![]() ![]() This spare bedroom was a secret space, a nothingness: freedom. It was a shame that in my looks I took after my father, who was a producer on one of those films. In the fifties, before she married, she had worked modelling clothes-and was even in a couple of films, although she couldn’t act. She had made a whole life out of being lovely, even if she always disparaged her looks. When she told the old stories of her childhood in Liverpool, her eyes filled up with genuine tears of remembrance and nostalgia: she was quite lovely then. Not that she was in denial of her past, or not exactly she didn’t pretend to be anything she wasn’t. You’d never have guessed that her parents were a factory worker and a cleaner. You’d have thought she’d been brought up in the leisured classes, drinking tea out of fine china. My mother disdained the new technology and still wrote her letters in elegant longhand, at a small desk downstairs that she called her “bureau.” My mother, Margot. He’d set up their BT hub and computer in there, although the height of his achievement on the Internet, as far as I could tell, was forwarding comical YouTube videos. Studied the bottom of a wineglass, perhaps. This wasn’t where I slept-I preferred the couch in the dark little den behind it, which had shelves with a few books on them and was supposed to have been Dickie’s study, though I don’t know what studying he ever did. Treading quietly in my stocking feet, I went into the spare bedroom, at the front of the house, overlooking the street. I can’t just go on calling her my mother, as if that were all she was. My mother was old-fashioned in that way, a man’s woman. We grieved for them, but it was restful without them, without the performance and the competition that they inspired. We had both lost our men, hers to death, three years earlier-her third husband, Dickie, not my father, who was her first and had died long before-and mine to divorce, at about the same time. But she was naturally sociable, and longed for company-any company, even mine. She had friends who would shop for her, plus a cleaner and someone to keep the garden tidy-and these people were her friends, too, although she paid them. I couldn’t have been happy living away from her, worrying about how she was managing by herself, knowing that she must be lonely. And I was glad to be with her during that time when we were all locked down, month after month, because of the coronavirus. ![]() She had magical powers, I sometimes thought, of resilience and brightness. First of all, my mother wasn’t really suffering she was getting along pretty well for ninety-two. The truth was that every so often I just needed to be alone for a few minutes, not making any effort, or being filled up with anyone else’s idea of what I was.ĭon’t get me wrong. I went into the one upstairs that was free of any apparatus, closed the door, and sat on the toilet-seat lid, then pressed the flush so that she could hear it. And anyway I didn’t really need to use the bathroom. I couldn’t help feeling irrationally that if I used it I’d be contaminated with something: with suffering, with old age. There was a downstairs toilet, but it had a raised seat and a frame with armrests so that she could easily maneuver herself on and off after her hip replacement, and I was squeamish about it. ng build angular-jwt _*// it will build the changes in library and serve it to the wrapper project.I went upstairs in my mother’s house, telling her I was going to the bathroom.Main source of API documentation and usage scenarios available here:Īdditionally you can find demos and docs deployed from latest code with angular v6 How to build lib for development Set observe: 'response' to get complete response. Install ng-jwt-authentication from npm: npm install ng-jwt-authentication -saveĪdd needed package to NgModule imports: import Send custom headers in the request. Ng-jwt-authentication contains all HttpClient methods bundled with JWT authentication with refresh token. Best way to handle client side JWT token authentication ![]()
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