The meeting

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It was noon when they took their seats around the table, each of them grim-faced like the condemned.

Phil was hungry. Kate was tired. James was nursing a hangover of such epic proportions that he was in no mood to entertain the amorous advances of Shelley, who was meant to be taking minutes but had instead kicked off her shoes and begun to run an exploratory toe up his lower leg.

Danny and Lisa were late, prompting a collective protest which manifested itself in the less than conspicuous form of simultaneous paper shuffling.

Bob was standing in for Rob, despite the fact it had been Rob who set the meeting up in the first place.

“So,” said Phil, struggling to hide his lack of enthusiasm, “where shall we start?”

“Is there an agenda?” Lisa ventured.

“Shelley?” said Danny.

Oblivious to the fact she was now the sole focus of the meeting, Shelley continued her futile doe-eyed pursuit of James, who delivered a well-timed kick under the table. She emitted a yelp and turned back to the assembly, flushing bright red as she clumsily thumbed through the stack of papers in front of her and began to hand them out.

“Much obliged, Shelley,” said Danny, though his tone suggested he was anything but.

Phil’s stomach rumbled. Kate yawned. James, who was getting paler by the minute, took a hearty gulp of his Red Bull and shot Shelley a warning stare across the table, prompting her to look dolefully down at her notepad.

“Look,” said Lisa, making a deliberate show of checking the time on her Blackberry, “I don’t want to speak out of turn here, but if this was meant to be Rob’s meeting and Rob’s not actually here, is there any point in us having the meeting? Shouldn’t we just postpone it until he can come?”

Bob shifted in his seat. “But…” he stammered, “Rob sent me in his place.”

“With all due respect, Bob,” Phil chipped in, “you haven’t been working on this project at all. I’m unclear on how exactly you can chair this meeting when you know nothing whatsoever about it.”

A wave of redness swept across Bob’s bald patch. He hitched his wire-framed glasses up onto the bridge of his nose. “Actually,” he floundered, “I do know about the project,” though his expression said otherwise.

“Name the two key stakeholders then,” said Lisa.

“What?” Bob’s eyes widened.

“The two key stakeholders,” Lisa repeated, narrowing her green eyes like a cat, “name them.” Bob looked panicked. “See?” said Lisa, “not a clue.” She folded her arms and sat back in her chair. “I rest my case.”

“I’d hazard a guess that Bob here knows less about this project than the new temp on reception,” Phil said, rolling his eyes.

“Should I be putting all this in the minutes?” Shelley piped up.

“Come on everyone,” said Danny, “it’s not Bob’s fault that Rob couldn’t make the meeting now is it?”

Lisa and Phil grudgingly agreed.

“Umm,” mumbled James, I’m not feeling all that good…”

“So,” Danny continued, “where have we got to? Shall we just do a quick round up of where everyone’s at with this and just…”

James coughed and raised a hand. “Um, I’m sorry but I’m really not feeling well…”

“James, for God’s sake,” Lisa said, waving his complaint away. “We’re trying to make progress here.”

“Tricky as that’s proving to be,” added Phil.

“Indeed,” said Lisa.

James threw up on the floor.

“Meeting adjourned,” said Danny, adding with a glare in Shelley’s direction, “and don’t put that in the minutes.”

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Thinking about meetings brought to mind the initial meetings we had at Raleigh in January 2011. Who would have thought the boy in the middle would become the love of my life? 🙂

I saw you

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I saw you today, as I do most days. I was sitting on the pavement watching my icy exhalation as it licked the air like a tongue when you careered straight past me, with barely seconds to spare before your train pulled into the platform. You always seem so flustered, as if the dawning of a new day has caught you completely unawares. Your cheeks betray the exertion of your rush to get ready, your skin shimmers with perspiration. You never seem at peace. Are you – ever?

I saw you today. I was standing near the entrance of the supermarket trying to get warm when you brushed past me. Your gym bag was slung over one shoulder, a sign that you like keeping fit (or at least that you try to). Your practical boots stated that comfort, not glamour, was your priority, as they often do on a work day. Not so at weekends, it would seem – once I bummed a cigarette from you on the high street after a night out with your friends when you were dressed to kill in a mini dress and heels that looked like skyscrapers. Do you remember?

