In which I play a villager...

Gingerbread House

With the nipper at her dad's for half term, I seized the opportunity to go investigate whether I, a life-long townie - well more than that - a bona fide born & bred, beer swigging, wine sloshing, whisky soaked, gig loving, culture hungry city dweller could actually cut it in 'the country'.  I've long mused on the idyll of one day getting out of the big smoke for the slower, more traditional way of life and this week, I was going to put myself to the test.

A lot has to happen I know.  School places, job options, an affordable home, a willing child and an understanding ex-husband are pre-requisites.  But actually even before all of those practicalities, I need to be sure I'm quite, quite done with the city.  The zen question has to be:  Can you handle village life? Are you ready to take it all down a notch?

I say it every day - London kills me! but I always come back for more.  However, this time, I'm not talking about emigrating, I'm talking about moving 30 mins up the A1 or an hour tops down the M4/M40.  I'm talking Great Balls of 'Shire'. 

So I took this week off, packed a couple of bags, bundled my cat into her basket and drove off to a little village in Hertfordshire.  I'm in the kookiest, smallest cottage you can imagine and I mean the tweest, most dainty little biscuit tin house-ette you can conjure.  And the inside is just as delicately pretty.  I really did take my cat.  Surely that alone is an indication that I'm ready for 'Dibley' no?

Loving every minute of country living

So far then this week, I've taken strolls, walks and hikes through farm and woodland and quaint little high streets.  I've cooked sausage rolls from scratch and developed a taste for gin.  I've gone to bed with the ruddy look of one that has gorged on fresh field air by day and cocktail hour by night.  And I've slept like a newborn baby.  The closest to dodge I've been this week is Cambridge where I almost went to the famous Kettle's Yard.   I was handed a time ticket to say there was an hour's wait to get into the celebrated cottages and at that point realised it would take more than a week away from London to get me to work on anything but London-time.  An hour...to see a few artefacts, beautiful, rare and esoteric as I have heard them to be - I don't think so.  Perhaps this is the first clue as to my readiness for a switch to the slow lane.   Besides, if I want the Kettle's Yard experience, I need only visit my friend Mary's home in Islington which takes it's interior design lead from this place. 

Mary's house or Kettle's Yard?

Proper Bo

Refined Clutter

And maybe all that tells me is that I'm an impatient bint because I'm almost at the end of my week here and were it not for my Lish Losh and my job, I am not entirely sure I'd go back immediately. 

But let me not waste the time I have left here with thoughts of urban slog and polluted routine.  I still have three more nights away from Shitsville.  Three more days of saying hello to people on paths and cobbled streets, three more days of friendly local shop keepers and three more days of freezing my bazookas off in the glacial chill of the rural terrain.

Three more days of waking up and looking out of the bedroom window at the anti-bustle of the village high street. 

Total gridlock out there

I've said it before, thought precedes action.  And anything can happen when you put your mind to it.  I think I'm going to put my mind to this. 

Beam me up

Politics, Public Transport and Precipitations – A Few of Briain’s Favourite Things

I don’t know about you guys but I’ve been hearing that 2017 wasn’t really much better for people than the ‘bad boyfriend’ antics of 2016.  It turned out to be the year the weather first started going mad in the UK; Brexit fever took hold and then there was Trump.

It began with the limpest of Springs, an event that occurs in this exact way with boring regularity and which the Brits are so used to, there’d be all-up panic if season changes happened with more distinction.  However, this year, after the damp flaccidity that took us to April, we all woke up to a tropical 30 degrees C with little warning in May…for a week….and no further guarantee.    You could therefore not blame Londoners for wanting to hedge their bets by wearing 3 outfits in one. 

Indeed, fears for the mental state of Londoners who attempted to leave their homes without a thick coat, an umbrella and sensible shoes anytime outside of August were palpable.  Open-mouthed stares and trembling jawbones all but flapping loose off people’s skulls at the sight of breathable fabrics were common occurrences.  It made for an amazing display to see folks attempting to cover all bases during that week in May by wearing flimsy pastel coloured shirts (under thick winter jumpers) or dresses (over thick woolly granny tights) as they tried to anticipate what the weather would do next. 

He's gonna regret the choice of a woolly hat

At the same time, the London Underground became a sort of storage heater where those with experience would begin to peel off as they glided down the escalators, looking on, with dismay at the thought of all that sweat collecting into the pant elastic of mild weather tube novices.

After the week we like to call Summer, came the torrential rains of hurricanes Brian, Caroline and Dylan though to be honest the UK pretty much gets those as often as Spain has Saints Days.  Growing up, I don’t remember having to name these.  It was just…weather. 

