Category: Writings

I watch him arrive from our upstairs kitchen window., his headlights breaking through the black. He comes in a pick-up truck, as most milkmen do these days. When I was a child it was always a float, a rather innocuous vehicle that made, as far as I remember, a gentle, lulling kind of purring sound as in made its way along the estates and streets of my youth. I recall with even more pleasure the man who used to deliver our Nanny’s milk and dairy supplies on a horse-drawn cart. The man of today runs out of his cab, a light fixed to his baseball cap, drops off the pinta and jumps back in again. And then there is the darkness again….

Was it me that I was looking at through that window? Was that small woman in a leotard, smiling and doing yoga, and oh so small, me? Is it to do with anorexia, do you think? I asked my companion. Yes, he said. Was it me? A silly dream. A nothing in comparison to the horrors that they are experiencing in Jamaica. So much destruction. Poor loves. I hope the rest of world sends aid. Now.

It was such a distinct image. I see it still, though it was just a dream. I was trying to lock the door of a toilet. It was one in a wooden house. I wanted privacy, to feel safe. The lock or metal latch looked like it wouldn’t reach the hook that waited for it. Scores of circular lines had been made on the wall by others who had tried it. I reached over to secure it and it worked. It worked. It felt like a success.

And then in real time, in real life there is this horror, this misery. Storms and landslides, houses to be destroyed, lives lost. I cannot imagine it. The fear. The grief. I wish them safety and aid and for the world to not forget them.

I feel it, for him and for his victims. He must’ve been scared. Unexpectedly free, but free for what. Where was he to go? What am I supposed to do, he was reported to have said. Life must be a chaos for him. I hope he finds some stability.

And I am. What is it about? The weather, the dark, the cold, the jaggedness of my hips, my sciatica, the endless, nay relentless work? I don’t know. But I am sorry about it. For I know that so many, too many, have lives that are abject in the extreme. I am blessed but I forget this daily, hourly. Forgive me. I will try harder.

Some days are like that. And it was a seven. I usually anticipate those with pleasure. Yesterday didn’t rise to the occasion. Though of course, it was me, not the day. Days are just days, not real, just carved-out sections of time between light and dark. I became rattled. I unravelled. It was fear of course. It tends to be. He was a saint. He helped. He always does. I am blessed.

I’m not sure why. Though it’s undoubtedly self-pity. My body hurts and doesn’t work as it ought. Stress of course, and tiredness and the my forever dread of the onset of winter. I must shake myself out of it. Now. It’s not warranted, ever. I have so much. So many gifts. Live it. Be and be not afraid….

Sometimes they are indivisible to me. Both are spurred by fear. Fear of failure mostly, of not being good enough. When I am in the process of doing them, it is better, though only marginally. Stepping out is the worst, then the judgement comes. I see everything that I do through the eyes of the child I once was. Stumbling, fumbling and failing to make sense of what was going on around me. Or at least that is how it felt, and still does, to a certain extent. Can I do this, really?

I had two – flu and pneumonia. I thought I’d be untouched. I wasn’t. They’ve felled me. I tried to walk and to do my usual yoga, but to no avail. I will also try to do some work, or at least begin. There’s power in the beginning of something, Goethe wrote. Amen to that.

He read out John Harris’ article on Liverpool’s homeless to me as I made supper. It stood me still. Each month so many people, even those in work are just ten pounds or so away from losing the roof over their heads. It’s heartbreaking. I know that fear. It stays with you. Always. There must be more that can be done. We are a wealthy nation, why must so many of its citizens go without shelter, safety and food? Why?