102. Tony’s Theme

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Photo by Florencia Viadana on Unsplash

“History, as they say, will always be written by the victors.” 

Anthony Bordain, Medium Raw

I knew I’d have to introduce myself and talk at some point. I’d planned what I wanted to say, written it down, tried to practice it. I didn’t want to wing it. That wouldn’t be right. He’d been gone for longer now than the for the whole time I ever knew him. There were people in there who’d lost a lot more than I had.

“I wish I’d told him how I felt. I thought there’d be the perfect opportunity, that I’d find the right words, then we’d look right into each other, and we’d know. But we didn’t, and now it’s too late. I’ve been over it a thousand times and changed the outcome but it’s still there all the time. The first thing I think about when I wake up, the last thing at night. I’m so stuck and I don’t want to live in my head any more. I can’t change what happened no matter how much I want to. We all get the same amount of time as each other every day and I want to make it matter. I try, I really do make the effort to look people in the eye. I give them my full attention. I smile at strangers, I hold a gaze, I’m affectionate and I share the moment. And it’s really fucking hard to be brave like that. It’s scary to give yourself like that. And I’ve never cried more in my life these last few months – with people I don’t even know. I’ve shared really private stuff with people I’ve just met. Held hands and hugged people and I don’t even know them. Just look at me now. Look at the state I’m in. It’s worse now than at the time. I need help. I can’t go on like this. This isn’t living. But it’s too fucking hard to do it on my own. Um… God.. I’m sorry for swearing”

I’m way too hot, what’s left of my heart is screaming. I want to get up and run out but can’t. This is the safest place for me right now. I lean forward in my chair, elbows on my knees, hands covering my face and sob. There’s a beat of silence then the group leader says,

“Thank you for sharing.”

Someone is rubbing my back. My breathing slows. I look up, sniff loudly, wipe my nose on the back of my hand and take the crumpled tissue from up my sleeve. Snivelling, I take a huge breath, purse my lips and let it out with a long, quiet “whooooo” that sounds just like the wind on a blustery night. There is no dignity in this rawness. I turn to smile at the woman who was rubbing my back and she opens her arms to me as an invitation to hug.

After the group, us two go to the wholefood cafe near the park. As I sip my thick acai smoothie and pick at a malted flapjack, Angie tells me bits of her story. How her life is either ‘before’ or ‘after’ her husband and child died in a car accident. That people she knew for years now treat her differently, how they avoid or pity her, how being a widow defines her. Some would rather not talk to her because they feel uncomfortable, and can’t stop saying how sorry they are and that they think they can’t talk about what happened because it might upset her. Consequently, none of the good times are ever spoken about either. That her life was full of children and now there are none. So she wants to meet new people who understand, and will get to know her as she is now, not then.

There’s so much they don’t tell you about loss. That time is fluid. You waste hours thinking about just one moment. That you have to make a real effort every single day to eat proper food.

Angie tells me that she can’t yet look at old photographs or videos because those images might record over the memories she has inside her own head. Those pictures of them as a family with so much promise for their future life together, make her feel bitter and resentful with hindsight. Then she feels guilty. That she cannot ever imagine meeting anyone new, and doesn’t want to, but still wants to find a way to live now. She used to refer to it as ‘her afterlife’ but realised that was morbid, so now calls it ‘Version 2.’ She says she’s writing letters that will never be read, and feels sorry for people whose entire lives are captured on social media, being replayed over and over again. How she’s had to change her online presence because their ghosts live on inside the machine. They pop up from time to time to remind her of ‘on this day two years ago…’ or ‘it’s Sam’s birthday soon’, and how an algorithm will never replace human interaction.

I say that after the initial shock, I felt like I craved human contact. That I’d deliberately go out of my way to attach myself to people who needed rescuing. I wanted to help, to feel needed. I was so vulnerable that I think I numbed myself with compassion fatigue, which is how I ended up in the group. It’s too soon to know whether it’s helping me through, but I’m prepared to put in the work to try. I don’t want to become lonely, but I also don’t want people to feel obliged to be in my life out of duty, guilt or pity.

Incredibly, as we swap numbers, we both realise that we each have two phones for the same reason. Our old lives and our afterlives. I didn’t have to explain it. She’s the first person I’ve met who not only gets why I’m still paying every month for a piece of outdated tech that I can’t bear to lose, but she’s also doing it too.

When ‘Life on Mars’ comes on in the cafe, I sense a prickle and her mood changes. I say, “Too soon for Bowie?” She nods.

