Kingsferry Bridge between Sheppey and mainland closed by gas leak
Southeastern Railway confirmed trains were halted on Wednesday, but running again on Thursday.The pipes carrying gas to Sheppey are thought to be as old as the bridge, which was opened in April, 1960.In 2023 SGN applied for permission to replace the gas main which serves the Island and runs along the road and through the bridge.SGN wants to sink a new pipe under the Swale, as Southern Water did when its pipes failed and left the Island without water in July 2022.In its application SGN published photos of the state of the 65-year-old mains.
The bridge was also closed in June when it was hit by a boat.In 2024 it was shut for several weeks when Network Rail was forced to replace dozens of 30-year-old steel cables which lift the road section.
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Daily Mail
an hour ago
- Daily Mail
My mother gave me away to the cleaner's sister at six weeks old. She never wanted me - I cannot now grieve her death: After a loveless childhood SUSANNAH JOWITT admits the unthinkable
My mother gave me away to the cleaner's sister at six weeks old. She never wanted me - I cannot now grieve her death: After a loveless childhood SUSANNAH JOWITT admits the unthinkable For the past few weeks, I have been wearing a necklace that was a gift from my mother, Juliet, on my wedding day. She repurposed a brooch she herself had inherited into a pendant for me: a finely-wrought gold dragon holding a glowing red little ruby in its mouth. It's beautiful and I have felt strangely compelled to wear it day and night, despite the occasional prick from the brooch pin stabbing into my neck. Ironically, this sums up my relationship with my mother: small elements to treasure, offset by real moments of pain. My mother died four weeks ago, aged 84. It was a relief for her and for us. She was miserable, veering vertiginously between Alzheimer's and clarity, physically dizzy and wobbly, then bed-bound, increasingly dehydrated and, eventually, she went past the point of no return. For a week after her death, I felt strangely light and liberated, no longer bearing the guilt of her misery, the shocking expense of her 24-hour care and the terror of how long both would continue. And yet the relationship continues to prick and please. Not once have I felt a moment of pure grief, not even when I read the astonishingly kind letters people have written. All are lovely; all say what a shock it must have been and what a hole she will leave in my life – but those from the friends who knew me better also include a degree of nuance that changes the whole picture of conventional grief. Susannah Jowitt with her late mother, Juliet, who admitted five years before her death that she had given her daughter away for the first year of her life Juliet was not, you see, a conventional mother. She gave me away for the first year of my life – until Christmas Eve 1969 – not actually meeting me until I was a year old. None of us know how long she would have continued to avoid my existence, because all the witnesses to that time are dead; my brother and I only found out this tale five years ago, on the night of my father's funeral, when my mother had a few too many sherries and told me. She admitted quite openly that the only reason I came back when I did was because her mother had been coming to stay for Christmas. My grandmother didn't know she had outsourced me to our cleaning lady's sister at six weeks old. So Juliet had to quickly reclaim me before her own mother found out what she'd done. And, in reality, what had she done? There was no neglect, no abuse, no need for social services. My mother simply hadn't wanted me – and when she was pressured into having me because everyone said my brother couldn't be an only child, she was determined to do things her way. So, on the night of my father's funeral, as if she were recalling her life story to a professional biographer, she told me all about it. 'I just never wanted children,' she said, 'but in those days no one ever admitted that, so I toed the line and got pregnant – but on my terms, right from the moment the doctor told me I was expecting. 'I demanded, and got, a prescription of three Valium a day to keep me calm for the whole pregnancy.' She planned my birth, in the late 1960s, with the precision and, some might say, callousness of a First World War field marshal sending young boys over the top of the trenches: all theory, no empathy. 'I had a very strong epidural so that I couldn't feel a thing and you were born unseen by me because I was hiding behind a large book, deliberately chosen for its size. The midwives had been firmly instructed to take you away and look after you for the four days that I was in hospital, so I didn't actually meet you. Juliet with her children in 1978. Susannah's mother was unable to love her or her brother. She certainly couldn't bear physical contact with them. Both remember seeing other children being hugged by their parents and thinking: 'Ohhh, so that's what hugging is!' 'You were then taken straight to a maternity nurse where you spent the first six weeks of your life.' At that point, I was meant to come home but, when it came to it, Juliet still couldn't face seeing me. She was also clearly suffering from monstrous – and undiagnosed – post-natal depression. 'I couldn't bear it and your father was going on a business trip to South Africa for six weeks, so it was decided by everyone that I should go with him, feel better from the winter sun and recover my joie de vivre,' she told me. 