I saw you today. I was begging for money (which I hate to do) but I was starving, what could I do? You were on the phone. Sometimes when you walk past I catch snippets of telephone conversations about bills, arguments with your boyfriend, work worries. Today you were bemoaning your lack of holiday allowance. Do you ever stop to think how lucky you are?

I saw you today. I was slumped down by the bins, drawing my last breath as you ran out of your cosy flat and climbed into a waiting car. You looked happy, for once, and as my own life ebbed away I was glad. You have a pretty face when you’re not frowning. Do you know that?

I saw you. But you didn’t see me.

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On the theme of looking but not seeing, I remembered this photo taken on the Mekong River whilst travelling in Cambodia. It was just after sunrise and the man was off to sell his wares to tourists like myself. It made me realise how lucky I was to lead such an easy and privileged life.

Friends like these

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Today I’ve been trying to remember the world before social media took hold. This shouldn’t have been difficult, considering I pre-date it. And yet it was. I actually struggled to remember how people – myself included – expressed themselves (read also: showed off) to their peers and wider social groups. I’m certain we did use online networks (hazy memories come to mind of painstaking waits for screeching modems to connect, woefully basic Internet chat rooms and a now long-redundant profile on Bebo, the amateur precursor to Facebook), but I can’t honestly remember more than that.

Further rumination on this subject has me wondering if we actually cared as much in the ‘old world’ about what people thought of us and how we were perceived. Or was it, in fact, the dawn of the social media age that was responsible for turning a whole generation (and most likely all subsequent generations) into shallow, self-obsessed egotists who would rather spend their leisure time posting photos to make their friends jealous than actually enjoy whatever it is they’re doing?

I think the reality is that people – children, adolescents and adults alike – have always and will always have an inherent desire to be liked and to feel part of social groups. Before Twitter and Facebook were invented we flirted with rudimentary forms of social networking to extend our reach into such groups. Before those existed we made do with making friends in ‘real life’ situations. Our need to be accepted and popular was just as great, but we just had smaller social circles.

Now that social networks have become stratospheric in their popularity we have grown greedy for more. It’s a natural progression, but a dangerous one. Having hundreds of ‘friends’ on a social networking site can make you feel popular, but if you can count the number who would be there for you no matter what on less than one hand it speaks volumes about the meaning of those ‘friendships,’ and how much homage we should really pay them.

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Thinking about friendship groups and the importance of being accepted reminded me of this group photo from a holiday last year in Windermere. We had such a fantastic time and all got on so well – it’s times like those you realise the importance of having REAL friends who are always there, through the good times and the bad.

The winning streak

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Jasper stood on the edge of the muddy playing field. The other boys had streaked off ahead, their red shirts scattering like wildfire across the pitch. He couldn’t hope to catch up, and even if he could they wouldn’t want him to.

It had always been like this. From his very first day at Thorpe Elementary School for Boys, Jasper had stood out as being different. In truth he could see why. The other boys were slim and lean, whereas he was blubbery as a whale. He did try to eat less, to look more normal, but his mum would dish up a second helping and reassure him he was ‘just big boned,’ and his dad would tell him ‘real men’ didn’t ‘eat like sparrows.’

It was starting to rain now, little spots which Jasper first mistook for midges tapping at his skin, but which soon became fat splodges that splashed onto his forehead and plopped down onto his cheeks. He trudged over to the kit bag, pulled out the shin pads and began the painstaking process of attaching them to his chubby legs. He was half way through when he heard a shout.

“Wait!” It was Mister Johnston, the PE teacher. “Not today Barnes, I’m putting you up front.”

Jasper’s mouth fell open and he dropped the shin pad he was holding in his hand onto the soggy ground.

“Williams can go in goal today,” Mister Johnston continued, unperturbed.

A ripple of dissent ran through the boys on the pitch.

“But Sir,” Brian Williams went to protest, but Mister Johnston held his hand up in a way that told him this was not up for negotiation. He pointed to the goal, and Brian scowled as he took his allotted place.

