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Sunday 27 December 2009

Images, echoes and Angels.

It has been a hard Christmas. My partner and I went to my Sister's for the day; my Mum and Dad, Uncle (yes a strange one as tradition requires), my two nephews and my Sister's partner.

The meal was sumptuous; ginger-bread stuffing, a revelation! Heaven when eaten with stuffed leg of turkey and my partners Port and chestnut sprouts. We talked about cooking, food, tradition and family. My partner lost his Mum and my Sister's partner lost hers this year. Each time I looked to one of the chairs around the table I expected Joan to be sitting there smiling and tucking away a huge plate of food; her gaze straying to the dessert.
Then as we relayed out into the bright sunlight on the decking outside, for some to enjoy a cigarette and others fresh air, I expected to see Mo standing there in her red blouse, the one with a Chinese style collar, flashing Christmas badge on her breast, trim leg trousers she loved and smart shoes with the buckles, smoking, smiling and laughing.

I felt that we were gathered more closely. Two of the three centres of our respective families gone. We are gravitating into my parents, the Universe resetting itself, as naturally as water flooding or tide falling.

We pulled crackers, laughing at the jokes, ate a full feast, talked of those elsewhere and drank good wine. We went round the table listing what our gifts were; prompting each other with mock offence when a speaker forgot a stocking filler here or a joke present there. We exchanged gifts, watching the nephews, one 22 and the other 10, getting excited at a bottle of good whisky, DVDs and a full Lego collection - the Police Station series - respectively.

The crowning moment was the simplest gift of all. A tasteful wooden frame, wrapped in tissue paper and passed to my parents. My Mum unwrapped a picture of herself, my Dad and the Angelic Joan smiling out on a shared holiday. The tears flowed from my Mum, without sobbing, her chin crumpled up, eyes reddened and she took the tissue from me that I had carried for this very moment. When she handed the frame to my Dad he smiled, water pricking his eyes and fought himself every inch of the way. I handed him a tissue, he took it without looking up. When I drove them home later Mum commented she was the only one who cried and my Dad agreed; pride and amnesia being his refuge, despite all the tears shed, unashamedly, so recently at funerals.

My partner sat for hours with the two nephews building Police cars, motorbikes, vans and finally the station itself. The adults chatted, smoked, drank and remembered. I felt like I had reached the age where I was a spectator; unable to actually enjoy and live in the moment. I could watch over them and enjoy the pleasure of others, more innocent maybe. Of course, it might have something to do with the control freak in me - the fact that through all the pleasure and excitement I was the only one who carried tissues, knowing that tears would flow and guessing where they would be shed.

My parents safely driven home; Dad's pain endurance taken to his limit so Mum could enjoy a few vodkas and the relaxing atmosphere; her knowing that we were all keeping an eye on him. I return to find my partner still building and playing with my nephews. On the television there is a home movie playing a previous New Years Eve party - the theme being Musicals - there is Les Mis characters floating past the camera, followed by three Pink Ladies from Grease and on and on. The camera swings around to a curly haired mother superior sitting on a chair, a huge crucifix hanging from her neck and a novice Nun sitting at her feet. It was Joan, smiling as always, supported and surrounded by her mad, singing and daft family; they urged her to start singing but after the first verse they all joined in with "How do you solve a problem like Maria". She giggled, laughed and beamed through the song, her round face glowing in happiness and pride. We all watched and at the end my nephew waved at his Grandmother.

The next disc was my Sister's fortieth celebration. Groups drank, sang and laughed in the shadows and pools of light; people waved when challenged by the camera, poked their tongues out and generally played the fool - it was a great night.
Then there in the dark a huddle of four figures around a central table, light bouncing of half full glasses. My parents, conspiratorially leaning over their drinks, were deep in conversation, sharing secrets and laughter with Joan and my partner's Mum, the Mighty Mo. The camera swept past, moving to catch everyone in the room. It was a glimpse of Mo's profile, her eyes gleaming with mischief and the silhouette of her hair, greying but a luxurious mane which swept back from her face and curled to a stop at the nape of her neck. I gasped and covered my mouth with my hand, swallowing hard. My partner called out "there's the Mrs Woman, My little Mommy Bear" his affectionate name for her. It was Christmas Day and we had seen Joan and Mo despite everything.

It was magic. Echoes of happier times. Dressed up, together in laughter and smiles, with celebration and love tangible in the air.

At home later I sat alone in the dark watching the news; the tree lights making the room twinkle while the awfulness washed over me. My partner in bed, a nightcap easing him into sleep. I was sober and thinking. Not a good state to be in when you are an insomniac.

Both women had their own versions of faith. To think of them standing at the bar, with the others we have lost this year comforts me, blasphemously being served their favourite tipple by a bearded youth. But I think that they believed that we are the Angels here. Sometimes we stretch our wings, lift our faces and fly, even for a few moments; we smile at someone and help to lift a great burden, reassure a stranger of a hinted at insecurity enough to sway them back to laughter or stop to watch someone safely make their way to sanctuary, down some steps or through a doorway, curling wings around them just in case they fall.