'And I thought it was unfair burdening your brother's nanny with a five-year-old and a newborn, so we came up with the plan of parking you with Mrs Pybus's sister in the village.' Me being lodged with the sister of Mrs Pybus, our elderly cleaning lady, worked like a dream. Juliet came back feeling so much better, in fact, that she decided with my father it would be better for everyone if I just stayed where I was. 'You were apparently happy,' she told me, 'and I was happy. And if I was happy, your father was happy.' Throughout her tale, she refused to tell me the name of the woman who cared for me in this year. No doubt many of you will find the thought of this distressing. But even as my mother told me, I wasn't shocked by her revelation. In fact, many pennies dropped. So this was why my mother and I had never bonded, why we were civil strangers until the day she died. What was more unexpected was how settled I felt within myself when she told me. All my life, I had punished myself for never being enough for my mother. Nothing I did could ever please her. Nothing I ever achieved made her proud. She seemed so resentful of me that I became convinced I was adopted – once going through her files trying to find evidence. I read book after book about Greek demigods and princesses being swapped at birth and brought up in commoners' households. I was sure this was what had happened to me. In my 20s, my godmother, who must have known what happened (sadly she died before I knew myself), once tried to give me a hint about that missing first year, saying: 'You should never underestimate how little you and your mother ever bonded, so it's no surprise that you can't seem to get along now. But she loves you really.' This, though, I would contest. My mother couldn't love me or my brother. She certainly couldn't bear physical contact with us. Both of us remember seeing other children being hugged by their parents and thinking to ourselves: 'Ohhh, so that's what hugging is!' My first memory of her touch is when I was about five and I stepped off the pavement without looking. She grabbed my hand and wrenched me back as a lorry swept past. Much more than the relief at having been saved was the shock of the feel of her hand: her strong, capable, slightly rough fingers, so genetically like my own now. If I close my eyes, I can feel it still. But I think my mother's lack of love went deeper than a mere horror of tactility. She was always jealous of the love my father, Tommy, was able to show me (despite his own consistent failure to actually be there for us as a father) and my brother and I both think she only really ever loved him. In essence, I believe she was jealous of me, full stop, which in retrospect was shown most clearly when I had my own children and so manifestly, abundantly loved them from the moment they were both born, 24 and 22 years ago. 'They each have you wrapped around their little finger,' she would comment acidly and regularly. 'I know and I love it,' I would respond, to her fury. I would never want to exaggerate the lovelessness of my childhood. We kids were never neglected, were given birthday presents and parties, and although we were very rarely taken on holiday by our parents because they couldn't have been less interested in doing so, all the middle-class conventions of parenting were otherwise observed. But sometimes, despite the material comfort, this sheer lack of maternal feeling had unintended consequences. While I was fine – happy, I think, and flooded by cuddles and warmth with Mrs Pybus's sister – during that first missing year of my life, it was a different story for my brother. He called me a few weeks after the revelations of that night of my dad's funeral in 2020. 'I'm struggling, Zannah. I am just so angry. Especially with Daddy for letting it happen.' My brother was four and a half when I was born and had, unlike my mother, met me in the hospital when he and my father visited. He remembers looking down at the little bundle that was me, swaddled, and thinking that while I wasn't much cop yet as a playmate, that maybe I had potential. But then I didn't come home. And no one said anything about me. He thought perhaps I had died. He didn't know but the unspoken message he got was that somehow, if you weren't up to the mark, you'd be – as he said – 'disappeared'. This breaks my heart a little whenever I think about it. On one level, I received the same message; it would certainly explain why I was such a desperate show-pony throughout my childhood; always showing off for attention, for a tiny scrap of love, anxious to be brilliant enough not to be sent away again. 'Susannah was like an eager little puppy,' my father once told my husband. 'No matter how often you kicked her, she always came back, tail wagging, for more.' Susannah is relieved that her mother's death was peaceful In my 30s and 40s I learned to put a label on my mother. Juliet was, I was told by various friends who had similar mothers, a classic example of someone who had Narcissistic Personality Disorder, dominated by an obsession with her own importance, her place at the centre of every story, craving constant admiration and lacking in genuine empathy for others. A relationships expert later told me that my father was also clearly narcissistic, so my brother and I were doomed. When it came to family, my mother probably had the emotional intelligence of a five year old. She could be charming, able to win people over easily – until things didn't go her way, at which point she would literally stamp her foot with her arms in the air and have a tantrum. So when my father died in 2020 and I found out the truth about my start in life, I actually felt