Jasper removed the shin pad from his left leg, his mind racing. This was unusual. He always played goalkeeper. It was just the natural order of things – put the fat kid in the goal, he can’t run far or fast enough to be a striker. He’d always just accepted it. Why was he being given this chance?

As he passed Mister Johnston the teacher gave him a conspiratorial wink.

Half an hour later the game was drawing to a close. Jasper, who had tried to grasp the opportunity that had presented itself with both hands, had been thwarted by his lack of stamina and inexperience in any position other than the one to which he was accustomed. He stood at the side of the pitch, bent double and wheezing. He was cold and dirty. Mud clung to his legs with the kind of hope he’d clung to as he’d started out thirty minutes previously. But all was lost.

Suddenly, the ball was coming towards him at speed. Jasper looked around him. He was by far the nearest person to it. He looked towards the goal at the far end of the pitch and did a calculation. If he started running now he might just make it.

So he ran, as if his life depended on it. He ran until he had gone past all the other boys and all that stood between him and the goal was Phil Bardsley, the opposing team’s keeper. Phil’s silver braces flashed in warning as Jasper pulled his leg back and delivered an almighty kick to the ball. But there was nothing that could stop the ball in its trajectory to the back of the net.

And from this moment onwards, Jasper had the strangest feeling that there would be nothing stopping him.

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I wasn’t sure what image to upload with this post, as I’ve already posted a picture of my triathlon last year, which was my greatest sporting achievement to date (I still can’t believe the chubby six year old I used to be grew up to be a triathlete!) But when I thought about my other greatest sporting achievements to date I decided learning to SCUBA dive last year had to be right up there. It was the most amazing experience diving with the turtles, and something I long to do more of in the future.

Two simple words

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This weekend I’ve spent a lot of quality time with family and good friends, something I realise I haven’t done nearly enough of in recent months. It’s so easy to get complacent about the people closest to you. They’re not going anywhere, after all. But it’s precisely because they’re not going anywhere – because they love you unconditionally, because they’ll never let you down – that you should make an effort to keep them at the centre of your life. They’re the people who understand you better than anyone else, the ones you feel most comfortable being your true self with. They’re the ones who can provide a listening ear and shoulder to cry on one minute and make you laugh like a drain the next. In short, you need them to be you – why wouldn’t you cherish them?

I’ve also spent time this weekend reconnecting with friends – both in person and by email – who I made on my various travels over the past few years. I find these types of friendship so interesting, because you don’t share a history but you do create an unbreakable bond as you make new memories together. People who meet whilst travelling the world alone already have something in common – they’re searching for meaning in their lives, hoping for an adventure, maybe even trying to escape from a negative situation in the ‘real’ world that they’ve left behind. Whilst these kinds of friendships are very different to the friendships that have stood the test of time and turbulence, they are no less important. They teach you just as much about yourself – if not more – and should be valued and nurtured accordingly.

Then there are the friends you don’t even know that well, or who you’ve long since fallen out of regular contact with, who contact you out of the blue to wish you well and offer words of support and encouragement at just the right time. Several such friends have done just that for me in the past week. Their kind words really picked me up when I was plagued with self-doubt about my writing, and they’ve given me the strength to carry on.

Thinking about peoples’ tendency to be complacent towards their friends has, in turn, made me think about the simple act of saying thank you – not just when a stranger holds a door open for you or gives their seat up for you on the train, but to the people you know and love. To be a good friend, parent or sibling takes a degree of selflessness, you must be prepared to put your own ego aside and put that person before yourself. So when someone does that for us, shouldn’t it follow that we show our gratitude in some way?

In light of the above I’d like to do a little roll call to acknowledge all the people who have supported me and made me smile in the past week – family and friends both old and new:

Thank you Mum and David, Rory, Hayley Norrish, Anna Bullock, Amy Roberton, Gabrielle Liddle, Jen Chardon, Alex Sayer, Kaye Dolan, George, Caroline and Milo Watson, Mouse Bunch, Sian Brace, Lucy Caslon, @benjaminmurdoch, @cripesonfriday, @adeteal, @beyond_nadia, @SirHeppe, @matthewpaulgray, @BinaryDad, @dogtaniontastic, @teenybella – you’re all absolutely ACE 🙂

And a general thank you to all the friends and family who I haven’t mentioned above who have – at various times and in various places – put up with me, helped me find hope in hopeless situations, and generally just been there. You know who you are xxxx 

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I can’t think of a better picture to go with this post than this, of me and my best friend at my mum and stepfather’s wedding. We were six years old and completely different (me a girly girl, my best friend a tomboy – hence the colour of our dresses!) but we were – and still are – inseparable. True friendship that stands the test of time doesn’t require you to be the same – it requires you to appreciate your differences, and be there for one another through thick and thin. I’m so fortunate to have wonderful friends who have done just that for me.