We should see every old lady as our Grandmother, each Woman as our Mum, every human being as someone to protect, help and gift. So naive in this dark and sinister world! Thoughtfulness and living in the moment would allow us time to see this; to regard each person we see as someone we care for.

That old cliché of "how would I like someone to act if that was my Mum who had fallen" means a lot - we all know what we would expect and want. Maybe that's how people like Joan and Mo see Angels and live in the moment.

Wednesday 16 December 2009

Another Funeral.



A week and one day ago a strong, cheery, welcoming and wonderful woman lost her battle and slipped away from this place. It is easy to be morbid and angry when a family member dies but when my Sister spoke about her Mother in law's struggle with illness, played out over fifteen weeks, I was sad but relieved when she was at peace.

Joan Mullins 1927 - 2009 was a tremendously wonderful individual; she welcomed our family into hers unconditionally. Hers consists of five children, multiple grandchildren, step grandchildren and great grandchildren, step grandchildren. When you add in cousins, second cousins and then honorary uncles, aunts and friends the chance of remembering all by name is difficult.

Joan was never without a smile on her face. She would conspire at family meals out with my Dad to an extra dessert. The would goad each other about what they would try, usually swapping bowls half way through. She with her walking stick and him in his wheelchair they were a pair of challenged-chucklers. With my Mum she struck up a close friendship during weekly trips to the supermarket, started to help Joan out but which morphed into laughter, friendship and support.

The strange thing for me was she knew my grandmother.

It is an odd feeling when someone comes into your life, who is not a blood relative, with whom you can talk about someone who died over thirty years before. It felt odd and at first I was reticent about it. Then a strange thing happened; the more she talked the more I saw my grandmother; Nan.

My Nan stood five feet ten to my grandad's five feet two - she was a striking woman. Joan spoke about her with warmth and kindness, remembering a strong lady who suffered no fool gladly but was quick witted, easy to move to laughter and practical. For the first time in years I could see her standing in her simple kitchen, wearing her overall, hands reddened with hot water soreness. It was gift that I shall be eternally grateful to Joan for. We didn't talk for long or at any great depth but that little insight was such a comfort that I will carry it forever.

I have written before about how each funeral is unique because each of us are one of a kind. With Joan this was also true.

Her life story was told; raised eyebrows all round about her surviving diptheria at six years old when she gained her strong and loving faith; the work during the war, the meeting of "her Rob" a husband with whom she had five children all of whom they taught to sing and, crucially, to sing together in harmony.

The service was full of hymns, prayers and consoling statements about her faith. Even for someone like me who has no definitive belief but who thinks of himself as a constant questioner it felt right and while there were tears there was enough celebration and laughter to lift out of grief and into hope.

At the wake, I looked around the room at nearly two hundred people; mostly family. I saw the twinkling of eyes as stories were told, the same mischievous glint that Joan had. Rockets of laughter with plumes of giggles lifted from the murmur as one of the Joan-isms was shared. But it was the warmth and love that filled that room; effortless, unconditional and welcoming that made me think of that lady. Each one of her children, grandchildren, step grandchildren and on and on has a little piece of her love of life and laughter. Some of us were lucky enough to come into the family by marriage and join in with these harmonies.

Joan will be missed but when you look around a room like that and see the love, goodness and easy laughter you realise that, faith or not, there is something deeper being passed on through good people. It is an immortality of a kind tangible as stone.



Thursday 3 December 2009

Shy!

Dorchester, our County town, had its Christmas Cracker Night with hospitality, Carol Singers and stalls. It was so wet that by the time my partner and I got half way down the first road to be cordoned off we were soaked. Stall holders dashed out from under the awnings to thrust plastic cups of mulled wine or freshly baked mince pies into our hands, then dashed back. A choir stood outside St Peters and battled valiantly against the cacophony of rain falling, tumbling and gurgling; the latter down drains. All we needed was a mob of disgruntled villagers a few flashes of lightning and a monster to chase!

We wandered, trying to smile through the cold and rain, determined to enjoy the late night shopping, good cheer and start to a festive period that, without our Mo, would be difficult enough. It happened a couple of times when we turned to each other in a shop or next to a stall and said "she would've loved that". This will be a constant throughout the festive period, because she loved Christmas.

But we battled on, looking at this, wandering to that or should I say sloshing back and forth because by now water had slipped into our shoes and was making headway into hat and collar. Faced with an onslaught of water of Biblical proportions we did what we always do being book-aholics and headed for a bookshop. Passing through the electronic monoliths that stop shoplifters, or at least detect them, I was dimly aware of a seated figure to the left; by the time we had shaken off some of the water, had some sympathetic looks from other shoppers who'd already dried off and glanced along the piles of books on elevated stands in front of the book shelves, we were halfway down the shop.

