Letitia Cropley lives on …

In the spirit of Letitia Cropley one of the eccentrics in the village of Dibley, I set to baking a loaf of bread this morning without buttermilk. Buttermilk is a commodity that’s nigh impossible to source on the Piccadilly line. A few days ago I attempted to manufacture buttermilk myself by adding vinegar to the milk. Alex thought the end result was not great as the taste of the vinegar was felt in the bread.
So today’s effort saw me adding much less vinegar and including a dash of balsamic vinegar in the mix. I then mixed flour, bicarbonate of soda, baking powder, salt, honey, an egg, mixed spice and nutmeg and baked for forty minutes. We waited with baited breath for the loaf to cool down to taste. Alex loved it.

The cost of Love

Alex and me were just getting out of the car after our Friday night curry, when Anni, smart and sassy appeared next to us in the orange glow of the street lights, fizzing with excitement about the Forum she had spent the day at. She was carried away with her own enthusiasm and clearly needed to talk to someone about her wonderful experience. It’s hard enough to concentrate at times, I find. But even harder as the wind is biting into to you, when you have the dogs on your mind and you are just looking forward to going to bed. Anni was not to be diverted and when Alex invited her in for a coffee I thought well at least two of my three issues will be resolved.

I brought in some coffee having calmed the dogs. Anni was in full flow in our front room and we were compelled to listen. The story unraveled bit by bit. What we were dealing with was a broken heart, a woman let down, someone looking for answers. Anni runs the coffee outlet and little shop at our local train station and in the course of her work she meets lots of city types on their way to work. They open up to her and tell her about problems they are having with their wives, their bosses, their mothers, their children. Anni is a sociable gregarious type, a real people person and she takes an interest in all the people she meets and can greet them by name every morning and get their coffee just the way they like it.

That was how she met Andrew two years ago. They got talking over coffee and slowly got to know each other and one coffee led to dinner and eventually breakfast, I presume. But Anni felt that there was a lot she didn’t know about Andrew. He had two phones and she was NEVER allowed to call one of them. Often, when she called, his phone was switched off and she might not hear from him for a day or two. Anni and Andrew seldom went out for dinner. Never to a concert nor a walk in the park at the weekends. In fact the only times she would see him was late at night with about 30 minutes notice. She would get a call and he would ask if he could come over and bring a bottle of wine and she would say yes. Because she loved him. He touched her heart like no other.

Anni is a bright, worldly, articulate woman who has been left disconsolate. She has just paid out £350 to spend three days with 149 other people in a hotel function room near Euston station to listen to a motivational speaker. Can this speaker tell her what kind of person Andrew is? Can he help her understand that sometimes in life, we are foolish. Sometimes we end up with really unsuitable people. We are driven perhaps by desire, mistaking it for love. We are at a point in our lives … and then, wham, someone unavailable like Andrew appears. This adds to the urgency and to the intensity, high emotion. And the frailty of the human is that we sometimes want the unattainable. My wise friend, Suman says – People think the grass is greener on the other side. When what they should be doing, is watering the grass on their own side. Kernels of wisdom come from experience and learning from that experience.

Anni will be all right. She will wake up one day and eventually realize that who she fell for would have been a disaster. Andrew, like so many, is a selfish man who would never put her first. She deserves to be put first. The other person who will be all right is that motivational speaker at the Forum. He stands to make £52,500 for 3 days work. Hmmm. Troubled people are big business!

Remembrance Sunday

We left the Piccadilly Line to visit Pobol Y Cwm. It was Alex’s grandmother’s birthday at the weekend. Mam, as she is called in the family was born one year after Armistice Day – on 11th November 1919 making her 92 years young. The weekend was a chance for Mam to draw on her childhood memories of South Wales. She was one of eight girls and two boys. The girls were Gwyneth, Lillian, Marion, Olwen, Tegweth, Gwynira Mavis & Linda and the boys were Sidney and Stanley.