Past Post: Back to the fuschia

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This is the first chapter of one of my NaNoWriMo novels which I unearthed this morning and was surprisingly fond of.

CHAPTER ONE

It was four o’clock on a quiet Friday afternoon when Maggie burst into the shop, a mass of untamed frizzy hair and multi-hued chunky knitwear propelled by her characteristic unbridled enthusiasm. She dumped the load of wicker baskets she was carrying onto the floor and turned back to close the door with a flourish.

Evie was so lost in the display she was working on – a beautiful amalgamation of lilies, chrysanthemums and peonies that had been ordered for a christening – she didn’t even register the tinkling of the cowbell on the front door. Biting her lip with concentration, she tucked the last peony into the moist block of oasis with the same careful softness of a woman tucking her child into bed. A snort alerted her to her eccentric friend’s presence, and she looked up.

“Jesus Evie,” said Maggie with a smirk, “that’s one hell of a scary face you make when you’re lost in the land of hearts and flowers. If you do that when you’re out on the pull it’s no wonder you’re still single.”

“Thanks a lot!” Evie grabbed a length of twine from the counter and leaned over to take a swipe at her friend.

“You’re welcome,” Maggie said, her plump red lips stretching across her freckled face into a deliberately grotesque grin. She surveyed the display in front of her and nodded. “Very nice indeed. You know, I really think you’ve got a knack for flower arranging. I might just have to hang onto you.”

“Grab that, will you?” Evie said, ignoring the compliment and gesturing to an empty box on the floor. Maggie brought it over to the counter and in amiable silence they together transferred the flower display into it.

As Evie busied herself with curling lengths of baby pink ribbon, Maggie rolled up the sleeves on what Evie affectionately referred to as her multi-coloured dream coat and pulled over a three-legged stool from the far corner of the shop. She sat down and leaned conspiratorially towards her friend.

“So,” she began, and Evie rolled her eyes. “What? I haven’t even said anything yet!”

“You don’t need to, Mags. I can tell by the look on your face I’m not going to like whatever it is you do have to say.”

“Well bollocks to you then!” Maggie leaned back and folded her arms across her chest in mock irritation.

“Okay, okay,” said Evie, holding up her hands in acquiescence. “Hit me with it.”

“We’re going out. Tonight. You and me. In town.”

“What about Dependable Danny?”

“Dependable Danny’s seeing his ex this weekend.”

Evie put down her ribbon “And we’re okay with this because..?”

Maggie laughed. “We don’t call him Dependable Danny for nothing, remember? There’s as much chance of that man fooling around with another woman as there is of the Pope renouncing Catholicism. And besides, it’s their kid’s birthday. They’re taking him to Thorpe Park.” She paused. “Evie, are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Evie said with a weary sigh. “It’s just – well, you know.”

Maggie slapped her hand to her forehead and groaned. “God, Evie, I’m sorry. That was such a flippant comment. You know, sometimes I really do think I should have my mouth stapled up. It might solve a lot of the world’s problems. Not poverty and war, granted, but it might just eradicate foot in mouth disease.”

Evie laughed. “Don’t worry Mags. It’s fine.”

Maggie took her friend’s hand and kissed it. “But are you?”

“Of course.” With her free hand she tugged at her hair elastic and her mass of curly dark hair cascaded Venus-like down her back. She ran her fingers through it, teasing out the knots that always seemed to form during a day in the shop, no matter how many products she treated it with.

“You haven’t…you know..?”

Evie looked at her blankly. “Haven’t what?”

“You know…heard from Rob?”

Now it was Evie’s turn to snort. “Why would I have heard from him?” She shrugged. “There’s nothing left to say.”