We drifted - I was convinced that we were steaming - from book shelf to book shelf moving along our usual path, pausing at the classics, looking at the biographies and humour and then coming to rest at the Sci-Fi; my partner's favourite genre. Nothing took our eye although there were new releases, knock down deals and of course the "recommended" chart. We did buy the latest Hairy Bikers Cookbook - my partner being a marvellously adventurous cook - it being justified as necessary (i.e. not to be wrapped as a Christmas present) because it has the recipe for Beef Wellington promised for Christmas Dinner. Only half drowned now and steaming less - I think - we moved back towards the monoliths through a shoal of oncoming drowned shoppers, dripping their way in. A voice called out.

"Fancy a book that's a romp of fun, drugs, smoking and rock n roll? There's no sex at all," the speaker cupped her mouth in her hand as she spied a child nearby look round. Adding more quietly to us, "I wonder if this town can take this kind of thing but you guys look like a pair who could handle it." Her voice was guttural, low and obviously female; in any other context it would have been seductive. Here in harsh shop-light and cold air it was piercing and playful.

Her face was bright, smiling and glowed with fun; I instantly liked her. Craig took the book offered and read the cover. "Thankyou for not Smoking by Arlo Flinn". As he looked through the first couple of pages of the paperback she chatted to him lightly, outlining what it was about. I could tell he liked her - I liked her!! - so it was a done deal. I said "go-on" unnecessarily, because I could tell he wanted it. Her face lit up. She offered to sign it for him.

She was the author. Despite my desire to write I closed up like a clam! She was published and sitting in Waterstones signing copies of her work - WOW! I was suddenly terrified that my partner would mention my writing and the degree. She asked Craig's name and wrote inside "To Craig....thank you! Arlo Flinn" then beaming warmly she handed it back to him. I took the book and escaped back to the till almost leaving any remaining dampness in my clothes back in the doorway!

I paid and we walked out wishing her good luck.

We made our way up the street and into the drizzle. I wanted to walk back and say that I wanted to be a writer and ask her a million questions. I wanted to say all those things about what I wanted to write. But I knew this was a cliché of the worst kind; mention that you want to be a writer to anyone and you instantly get treated to the "I've often thought I could write a book" or "I've got these stories that would make a good read" etc. etc. I imagined confessing to this author and her fixing her smile and thinking to herself "Oh no not another one!!"

I am probably doing her an injustice. I had a feeling of being inadequate not felt so strongly since I was a child - it was hero worship and fear that the words "I want to be like you" might slip out in a squeaky voice.

I wasn't jealous. I was scared. She was a giant, a towering figure of proved strength and power. She had done it, written her ideas down, edited it, published it and now she was selling her vision....her book.

I didn't realise that I was walking alongside my partner without saying anything, alone with my thoughts until a voice said, after reading my mind. "That will be you one day!"

I laughed and almost believed it.

Sunday 29 November 2009

Inaction and desire....




I have it; my tutor's assessment. As with all courses, this is the worst bit. An unknown personality waiting in the dark ready to pick apart your work and suggest without limit; to stretch you, challenge and increase your knowledge and methods. It's also exciting. My toes curl when a tutor suggests cutting this or that and my reaction is always emotional, petulant and necessary. What parent would give up their dreams for a child without a fight/tantrum or at least raised voice. After five years my partner is beginning to see the pattern and understand it.....sort of.

The chant is usually "this is a good assessment."

I started work, correcting areas highlighted as drifting and cutting where, once Nina, my tutor, had pointed it out, were obvious. I read it through and agreed with her page notes. The analysis, her written assessment, is more challenging and having read it through twice I can see how a Level Three course differs from a Level Two. It feels as different as jogging does to marathon running....

I feel like I am warming up for a big race with the opponent as myself; my nature and resistance. I want this and fear it. The coach is Nina, with her advice, suggestion and knowledge. I shall return to the Assignment and work through it again (probably several times) before moving on to the next set of exercises and Second Assignment. So WHY am I doing this rather than working on it now? Not sure, not ready to...this is my inactive phase...when I leave my brain to absorb the Assessment and ready itself for what has to be done. Inactivity is as productive as action.

My desire for writing is growing, boosted by my employment. I promised myself that I would not be one of those people who placed his grievances with his employer here for all to see. Mainly because I have the long game to think about, mortgage, money and boredom (i.e. boredom for those reading this, after all there is only so much complaining anyone can take) but each time I get frustrated at being ignored, looked down on (I am a technician and not a Manager, a totally different breed in the modern Civil Service) or told yet again something so obvious that the object is a device to denigrate the one being told, I look to my writing.

It brings me Joy. It is here where I can do what I please. I can write anything I see, tell stories that might excite, shock, amuse or terrify. To move people the way I am moved by words.

If you took away my mortgage, living costs etc. - and told me that I could do only one thing for the rest of my life but I would never gain anything from it - I would write. Of course I include reading too......can't live without books.