Mam grew up before the Welfare State came into being and large families such as hers had to rely on their wits and the community. She remembers the harshness of the General Strike in 1926 and vows that she would rather die than vote Tory because they put a stop to the Coal Board’s habit of dropping off coal to mining families. That winter children were left cold with no fire in the hearth. Her father, and one of her brothers went up to the Patches – places where the coal was near the surface - and they hacked at these and got coal out from the earth and delivered it to the impoverished families.

There was another poignant story of her much loved father. He was David John Williams, born on 17th October 1884. One of their neighbours was a young woman whose husband was killed in the Great War which finished one year before Mam was born. Her father wrote a poem about the heroes of the war who made the ultimate sacrifice. He brought the poem round to all the houses in the village and sold it. The money raised, he gave to this young woman and her baby son, who also paid a part in the sacrifice of war. I read the poem and thought it a highly fitting account of loss on this Remembrance Weekend.

We got Married!

Alex and me did it. We got married. It was the happiest day of my life. From start to finish, and I wish we could live through it all again. We made our vows in front of our nearest and dearest and went off to lunch and were both praised and roasted by the fine and witty speeches from our Best Women and Master of Ceremonies. Everyone there made us feel really special. If only every day could be like that…

Later in the evening, after a sing song on the bus, we cut the cake and danced jigs and reels til it was time to call it a day. We were delighted that Pobol Y Cwm were there as well as dear friends from the old country. There were even some from the Village, all holed up near the Piccadilly Line.

Weddings are all different and I guess people get the wedding that they plan for and want and certainly ours could not have been any better. We have loads of memories from the day to treasure.

Do not underestimate the determination of a quiet man

Thus spoke a former leader of the Conservatives, Ian Duncan Smith (IDS) who was widely derided in this role. Yet, he is now the Secretary of State for Work and Pensions and depending on your view he is working to redress the burden on the state and the tax payer and objectively, by some critics, is considered to be doing a good job. Across the water in the Emerald Isle there is another quiet man who like IDS spent years as leader of the opposition. Enda Kenny bided his time and unlike IDS clung on to the leadership role despite being derided near and far and wide. A skit on You Tube of his seeming audition on the X factor with clips of Simon Cowell interpersed with a performance of Enda at the podium is a case in point.

But Enda sat quietly on the opposition benches and to be honest, that was about all he had to do to ensure that his party wiped the floor with a Government in free fall in the last election in Ireland. Since then, this quiet man hosted the Queen of England and the President of America to the small country in the space of a week. He sought and got concessions on the EU handout to Ireland. But this week he surpassed himself with his pronunciation on the institution of the Vatican. Nice one, Enda.

The Social Network

Watching TV last night on our huge screen attached to cinema surround sound I said to Alex – I’ve seen this Come Dine With Me. At least three times, I added. This led me to moan about the fact that with that Sky record thingy all we seem to watch is Come Dine With Me. What’s going on? Are we crucifying ourselves by watching people cook and eat meals which sometimes look mouth watering but which we both know we should be avoiding. After all, our nuptials are looming in the Fall. Why don’t we ever watch a movie I asked and our eyes drifted to the shelf full of unwatched DVDs and Blue Ray discs. You see neither of us is supremely confident about hitting the right buttons on the three remote devices needed for our home entertainment system. How about The Social Network I suggested. If you can get the thing to work, fine, Alex replied.

So we unwrapped the disc and I inserted in the drawer and lo and behold – cinema surround sound or what! We wondered what our 70 year old neighbour made of the thumping deep bass sound. We had the sound, but no picture. After much fiddling on the three aforementioned devices we eventually had success. And we sat back to watch the movie.

It was indeed very good if it did take some time to adjust to the fast pace of the dialogue and the plot. But it turned out to be a very well told story of an autistic genius who, ironies of ironies, created FACEBOOK as forum for social interaction.; he who was so poor at this. It also contained the story of friendship and ultimate betrayal which is a sad one. In real life, objectively, the creator has achieved enormous success but we do not know how connected he really is. It brings to mind a recent edition of the Women’s Hour where the topic of adult children who emigrate was being discussed. One wistful mother declared that Skype was all very well but you can’t hug it.