profoundly sorry for her; a feeling that has persisted right up to her death and beyond. She hadn't been capable of motherhood, therefore who was I to condemn her or even label her as a narcissist? It would be like beating a puppy for refusing to stop chewing things or, in the case of the famous fable, like condemning the scorpion for stinging the frog that is carrying it to safety: it was just in her nature. Then, when she got Alzheimer's, her infantilisation really took hold. She had missed my father desperately when he died at the age of 86. They'd been married for nearly 57 years. But, when she became ill, she stopped missing him as a husband and talked about him like a hero-worshipping child talked about their idol. He had been charming, though flawed, but she could no longer see that: in her child's mind he was perfect – a perfect, gentle knight. Next to such a paragon, her living children – never even in the same league as her husband –were sorry compensation. Indeed, whenever I called her she would take a long time to answer and, when she did, sounded weary and almost resentful. Sometimes she would press the wrong contact in her phone and, meaning to call her best friend Susie, would get me by mistake. She always sounded so disappointed by this and would soon ring off in favour of calling Susie for real. I realised this was not behaviour she reserved only for me. When I was once staying with her, the phone rang and up popped my brother's name on the screen. Having been perfectly lively with those of us in the room, she grimaced at the sight of his name, took a deep breath and composed her face into lines of bitter suffering. 'H-h-hello?' she quavered, as if she was already on her deathbed. It was a masterful performance and I realised it was one she gave every time her disappointing children rang. All in all, it's no wonder that both my brother and I have had a conflicting mix of emotions since she died, but no real grief. It's her funeral tomorrow and I suspect that while her friends – who all adored her for being the fiercely clever, witty, talented, purposeful and intensely strong-willed friend she was for them –will genuinely mourn her and even cry a little, my brother and I won't quite. One thing I am heartfelt about is my relief that her actual death was so peaceful. The day before she died, at the age of 84, I had been rehearsing for a performance of Fauré's Requiem with the City of London Choir at the Barbican. I knew this to be one of her very favourite pieces of music, so I recorded some snatches of our rehearsal that afternoon, including the final movement, In Paradisum, and FaceTimed her with them. Her last word to me was 'wonderful', with a tiny smile. She died at 6am the next day, having not really spoken again. She may not have been very wonderful to me in my 56 years but I'm glad, when we parted, that we were joined by that word and that smile.
The Independent
2 hours ago
- The Independent
Families face £1,076 bill per child for summer holiday childcare
Families paying for childcare over the six-week summer holiday now face a bill of £1,076 per child on average – a rise of 4% on last year, a report has found. Councils have reported a shortage of holiday childcare places – especially for children with special educational needs and disabilities (Send), according to research by the Coram Family and Childcare charity. It suggests families in the UK pay on average £1,076 for six weeks at a holiday childcare club for a school-age child, which is £677 more than they would pay for six weeks in an after-school club during term time. The research, based on surveys of local authorities in England, Scotland and Wales between April and June, suggests the average cost of a holiday childcare club has risen by 4% in a year to £179 per week. Wales has the highest weekly price at £210, followed by England at £178 and Scotland at £168. There is significant variation in holiday club prices across England, ranging from £196 per week in the South East to £162 per week in the North West. The report also found that the average cost of a childminder during the holidays is £234 per week in the UK. Inner London has the highest childminder price at £306 per week, compared to the South West where the childminder cost is £191 per week. In England, only 9% of local authorities said they had enough holiday childcare for at least three quarters of children with Send in their area. This figure falls to 0% for three regions in England – the East Midlands, the East of England and Inner London, the report said. The charity is calling on the Government to provide more funding, training and support to holiday childcare providers to meet the needs of Send children. The holiday activities and food (HAF) programme – which funds local authorities to provide holiday childcare, activities and food for children eligible for free school meals – should also be maintained after March 2026 to ensure disadvantaged children have childcare during school holidays, it added. The expansion of funded childcare – which was introduced by the Conservative government – began being rolled out in England in April last year for working parents of two-year-olds. Working parents of children older than nine months are now able to access 15 hours of funded childcare a week during term time, before the full rollout of 30 hours a week to all eligible families in September. The report said: 'It is encouraging to see increasing recognition that childcare is essential for facilitating parental workplace participation, with the continued expansion of funded childcare in early years, support to develop wraparound childcare before and after school, and the introduction of free breakfast clubs. 