107 days campaign to mark the time Connor spent in the unit is an extraordinary blend of the colour, reach and content of that phenomenon, accompanied by Holly’s haunting and visceral composition.

I’m only just recognising the power of set production and lighting, thank you Simon and Ben for this.

Realise I’m kind of going full on theatre critic now which may be hilarious or horribly grating. No apologies either way or anywhere in the middle. It’s been a blast and privilege to follow the workings and working outs of this production and see the love, care and attention paid throughout.

https://www.alexbrenner.com/

Post preview and tales of the unexpected

Posted on May 12, 2024 by sarasiobhan

Sorry, so blinking behind on these posts. Full on absorption during the course of the play wasn’t expected and is unexpectedly cool. Pre and post show tweets from audience members, daily show reports, messages, jibber jabber, awe and regular ‘what the actual fuck’ moments? I mean WTAF…?

I walked slowly round the block taking in Piccadilly Circus, St James’s Square, Haymarket before one performance. An unusually warmish evening with a slight breeze and constant flow of passing London buses. Thinking about Connor and what he would think of the extraordinary anchoring of him, his story in this way to his favourite place.

Laughing Boy at Jermyn Street Theatre… So beautifully, breathtakingly executed.

On Tuesday (April 30) afternoon, official Laughing Boy photos by Alex Brenner were unexpectedly released by Jermyn Street Theatre (though referenced in technical reports). Dazzling images to treasure alongside Charlie Ives‘ artwork of cast members sketched while tech (lights/audio/visual cues) were sorted a week or so ago.

Rich and I gave Press Night a swerve in the end. Attending the first preview night, late, late night drinking, chatter and laughter with the cast/creative team followed by a day with Rosie, Jack, Owen, Catherine, Tom and Katie walking the Walthamstow wetlands and nosh was enough. [Will and Kiyora much missed and watching from Japan.]

And then the critical reviews… I didn’t anticipate the anticipation of the publication of play reviews on Wednesday.

About 10am, Rich called upstairs “Guardian review is on the website… 3*.”

[Gulp]

A day peppered with reviews appearing and shared on social media. 3*, 4*, 5* reviews…

Peer review is an integral part of being an academic and here are theatre critics doing a kind of similar yet unfamiliar process. Sending their reviews directly out into the public domain.

‘This is what I think about this production…’

Boom.

[As an aside I love how the International Journal of Disability and Social Justice is asking for non-traditional contributions about the play. Boundary blurring and joyousness.]

There were so many reviews, links flying around messages and Whatsapp. I lost track in the end.

Comments from audience members have been unfailingly wondrous. Personal experiences, life, connections and meet ups between people – self-advocates, family members, allies, journalists, human rights experts, health, social care, education professionals, politicians – on a nightly (or afternoon and nightly) basis. Warmth, love and awe.

Annie Kershaw and the Jermyn Street Theatre team have designed and implemented a set of shifts and tweaks so that people can attend. [I wrote so many different versions of this sentence each of which had problematic words or associations. Could be a whole separate blog post…] Relaxed and captioned performances, audio and visual stories, and more. The lack of wheelchair access is grim and insurmountable, the commitment to ensuring people can come and feel comfortable and welcome is impressive. The JusticeforLB quilt at St James’s Church a minute or so up the road offers further grounding and a space to think and be.

There are more stories to tell though I’ll leave it here for now. It all starts again tomorrow.

Previews and voucher lives

Posted on April 29, 2024 by sarasiobhan

The official first week of Laughing Boy. Tonight the play will be reviewed by theatre critics. I’m ambivalent about the reviews. The play is political to its core. It’s being performed against an unfolding backdrop of the further brutalisation of disabled people and proposals for (selective) ‘voucher lives’. It’s likely, at least possible, the glimpses of family life portrayed will be unfamiliar to critics and it’s impossible to know how it will land. At the same time, I hope they are as blown away as numerous other audience members have been by love, humanity and righteous anger.

Meanwhile, the layers of care and love at Jermyn Street continue. The willingness of staff (a tiny team) to make sure people are comfortable, help with ticket mix ups (gulp) and answer questions. The visual story to familiarise people with the approach to the theatre and setting. The Spotify playlist of Connor’s favourite songs in the background as people take their seats. The quilt displayed at the church next door for the London run (and then in the Theatre Royal, Bath).

We went to the first preview on Thursday night. Tears, sadness and laughter. A friend messaged yesterday ‘And I did cry all the way through, but as 80 others were doing the same thing I didn’t feel alone.’

The seven (yes, only seven) extraordinary actors are a family, and their love for each other shines in stark contrast to the absurdity and inhumanity of the public sector response to the unthinkable. The behind the scenes work of the creative team has generated an astonishing and breathtaking visual and audio feast.

In a truly moving and hopefully never to be repeated moment, I was encouraged onto the stage during the standing ovation for a heartfelt tribute by Janie Dee. It is hard not to love this bunch.

Then an after show party in a pub around the corner. Joyfulness, chatter, play dissection, analysis, thought, thinking, more talk and laughter. Connor. Always Connor.