Reading of the Banns

Well, ok, it wasn’t quite that but Alex and me did go to register our intent at the town hall this morning. Tom, the registrar could not have been nicer. He told us all about his gay sister and then there was his uncle – the only gay in a small village in Lincolnshire. I couldn’t help thinking how unfortunate the poor man was. What could be worse than being gay and having no-one to play with no matter how protective and understanding the village.

After a few words of explanation of the procedure, Tom asked Alex to leave the room while I was interviewed alone. OMG. I racked my brains to try and think what her favourite colour is this week. I quickly decided to opt for green if asked, but dithered whether it was red. I was asked details about myself such as my name and date of birth. I resisted the urge to indicate that as he had my passport in his possession he could check for himself. I answered his questions without hesitation. My mother’s name, my father’s name. Alex’s full name. Her date of birth and so on. But the question of her favourite colour was not an issue. He then printed a page and I had to check it very carefully for accuracy and sign it.

Then it was my turn to leave the room and Alex went in for her interrogation. How nerve racking. One wrong answer and our whole plans are in disarray. I waited anxiously in the ante room considering the plasterwork. Eventually Tom came in for me and I was back at his desk beside Alex and it was smiles all round. As soon as we handed over the £67 in used bank notes the job was done. He then referred to Alex as my fiancé, so we are now officially engaged.

We went on for a celebratory lunch in the sun to mark our new status and while waiting for the salads to arrive I asked Alex what her favourite colour was. I was right. It is green.

Moral purpose of work

A crystal ball was passed around in the pub at last night’s leaving do for a colleague. We all asked it a question, shook the ball and awaited our fate. The answers were abysmally negative ranging from “Probably”,to “You are Kidding” to “Absolutely not”. In these uncertain times I inferred that the question posed by many at the table was “Will I have a job this time next year?”. As ever it’s all in the way that the question is phrased and a matter of how the answer is interpreted. Posing the question “Will I be fired?” leads to a different conclusion. Nonetheless there were some fleetingly glum faces last night as the group looked with a hint of envy at our departing friend who was jumping ship to pastures new. It’s a great feeling when you leave a job to move on to another feeling wanted and valued.

Alex is in a dilemma about her job. While her school is growing and going from strength to strength she is having doubts about the future direction of the school. Can business rules be applied in something as fundamental as education? Is the business case superseding the education function? Can a business model still provide a good education? Alex is using the benefit of two nights in the West Country at a college friend’s wedding to have space to think about this weighty matter. Change is challenging and the Tory philosophy is forcing these shifts in thinking. Although they have only been in government a little over a year they have taken the New Labour philosophy of “citizen look after yourself”, because the state does not have any responsibility for you. The principle of cradle to grave benevolence has been eroded as a response to inefficiency and personal irresponsibility.

It could be said that I have been unfortunate to have been born at the wrong time. A mere five years earlier and my pension would be secure and the conditions clear. As it stands, my expectations have been seriously eroded. Now I will have to work longer for less anticipated income. That is, if I can find a job. On the other hand, if I had been born five years earlier the likelihood of my chance meeting with Alex which led to our generally happy home life would have been non existent. A phrase at work that’s doing the rounds is, “We are where we are” and it’s a good one. It’s a waste of time to ponder the “might have beens,” or “we should never have started from here” and the “What ifs”. We can learn a lot from our dog Blue. She wakes up every day in good spirits with her bunty little tail wagging a furiously. As Blue and I drive to work she gets really excited as we near the office and can’t wait to jump out of the car, run to the office door and bound up the stairs.

Indecision is a tortured place and like our departing colleague last night, once the decision is made the world becomes a clearer place. I hope Alex comes home from the West Country with a clearer head.

Back in the saddle!

