Category: Writings

It was a cathedral of sound this morning as I walked. Initially it was a lone blackbird’s song that appeared to echo and ricochet off this town’s terraced houses. It was a warble followed by a whistle and then something like a little laugh, a guffaw before the warble began again. As I returned home others had joined him. I cannot name them all but there were more warblings and whistles but also clickings and tickings. Maybe a robin, some tits and possibly some chiff chaffs. I don’t know. Does it matter? It was glorious.

I felt a frisson of hope, or at least a sense that there is a trace of goodness and loyalty in this ever-increasingly harsh world. The King is to invite that beleagured leader to the Palace today. It’s a show of support. A standing-by, a nation next to another. I am glad. Let it bear fruit.

He told me that his wife was a dental hygienist. It wasn’t what I’d expected. It pleased me. A normal job, a grounded one, a caring, doing-something-for-others kind of a job. A nine-to-five, regular kind of job. Yes, it pleased me. And it wasn’t what I expected.

We’ve been re-watching Still Alice. This must be our third viewing of it. I like revisiting films, one notices things one’s missed. I thought about the title yesterday at breakfast. Of course it applies to the fact that though she is living with Alzheimer’s, she is still herself, still Alice. But I mused about the way in which she and her husband are portrayed as forever doing – working, running, socialising whatever – and that her affliction will enforce a stillness upon her. She will have to stop, as all of us will, eventually. To slow down. To be stilled.

He admitted that it was the coffee. He was the same with wine. Something clicks, switching his mood from jovial to touchy. I tread carefully. I always have done. It passes quicker now. In the past it could be hours. The love is there, running like a constant seam of ore. But I am sensitive to these mood changes. I grew up with someone who was equally volatile. I was scared then. I’m not now.

There’s a scene in The Father in which his daughter’s flat is empty. The shelves are bare. She has gone. And the camera pans in to the kitchen tap, dripping. It’s that noise, that slow heartbeat of a drip, that seems to epitomise loss for me. And if not loss, abandonment, certainly. It’s a left-behind sound, a vacated one. Forgotten. My bathroom taps are dripping. I cannot tighten them enough to stop it. Water is leaking away. Wasting. It hurts me.

I cross them off. One job, one chore after another. I get no real satisfaction from doing so. For there is always another following close at their heels. I am doing this to myself, I know this. My sense of not doing enough, not being good enough, not being enough is sharper than ever. Will it ever stop? Does it take death, or at least the nearness of it, to make it stop?

My alarm clock stopped ticking yesterday. It’s happened to two now. Is it me? Is it a sign? An omen? I miss the beat, the pulse of it.

I didn’t know him personally, I just used to follow him on Instagram. I thought of him yesterday, wondering how he was and why he hadn’t posted for awhile. He’d implied that he was ill, but that he was going to hang around as long as he could. His wife wrote a message on his Insta page saying that he’d did 4 weeks ago. Poor love. Such a loving post. There but for the grace of God go I. Wrap her up in love. All of them. And J., rest in peace. E

I think about it all the time, but a lot more lately. “Even if I’ve got something,” he said, just now, “we’ve still got a few more years.” Yes. That must be so, mustn’t it? I want him to be well but more I want him to be happy. I will do what I must. And accept what I must. But walking in that sharp east wind, I feel the impending loss of him keenly.