“I can certainly think of a few choice words I’d like to say to the lying little tosser,” Maggie said with conviction.

Evie pulled her hand free and stood up. “I know you can Mags, and so can I. But what’s the point? What’s done is done. There’s really no point in dwelling on it. The best way to get revenge is to show him I’ve moved on. There’s nothing big or clever about entering into slanging matches with an ex. It’s a waste of time and energy.” She stopped. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

The thoughtful expression on Maggie’s impish face gave way to a warm smile. “Because I’m proud of you. You’ve come so far since that shit-bag did the dirty on you.”

“Yeah, well, we’re six months down the line now.”

“That’s not the point. You could have fallen apart. Plenty of women do when that happens to them. But you didn’t. You stayed strong.”

“So you wouldn’t call quitting a high powered job in the city to work in your friend’s florist shop a falling apart of sorts?”

“Not at all, you’ve just reassessed your priorities. Taken some much needed time out from what was a ridiculously hectic lifestyle. Jesus, Evie, I barely even saw you for the best part of four years. Your family barely even saw you. Hell, much as I hate to bring him up, your husband barely even saw you.”

“Which might go some way towards explaining his more recent behaviour, some might say.”

“Well they’d be wrong, because there’s no excuse for doing to another human being what he did to you. None whatsoever. You have got to stop beating yourself up over this Evie. I mean-” She stopped mid-sentence to pick up the phone, which was trilling in its cradle. “Back to the Fuschia, good afternoon? Ah, Mrs Braithwaite, yes, I’m glad you called. We’ve had some problems sourcing the African violets-yes, yes, I am aware they’re an integral part of your daughter’s wedding but you see the particular genus you requested is actually very rare-endangered even-and whilst we could certainly get hold of a quantity of the regular variety-”

Maggie threw her hands in the air and pulled a face at Evie, who winced in sympathy and made a t-shape with her hand. Maggie nodded and continued, her voice sounding more strained with every second.

“Yes, I quite understand how important it is to get every detail right…yes, I appreciate you could take your business elsewhere, but I’m quite sure you’ll find that other florists will say the same thing. It’s simply not possible to source enough African violets to fill a ballroom Mrs Braithwaite, certainly not at this time of year, anyway. Right, yes, I understand. Goodbye, Mrs Braithwaite.”

“That sounded painful,” Evie said moments later as she emerged from the back room, tray in hand. She set it down and began pouring the tea.

“That bloody woman has been the bane of my life for the past two sodding months,” Maggie said, fumbling underneath the table and triumphantly pulling out a packet of half eaten chocolate digestives. She offered one to Evie, who shook her head, then shoved a whole one in her mouth and chewed it furiously. “Well,” she continued, crumbs spilling onto her top, “she can stick her daughter’s posh wedding up her trumped up arse for all I care. I hope it’s a total bloody disaster and no florist in the land is able to get her African bloody violets.”

“Who’d have thought the life of a florist could be so stressful?” Evie said with a smile. “Come on Mags, forget about it. Tell me what your grand master plan is for tonight instead.”

“We-ell,” said Mags, taking a big gulp of tea, “we’re going to a school disco.”

Evie stared at her for a moment. “A school disco?”

“And not just any school disco, either. The school disco. You know, the one they do in Hammersmith.”

“Still not sure I’m following you here Mags. You and me going to a school disco? I’m staring down the barrel of thirty and you’ve already climbed into the barrel and been shot out the other side. Why on earth would we want to surround ourselves with nubile young girls and pre-pubescent boys – most of whom are young enough to be our children, I might add, and all of whom are far more attractive than ourselves,”

“Hey, speak for yourself!” said Maggie, waving a tea-soaked digestive in the air in protest.

“And,” Evie continued, ignoring her friend’s objection, “whose sole intention it is to drink so much vodka and red bull they lose consciousness and end up spending the night with a stomach pump for company rather than someone of the opposite sex.”

“I had a feeling I’d face stiff opposition on this.”

“Well then I’m happy to confirm that your instincts, if not your mind, are still fully intact.”