You haven't done a blog in ages Alex whinged earlier this evening. Well, dear reader, the reason is twofold. One, there's been nothing in particular to blog about and two, life has just been too busy. TOO BUSY. Well there was (in no particular order):

• Auction
• Painting the fireplace in the garden room
• Painting the feature wall in the garden room
• Painting the fireplace in the morning room
• Ordering blinds
• Installing blinds
• Visiting Pobol y Cwm
• Month's memorial mass in Ireland
• Getting drunk in Camden with old friend from the Village
• Painting the front door
• Painting the front door surround
• BF's visit
• Joining the gym
• Dinner in Marge's
• Dinner in Jack's
• King's Speech (Good)
• Black Swan (Not)
• Waning interest in the gym
• Story telling workshop
• Tuning the ukulele
• Tuning the new blue guitar
• Becoming the Singing Detective

Ouch. I can feel that as a candlestick is thrown at me from Alex. Well it's true. Alex has done most of the house things above as the project is moving towards it's final phase. It's hard now to remember the hell we went through to get to this state of comfort and good taste.
BF seemed impressed and gave the house her fullest consideration. She took her time in each room, drinking it all in. She decided that the so-called garden room was her favourite.

There's more to blog about. How mortality, which forever was on the long finger, is now creeping closer. There's been word from two good friends in the old country, both bracing themselves for bereavement - one close friend and one sister near the end.
There's been a change of government in Ireland (Yippee) and in these early days it seems a quick win might be possible in negotiating a lower interest rate on the EU bailout.
There is a party to organise. Alex and me agreed the date but we need to let our intended guests know.
Then there is the case of high profile gay fathers. First Elton did it, then Rufus. And what a gene pool Rufus's off spring has. His parents were Loudain Wainwright and Kate McGarrigle. The mother of his child is only Leonard Cohen's daughter. No pressure then, Viva Katherine.

Good to be back in blogland and apologies, Alex that you have been withdrawal symptoms.

Salad Days

We went to see Salad Days in the Riverside Studios on Sunday. What a delightful warm confection of a show that was silly at times, slapstick, witty, funny and could make you laugh and cry, all in the one scene. The production was faultless - the choreography, the props, the singing and the acting. The cast were superb and really got close to the audience and the entire performance never flagged. It's running until 6th Feb. If you want to brighten up the New Year - then this is the show to go to.

Happy anniversary

It was our anniversary on Saturday and Alex asked me where I was going to take her. After some searching I came up with a plan and suggested that in a neat little corner in our end of London, we go to see the King’s Speech and follow this with a nice meal. We could round of the evening at an Irish session and a pint of Guinness. Is it your anniversary or ours Alex asked with raised eyebrows (she’s not that fond of sitting in darkened theatres watching a film in the company of strangers, you see). But she rallied and said it sounded good.
But on checking the address of the pub where the session was Alex discovered that the session finished its run the previous Saturday. Undeterred, we decided to go to a different corner of London to catch the movie and before long we were strolling down Upper Street, window shopping and eyeing the plethora of restaurants for later.

We bumped into my old friend, George and heard about his efforts to pin down who is actually responsible for restoring the clock tower at Highbury. It was so good to see him and be informed by him on a wide range of subjects. The time slipped by unnoticed as daylight gave way to darkness in his company. We missed the 4.20 showing of the film down at the Angel and it was a race against time in the queue for seat for the 5.20. By the time we got to the desk it was already on 8 minutes and the seats were gone anyway. The 6.20 was sold out as was the 7.20. Enough.

We elected to go the market pub in Camden Passage to plan the rest of our anniversary. We discussed cuisine and we both leant towards European as we watched the stall holders pack up. French or Italian Alex asked. I don’t mind. Then we discussed the status of Turkey. Is it European or Asian we debated stroking our chins. I know if George was with us the matter would have been cleared up in a flash. But by that stage he was tucked up at home penning an article for his local community news vis a vis the state of play regarding the clock tower. So we agreed to head to the The Mercury and as backup we would try Gallipoli At this stage backups were becoming essential. So we wrapped up and headed off into the chilly night in search of food. On our way to the Mercury we came upon a little Italian up a side street, took a chance and we got a table. Easy peasy.