Desire, real desire, that burning compulsion, can be dangerous and wonderful. So this is what this "bit" of writing is, my desire, despite the inaction, to bring words to form on a page and tell a story; might not be great or inspiring, but it's a story - sort of.

Saturday 21 November 2009

Need....

A terrible day, weather wise. Things are moving on and along with others we are considering Christmas and starting to hit our funds buying presents. It is hard to not walk around the shops without seeing gifts that the recently deceased Mo would've loved. The trick was that both Craig and I spoke immediately about it to each other; seeing something and almost enjoying the fact that she would have loved the silliness of this seasons tat or that joke present for a friends over-active dog. Remembering the joy she took in the little things seems to help as well as hurt.

Dorchester is our county town and is re-inventing itself with building work and changes in the shops; I like it. It feels relaxed and charming. There is space for everyone and with the abundance of trees, even when it is overcast and drizzling it has a calming effect. Where we live, Weymouth, is a very different matter...but that's a rant I shall enjoy in a later post.

We have noticed that since Mo's death we cannot fail to notice little old ladies; not exactly the Politically Correct term. But nevertheless they are diminuitve, not youthful and female. The ones that tug at our heart-strings are those that are infirm or in need of some care; but then any of them seem to pull at our emotions. Today, along a side street was a small, hunched, bespectacled lady moving towards a waiting taxi; the driver had brought the vehicle as close to the pedestrianised road as he could get it and he stood waiting, door open. She made her way towards him, up a steep incline, lifting and pushing her zimmer frame - wheels at the front - in painfully slow steps. I didn't turn to look into Craig's eyes as we passed. I didn't need to. The taxi driver looked down the street and as we got to him he smiled at us with emotion in every crease of his face and his lips pressed together. We looked back; she had barely taken two steps, during the time it took us to walk fifty yards.

We were three men watching this poor woman, head hung over, glasses perched on the end of her nose, stepping as best she could towards us. We were powerless. I wanted to pick her up, throw her over my shoulder and, taking up the zimmer in the other hand, carrying her to the taxi and out of the drizzle. The taxi driver's dilemma was clear. If he left his vehicle he couldn't make her walk any quicker and any encouragement could be seen as patronising; offering to take her handbag and lighten her passage could cause her distress. So with us passing by and him rooted to the spot we watched her struggle. It was awful and inspiring.

After shopping, posting a letter - the balance of Mo's funeral expenses and the collection from the service, plus a little more, for the Salvation Army, all to the funeral home - we came back onto the same street going in the opposite direction. The woman was ten feet closer, maybe more, with more than that to go; her steps were a little stronger now and her head was held a little higher but we could see that she strained every sinew. The driver stood in the same position, looking at her walk. You felt that he was not just waiting for her, to take her home, but was watching over her and it reminded me of something.

Whenever Mo came for dinner a certain amount of Rose` wine was drunk rendering me unable to take her home - two miles away. So we got into the habit of sending her home in a taxi paid for by us. My only proviso was that the driver did not drive away from her house until she was inside the doorway; my comment to Craig was always to tell them to "see her to the door...to the door!"

They always did and I always checked; she became known for it, with all the taxi drivers knowing that her two boys would be bloody annoyed if they left her fumbling with her keys on the doorstep and they never did.

Seeing that taxi driver, waiting, keeping an eye on this woman made me think about the little kindnesses. The uncomplaining driver would get no more for his trouble, might be late for his next fare but his patience without causing the poor woman any anxiety was a true kindness. Something that was given to Mo and something we need to thank the taxi firm for

Monday 16 November 2009

Four am lightning bolt.

I have always been brought up to understand myself, look for the truth and think for myself....so why a Civil Servant I here you ask?

A moment of weakness that has lasted over twenty years...but that's another post.

Being an insomniac is not fun. I wake nine nights out of ten at four am or thereabouts. Most of the time I go back to sleep or at least slumber with my headphones on listening to Radio Seven or Four. It has always been thus for as long as I can remember. Trips to the Doctor, herbal remedies and relaxation tapes have helped but never for very long; lavender helps but this wears off quickly as well - there is something soothing about smelling like an old lady, staring at the ceiling for hours on end though.

Once, as a student at College, while enjoying six cups of coffee an evening revising like mad I went to a particularly enthusiastic Doctor for help; he prescribed a tablet, to be taken an hour before I "intended to sleep."

"Intended" - interesting word for an eighteen year old with too much to cram into his brain and an extreme coffee addiction. It worked though. The first night I took it at nine and barely made it into bed half an hour later. I slept for fourteen hours - without turning over and snoring like a throaty-buzz-saw. I woke to find my tongue as furry as a Persian cat and worried looks fixed on the faces of my Mum and Dad. They'd been trying to wake me for three hours! The tablets turned out to be tranqulisers - discovered after looking them up in the College Library - and they made a wonderful tinkling sound as I dropped them down the toilet.

