Context Galore

I’ve just returned from what I can only describe as a rather unexpected, and in many ways, profound journey—a family odyssey, if you will. One I’d never really imagined I’d embark on. You see, this year I lost two aunts, both well into their nineties. That’s a good innings, by any measure. Yet the truth is, I hadn’t seen either of them for over two decades. Contact had been sporadic at best. One of them, sadly, had slipped into dementia long ago, so even if I’d visited earlier, it’s unlikely she would have remembered me. Which is a poignant thought because, in the years I spent as a young child in Madrid, she looked after me while my mother found her footing in London. A little family history is in order. My mother’s side is Spanish, originally. She emigrated to London in the 1960s, met my father, and had me. The rest, history. But my mother never returned to Spain—at least not alive. She passed away in 1993 at the tragically young age of 52. I mention this because I’m now 53, and the whole thing has a certain symmetry, if not a sense of unfinished business. Spain, that long-lost homeland for my family, had become an emotional hinterland. And so, this journey, at its heart, was not just about saying goodbye to two aunts I had barely known in recent years. It was about reconnecting, in a way, with my own story. And on that note, yes, my mother did return to Spain—though only in death. She was buried there, and that fact has gnawed away at me for years. You see, it’s been over 15 years since I last visited her grave. Another uncomfortable truth I’ve carried with me, another unresolved piece of the puzzle that I’ve had to confront on this journey. Now, bear with me, because there’s a story arc here. My mother was laid to rest in the plot of a family friend. At the time, I was young—utterly lost, really. I had no idea what to do, nowhere to turn. My mother’s closest friend, her soulmate in life, stepped in. It had to be her, no question. They’d been through everything together—two single mothers, both immigrants, trying to find their way in London. They were, as people say, sisters from another mister. When my mum died, I believe a part of her best friend died with her. But life has a way of moving on, even when we’re not ready. Eventually, my mum’s friend left London too, returning to the village of her birth in Spain, taking with her her own daughter, who was also my friend. And there I was, suddenly alone. But I was lucky in a way—back then, I had a wonderful boyfriend, and life, as it tends to, carried on. I would visit Spain each year, to see my mum’s friend and her daughter, and to pay my respects at my mum’s grave. But life moved fast. That lovely boyfriend and I went our separate ways, and I did what many do in times of emotional upheaval—I travelled. It was a kind of self-imposed rehabilitation. During that nomadic period, I had some of the most remarkable experiences of my life, from the temples of Cambodia to the fjords of New Zealand and everything in between. I was, at long last, happy. And then, of course, life called me back. I met the man who would become my husband, and with him came the next chapter—the one where I had to finally grow up. For years, I kept in touch with my childhood friend and her mother—my mum’s best friend. We had an enduring bond, one that stretched across many visits and shared memories. But then, not long after I got married, there was a falling out. The reasons seemed important at the time, though today they completely baffle me. Whatever the cause, it led to a rift, a chasm that quickly widened. Long story short, the communication stopped. The visits stopped.

As the years went by, I would often toy with the idea of reconnecting. After all, this wasn’t just any family—my mother was buried in their family plot. And yet, the fallout meant that I hadn’t visited my mum’s grave either. But I rationalised it. I convinced myself that it didn’t matter, that my mother wasn’t really there, that she lived on in my heart. It’s a comforting narrative, one that I clung to, and one that might well have lasted me the rest of my life. But then, out of the blue, came a text from my childhood friend’s cousin. The message delivered the news I hadn’t expected to hear: my mother’s best friend had died. She was 88. I wasn’t prepared for the emotions that followed. It’s hard to put into words how deeply the news affected me. There’s something utterly paralysing about realising you’ve run out of time—when the window for reconciliation has closed, and you’ve no one to blame but yourself. I’d assumed, as so many of us do, that I had all the time in the world to make things right. But it turns out, we don’t. We are all living on borrowed time. And so, the decision was made. I had to repair the rift with my childhood friend and go back to that grave—this time to pay my respects to two people. Along the way, I would stop off to see the last remaining aunt, the one still living, before she too wrote the final chapter of her life and joined her ancestors in the great beyond.