'There is no longer an assumption that parents and employers are able to fit their work around the school day, or an expectation that they will do so. 'However, outside of school term time, the situation is very different. 'Holiday childcare remains the unspoken outlier of childcare policy and the gap that parents must bridge every school holiday.' Lydia Hodges, head of Coram Family and Childcare, said: 'The need for childcare doesn't finish at the end of term. 'Holiday childcare not only helps parents to work but gives children the chance to have fun, make friends and stay active during the school breaks. 'Yet all too often it is missing from childcare conversations. 'Whilst the increase in government-funded early education has reduced childcare costs for working parents of under-fives in England, prices for holiday childcare are going up for school-age children. 'This risks encouraging parents to work while their children are young, only to find it is not sustainable once their child starts school. 'Availability of holiday childcare is an ongoing issue and without a clear picture of how much holiday childcare there is in each area, we cannot be sure that children – particularly those with special educational needs and disabilities – are not missing out.' Arooj Shah, chairwoman of the Local Government Association's (LGA) children and young people board, said: 'While councils recognise the importance of ensuring there is sufficient provision available for children with Send, it can be difficult to ensure the right provision is available, particularly given the challenging situation that many providers face at the moment. 'Councils work closely with providers to improve access to holiday childcare provision for children with Send but without investment and recruitment of quality staff this will be difficult to deliver.' A Government spokesperson said: 'We recognise the school holidays can be a pressurised time for parents, which is why this government is putting pounds back in parents' pockets both during the holidays and in term time. 'We are expanding free school meals to all children whose households are on universal credit, introducing free breakfast clubs in primary schools, and rolling out 30 government funded hours of early education from September – saving families money and helping them balance work with family life. 'We are also continuing to fund free holiday clubs through the Holiday Activities and Food programme which provides six weeks of activities and meals for any child from a low-income family who needs it.'
BBC News
3 hours ago
- BBC News
American-based Clan Turnbull helps save historic Borders church
A call to help save a historic church from property developers has been answered by American descendants of a family with centuries-old links to the Parish Church at Bedrule - between Hawick and Jedburgh - is one of dozens of churches being closed and sold off across the region due to low community launched a fundraiser at the start of the year to meet the £35,000 asking price - and about half the money has come from the US-based Clan of the clan's ancestors were buried at the churchyard. Charlotte Maberly is among the local people heading up fundraising efforts at Bedrule Church Future (BCF).She said: "Americans are much more familiar with fundraising than us Brits are."For them, their sense of heritage is much stronger than people who are here." The current Bedrule church dates back to 1804, but many of the gravestones in the surrounding graveyard are from several centuries many of the headstones are memorials to members of the Turnbull family who originated in the the 15th and 16th Centuries, the Border Reiver families controlled lands on either side of what had become a lawless Anglo-Scottish the middle march, which now takes up most of the central and eastern Scottish Borders, the Turnbulls emerged as one of the most renowned and feared clans. With reducing congregations across the country, the Church of Scotland has been scaling back its places of worship over the past decade or Parish Kirk and neighbouring churches in Minto and Southdean are all being "disposed of" this and the wider community at Bedrule were informed in November of the decision, leading to the formation of a fundraising added: "Pubs have been closing, other communal spaces have been closing, and with all these different churches closing, we need to rethink how we create community cohesion rurally." Many former churches have already been turned into private dwellings - and there were fears that, if the asking price could not be raised, a property developer would snap up the listed with just days to go before the closing date, BCF, which has preferred bidder status, reached its target - with a big debt to the US-based clan describes the church as a "historic Turnbull landmark with a breath-taking view across the Rulewater Valley to Ruberslaw mountain"."The kirkyard, which holds the Turnbull cairn, is the final resting place of many of our ancestors," it added."The sanctuary of the church is a holy place where the power of the faith of our fathers is tangible." With the funding in place, meetings will now take place in the coming weeks and months to forge a plan for the building's future in a tiny village with just a couple of hundreds Bailey, who is also a trustee of BCF, said they would have to come up with an innovative use for the building."We don't have footfall around here," he said. "If you are a church in a town, you can become a café, a gym, a kids club."So we are going to have to be imaginative."