The next night I slept for two hours, waking as usual at four. I cut my coffee intake, took long walks before bed every night and listened to the radio while I tried to get off to sleep. It took effect very slowly and my sleep patterns improved. But there was always the four am awakening.

Two months ago I woke as usual but this time I was uncomfortable. I got up leaving my partner to sleep. But instead of heading to my computer to write or to read the news I walked downstairs and sat on the sofa. I dropped off, the still coolness of the early morning prickling at my skin. As I jerked awake, struggling to quell anxiety and a jittering spasm in my arms a lightning bolt struck.

I was eight years old. I had been roused from the camp bed, where I slept in my grandparents living room during the summer holidays. I was up, sitting on the sofa climbing into jeans, vest, shirt and knitted jumper; then a hefty pair of socks and wellington boots, the rubber stiff and cold. By this time my Grandad had crept into the kitchen, boiled a kettle and come back into the room with a steaming cup of strong tea. We would sit together, in silence and enjoy the warming liquid.

We were going fishing. Walking three miles along silent streets, while cats stared at us from wall and pavement, to come to the Dorset coast at Sandsfoot Castle where he had his boat, pots and nets.

Sitting on the sofa, now aged forty-three, the time between Grandad's death and my last birthday being nearly thirty years and I had it. I looked down and saw the time - FOUR AM. We always got up at four, dressed, drank tea, sometimes at biscuits and then, at four thirty, we would slip through the front door leaving my Nan sleeping upstairs and head for the shore.

Four am - he had trained me so well that even now I wake to get up to go fishing with him. A few times I had dressed and then fallen asleep on the sofa, Grandad unable to wake me; eyes opening hours later, ashamed of myself and worried about him getting the prawns in without me. His silence on returning more devastating that a good telling off.

So there I sat, forty three, on my own sofa, ready and alert to go fishing. All this time and still waiting for a ghost.

It hasn't helped, this revelation. I woke this morning at four, listened to the radio for half an hour and then fell asleep until six. But at least I understand why I wake at four.

Wednesday 11 November 2009

Singing through tears.....

Every funeral is different because the person being celebrated is different; it's as obvious as the differences in the mourners. But it is the unexpected that makes each one magical. That Uncle who turns up and reconnects with all his relatives after years in the wilderness, the two Aunts who sit talking to each other despite them both being totally deaf, the sons who as a final act carry their beloved mother's coffin, jaws set, unflinching and strong; as she intended.

I could write about the abundance of flowers, the humanist Minister, Leslie's, perfect reading about Mo's life, loves and laughter but it is the music in her life and her funeral. Maureen, Mo, was all about music; from singing in the clubs with her band in Dublin as a teenager, to supporting Ian - her husband, a bandsman in the army and a great sax player who played a Ronnie Scotts - to her love of the great of Opera and popular music.

But there was one magical moment that broke hearts during the service. There was a piece from Madam Butterfly played after talking about her life. In the gathering was Mo's eighty-four year old Italian Aunt, Pina; a handsome woman with a face used to smiling, abundant silver curls and slim figure. She had arrived with her two sons, from Cambridge, and struggled with her mobility scooter to get into the crematorium; but having got where she wanted to be she sat with tears streaming down her face, eyes shining and nodding to every truth of her niece's life.

Then the Puccini was played.

As the vocal soared and took all our hearts to places only angelic voices can, another joined them. Underneath, below the high tones came Aunt Pina's; strong, proud, passionate and in fluent Italian. She sang for her Mo and broke every heart in the place with a display of unashamed love and pride to celebrate a beautiful, special woman. It was her own tribute, in a away only she could do.

It was a privilege to know my partner's Mum, to laugh with her, care for her and to look after her on her final journey.

Words are sometimes useless and we struggle for a grasp on how we feel or how we should react. But at that moment when our English reserve made us bow our heads to cry there was one among us who turned her face up and sang for us all. To witness that was also such a privilege.

Friday 6 November 2009

Not come far....

We have been preparing for my partner's Mum's funeral; talking to the funeral home, the Humanist Minister and dealing with officialdom. Everyone has been kind and understanding. The disconnection of her from bank accounts, pensions and other day to day realities of existence is strangely mundane - done with sensitivity - BUT in a processed, matter-of-fact way; efficient and cold.

As we sat in the funeral home with Helen, a trusted funeral director who helped when Mo's husband, Ian, passed away, I was thinking about the process. Helen was tender and understanding; her suggestions were gentle, considered and guiding. This is no job for her it is a calling and her genuine care shines through her stillness, expression and careful phrasing.

We'd brought clothes for Mo to be dressed in; Craig insisting that she should be cremated wearing her favourite dress shoes. I favoured a pair of pink slippers she used whenever she came to our house for dinner. She would step through the door, slide onto one of our sofas so she could change into them; we wanted her to be as comfortable in our home as she was in her own. We decided that the slippers should be placed in the coffin with her, next to her feet.