So, I took an extended leave from work and set off to do what I should have done years ago. I travelled to Madrid, collected my last remaining aunt, and together we made the journey north to visit the family who, in a very real sense, had saved me. Without them, I’d likely have spent years lugging my mother’s ashes around in a little urn, unsure of where they truly belonged. The experience was cathartic, emotional, and deeply humbling. Above all, I was struck by the generosity of spirit I encountered. There was no judgement, no recrimination—just open arms and warmth. It was as if we all understood, almost silently, that someone had to be the one to make the first move. And it’s not always about who’s at fault, but who has the strength to step forward. Once you grasp that, you realise that few rifts are beyond repair. And now, I have my 'sister' back. It’s a bond I thought I’d lost, but one that feels as strong as ever. I can’t wait to see her again, and for her and her family to visit me—hopefully at some new, wonderful home, wherever that ends up being, whenever that moment comes.

As Offers Go, I'll Take It

What I'm leaving...

I find myself in the grip of an extraordinary sensation, one that only the tantalizing promise of anticipation can stir. I can almost taste freedom—the kind that comes from finally reaching a point in life where time and money coexist harmoniously. It feels almost unreal, yet it’s been a dozen years in the making. And I will finally also be free of my past the one where I make the mistake of marrying the wrong person. Hey Ho! Let's go!

It's been ten years since I officially got divorced and twelve years of living solo (well with my daughter) in the family home. Twelve years of relentless effort, careful thrift, and the dull rhythms of routine. I’ve been on autopilot for so long that now, as I glimpse genuine possibilities on the horizon, I’m caught off guard. The feeling is not unlike the giddiness of a teenager, heart racing, when their crush finally locks eyes with them.

But let’s be clear—I haven’t stumbled upon a windfall. No, it’s more that I’m on the cusp of needing less to live comfortably, and that shift opens up a world of possibilities. The idea of no longer having to work full-time or for someone else to sustain my lifestyle is no longer just a distant dream. It’s becoming a tangible reality. See for the past ten years I've had to stay put in a very expensive flat to ensure that the nipper's life wasn't disrupted more than the divorce already had. And I do not regret doing my duty in this way. But boy, it hasn't been cheap or easy.

As a result, it’s been years—decades even—since I’ve felt any real excitement, save for a few fleeting moments. Small victories like landing work when I needed it, surviving another school year as a single working parent, and somehow managing to keep my head above water financially. These are hardly the stuff of exhilaration, though I’m fully aware of how fortunate I am to even have these modest milestones.

Lately, however, my thoughts have turned to the bigger questions: life, mortality, happiness, and, crucially, the role of risk.

Two friends of mine, both of whom have recently made bold life choices, have seen their lives—and their families’ lives—transformed for the better. Their bravery has inspired me to step out of my comfort zone, to abandon fear and embrace the possibility of something new and refreshingly different—something that could permanently enhance my life. And by that, I don’t mean indulging in lavish holidays or splurging on luxuries, but rather, having the time and financial freedom to live a little, to write, learn new skills, perhaps even take up something as delightfully simple as beekeeping.

Take one friend, for example, who quietly uprooted her young family and moved to Cyprus. After hitting a crossroads in her career following the birth of her second child, and with her relationship strained by complacency, she took a leap of faith. Today, she’s settled in a beautiful villa, her weekends spent basking by the pool with her husband and two lovely children. It’s the sort of life that many dream of, and she made it happen.

Another friend has taken the plunge and moved “up north.” She’s now happier than ever, with more disposable income and a newfound contentment that shines through.

It’s all set my mind whirring: perhaps it really is my turn. But this time, I’m determined to get it right. For those of you who’ve endured these ramblings before, you might recall that I once threw caution to the wind and moved to Canada—a decision that ultimately cost me my marriage. But now, without a marriage on the line and with no plans to head back to Canada, this feels more like a calculated risk than a reckless gamble.

It’s my turn once again. The moment has arrived. It’s D-Day.