“Which is why I took the liberty of not only booking tickets to aforementioned disco but also sourcing our outfits prior to inviting you. Oh – and I’ve also taken the liberty of enlisting a certain someone to help convince you.” The cowbell rang out from behind Evie and she jumped. “Ah, perfect timing Senor.”

“Darleengs,” said a high-pitched male voice.

Evie turned around and regarded Alfonso, the flamboyant gay owner of the unoriginally titled Alfonso’s Deli on Bromley High Street. He claimed to be in his thirties, but Evie had long suspected this to be about as true as his claim to have been a famous dancer in his native Spain during his twenties (some months previously Maggie had discovered in an internet search that he had, in fact, been part of a travelling circus troupe, which, whilst no less impressive, had cemented their appraisal of him as a fantasist). Today he was wearing shiny black trousers with a black ruffled shirt, and his (dyed) jet black hair was swept across his face, Marilyn Manson style. His stack-heeled shoes belied his diminutive size – without them he barely reached Evie’s shoulders, and she was only five foot six.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Evie said, greeting Alfonso with a hug.

“Of course not darleeng,” he said, “and to prove it look here, I have our outfeets.” He held up two dry cleaning bags and thrust them into Evie’s arms.

“So this is what my life’s come to,” she said, stifling a giggle. “Married, divorced, and now going to a school disco at the age of 29 with a mad old florist and a queer from the local delicatessen.”

“I take exception to the word ‘old’ in that sentence,” Maggie said, pulling the freshly laundered school uniforms out of their cellophane covers and holding a skirt up to her waist for size.

“And I take exception to the word ‘local’,” said Alfonso, pulling a pair of grey flannel shorts on over his trousers, “Alfonso’s Delicatessen is an eenternational operation.”

Evie laughed as Maggie and Alfonso strutted up and down the shop in their respective apparel. “You both look thoroughly ridiculous.”

“Come on,” Maggie said, throwing a second skirt to Evie, “live a little. You never know, you might like it.”

Evie walked to the door, flipped the sign to CLOSED and turned back to her friends. “Wine,” she said, “there must be plenty of wine. That is my only prerequisite.”

“I think we can do better than that darleeng,” Alfonso said, producing a bottle of champagne from his cavernous man-bag. “Tonight we will drink like Keengs!”

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This is one of the many pictures I took at Singapore Zoo last year in their flower garden – doesn’t really need more explanation than that!

Mary

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The snow fell in fat flakes onto the ground, obscuring all that lay beneath. A dog nosed in the undergrowth near a mound of earth cloaked in white, digging up wet leaves with its paws, trampling what little grass had managed to poke through the thick covering above. The dog sniffed, its nostrils flaring as it seemed to catch a scent of something that excited it, but a distant whistle from its owner bid it come, so it turned on its heel and ran off.

Mary had never been fond of dogs, but as she watched it leave she felt a pang of sadness. It was so bitterly cold even the thought of sharing body heat with an animal was an appealing prospect. A flash of red caught her attention. She squinted through the falling snow and saw a tiny figure in the distance, weaving its unsteady way across the vast expanse of field between them.

It took Mary several moments to realise the figure was a small child, and by that time it was almost upon her. She grimaced. Her dislike of dogs was on a par with her dislike of children, and in her current situation she was not disposed to tolerance.

As the figure drew near Mary saw it was a little girl, not more than three years old, four at most. Her red duffel coat had a fur-lined hood and matching red mittens that hung from her sleeves on lengths of elastic. They bounced up and down as she ran, dancing in the air as if marionettes on a stage. Her blue plastic wellington boots, too big for her small frame, made her progress ungainly.

Breathless, the girl stopped. Up close Mary could see she had a cherubic face, with rosy cheeks, pink bow lips and porcelain skin. A lock of curly blond hair had escaped from her hood and was dangling in front of her nose, which twitched in irritation. She blew it away with a concerted snort and looked at Mary. “Hello,” she said, unblinking.

“Hello,” Mary replied. “What are you doing out here all by yourself?”

The girl shrugged. “I ran away.”

“From who?”

“My mummy.”

“And why would you do a silly thing like that?” Mary scolded the girl. “She’s probably very worried about you.”