It was a lovely anniversary. It was in fact the first one we celebrated in our six years together. It’s worthwhile taking the time out to mark these occasions.

Adieu to the Village

Occasional pauses from the treadmill of professional life such as Christmas holidays can result in life changes. Alex and I spent last Christmas cogitating about moving from her cottage and we ended up starting our house hunt last January. This resulted in the House Project which consumed us so much through 2010. This Christmas holiday gave us the opportunity to draw our breath and we agreed that any major decisions would be put on ice until our next Winter break.



The only decision firmly taken was by our dear Floridian friends – Cheri and Bobby who flew over to spend the holiday with their family in the Village. That decision was that we simply must visit them at Easter to help them celebrate 20 years of togetherness. This seems entirely noble to us and plans were drawn up.



Skype discussions in advance of their trip to the Village this Christmas made Cheri and Bobby realise that we were not going to have a Christmas tree in the Village house. But they came prepared and brought our very own interpretation of Christmas a la Florida in the form of our breasted, sunglassed all singing, all dancing Floridian palm tree.

We raked over the memories of our Christmas visit with them two years ago and worked on some new ones this trip. Such as kick starting the Irish economy. Night after night during the break we have been inclined to get into our PJs as early as possible and curl up in front of the fire. But we all agreed that such activity would not help the country get back on the road to recovery. So with that in mind we ventured out to the pub one night and hooked up with a few other like minded women friends. For a few brief moments early in the evening there was a slender gay majority in the Village pub. So we wondered if that makes it a gay friendly pub now, officially if unwittingly.



Keen to consolidate the bon vivieur we all agreed to go to the curry house in Town the next night. I laughed over dinner at Bernie’s account of the gay friendly coffee shop in her town. It would have been enough if it had been friendly, never mind being gay, she explained.

Otherwise the break has been taken up with walking Blue, meeting friends and intermittent skype reports from BF in Florida. The surprise hit this season has been the Angry Birds app on the i-phone. Alex in those in between moments has succeeded already making her way up through 20 levels or more. I enjoyed two things on the TV. One was Upstairs Downstairs and the other was Bas an Oilean about the evacuation of Inis Airc in 1960. A friend dropped by for lunch one of the days and informed us that the chat up line of the Christmas was – How was the water with you over the Christmas?

The only fly in the ointment over the Christmas break is that Alex’s dear grandmother continues to be fragile. It resulted in her doctor recommending her going to her local cottage hospital. We shall return to the Piccadilly Line via Alex’s Welsh village and check on how she’s doing. I spent the odd hour with the lively Helen in the Village. We have pored over photos of her family while she enlightened me about the Village of her youth. The i-phone has cone into its own in the hours I have spent with her as we sang along to the Percy French songs on the i-phone. We entreated Paddy Reilly to come home and felt homesick for the Mountains of Mourne. As we wrapped up the sing-song Helen asked if I had the Irish Emigrant on my i-phone. I did not … but I have it now. Downloaded in a flash for 99p. A small price to pay to make an older lady happy.



So the last day in the Village came upon us all of a sudden. We are resigned to going back to the Piccadilly Line. But as always, the worst thing about this is thinking about it. Once there, life tends to assume its welcome routine of familiarity. We cannot go on existing on Caitlin’s mince pies, or Cheri’s mum’s scones, the Thornton chocolates, the sausage sandwiches for breakfast. New Year – new opportunities. Bring it on…

Let the holidays begin ...

We spent the actual Christmas with Alex's folks and it was a quiet one with all the family present. Alex's grandmother did not make it to the table, however. She is 91 and has had a few set backs since the night of the election count last May when she fell down the stairs and escaped largely unhurt but clearly shaken. Since then, she has endured a minor stroke which has frozen her left arm. Then, another fall resulted in a fracture in her right arm. But she is still managing to smile and here's hoping that she is not in too much discomfort as she sleeps in her chair each night.
Before leaving the Piccadilly Line for the trip back to the Village it was amazing to see on the BBC weather, that it was 18 below in the Village over several nights - colder than Moscow in fact. We loaded up the car on Monday morning promising to call in on Pobol Y Cwm on our way back to the Piccadilly Line and headed for the ferry at Pembroke.