The stage is set. The flat has been valued, and the photographs are scheduled. Now, all I need is a stroke of luck. I’m hoping for an offer I can’t refuse, and once that happens, the rest is going to be a seizure-inducing blur but hopefully by the time I get around to posting again, it will be from my new life in my new home. Although I think it will be to update you on my pilgrimage to see my elderly relatives in Madrid...before they all pop their clogs. And I don't mind admitting, I ain't looking forward to it.

Equally I could still be here in this expensive flat this time next year, wittering on.  Whichever it is, I’ll accept that the universe had a good reason.

Where I'm going...no brainer

A Prosaic Return to Hubris Form

Hello you - yeah you. It's been 5 years since I last bothered my arse to post here and for that I should be flogged because it's a gorgeous little solipsistic sounding board, and indeed a personal record of what, for want of a better phrase, I've made of my life.  After all, you have been my sole confidante in this little journey, so the least I could have done was to have checked in a little more often.  Anyhooo, as they say, I'm here now, for what it's worth.

In fact, an unrepeatable 15 years have passed since I first posted here in the aching pathos of youthful romance when I decided to document the move to Canada with my then husband and teeny wee nipper.  As we all know (and if you don't) that little life experiment crashed and burned in a spectacular fashion much like the famous Zeppelin.  We bounced like a deranged ping pong ball on a concrete floor from London, UK to Ontario and right back to London, UK only coming to a clattering, hollow stop once we'd taken a few more chunks out of eachother until, defeated, we gave in and parted after just under 10 years together.  

My biggest regret is the hurt that the whole insane debacle caused everyone around us. Most of all the hurt it caused us - him and me, and the nipper.  The irretrievable lost years and the lasting legacy. For him, of having to stay in a country he neither liked, nor really chose. And me having to re-imagine 'the future' as a single mum and a woman whose prime had most definitely left the building with more than just a weekend bag's worth of clothes. Lots of lessons, some too sad to mention. Let's just say, you live and learn.

Mind you he is remarried now, and about to become a father again to a woman who made it clear early on that she would not be making the same mistake of moving to The Tundra. Perhaps I needn't feel that bad that he is 'stuck' here when he always maintained he would rather be 'there'.  We have choices in the end. Best to own them once made.

And so the time when I started this little blogspot feels like, and indeed is a lifetime ago in which my once little Lishy - aka - The Beast - has turned 18.  Towering over me, she now stomps around the flat like a herd of elephants. Petulant, churlish and defiant.  A typical teenager who refers to me as 'fam' when happy, 'bro' when not.  I can only hope this is just another phase like the one where she HAD to be in bed by 9:36pm. 9.36.

Things are obviously easier now and I find it incredible some days to think that in a few short weeks, I can actually say I got her through school. And yes, I am taking credit for it. I was the one that got her up, topped up her lunch money, made sure clothes were clean, was the person school called when things went wrong. I was the one at the thin end of the angst wedge, the one who picked up the pieces. I was the one. It's over to her now, for the most part at least!

I turned 50 (almost 3 years ago now - yikes!) and while, as they say, I look after myself there is no getting away from the fact that my cleavage resembles crepe paper from certain angles, and my old lady neck skin is starting to move independently from the rest of my body.  I've also been somewhat battered by the effects of the menopause.  Delightful and grateful as I am to be alive (my mother didn't make it past 52) aging has brought with it the joys of vaginal atrophy and arthritis (ooh have you got a sister, I hear you ask!).  But you have to hand it to science because where there is an ill, there is a pill. So all is well, thankful I'm still alive and all that jazz!

Dalliances have also come and gone in that time - all worth their weight in gold in terms of personal growth, appreciation and learning experiences.  There was 'the fireman' followed by 'the chef' and actually a living, thriving dalliance continues with 'the copper'.  Put it this way, when the time comes to renew my British passport, I will not be short of approved professions to countersign the application.

I've also lost more members of my extended Spanish family in this time.  Two of my aunts have gone to join my mother who shuffled off 31 years ago under sad and tragic and perhaps (though no good comes of thinking this) preventable circumstances but there is literally nothing you can do to pre-empt fate or push it off course.  Nothing.  Onwards I say.