Helen suggested that she should be comfortable and the dress shoes should be placed next to her feet and she should be wearing her slippers. Craig, after a moments thought, agreed.

From a objective point of view this is no different to the grave goods in a Saxon burial, a bowl for food for the afterlife, a knife, bow and a pillow for the head. Our senses tell us that the great spirit that was the person we loved has gone, departed as magically as it was called into flesh. We know that this form is a shell. But then we want that shell washed, combed, dressed and to arrive in the afterlife in comfortable foot-wear.

We have printed off photos of Mo laughing at a Christmas party, cuddling Craig, singing and dancing with friends, for mourners to take away with them at the funeral; we have picked out a passage from her most loved comedy author, a reading of the Irish blessing - something she was especially fond of and spoken to the Minister of her life, loves, trials and her final illness.

I know that a funeral is for the living not for the deceased; I know this. BUT why does it give me a warm feeling, a "right" feeling that she should go wearing her favourite satin red blouse, dark trousers, a Rememberance Poppy and pink slippers?

We have not come far from the windswept hillsides, with the ground prepared, the pit lined with stones and rushes, a straw-stuffed pillow and, after the bowl, beads and more is placed inside, the shell is lowered and then strewn with scented flowers and covered with earth. Stories would be told about battles, great adventures and sons and daughters brought to adulthood; a celebration of their part in the circle of life.

We may not pile earth in great mounds or erect huge monoliths to stand against weather and time but we are the same. Attached to the flesh and, though the spark is gone, wishing those we have loved and lost to go into the next adventure with something familiar, useful and comfortable......

Tuesday 3 November 2009

A Promise Given Freely....

Few of us live our lives for the moment or grab every opportunity with both hands and dance with it until our feet fall off. When we meet someone who has lived like that, without holding back, strutting every inch of their zest for life and pouring forth their talents without fear, they shine.

My partner's Mum, Maureen "Mo" McKenzie, was one of these people. Modest but not frightened of raising her voice to let the world know she was happy or to sing at a family party recalling her days in Dublin when she was a nightclub singer; spirited in how she looked after her late husband, cared for her son, created a loving, supportive home and gave all around her the desire to enjoy life as it is rather than how we would wish it and with that wish in our mouths become bitter with the gap between the two.

In the early hours of Monday morning I was privileged to be sitting at her bedside with my partner and our friend Nina when this magnificent woman passed peacefully away. She simply closed her eyes and went to sleep, without distress and without pain.

In the moments before, we told her about how much we loved her, how she was safe, Craig was safe and loved and that she could sleep.

I also made her a solemn promise; silently and between just her and myself. She had read something I had written some time ago - unfinished - and loved it so much that she gave me a hard time on numerous occasions about "getting on with it".

Mo was a voracious reader. The piece was written a long time ago and, although a day doesn't go by when I do not think about it, I put it aside with the nebulous promise that the "Project" element of my degree would see it revived and worked on. Mo pointed her finger at me, three chapters still in her hand, and told me that it needed to be done - "get it down and off to someone."

At that moment, next to her bed, my hand resting on her shoulder, Craig holding her hand, I made a promise that I would return to that piece and work on it to my best. She closed her eyes and slipped away in her sleep; succumbing to cancer with quiet, dignified strength.

We are in the phase or organising her funeral and telling officialdom about the passing of this great lady. My partner is taking an hour to play his violin - something his Mum would always quiz me about whenever we played cards or sat and ate a meal together. "Is he practising?" "When's he playing next?" etc She was desperate for him to take his talents and use them, strut them and shine with them. And he will - I shall make sure of that.

As for my talents, I am, as always unsure - but I will keep my promise and trust this marvellous woman - Magnificent, Mighty Mo McKenzie.



Monday 19 October 2009

Kitchen towel - a modern menace for those of us with OCD and would be writers....


Taking the day off because you were scheduled to find out whether you were going to made redundant from your job the following day seemed like a good idea; I didn't want to sit and listen to the good people I work with mulling over the slightest clues for their careers to be saved or sacrificed, as we all have done for the past six months.

I should point out that because of the nature of the my closure I cannot put who my employer is or what I truly think about them and their methods - we've all read about people who lose their jobs because they have dared to speak their minds.

I booked the day with the thought that a day away would allow me to chill out, write and then return to the office the following day to find out my fate. Then at the last minute on Friday my employer, the Board, stated they would not be able to inform us of our fate until the Thursday, probably, if they could manage it.

So here I am, having taken a day off and intending to spend the morning writing. I took my partner to work, a treat to be away from the bus and allowing a lie in for us both.

I re-read my current assignment; made some minor adjustments while listening to the radio. I spent some time thinking about what it will be like if, on Thursday, I am redundant and become free to spend a year or two finishing my degree, writing and looking into re - training. It's scary at times but more worrying to think if I have enough discipline at 43 years of age to put the hours in.....if in fact the one thing I have secretly wanted to to with my life, write, will turn out to be possible, enjoyable and sustaining.

