On New Year’s Eve, I intend to dance the night away with friends at a hotel in Berkshire. Black tie and decent food washed down with a wee bit of champagne.
It will bring to an end an annus horribilis – a year I can’t wait to wipe from my memory. I’ll try to behave at the venue, called Stirrups (a name that reminds me of a sassy Jilly Cooper novel), but I might just let my hair down. As far as I am concerned, 2025 cannot come quickly enough.
Of course, my year of woe compares lightly with those who have battled through far worse traumas (wars and famine), but 2024 has been a devil of a year.
Jeff Prestridge with his mother Helen, who died in January this year
Far worse than 2017 when I lost my adorable dad, who lit up any room he went into. Kind, fun-loving, naughty, cheeky. Brandy Man I used to call him, in recognition of his liking for Remy Martin.
And more traumatic than 1974 when Dad was struggling at work and in despair tried to jump through the bedroom window of the family home in Sutton Coldfield, Birmingham. Somehow, I managed to rugby-tackle him to the ground in mid-flight. (Thank you, Bishop Vesey’s Grammar School – and in particular sports teacher Rex Wallbank – for all those cold Wednesday afternoons and Monday nights practising the art of tackling.)
Dad ended up in a psychiatric hospital where he had brutal electric shock treatment. Though he recovered and eventually regained his mojo, returning to work as a salesman in the rag trade, I wonder if his dementia in later life stemmed from those dreadful days and nights in Highcroft Hospital (thankfully, the ‘hospital’ is no more, long turned into luxury apartments).
Back to 2024. The year had a terrible start when my 88-year-old mum (Helen) lost her battle with cancer. In some ways, her death was a blessing because she’d become riddled with pain and a shadow of her former self.
A cancer which started in her breast had abated for a while after a double mastectomy but eventually spread through her body like the plague. She bore her pain stocially. Though I wasn’t present when she died, I watched her last breath via my brother’s phone. It was somewhat macabre, surreal and moving. I cried at my work desk, though I didn’t feel as numb as I had done when Dad died.
Despite spending the penultimate night of his life sitting next to his hospital bed, I was back at work when he finally died.
With Mum, I didn’t feel quite the same. I felt slightly disconnected at the end, not helped by her refusal to accept my new partner Leonie.
Mum’s funeral was beautifully choreographed by my younger sister Joy – a tribute to a life well-lived rather than an occasion for mourning. I did the eulogy, describing my mum as possessing the ‘wow’ factor, while nephew Bruno and niece Hannah chipped in with touching words of their own.
Jeff with Helen and his father Stan, who died in 2017
Like many pensioners, Mum and Dad were cash poor and equity rich, writes Jeff
The most moving speech was by my older sister Pauline who delivered a poem she had written about Mum.
The year then went progressively downhill. Sorting out Mum’s estate proved tricky and time-consuming – not easy when, right up to her death, she had refused to play ball with us over her finances. (She thought we were after her money, when nothing could have been further from the truth.)
But with the help of my sister, I got everything sorted and, after a delay, probate was granted. I felt rather proud of myself although I had only done it because my brother told me to. (I was all for using the Co-op).
‘You’re a financial big-wig,’ he told me. ‘We don’t need to pay the Co-op to do what you can do in your sleep.’ He was right.
Selling Mum’s house has been a nightmare, not helped by the fact that the two-bedroom bungalow was in a poor state.
Like many pensioners, Mum and Dad were cash poor and equity rich. Mum had been a housewife all her life (and a good one, too) while Dad had been self-employed. Pensions were never his thing – by the time I got into personal finance, it was too late to correct the errors of his ways. They lived off a state pension and a meagre pension annuity – halved when Dad passed.
So the house veered towards rack and ruin. The conservatory leaked like a sieve when the rains came while there was damp throughout. Only through my brother Dave’s hard work did we keep on top of things.
As potential buyers came and went, I was dealing with divorce – a messy and protracted process because of the need to share our pension assets, most in my name.
Christmas Day seemed incomplete without my annual journey up the M40 to take Mum out
Mum’s funeral was beautifully choreographed by my younger sister Joy
Actuarial reports were required (expensive), transfer values needed (not as expensive) and then we negotiated. A month hasn’t gone by this year without me receiving a solicitor’s bill – usually four-figure sums. I’m not complaining – my solicitor has been excellent throughout – but divorce is mightily expensive. I’ve had no problem sharing our assets and pensions. Guilt (I wronged my wife, though my new partner came on the scene much later on) has meant I’ve been a bit of a soft touch, but it’s left me exhausted.
Occasionally this year, I’ve felt like doing what my dad tried to do in despair 50 years ago.
And last week, Christmas Day seemed incomplete without my annual journey up the M40 to take Mum out for lunch. Thankfully, when the dark clouds descended, my youngest son, James, has rung me up and made me smile.
Maybe, come spring, my divorce sorted, our pensions finally divided and the proceeds from Mum’s estate split between the siblings – and I can start rebuilding my life. I do hope so. Not a spring lamb but a wobbly Herdwick ram.
The year ahead could be a cracker!
Wishing you all a happy New Year. Stirrups, here I come.