I am now also 'the boss' of myself at work.  A position I never thought I'd be lucky enough to reach, but then it didn't happen overnight.  Between one thing and another, it has taken 30 years.  Still, I made it and not before time because at almost 53, my earning power will see an abrupt levelling off before it plunges off the cliff edge and then...gawd help me.  

Eyes are firmly on the prize and this year (or early next at the latest) I will be mortgage free. That will be the single biggest achievement of my life (outside of surviving single parenthood, and raising as close to a human as possible).  I only hope I survive long enough to enjoy a couple of decades of this new world order where a third of my income no longer disappears the minute it hits my bank account.  

I was bored enough the other night to check how much my private pension might be worth if I retired at 60.  Unless you enjoy the rank stench of penury, I advise you to live in ignorant bliss of what your pension will be worth. 

Here then is where I will pick up the thread of my life's tapestry - in which the London girl finally moves out of her beloved London Town of her own accord, and makes it to the 'shire' she has droned on about for years.  The time has finally come.  In a few scant months, I will be putting my girl pad up for sale having made it 12 years in a place that I thought I'd never be able to pay for after divorce all those years ago!

I am excited, petrified and everything in between.  It will be the first time I move homes (buy a home even) on my tod.  Never before have I embarked on such an endeavour alone.  There was always a boyfriend or a husband.  The elastic may have snapped on my pelvic floor but if I play my cards right, I will soon have a guest room and garden.

Everyday Sexism

It's difficult to understand how some men - in this particular case, waiters and taxi drivers in Portuguese resorts along The Algarve -  can come to the conclusion that women who by the simple virtue of lunching or travelling alone (the audacity!) or with a child, are fair game.  I can only assume these fellas are a few Portuguese Tarts short of a bakery. Most of them look like Pinocchio's dad.  Not to blow my own trumpet, but I'm still in very good fucking shape.

I don't need to settle for Pinocchio's dad

I would start by asking these men whether they have actually checked in with themselves (never mind with their wives...)  on the way out to work. First off, let's start by explaining as respectfully as is deserved, that a woman dining alone is not the signal for Open Season.  We're dining alone - we're not standing in a a window of a brothel.  And they all deserved the short shrift received.  What really got me was the fact they thought they could overstep the boundaries of decency in front of my 13 year old daughter.  Lucky for them that she was there or I might have been inclined to punch them in the triple chin area and shove their moronic grandpa faces into a plate of sizzling sardines.  Don't think I wouldn't do it.  I would.

This was my experience, not once but three times in Portugal this year.  I've been happily divorced now for 5 years and in a new relationship for 2 and a half, but I do like to take one holiday a year with my daughter from this first marriage. Yet without fail, every single day of this and past similar holidays have been lessons in the art of male chauvinistic intimidation.  First the inappropriate questions, then the 'free' aperitifs or what has become commonly known as grooming, and then the space invasion. It was pathetic. Beer bellies the size of ballast on a cruise ships shoved into my face as I tired to read the menu, they really do need to get real.

And I did have to tell each and every one.  Subtlety was wasted on these guys, I had to be quite acerbic.  Without exception each reject would stomp off in outraged affront.  Two refused to serve me and one resorted to cantankerously sliding the plates of food at me and my daughter.  I cancelled the meal and left without paying.  And no-one tried to argue the case because they were all complicit. 

I might be of a certain age and I might be a divorcee but I don't have to silently put up with this type of harassment and I don't.

I'm not happy my daughter had to witness these invasions  of privacy and person but at least she now knows that if attention is not invited, if it makes her feel uncomfortable, then it's simply not welcome and frankly these deviants should and can fuck right off.

People watching is the only reason I will travel these days

I'm always so surprised to see how long it's taken me between posts.. I really shouldn't be. And I always feel the need to apologise, quickly followed by a wry comment usually alluding to why it hardly matters.  It's not like the Government is relying on an update from me to set the treasury forecast (*see?*). And let's also be honest - I'm the only reader of this blog.  I'm a reader - writer, like a singer-songwriter minus the singing and the song.

