Carol
I’ve been thinking about my aunt Carol a lot recently. A friend of hers was visiting London from California a few weeks ago, and she stayed with us. Apparently she heard that someone stood up at an education conference recently to give a speech, and started with a dedication paying tribute to my aunt. We both ended that conversation pretty tearful.
In truth, I don’t know much about my aunt’s professional life. She was a primary school teacher, until her kidneys failed in her early 20s. When she went back to work, she had to move out of the classroom, and began teaching student teachers about the (then brand new) field of using IT in the classroom. You can read a bit about the work she did on robots here.
When she went on dialysis, Carol came to live with us. We had all the equipment set up in our spare room. She was present for so much of my childhood - she was, I think, my mum’s best friend. Carol for me was deep, unconditional love. She was crisp sandwiches for breakfast, while watching Batman (”kapow!” “splat!”, not Tim Burton). She always hated when I called her “aunt Carol”, but (perhaps slightly grudgingly, in retrospect) loved “Carol Barrel”.
I don’t remember how old I was, but some time in the middle of primary school, I was off sick for long weeks at a time - me and mum and Carol sat in our living room and read the whole of the Lord of the Rings out loud together - my aunt’s Golem is still more terrifying to me than anything Peter Jackson could do. Her world was one of musicians and artists, jazz, poetry, politics, beautiful things she worked extremely hard for.
When my mum got really sick with cancer, she had me (aged 13) and a deeply shocked school friend plant marijuana in the back garden. When my mum died, I was 14, and she was massively self-sacrificing. She’d already basically moved in to our house to look after my mum when she was sick, but it still must have been an upheaval and a difficult thing to leave her own world behind and move in with me. Especially because - being both a teenager, and shut down, hurting in a way I couldn’t express - I didn’t see it at the time, and generally must have driven her round the bend. She tried so hard to fill the gap, even though it was an impossible task really. She was an amazing woman, and died only after fighting bitterly hard against yet more illness. I miss her every day.
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So today I got my ballot paper through from the National Union of Journalists, which is preparing to elect a deputy general secretary - the second most important full-time role in the union. Now, I am not all that up on the machinations of NUJ politics - my tiny office, unsurprisingly, has no chapel, I’ve never been to the AGM and somehow my intentions of going to the monthly meetings for London’s magazine journalists have yet to turn into me actually showing up. I know, I know - all talk, no action.