And then I made a coffee. A simple act of putting water into a kettle, placing it on the heat and adding the granules to the bottom of a cup.....a few minutes of idleness....then there is the kitchen towel. Standing, lurking there on the black top, like a little white soldier, to attention, ready, dimpled with eagerness......

The kettle boiled, the kitchen windows steamed up, the dustbin men arrived at the back of the house and emptied the the brown bin; the control freak in me knowing the difference in the sound of the smaller bin being thumped against the truck and emptied rather than the large, heavy general-waste bin. The worktop gleamed - I had moved aside our chopping boards, packed away the washing up, which we'd left to dry and polished the cutlery. I stood still; I had wiped down all the tops in our kitchen, switched on the radio - just to listen to, while the kettle boiled - while I tidied up - wouldn't take two minutes......

I turned off the gas; opened the windows and looked at the crumpled, kitchen towel in my hand, the bacterial spray standing on the now cleared draining board. I had been through two news bulletins; an hour on radio four isn't it?

I poured the water, stirred and left the kitchen to return to my office; trying not to think about the used towel dropped on the top alongside the spray. So I came here to confess to my displacement activity; something which due to my borderline OCD means I am prone to. I fear now the idea of redundancy, the chance to write only to end up with a few pages, a Blog of everyday musings and a clean, tidy and immaculate home......but little else.

Discipline is what I need. Could it be, after 23 years of full time office employment, that it has put me on the path of studying in my spare time to get my degree in Creative Writing and give me the structure to stick to a timetable to fullfil my dreams?

What is strange is that the closer the threat of freedom gets the more the ideas come. I have post-its of characters, one or two words of an idea, a phrase overheard or thought of, all scribbled down in between breaks from my computer or jotted down during a meeting....it's almost as if my creative brain is preparing me.

The only battle could be with the dreaded kitchen towel.

I am thinking about keeping the little soldier imprisoned in a cupboard - out of sight.....of course my partner is going to think I am mad!

Monday 12 October 2009

Choosing....


How do you choose what to put here? Should it be an everyday chronicle? What I had for breakfast? The socks I am wearing? The strange dream that woke me this morning at four am? The reason why I wake at four nearly everyday? The unreal, perfect Magpie I saw driving home tonight? How do you choose?

Yesterday I wrote about the day before, so there is a symmetry if I write about tomorrow, today.

My father, 73 years old and disabled, will be driven to the Hospital and "put under" as he calls it. He will joke with the nurses, my Mother will roll her eyes at his naughtiness and then she will leave him to be treated; all the while worrying without showing.

His Consultant will then attack the facets of his spinal column with over twenty injections of a cocktail of painkillers and steroids. He will feel nothing. The constant pain he has had for over ten years and his increasing frailty will be suspended. He will float blissfully in a sleep-haze, able to put aside his pain-soaked-wakefulness, and annoy all the other patients with his legendary buzz-snore....he can move double-glazing in and out!!

We are so used to his problems that we do not discuss the actual condition any more; it is chronic, progressive and, at this level, rare. He has to wait four months at a time for his treatment and the final month is always the worst; not just for him but also for that rock - my Mother. Tonight he will be taking his morphine and will ask her about the time he has to be there and which hospital it is. She will tell him, not for the first time today and then, a few hours later, he will recall all the wrong details. Pain relief is a wonderful thing.

After they have stuck him, he will sleep and the staff will get concerned; again my Mother will explain that he does not sleep well, not even with his morphine, and when they give him the chance he will grab the pillow with both hands, slam his face into it and stay under for as long as his body can get away with it. She will wake him - none too gently once the medical staff have given up trying - and bring him home. He will be sore, sleepy and still unable to stand up straight.

Then it will happen. A miracle of sorts. He will gradually over the next seven to ten days begin to straighten up, from the four feet eleven he is hunched over at now, to the five feet seven-ish he usually is. The blush will come back to his face, less and less each time as he becomes more and more grey to my eyes; worn out by pain and morphine.

After a few days of steadiness on his feet he will get brave; gathering up his spirit and pushing himself to cross the living room without his frame to aid his steps, to the grumblings of his protective wife. He will smile and stick out his tongue - she poked him in the face with a wet paintbrush the last time (they were decorating at the time). Nose and chin covered in plum-blush-white he turned to me and put on his best puppy-dog eyes; then he faced her. She laughed, plunging me back to my childhood and our home full of their giggles, Dad chasing us, tickles and silliness.

Next week, I will walk into a room with my work colleagues of twenty-three years to find out what the future holds or how much longer our careers will be allowed to continue. The stress is tangible with the announcement being the only topic of the day, everyday. But that night after I have finished work and we have dissected the decision and left the premises I will be going to tell those two strong, fore-bearing, paintbrush-wielding nutters the news.
Others will be thinking of their mortgages, their children, their future; my feet are planted firmly - I want Dad to be standing up straight and my Mum smiling.