I say, “I’m the same with Anthony Bordain. Tony and me used to watch his programme together every week. I hate that I can’t even do something I used to love anymore. I even went to Cambodia and Vietnam after… y’know, because we’d always planned to go and Bordain made them sound so beautiful. If someone who travels the world for a living finds a place they could live in forever, then it must be good. I think going there helped. The people have nothing there and they’re so peaceful and contented. I dunno. Sometimes, I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m just going round in circles.”

As we walk towards the park, we both stop at the same time to look in the window of the gift shop. There’s a display of bright plastic storage boxes that look like giant Lego pieces. “Sam would have loved those.” She says, and we link arms and stroll on.

 

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101. Christmas Presence

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Photo by Negative Space on Pexels.com

The idea of Christmas in Hallmark rom-coms and Richard Curtis films. Coordinated, beautifully wrapped, perfect presents, on-time flights, a meetcute, the light dusting of pristine snow, plenty of parking, enough chairs around a generous dining table with a fabulous meal and a family who get on, are the ideals we enjoy over and over again.

Who wants reality when we’re trying to escape it?

So it’s 6am Christmas Day, and I’ve got period pains and a hangover. Fortunately, the kids didn’t see me just eat the mince pie that they left out for Santa. I tell them that he can’t drink at every house or he’ll need to pee and that will affect the logistics of his schedule. The turkey is still borderline frozen but it does fit into the oven, which is a major plus, and the children have already demolished their selection boxes. They’re whining about how rubbish their stockings were and it’s not fair that they have to wait until their teenage brother gets up and Grandma’s here before they are allowed to open their presents.

By 10am, Grandma has arrived and the first thing she tells me is that I should cut a cross in my sprouts. She says I’m brave for stopping dying my hair. I haven’t. The teenager thinks it’s ridiculous that he can’t play his new computer game on the big telly or in his bedroom, but has to stay in the living room all day with his own family. The little ones are struggling with the unboxing of their toys and all of those twisted wires wrapped around every single piece of plastic. I know we bought extra batteries, but just where did I put them?

No-one wants smoked salmon and scrambled eggs with bucks fizz because they’re all too full of Quality Streets and Miniature Heroes. I warn them that there won’t be any other food on offer until 3pm when we have lunch. If they’re really hungry they can have a couple of satsumas.

Noon. The nine-year-old has worked out the cost of the gifts and is upset because the teenager had more spent on his five small electronic gifts, than her twenty-five presents. She’s on a sugar crash from the breakfast chocolate and wants to start making things from her new craft kits. I make a few rounds of sandwiches and open a tub of Pringles. My head is pounding and I’m simultaneously glad I couldn’t find the batteries for the kids’ noisy toys but slightly concerned that I wasn’t supposed to have champagne and co-codamol together.

2pm. My husband’s brother and young niece arrive for lunch – without the elder one. She’s helping out in a homeless shelter today, mostly for the bragging rights and her college application. Our teenager is crestfallen. I put the nutroast back in the fridge. Apparently, shelters are turning away helpers on Christmas Day, but there too few volunteers to be found in the middle of snowy January. The cousins compare presents.

3pm. Lunch. The youngest has decided he doesn’t like turkey and wants some yorkshire puddings. So does everyone else, so I put a tray of Aunt Bessies in for five minutes. His plate now contains little spat-out blobs of food, (because Christmas Dinner is “skusting”) including cranberry sauce, brussels sprouts, red cabbage, stuffing and turkey. He eats six pigs in blankets, some carrots and gravy. Grandma isn’t impressed.

4pm. I get to sit down for the first time for more than 10 minutes all day. The men are in the kitchen washing up, playing with the new coffee machine and putting the world to rights. I’ve banned all talk of Brexit in the house, so they decide to go up to the teenager’s bedroom with him to check out his new computer game and chat about the state of the nation. Mum is gently snoring in the best armchair. The kids seem engrossed in some Pixar film on TV. I’d like nothing more than a hot bath and to get into my new pyjamas, but that’s not going to happen.

5pm. I put out some cold cuts and pickles, cheese, crackers a few bowls of crisps and mince pies onto the dining table. That’s all I’m doing for the rest of the day.

6pm. His brother is leaving to pick up the daughter and take mum home. I give them the untouched vegan nut roast to take with them. I reassure them that I didn’t go to any trouble finding it. They don’t need to know that I bought it online, paid a premium for next-day delivery and had to take a day off work to wait in for the non-time-specific refrigerated truck.

We decide to play the board game that the little one got from Santa. I don’t quite understand the rules but it has something to do with which animal can eat the most before it poops. I promise him that we will definitely find some batteries for his police car tomorrow.