The girl frowned as she considered the implication of her older companion’s words. “But she was horrible to me,” she said at length, her jaw set in defiance.

Mary sighed and patted the bench. The little girl obligingly climbed up beside her. “I’m sure she didn’t mean to be horrible. Sometimes people say things that they don’t mean in the heat of the moment.” A memory came to her then; a heated exchange, doors slamming, raised voices. She felt a lump form in her throat but carried on. “I’m sure your mummy loves you very much.”

“She doesn’t,” said the girl, folding her arms across her chest. “I’m not going back.”

“Oh?” said Mary, raising an eyebrow. “And what will you do instead, exactly?”

The girl shrugged. “I don’t know. Find a new family, probably.” She chewed on one of her mittens.

“Do you think new families are easy to find?” Another pang, another memory of issues unresolved, words spoken that could never now be taken back.

The girl shrugged again.

“Well I can tell you from my own experience that they’re not.”

The girl looked up at Mary. “Did you run away?” she asked, her brown eyes searching.

“Yes, in a sense, I suppose I did.”

“What happened?”

Mary took a deep breath. Was she really about to tell a child what she had never been able to tell an adult?

“I had an argument with someone very close to me, a long, long time ago. We never spoke again. I think it was the biggest mistake I ever made, but it’s too late to go back and change it.”

“Why too late?” The little girl shivered and nestled into Mary’s side. Without thinking she wrapped a protective arm around her, catching herself in surprise.

“Because that person – my mother – died.”

The girl’s eyes widened. “How?”

“In a terrible accident, the day after our argument. So you see, you really must go back and find your mother. You don’t want to have the same regrets as me do you?” The girl shook her head, her face solemn.

The sound of frantic cries sliced through the air like a knife, distant at first, then louder, more insistent. Mary turned to see a woman running towards them. “Alicia!” she screamed upon seeing her daughter, and flung herself down onto her knees in front of the bench to scoop her into a tight embrace. “Where have you been? I’ve been looking everywhere.” She examined her daughter’s face, smothered her in kisses. “You must be freezing.”

“I’m not freezing, mummy,” Alicia said. “The nice lady was keeping me warm.”

Alicia’s mother looked around. “What lady?”

The girl turned and pointed to the bench beside her. A look of incomprehension crossed her face. “She was just here…” Her little voice trailed off.

The woman’s laugh was pure relief. “Of course she was darling.” She kissed her daughter on the top of her head and stood up. “Come on darling, let’s go home.”

“But…” Alicia stared into the space where the old lady had been, her mouth open. She cast her eyes about her one last time before turning to leave.

Mary watched them walk away. She looked down at the white-topped mound before her and wondered how long it would be before someone found her body, lifeless beneath the snow, exactly as she had fallen. Her life for so long had been solitary, it seemed ironic that in death she had, for the briefest of moments, found companionship.  It was time to go.

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I can think of no better image to accompany this post than the title image of this blog. The day before this picture was taken was a complete white out, and my boyfriend and I scuba dived in the lagoon though we could barely see two feet in front of us. When we returned the following day in gorgeous sunshine we were gobsmacked by the scale and beauty of the place. it was so calm and serene, so utterly and unequivocally beautiful.

Swami

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Dawn breaks over the Agastya mountain range in southern Kerala. As the sun begins its lazy ascent from the horizon, a Chestnut-headed Bee Eater swoops across a lake, its surface so flat that the bird’s bright plumage is reflected back in glorious and unbroken technicolour. Rising from the lake are vapour trails, the ghost of night evaporating into the air and making way for day. The air is still, with no discernible sound besides the whooshing of the bird as it dips and dives down to the surface of the water. All is calm.

Beside the lake sits a man. Clothed in robes of orange, his legs are crossed, the thumb and forefingers of each hand touching one another. His eyes are closed. He looks to be in quiet contemplation, yet he is transcendent; half in this world, half in the next. No earthly troubles phase him, no thoughts chatter incessantly inside his head. He is a master of the art of the still mind, having experienced the peace that comes with being fully in the present in a way that few can comprehend. He sees in, on, above, beneath and through all things.

He is a swami, a man of great religious faith, a Hindu god-in-waiting. He sought enlightenment, and found it. He is at peace.