Anyway, I'm in Indianapolis today - the airport to be exact.  I'm (hopefully) on my way back to Blightey, though I have to admit, it's looking worryingly foggy out there.  I can only hope that this is 'normal' for airlines and pilots in the Mid-West.  I came over for work.  I've seen the airport terminal, the highway, the inside of my hotel, the road I cross to get to the office and the inside of the office.  And this morning I did that sight seeing tour in reverse.

So here I am 4 hours early to catch a domestic flight into Atlanta where the real journey so to speak begins.  I refer to the knicker soiling part of any travel for me, the long haul in a supersonic jet that somehow gets 35,000 feet up in the air with a bunch of fat bastards on it.  It's 10:38 am and that flight isn't until this evening...but I have set a timer alerting me to when it will ' no longer be too early to drink alcohol' in order to begin anaesthetising.

A glass of bubbly is the usual tipple for breakfast...so I'm good to go.  Hard spirits can kick in at midday when it's more publicly acceptable, and then after that basically anything and everything goes.  I'm looking for that comfortably numb feeling when I won't care if Snoopy dressed as The Red Baron clambers onboard and takes his seat in the cockpit.

Cabin crew to cross check

I've never been the best traveller - truth be told and as I've aged, I've picked up as unpleasant a harpy as I've become, that inconsiderate mistress - anxiety.  Apparently this can be a side effect of menopause.  Brilliant.

Here's how it manifested this time round.  A few months in advance of this trip, I had a will drawn up, as in a Last Will and Testament type thing-a-ma-gig.  I called all my pensions and updated the beneficiary to my daughter and I told my best friend where I keep my best trinkets to ensure that should anything happen to me - The Lish is to get everything.  And most importantly my ex -husband is not to get a single bean.

So as you can see, perfectly rational behaviour.  I also had to ask my boyfriend if he would take the cat.  He is more of a dog person.  It's a big ask.  He said yes.  Which is nice.

I think I might need help.

Getting to the point of today's post.  People are weird eh?  I've just watched 2 portly Americans wipe each other's trousers down with wet wipes.  Presumably they are too fat to bend down far enough to do their own.  Actually that's quite ingenious.

Anyhoo, should a year go by and this blog remain without update, then the plane has gone down and I did the right thing.

A picture to remember me by

2018 – Twenty Schmeighteen

Well I’ll be damned if this wasn’t the year of Meh and Blah.  Don’t get me wrong, I’ll take Meh and Blah over high drama any day of the week but god almighty if it isn’t the most mind-numbing tedium.  I’m wracking my brain for highlights.  One is clear I suppose: landing the new job.  That wasn’t blah at all, that was a real joy to secure and continues to be a source of wonder.  I’m learning, at once and on a daily basis, how to and how not to do things.  It will stand me in good stead.  On a personal level, I can only keep thanking the universe for another year watching my daughter mature and develop.  She’s healthy and for the most part happy though she is as big a beastie as ever. 

I also continue to be with my beau – the chef.  That has to make the list too.  Outside of that, I can’t say it’s been anything but a totally dishevelled anorak of a year.  Including having the most pernicious of allegations made against me by a neighbour that landed me in trouble with the police.  I’ve since developed deep misgivings about The Force who has itself displayed terrifying levels of incompetence throughout. The fight for justice continues and is a story for another day.

It has felt almost as if society has given up on itself this year too.  Between the constant bickering over Brexit to a general lack of enthusiasm all round for seasonal events, I have to say, I’m not going to miss this year at all.  And yet, I can imagine the moment things get tough again, I’ll be harking back to the days of bore.

Look we can’t complain about Summer – we had a bewildering run of luck there.  For that first month people were giddy, but London isn’t built for hot weather and if you weren’t on an endless break or living in a mansion with a pool and aircon, by the time June rolled around, the heat had started feeling more like an endurance.   Public transport was pestilent and the simple act of sitting at home was pure torment.  When the temperatures finally dropped, we entered monsoon mode overnight.   

Then there was the Football World Cup.  Whatevs.

Halloween comes along like a teenager turning up for an early shift at McDonalds.  I don’t remember a year where it took so long for the high street to catch up, with most shops only putting up their decks about 3 to 4 days in advance.  And don’t mention Bonfire Night.  Where have all the ‘Penny for the Guys” gone?  I didn’t see a single one.  Then a week later the UK Government passes regulation banning sales of fireworks to teenagers and the sad thing is, that it doesn’t faze me. This is what we have become.  We cannot be trusted anymore. 