The Great British Weather

But moving on from the nation’s favourite topic, let us not forget the shit show that is Brexit.  Many felt we’d be under the cloud of recent political events and indeed last year was dominated by scaremonger headlines; a general election would you believe; Trump and more mad weather.  Still, it’s my humble opinion that the universe is on course to fulfil its grand plan and that all these events will one day make sense.

History will show us what the fuss was all about.

And all I will say about Trump is that with his help at least our bananas will be bendy again.

Oh Well

For me 2018 has to be a year of further emancipation and a little more abundance.  One thing I now know for sure - there is no time like the present.  Time to get a grip on this thing called life.  I've started out small...but you know what they say about acorns...

Big plans start with a new hairdo

The Corporate Look

What's in a Name

A few weeks ago, I finally got round to finding out what had happened to my estranged father.  I wasn't sure whether I felt it was important enough to commit to paper but then I realised that I was thinking like a surly teenager.  Just this once then, I'll be adult about it. 

It's been an extraordinary revelation.  But almost more interesting were the lengths one particular family member went to to reach and find me and in so doing created a cascade of activity that led to the discovery of one death certificate for said pater.

Shall I start with the facts? It's as good a place as any.  My father died 8 years ago in December of 2009. I know this now, but for the last 29 years I knew nothing of him.   The last time I saw him we crossed paths, without stopping, on High Street Kensington.  He was wearing a baseball hat and looked me straight in the eye.  I was in my late teens.  I stopped in the doorway of Barkers - now a Wholefoods - to assimilate what had just happened as my heart near pounded its way out of my chest.  I should preface this by explaining that my parents had divorced when I was a toddler.  He'd visit about once a year thereafter as he lived/worked on a cruise ship that took him away for long stretches.  My relationship with him was postcard based and he'd sign them 'Tony'.  Never dad.  I eventually fell out with him when my mother died and he decided to take 3 years before calling to give his condolences.

Nevertheless at the time of our paths crossing, we'd not yet had the big fallout.  And it was the harshest snub I'd ever experienced, made all the more dramatic by virtue of my youth and let's face it, it was the 80s when everything was intensified with capes and dry-ice dramatics.  I'm not sure how long that feeling lasted but I guess given that I can still remember it exactly, it has indeed lasted and I can only describe it as an angry sadness.

Fast forward to my mid 30s.   I'm living in Canada with then hubby and young Lishy -  using the heck out of Facebook to keep in touch with my London mates, when in pops a friend invite from someone who has the same surname as my dad - my surname in effect - and one that I had not used in years not planned on using ever again.  It's a cousin from Spain and I remember her well.  She is my father's younger sister's daughter with whom I spent many a temperate summer in the rural ranch where my dad's family originate.  Thanks to my mother, while my father was very much noted for his absence, mum always made sure I stayed in contact with his family.

Back to this cousin, I remember it being a strained relationship at times because I'd get the lions share of attention when I visited and this irked her...understandably so.  But as kids we didn't see it that way and instead went on to have a bit of a fraught relationship.  However my real reason for not wanting to engage was the fact that nothing good had ever come of engaging with anything to do with my dad.  So I blocked her.

And this barrier was maintained for a further 8 years though she tried many times to re-friend and communicate via other channels.

Fast forward to my mid 40s.  I'm back in London, divorced but life is nevertheless good.  I'm just living when I get a message from a different cousin on my father's side - one I remember with fondness even if only dimly.  His messages are less insistent to her more "where's your father?" ones.  I mean if his own brothers and sisters didn't know, what hope did I have?

These casual texts continued sporadically with him for a year or so.  Then one fine day he announces a visit to London and asks to meet for a coffee.  I can do coffee and I'd arrived at a place emotionally where I was actually looking forward to seeing someone from my dad's side.  Plus, I liked this particular cousin.  And yet there was a stirring in the pit of my stomach.

The day comes and I've already exchanged a couple of messages to arrange a meeting place.  He's 2 hours late and I'm still waiting.  The text messages are bizarre.  It's taken a taxi 2 hours to not find Piccadilly when he's only travelling from the South Kensington area.  Eventually I switch from texting to a phone call.  A woman picks up.  I imagine it's my cousin's wife with whom he was travelling.  They put the driver on the phone.  He's not English.  The 2 hours explained.  And yet, why is my cousin not taking the phone, instead putting his wife on all the time.

The answer walks up to me in front of The Ritz Hotel, where I've been loitering now for close to 3 hours.  And it's not my male cousin who once carried me over a puddle because I didn't want to get my shoes muddy, it's the cousin I'd blocked all those years previous.   I'm floored.  She's tricked me using this other cousin's ID because I wasn't blocking him..very clever of her.  Very silly of me.

BUT....