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This is the late Swami Vishnudevananda, one of the two swamis who were revered at the ashram where I stayed for two weeks of last year. He was my favourite because of his big smile and open demeanour, and because of this image with the caption: One has to ask oneself, what do I really want from life? That is the fundamental question. Indeed it is Swami.

Counting blessings

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Following on from my last post about challenges, I’ve bitten the bullet and signed up for a sixteen mile (twenty five kilometre) run in just over nine weeks’ time. Having just done my first official ‘training run’ (6.5 kilometres on the treadmill-have you FELT the air temperature outside today? I’m not running in that!) I’m already having doubts that my body is up to the job. Just sitting down on the train home nearly caused total muscle paralysis, and I’m fairly sure I’ve torn something crucial in my left toe region. In short, so far it’s not looking good, but I’m determined not to fall at the first hurdle. This was only my second run in about five weeks so it’s hardly surprising my body’s taken great exception to being forced into long distance running without so much as a warning.

Speaking of events that have no warning, this morning brought the sad news that a helicopter had crashed into a crane near Vauxhall station, killing the pilot and one person on the ground. Twitter was awash with conspiracy theories postulating it was the English 9/11, but it seems quite clear it was a tragic accident and nothing more. Whatever the cause, it got me thinking about how suddenly life can change, how in an instant everything you knew has been turned on its head. The poor man who was killed on the ground was probably on his way to work, following the same well-trodden path he followed every other day. Only on this day he didn’t come home.

I suppose what I’m trying to say is that today’s incident has made me think a lot about the importance of counting our blessings, of realising so many of the things we preoccupy ourselves with in life are, in reality, the least important things of all. What really matters is our families, friends and partners, the people we surround ourselves with who love us unconditionally, without whom we wouldn’t be the people that we are. Life is such a precious commodity, and yet it can be snuffed out in a second. If there’s one thing we can take from tragedies like today, surely it’s that we should make the most of every minute we are blessed to be alive?

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Thought this photo was particularly appropriate for this post, given that it’s of an offering to a Hindu god in a Bali homestead where I spent several happy days towards the end of my travels last year 🙂

The Wait

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On the stroke of midnight she is waiting for him beneath the clock, where they shared their first kiss. She totters in her heels on cobbled ground, feeling the effects of the hastily downed wine to steady her nerves. In the middle distance the sound of sirens rings out. A group of boys walk past, their expressions glassy. One makes a lewd gesture and she turns away, rolling her eyes. They leave a trail of marijuana vapour in their wake.

She glances at her watch, five past. No need to worry, at least not yet. Her skin bristles with the cold. She shivers and pulls her leather jacket tighter. The seconds tick by in stereo, her own watch echoing the steady beat of the clock over her head. She fishes in her bag and pulls out a battered packet of cigarettes, freeing one to place between her carefully painted lips. A dishevelled stranger offers her a light and she leans into the flame, feeling its heat against her forehead. The stranger walks on.

She drags deeply on the cigarette and exhales, the smoke rising into the crisp night air, signalling her presence. Her legs are blocks of ice, exposed to the elements. She tugs at her skirt in a vain attempt to cover them, and in doing so breaks a nail. She curses, flicks the cigarette onto the cobbles and stubs it out with her heel.

Ten past twelve. The seed of doubt that has implanted itself in her mind begins to flourish and grow. She slides her makeup compact from her pocket, clicks it open and observes her face in what little street light is available. Her skin is sallow and lined, her eyes are sunken. No amount of makeup can disguise her age, especially not this gauche red lipstick. What had she been thinking?

Quarter past twelve. He is not coming. She should have known despite his fancy clothes and charming manner he’d be just like the rest. She should have known he’d never see anything in a washed up divorcee like her. Fairy tales only happen to the young. He was too good to be true. He is not coming.

She sighs and turns away from the clock. Each tick and tock drive daggers into her heart.

Something – a noise? She can’t be sure – makes her stop. Her heart rate quickens.

She turns.

He is there.

It begins to snow.

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I came across this beautiful old girl at Singapore Zoo towards the end of my travels last year, and she stopped me in my tracks. It makes me sad to think her kind will probably not exist a few years from now.