Sunday 11 October 2009

First Post....(not an inspired title)

So I have a new tutor on my new course, Writing 3: Your Portfolio, with the Open College of Arts. I have decided to try this out to aid in the discipline to write something everyday either connected to the course or not. I thought about putting here what this would be about and what it wouldn't be about...but then chaos, to me, seems so much more creative. It will be a diary, soapbox, displacement activity - when I cannot face writing (in the sense of the course) - and an emotional space for a damn good rant.

But here and now it will be about last night.....

Dorchester, St Mary's Church 7pm.

The first concert of the 2009/2010 Dorset Chamber Orchestra is always a good one. I do not know much about music, cannot read it and have no inclination to learn. My partner plays violin with them and has since childhood. It is always a good space and is never dull. The gathered always remind me of the cast of Midsomer Murders. I have that moment as they gather where I expect one to clutch their throat, having been sucking on a poisoned mint, and sink to the floor knocking over a respectable number of chairs and to gasps in various tone. It hasn't happened yet...yet.

Walking to the church under sombre clouds and darkening sky I saw a group of well dressed and well made up of eight or so young ladies (not one over fifteen); in amongst them was a whey faced young man who was draped almost over the wall, so relaxed did he appear. He looked through and around his heavy fringe which hung down below his nose from under his baseball cap. The girls were laughing and calling out to the members of the audience making their way to the concert. The older generation walked past without comment and because of this they felt secure to get louder and louder. There was no foul language or offensive remarks, it was more comments about "What ho my Lord!", "Hello Lady!" etc etc a la street urchin, albeit well dressed, healthy urchins all sporting expensive handbags, pressed clothes and expertly applied make-up. Strange our modern street furniture.....

As I crossed the junction past this group they called out to me. I am a little over five feet seven inches tall, zero cropped hair, goatee beard (greying) and glasses; I was dressed in my mountain coat and jeans. I am thick set and give the appearance of a bouncer off duty. For this slightly rough appearence I am usually ignored or actively avoided - unless I smile. I imagined quiet as I passed so I walked closer to them than was necessary hoping my presence would cause a toning down or momentary silence.

"Evening Gov'nor!" one of the girls called out from the middle of the pack. I turned slowly to look at the group without slowing my gait. The speaker was a brown eyed brunette with the kind of form that would cause all bouncers to check her age at any club/bar and her father sleepless nights. I looked her straight in the eye, and no-one else, and said "Greetings" nodding. I do not know what I expected.....but what happened was laughter, giggles and then a torrent of "What a great bloke... you're sound mate... the first one to speak to us...he's got balls!" There were some others but nothing offensive.

I looked back to find the group smiling and, shyly, dying down. I had popped their bubble; the older generation were frightened to talk to them and sensing this they were getting louder and louder because they thought they were untouchable. Provoking a response like a naughty child (or children) putting their hands on something they have been expressly forbidden to do so.

There is never one highlight in an evening with this orchestra, there are many. The Purcell, Overture (Symphony): The Fairy Queen was brilliant. Next came Concerto in G Minor for oboe and strings by Handel; the soloist was Helen Simpson who played wonderfully to the obvious delight of the conductor, Dr Robert Jacoby, the audience and the orchestra - the smiling was unanimous.

If there was a single highlight then the Song of the Angel for soprano, violin and strings by Sir John Tavener was it; Sofia Tavener was the violinist with Saskia Wilkins as soprano. It was the kind of performance which you wanted never to end; the violin and the voice of Saskia wove together so beautifully that they seemed to lift everyone. Saskia's voice is so high and so controlled and reached such heights that it could only be described as angelic; she soared, keeping her gaze on Sofia, blending her voice faultlessly with the violin. Just when you thought she couldn't reach further or cause the hairs on your neck to twinge again they lifted again and your heart almost stopped, wanting the notes never to end.

When the end came there was a palpable holding of breath, tensing of hands before applause risked the roof position; that pause at the end of the last note and before the applause showed that we wanted more. It was as they were taking their bows to wave after wave of appreciation that a tall, thin figure in the audience was beckoned to stand up from his wheel chair. It was Sir John Tavener himself, unsteady on his feet but glowing. He stepped forward and shaking Saskia's hand moved onto Sofia - HIS Grandaughter - kissing her hand by bending to her. Several women behind me gasped and made the connection at that moment, shuffling through the programme. The moment was touching and magical.

After the interval came Symphony No 1 in C minor, Opus 11 by Mendelssohn which was played beautifully and at a pace which made the audience feel exhausted. The strings appeared especially put to the whip - perhaps because I could see them clearly from where I sat - and I thought I heard them collectively sigh at the moment between the final note and the applause. Relieved smiles were commented on by several around me - one lady said "that was lively, they looked knackered!"

My partner and I made our escape into the night. I was disappointed to find that the little group of teens had vanished. It was a great performance and all the audience made it to the end without one of them being in any danger of poisoning.