On New Year’s Eve I plan to dance the night away with friends at a hotel in Berkshire. Black tie and decent food washed down with a little champagne.
It will end the annus horribilis – a year I can’t wait to wipe from my memory. I’ll try to behave at the venue, which is called Stirrups (a name that reminds me of a hot Jilly Cooper novel), but I might just let my hair down. For me, 2025 can’t come fast enough.
Of course, my year of misery easily compares to those who have struggled through far worse traumas (war and famine), but 2024 has been one hell of a year.
Jeff Prestridge with his mother Helen, who died in January this year
Much worse than 2017 when I lost my adorable dad, who lit up every room he walked into. Kind, fun-loving, naughty, cheeky. Brandy Man I used to call him, in recognition of his fondness for Remy Martin.
And more traumatic than in 1974 when Dad struggled 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 mid-flight. (Thank you, Bishop Vesey’s Grammar School – and PE teacher Rex Wallbank in particular – for all those cold Wednesday afternoons and Monday evenings practicing the art of tackling.)
Dad ended up in a psychiatric hospital where he received brutal electric shock treatment. Although he recovered and eventually regained his mojo and returned to work as a salesman in the rag trade, I wonder if his dementia later in life stemmed from the terrible days and nights at Highcroft Hospital (thankfully the “hospital” is no longer, for long turned into luxury apartments).
Back to 2024. The year got off to a terrible start when my 88 year old mother (Helen) lost her battle with cancer. In some ways her death was a blessing because she had become full of pain and a shadow of her former self.
A cancer that started in her breast had subsided for a while after a double mastectomy but eventually spread through her body like the plague. She bore her pain stoically. Although I was not present when she died, I watched her last breath through my brother’s phone. It was something macabre, surreal and touching. I cried at my desk, although I didn’t feel as stiff as when Dad died.
Despite spending the penultimate night of his life sitting by his hospital bed, I was back at work when he finally died.
With mom, I didn’t feel quite the same. I felt a bit 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 celebration of a life well lived rather than an occasion for mourning. I did the tribute, describing my mother as having the “wow” factor, while nephew Bruno and niece Hannah chimed in with their own moving words.
Jeff with Helen and his father Stan, who died in 2017
Like many retirees, mom and dad were cash poor and equity rich, Jeff writes
The most moving speech was by my older sister Pauline who delivered a poem she had written about mum.
The year then gradually went downhill. Sorting out Mom’s estate proved tricky and time-consuming – not easy when, right up until her death, she had refused to play ball with us about 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 in order and after a delay probate was granted. I felt pretty proud of myself even though I had only done it because my brother told me to. (I was all for using Co-op).
“You’re a financial bigwig,” he told me. “We don’t have 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 poor condition.
Like many retirees, Mom and Dad were cash poor and equity rich. Mom had been a housewife all her life (and a good one at that) 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 on a state pension and a meager retirement annuity – halved when dad passed away.
So the house gave way to rack and ruin. The conservatory leaked like a sieve when the rain came while it was damp all the way. Only through my brother Dave’s hard work did we keep things on track.
As potential buyers came and went, I was dealing with divorce – a messy and drawn-out process due to the need to divide our retirement assets, most of them in my name.
Christmas Day seemed incomplete without my annual trip 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 were needed (not as expensive) and then we negotiated. Not a month has gone by this year without a lawyer’s bill—usually four-figure sums. I’m not complaining – my lawyer has been excellent throughout – but divorce is incredibly expensive. I have had no problem sharing our assets and pensions. Guilt (I violated my wife, although my new partner came on the scene much later) has meant I’ve been a bit soft, but it’s left me exhausted.
At times this year I have felt like doing what my father tried to do in desperation 50 years ago.
And last week Christmas Day seemed incomplete without my annual trip up the M40 to take Mum out for lunch. Thankfully, when the dark clouds lifted, my youngest son, James, called me and made me smile.
Maybe, by spring, my divorce will be settled, our pensions will finally be split, and the proceeds of Mom’s estate will be split between the siblings—and I can start rebuilding my life. I hope so. Not a spring lamb but a wobbly Herdwick beetle.
The coming year could be a firecracker!
Wishing you all a happy new year. Stirrups, here I come.
