Two Jacks

Awoke to a text message the other day. The dad of my dear old friend has died. Her dad was a really good bloke, dry sense of humour, twinkle in his eye. He worked with my Dad at the same engineering works for donkeys years. The finest praise I can give him was that my Dad thought he was a good bloke too. Not over keen on heaping unnecessary praise, my Dad, but all the more worth it when you gained his respect. They got on very well. I'm very sad for my friend, as she’s had a tough few years, as her little girl was born with a heart-related birth defect.

Went for a coffee/paper/croissant, stiil feeling odd. I must have been in a bleakish frame of mind, as I unusually turned straight to the obituaries (this blog ain’t called None More Black for nothing, dear), only to find that Jack Cardiff has died. Visionary cinematographer, master of lighting (all Hollywood ladies hoped to work with him), partner-in-crime to two of my favourite filmmakers, Powell and Pressburger. I immediately rang my friend Steve (photographer and DOP in the making). He thought it weird, as only this morning he was looking on his bookshelf and saw Jack’s autobiography there and thought he’d have a re-read. Jack was 94, helping students make short films right up until he died. I think this quote sums up this lovely, understated man: “I lacked the guts and the bullshit necessary to make more films as director ... I used to get what I wanted more often than not, but I didn't have enough ego to demand it."

Then I turn the page – Jack Jones has died, leader of the TGWU and probably the most influential trade union leader in the history of this country. Scourge of the right throughout the 60s and 70s, he retired long before the Winter of Discontent, so no Tory idiot could pin that on him. So now I’m ringing my mother, who has already heard it on the news. Mum was a great trade unionist back in her day, area rep for the Health Service union, a true socialist. She used to get Militant delivered to the house. And as a kid I always canvassed with her for the local Labour Party. Back when the Labour Party was a Labour Party (ooh, little bit of politics – watch out, Ben Elton).

After commiserating, she had me in stitches by saying she was going into a care home. “WHAT???” I shrieked. But then instantly smelled a stinking rat. Terrible old woman. She means the little B&B she goes to stay at for little weekend breaks in Blackpool with her mates from church. She says they can care for her in their home. Very funny. And as I was distracted, some cheeky sweet-toothed labrador tried to sneak his nose into the paper bag holding my chocolate croissant. Chortled out loud. His owner was mortified, but I told him I’d probably do the same if I was peckish And despite all the sad stuff, I just think I’m still lucky to be here, the sun keeps shining, my bank manager has actually HELPED me save money without forcing me to take out useless insurances. And I’ve been out every single night since I got back from NY, doing great stuff with good friends. Carpe diem, jetlag or not.