She has tears in her eyes and seems genuinely emotional about having finally found me.  She tells me she's been looking for me for years - eaten up by the guilt of having allowed us all to lose contact after the death of my mum.  Apparently she wanted to see for herself that I was ok.  She wanted to tell me that I had a family in Spain that still very much cared for me.

I'm listening but I'm not convinced.  All of this could easily have been put into an email. But she is adamant.  Email was not going to cut it.  She wanted me to see for myself that my family still cared.  It needed a grand gesture she said.

She asks again about my dad and it takes everything I have not to smack her one.  I find myself apologising for him - that he couldn't be arsed to stay in touch with his own brothers and sisters.  It's cathartic - so it wasn't just me he ignored. But still, I tell her I have nothing to gain - except possible heartache - from seeking out information on him.  I tell her I suspect he has died of alcoholism and fear that he might have also been homeless.  Things I have been quite happy all my life not knowing for sure.  I tell her that my dad has brought me nothing but drama and that I really don't feel the need to stir that psychological silt.

She tells me it's important because it will unlock inheritances to do with uncles and grandparents.   I couldn't care less about inheritances.  But she says: Let your dad give you something in death that he couldn't or wouldn't in life.

And I know then that it has nothing to do with money.  Indeed what I stand to inherit will just about pay for a Starbuck's coffee.

So I want to thank British bureaucracy and record keeping because it wasn't long before I discovered exactly what happened to my dad and where he ended up.  He wasn't homeless thankfully, but he did die of 'lifestyle' related health issues.  He ended his days in a care home in North East London suffering from dementia.  That explains the sudden loss of contact with his family is Spain.

Was I sad?  Yes, I burst out crying when faced with the facts in black and white.  It reinforced the importance of good parenting and I am determined that my daughter gets hers this side of both of her parents lives.  I also realised that I cannot change who I am simply by renaming myself - there is nothing really in a name, my identity rests solely and firmly on this:  I am my mother's daughter and I'm delighted about that.

The Real Spirit of Christmas

Countdown to Christmas has well and truly begun.  Anyone who knows me understands that I absolutely love this time of year – in fact to me Christmas Eve is the most romantic night in the calendar.  It’s an odd label to give this night, I know.  For many lucky people, it’s more about family and reflection; gratitude and peace.  And indeed, it is about all those things for me too, regardless of how unconventional the definition, given my reality of those terms, might be.  

However, there is something about the twinkling lights, the candle lit churches, the close cold nights and in the case of this beautiful year, the snow! that make it a perfect time for enjoying relationships – platonic as well as traditional.  In fact, I’d go as far as to say that I find Christmas time so romantic, I could be persuaded to re-marry should the right man come along and propose under the soft hue of fairy lights!  But I deviate…into the land of fantasy. 

It’s also the only time of year I attend church – even though I was brought up as Catholic as they come – European strength Christian, in fact.  So much so, I’m convinced I’d find Spanish crusade in my family tree if I cared to look.  I don’t...care to look - I mean imagine finding out that I have Spanish Inquisitors somewhere in the bloodline.  In any event I’ve long abandoned the irreconcilable, restrictive and intolerant nature of Dogma but I do still buy into the sentiment of love conquering all. 

This year is no different.  I can’t wait for the annual carol and crib service at the local church followed by (one must balance the virtuous with the ‘naughty but nice’) the customary tipple at the local wine bar with some dear friends and The Lish.  This has become a ‘Night Before Christmas’ tradition for her too not least because of the forbidden nature of being out at what she feels is late night (it’s usually all over by 7:30pm).

We then stroll back in a ‘Wizard of Oz’ hold…you know the one where Dorothy and the Scarecrow interlock arms to “follow the yellow brick road’ with me (the scarecrow by this point) in the warm embrace of mulled wine and Lishy in the grip of an electrifying excitement and all the while looking to the skies for a sign of Santa.

Then begins the whole business of subterfuge.  We peel and chop a couple of carrots for the reindeer…with me asking, do we really need to peel them?  These are wild animals after all??? But no, I must peel them.  Then the biscuits and milk for Santa.   Lately I’ve been asking if we can’t just leave him a whisky but no, Lishy points out that it’s for a reason drinking and driving is illegal.  OK then.

Finally, we sit and I enjoy the last few gorgeous and random moments of conditional juvenile obsequiousness before Lishy goes to bed, satisfied that she has done enough (albeit just in that last half hour) to have earned what she knows will be a hill of gifts the following morning.

The night has only really begun then for most parents of younger children.  If they’ve been organised, the presents will already be wrapped.  I only made the mistake once in my lifetime as a parent of leaving the wrapping until Christmas Eve.  These days all I have to do is wait for the tell tale sign of evenly spaced breaths coming from the nipper's bedroom to start the last bit of Yuletide rigmarole.