So I wasn’t holding out for huge spikes in levels of enthusiasm around Christmas.  My local high street hasn’t even bothered putting lights up.  So there’s that.  The Lish and I got it into our heads that it would make a welcome change this year to deviate from the traditional green tree and instead planned for an Edward Scissorhands look.  

Like this:

Here’s our one.  

We hated it.  

Already a year that feels like Christmas came by default, we couldn’t justify aiding and abetting with a tree we both loathed.  So we took it down and it’s back to green.  

It’s better, but it still doesn’t feel like Christmases past.

So I’ll put it down to Brexit – why not? Everything else that missed the mark this year has been attributed to it.

Look, 2018 was a damp squib, 2019 only has to get out of bed to make it a better year…so here goes: Merry Christmas one and all and a HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!

Rudiment-ary

A few nights ago, I watched this extraordinary documentary - 'The Art of Drumming" - on Sky Arts.  I don't think I'm exaggerating when I say, it gathered some of the greatest drummers on the planet to discuss their individual journeys to drum virtuosity.  It caught me by surprise and what a great midweek, post summer treat it turned out to be.

I was lolling on the sofa, feeling a bit sorry for myself as I've had a spot of trouble with the police, not intentional I hasten to add. And I'd had an argument with my daughter over her general attitude which had led to my boyfriend upping sticks for the evening having decided it was best he leave us to it.  He has since come back into the fray...more fool him!

I was basically letting 1st world problems get the better of me.  Turning things over and over and over in my mind willing myself to just go to sleep, per chance to dream when a face that I recognised as being that of Ginger Baker, the drummer for Cream and Blind Faith appears, like an earthly angel on the telly.

The next hour felt like a minute.  I was totally engrossed when maestro followed maestro with tales of brave Ulysses.  Ian Paice (Deep Purple), Clem Burke (Blondie), Steve Gadd (everyone from Chick Corea to Kate Bush), Bernard Purdie (BB King, James Brown, Dizzy Gillespie), Clyde Stubblefield (James Brown), Drummie Zeb (Aswad), Earl Palmer (Frank Sinatra to The Beach Boys)...to name but a few all explained not only how it all began for them but how each of today's famous beats came about.

No hope in hell of ever getting this right

All musicians remember the song that made them want to pick up an instrument or sing.  I thought about that...because I 'play' the drums, I mean compared to these deities, I don't actually come even close to what you might describe as playing the drums, but I have a drum kit and I bash the skins with sticks...so technically I play them, very un-technically.

It got me thinking.  I've been a geek all my life but a total music nerd only really from the age of about 15.  I took a stroll down disco street to hip-hop road, through the cul-de-sac of punk to the dead end of cock rock.  With emancipation (of sorts) I woke up one day firmly moved into riot grrlll squat of grunge and when I finally stopped being angry, I sat back and let it all go to Blues. 

Blues of course led to good rock for me (and funk and perhaps even a little jazz) but classic good rock became the hammock on which I settled. I say all this because throughout that journey, I was always more interested in what the drums were doing but it was only when I heard  'My Cat's Name is Maceo" by Jane's Addiction that I picked up the phone, asked my bank for a loan with which to purchase my first set of drums.   I'll admit that song is not John Bonham or Keith Moon intricate nor is it Stevie Wonder Superstition funky but to me it's perfection and it is based on the Bo Diddly beat.  So what's not to love?

Those drums were so precious to me I didn't dare drive them home myself, instead roping in my then very kind boyfriend to give us all a safe lift home.

Never misses a beat

Living in a densely populated area, I had to get electronic drums so as not to drive the neighbours bonkers, not crappy little pads mind -  I got me a set of Roland V8s - and they cost me a pretty penny too.  But I still have and play them today, almost 20 years later...so they have more than paid for themselves and might even be considered vintage today.

Well, anyway, now that I've bored you with that little yarn, I'm off to play 'em.  Thank you Sky Arts for reminding me of my passion.

Still trying