Category: Writings

I like entering other people’s worlds and lives, if only briefly. My interest isn’t prurient but compassionate. I enjoy the escape too. And the belief that there are simpler, less convoluted ways of living all carrying on parallel to mine. I listen to her as she cuts my hair. I ask her questions and explore the way she makes her life, her loves, her hates, her disappointments. They are going to Lanzarote. Her partner asked if she could fit in a ‘cheeky five days’ away in the sun. She could. They will stay on a yacht. She doesn’t want to be around people and to feel constrained to play the social game that she does every day of the week. I understand. It looks like a nice existence from here. And I love her seeming lightness but with that touch of caustic-ness. Bless her.

And then there are the news stories. Another killing and shooting in the US. And for Gaza the terror and horror continues. Seventeen thousand orphans. What do you do with that image? How can it be ingested, made sense of and acted on? My heart is with them. All of them. May their hell end. Soon.

When I walk in the mornings I often think about what I might write about in these pages when I get home. The strident bird song that rang through my ears along North Road was an option. I wanted to mark the power of it. Blackbird song mostly, a kind of whistling, almost tinkling sound that was echoed across the rooftops of the town by others of the same species. It was glorious, and so uplifting, to me at least, not being party to their territorial wars. However, as I began to scale the hill behind Alexandra Hall I saw something flicker across the outcrop just before the road that leads up to the golf club. It was light blue. A series of moving lines. I stood still and watched it become a bird, then an ostrich, then Winnie-the-Pooh with a butterfly on his nose. It was a delight. A light-show projected from one of the windows in the modern halls next to Alex. A gift. It cheered me, made me smile. That’s two things and it’s still night. Thank you, whoever you are.

I am tired. Work is relentless at the moment. I complete one job only to have another waiting to be dealt with. It takes its toll. My legs were weary walking this morning. I gee them on. I try to distract myself, noticing the feel of the cold air in face, through my nostril, listening to bird song and generally paying attention. The walk helps. I find a thrust of energy. Help me to keep going. Today will be a long one.

I look forward to our calls to her each evening (well, afternoon really, but to early risers like me it feels like evening). Her voice differs in strength, some days she is clearly tired, but there is always that humour, that wryness, unexpected in one so reticent to push herself forward. She tells us the latest Bertie tales, reads from the Home’s weekly itinerary (is Banjo Brian on this week? we ask), talks about sport – be it rugby, cricket or football – reports on her walks and what she fell asleep to the night before, (was it Edwardian or Victorian Farm? ), reports on what she had for lunch (rat or something cheesy?) and whether it will be ham on brown that evening. She’s getting stronger on her legs and is managing to, as she says, ‘tootle’ around her room, meaning she can look in her drawers, rearrange and sort things. It is good. It allows her to have a little more control, to survey her treasures. I am so proud of her. She has never given up, never imploded though she had just cause to. She still laughs, makes us laugh – and clearly is a valued member of the Home. Sweet love.

I shouldn’t have attempted to do it that late in the day (for me). I’ve never at my best, my decision-making and temper-controlling is poorer. And I don’t like that company. Never have. It didn’t bode well. He gets cross with me when I lose it. I understand. He expects calmness from me. And he deserves it. But he softened. He saw how difficult, indeed how impossible it was to do what the website asked. We gave up. Decided to get help from the professionals. But I was discombobulated for a long time. I need to get things resolved. I am not good with frayed wires.

I drew her after lunch. I felt less nervous and the drawing was more fluid for it. She ate most of the mush that was her lunch and all of her pudding, which was also mush but sweeter, I suspect. Afterwards, she kept lifting the lid of the little pot in front of her. I couldn’t work out what it was she as putting in her mouth. What are those? I asked. Maltesers, she replied, popping another on in.

The birdsong in the early hours is becoming stronger, louder and more various. I hear birds’ voices that I do not recognise. The blackbirds I certainly do, and I think I recognise the robins and the blue tits but the others – is that a chiff chaff, a thrush? – I don’t know. I let the song fill me, wash over me, contain me. They command the space, the air. In those twilight hours the birds are king, sovereign. He asks me why I think it is getting stronger. I think its about territory, I say, but without really knowing. I don’t think I want to know. I like the mystery of their world, their rites and instincts. They are more in touch with Nature’s flow than we could ever be. I honour them for that. They grow bolder on the ground too. Blackbirds bounce down on the pavements as I walk, just in front of my feet. The robins have always done this. And by the bus station pied wagtails mass along the tarmac. Little flibbertygibbets they spin and slide around like tiny ice skaters, no roller skaters, for it is as if they are on wheels.

“Excuse me, where is the University.” It was 3.30 am and I’d stopped to post a letter in the box by the station. I’d noticed the group of mostly lads loitering about and sheltering from the rain. One of them had ambled over to me and asked me that question. I told him it was up the hill and he grimaced. I said that their was a bus but probably not at this time of the day. He grimaced again. Then he told me that they were going to have an ‘after’ and asked me if I wanted to come. One of his mates joined us and iterated the invitation. I made some excuse about having work to do. They became a little insistent, almost a little aggressive. I wasn’t scared. They were just boys. “It will be better for you being there,” said the first boy. I smiled and began to walk off. I saw that there was a girl with them. I smiled at her and she smiled back, apologetic. You could take a taxi, I shouted back to them. The rain continued to pour.

I can’t get things clean. It irks me, especially when I am tired. No, in fact it is more than an irking, it unsettles me. Take the vegetable drawer in the fridge, I noticed some black spots of dirt (it may even be mould) trapped between the see-through plastic front and the opaque side. How do I get to it, to them to clean them away? I don’t think it separates, I have tried. And then there is the water jug, again I can’t get it perfectly clean. And don’t start me on the kitchen floor and the line of formica under the cupboards, or the oven. People have lived here before us and their marks, their dirt, their stains remain. I cannot wipe it clean. Like life really. It is imperfect. I am imperfect. Must I accept this?

There’s no other word for it. That is what I am. Tired. There is so much to do, so many loose ends (and I am not comfortable with loose ends) and I am made ragged by it all. I need some rest. A day off. But not yet. I cannot afford the time, just yet. Got to keep going. On and on. Till it is done. Till my work is done.

I have to trust her. Her medicine might work, it might not. I have to trust that she has an intention to heal me. And then let be what will be. He trusted him to pay the rent for the hotel. It seems as though he didn’t. He saw him in the Avenue, he’s off work with stress. It’s all got too much. And the hotel stands empty. I want to not judge. It is not my place, I don’t know the whole truth. I want to trust. I want to trust that he, and indeed all of us, are doing our best with this live that we are in. I hope it all resolves itself. It is hard to fail in a small town, with all those eyes upon you. Some cannot take it, like the photographer who drowned himself. And the part-time crab-dresser, who did the same. So sad that they saw no other way. May they rest in peace.

She told us last night on the phone that one of his job on the ‘Ag & Fish’ was the feeling of bulls balls.