If untangling the fairy lights for the tree was cause for self-harm, getting the ladder out of the airing cupboard from behind the ironing board, under the vacuum cleaner and through mop handles that come alive like those in Disney's Fantasia, makes me remember why I support Euthanasia.  Only then can I begin to tackle the obstacle course of transporting gifts from their various hiding places.

Cussing at every snag and stub, I am driven by the pellucid knowledge that this is likely my very last year of pantomime.  I suspect Lishy herself knows it's not Santa making all that fucking racket but she is complicit for the sake of guaranteeing the bloated annual delivery of presents.  

That done, I reserve the last laugh for myself of course in the form of an 18 year old single malt by the light of the tree.  This, my friends, ends up being the real spirit of Christmas! ha ha Thank you, come again!!!

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DreamWeave

What's happening?

We’ve all had lucid dreams so I know you will relate.  I am compelled to commit this one to paper, so to speak because it was so incredibly powerful.  Now, I’ve had dreams that turned into premonitions, I’ve had dreams that were visits from lost loved ones  – I think we all have – and those in themselves are truly astounding experiences.  We have all also had those nonsensical ones that leave us over-tired and with a bad taste.  This one was different.

I woke with a start at what I imagine was around 5AM this morning, I couldn’t say for sure since I was too affected to even bother checking.  I remember the dream clearly.  I was visiting the city where a woman lived who in the dream plays my mother.  It certainly didn’t look or feel like her, but I knew this was who she was.  I was at an old, old family friend’s house; a girl I grew up with who was like a sister in that we fought like cats and dogs and we also shared baths as very young children.  I would always opt for the bubble-filled end of the tub while she preferred clear water.  I haven’t seen her in over 11 years. 

I remember her mother being in the dream too, playing herself – this one was not a stand-in like whoever was playing my mum.  She basically told me to go see my mum (for goodness sakes!) and funnily enough this was very much the character I remember growing up – quite a prickly woman but deep down had and has the most generous heart but most people either love or hate her and even those that love her can only take her in small doses.  We called her the Battle-Axe and I’m indebted to her for many things but mostly because she gave my mum a beautiful final resting place.

View from the cemetery where my dear mama rests in peace

I found the fact that I was being told to visit my mum odd because I had the most amazing relationship with her in life – now gone 24 years.  So even within this dream, while I was playing a role, I was also stepping out of that role to have those asides.  Nevertheless, I took this advice in the dream and even though it was very late and not really the safest time to go wandering the streets, I did leave my friend’s house to go see my mum.  I thought I’d surprise her and perhaps even climb into bed with her like I used to do as a child.  Again, it’s odd because in the dream it would suggest that I had somehow become estranged and hadn’t seen her in years.

In any event I make it to my mum’s flat.  It’s dark and I need to use the toilet and it’s while I am on the loo that another woman, butch but fit enters the bathroom to tell me basically I’m not supposed to be there.  I see my mum in the background who guessing I’d come to stay the night timidly informs me that she is sorry but she doesn’t have any spare towels.  I imagine this is her way of saying I can’t stay.  I get a feeling that in the time we’ve been estranged my mother has become gay and the butch but fit lady is her partner.

Mum was often told she looked like Gina Lollobrigida - there was a likeness. 

I do as I'm asked and leave, and it is at this time that I wake up with a start and feel the hot, plump tears of genuine sadness ooze down my face.  My whole face is wet with them and I cannot immediately stop.  I sit up and look around my empty - but for a slumbering cat – room where all I feel is an incredible melancholy.  I realise I still miss my mum so very much even though I’ve now been without her longer than I had her and I’m sure there are many out there who can relate.

What it also did was give me pause for thought that I must never allow a rift of that sort with my own daughter (fast asleep in the next room and unaware of my sorrow).  Apart from the fact that it would break my heart, I really don’t fancy the idea of lesbianism and I mean no offence by it, but it’s just not for me, I hope you understand.

I can relate some of that stuff to things in life – the spare towel is something I always put out for guests as a sort of welcome mat I now realise – even though they feel, I was told once, like 80 grade sandpaper (must get some new ones). 

I did also have a pint of K cider that evening.  7 pc proof – enough to provoke a nightmare nevermind a lucid dream.  I’m not sure why old family friends and the feeling of a rift, other than well, there is a rift between me and them at the moment that I’m not inclined to really make the first move around.  First world problem.  I may live to regret it but so far I’ve been fine with that decision.  Sometimes you have to take a stand when you feel strongly enough about it and I’ll leave it at that for the time being.

I made sure I gave The Lish the longest hug I could get away with later that same morning before she trotted off to school.

Oh and if I ever say I don't have any spare towels when you come round to mine, I guess you better make sure you know what time the last train is running.

Your guess is as good as mine...

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