7pm. The teenager tells me that his dad had four espressos “to test the machine” and that is why he’s got an upset stomach. Nothing whatsoever to do with drinking since 10am.

8pm. Unbelievably, the little one decides he’s tired and wants to go to bed. The teenager says he will make sure he brushes his teeth and will read him a story. That leaves me and the nine-year-old to have control of the TV and watch our favourite Christmas special. We make some hot chocolate with tiny marshmallows and have a lovely peaceful evening of mum and daughter time together.

10pm. Bedtime. I check the doors, the hob and turn off the Christmas tree lights. All three of my boys are in the teenager’s bedroom playing some unsuitable computer game. Fortunately, the little one is fast asleep. I scoop him up and put him in his own bed, and leave the other two to their game.

Soon, this perfect day will be a wonderful memory, which is the best gift I could ever wish for.

100 Things We Lost In The Fire

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  1. My teenage diaries.
  2. A battered copy (on loan) of Mrs Beeton.
  3. Those really good cooking tongs.
  4. A signed film poster of ‘The English Patient’.
  5. Your Duke of Edinburgh gold and my bronze.
  6. Our photograph album.
  7. My cashmere pashmina.
  8. My beanie babies collection.
  9. A set list from the Pixies ‘Doolittle’ tour.
  10. Our love letters from when you were working away.
  11. The vinyl has all gone.
  12. Tickets stubs from the final at Wembley.
  13. Your wedding suit.
  14. A box of phones with photos still on them.
  15. Our hiking kit.
  16. A flowerpress full of my childhood.
  17. Shoes that we never wore.
  18. Books. So many books.
  19. A Metrocard from our last NYC trip.
  20. A lock of her hair.
  21. A fridge freezer full of food from yesterday’s big shop.
  22. The 55″ big screen.
  23. My work laptop.
  24. The milk jug shaped like a cow.
  25. My Jo Malone that I was saving for best.
  26. The fancy shampoo.
  27. My slippers.
  28. Passports.
  29. Exam certificates.
  30. Birth certificates.
  31. Wedding certificate.
  32. Driving licence.
  33. The envelope of expense receipts.
  34. The warranties.
  35. The vintage handkerchiefs that I loved.
  36. Our really comfortable bed.
  37. My Mulberry handbag.
  38. Your IWC watch.
  39. My Tiffany ring.
  40. That vintage Welsh wool blanket.
  41. Our electric toothbrushes.
  42. The tickets for that concert next month. Can we still go?
  43. A vase full of small change.
  44. Those mid-century modern dining room chairs.
  45. The library books.
  46. That really useful travel bag.
  47. £400 cash for emergencies.
  48. The well-stocked cocktail trolley.
  49. The college notes.
  50. The chargers for the phone.
  51. That print by that artist from before he was famous.
  52. The spoon you always ate ice-cream with.
  53. The stained glass lamp from that auction.
  54. A box of photographs.
  55. The armchair that we just had re-covered.
  56. Your cacti that you were growing for 10 years.
  57. My capsule wardrobe.
  58. The mix-tapes.
  59. A patchwork quilt made by my aunt.
  60. My mother’s engagement ring.
  61. My father’s medals.
  62. Your favourite jeans imported from Japan.
  63. The little book of internet passwords.
  64. Those rare trainers that you queued up for hours to get.
  65. $5 Poker chips from the Las Vegas honeymoon.
  66. Those kitschy seaside ornaments.
  67. The best frying pan ever.
  68. The hand-made carved, wooden fruit bowl.
  69. The sofa we saved a year for.
  70. The shoe lasts of your grandad’s feet.
  71. The rug we brought home from Morocco.
  72. All our clothes except the ones we had on.
  73. My work-in-progress notebook.
  74. Your tools.
  75. That paint we had mixed for the hallway.
  76. The Christmas presents we bought in advance.
  77. The cat.
  78. Half a dozen steaks in the freezer.
  79. My desk.
  80. The framed review of your sister’s book.
  81. The softest, worn Irish linen sheets.
  82. Those two wine glasses from the 1920s.
  83. My make-up.
  84. The signed Neil Gaiman that we found in the airport bookshop.
  85. The vodka from our Iceland holiday that we were saving.
  86. The Polish glass turquoise vase from my childhood.
  87. The history of our old lives.
  88. Our obsession with collecting.
  89. Our sense of security.
  90. The ability to sleep.
  91. The reluctance to show emotion in public.
  92. My materialism.
  93. Your complacency.
  94. Our entitlement.
  95. Our privacy.
  96. Our future plans.
  97. Our attachments to ‘stuff’.
  98. Our fear.
  99. Our pride.
  100. Everything that wasn’t saved in the cloud.