As I was walking Blue around the port before the crossing I got a call from BF in Florida. I stood in the gale force wind and torrential rain while I listened. She and husband had escaped in a three hour window of snow ploughed runway from Dublin airport a few days earlier and were reunited with their three daughters - one from NZ, another from Vancouver and the baby from Germany. They had been for a swim on Christmas day and were heading down to the Key West on the morrow. I heard all this as trickles of water ran down the back of my neck and I eyed the hulk of a ferry through my rain splattered specs. It's bound to be a rough crossing I was thinking and I was right.
In County Wexford, near the town of New Ross we checked in to a pet friendly hotel. Dogs are allowed in the room but not in the bar. So Alex and Blue stayed in the room while I adjourned to the bar with the Irish Independent where I enjoyed a lip smackingly good pint of Guinness and ordered some food for us.
The next morning, a little more than four hours after breakfast, we pulled up at the house in the Village. I was unpacking upstairs when the doorbell rang. It was Jeremy and Bojangles. They have sold their house and will be back in England before the end of January. Hurrah. I dare say Hilary will be over the moon. Bless.
We are happy to be here, far from the Piccadilly Line. There's food in the fridge, wine in the cellar, books on the shelf, broadband to surf, DVDs to enjoy, a TV in the corner, fuel for the fire and friends nearby. The winter break has well and truly begun.

Oat Bran and the Weather

Marge and I got drunk one night, years ago, with the Proclaimers as we walked 500 miles around the houses in the bar of a hotel on the banks of the Foyle. The great thing about Marge is that she had no idea who they were or anything about their music. But she loved the talk of politics and the unions and when Marge is in full flow it's hard to get a word in edgeways. I met my dear friend, Marge, last night in Fitzrovia. In the pub, to be precise, where Dylan Thomas and George Orwell enjoyed a pint in days of yore. Not sure how they would have enjoyed last night, packed as it was with well heeled, well wrapped up 20 and 30 somethings. Anyway, enough of them. Marge was looking well, so well in fact, that I passed her by without recognising her. She has lost one and a half stone since October. Oat bran is the answer and weight loss is not its only benefit; apparently. It's good for reducing both cholesterol and fluid retention So I am now trying to source this miracle food . . . but why oh why do the main supermarkets not stock it? I am taking it as a sign not to rush into these things and hold off on diets and eating plans until the New Year.

Marge is also an expert on the weather she reminded me, as she relished the organic wheat beer in the tavern. Marge explained in great detail, what the source of this cold weather is. It’s to do with the airplanes, you see. In the summer. And something to do with the displacement of the Gulf Stream. I am not sure if this is linked with the Volcanic Ash or not.

I have noticed with Marge that her knowledge expands in direct relation to the number of pints consumed. I have also noticed that my ability to digest knowledge reduces in direct proportion to the number of pints consumed... but if George and Dylan had been around last night they would have hung on to her every word as the Proclaimers once did, back home in Derry.

Corrie at 50

The woman on the radio was well excited. Corrie is unmissable this week, she declared breathlessly. So with that in mind I suggested to Alex last night that she interrupt her viewing of Come Dine With Me and switch over to real TV. So we watched. Tyrone bought a bottle of whiskey in the local shop from the blubbery Asian who was fooling around with the dippy one from Dinnerladies. Sally was worried about Tyrone and suggested she would pop around. Kevin’s face clinched stiffly and said no. Meanwhile Sally served dinner to her pretentious elder daughter (apples fall from trees) and her younger lesbian daughter who now seems to be living at home with her lover – while both of them are still at school. Rita meanwhile, at 70+, weaved home tipsy from her vodka and tonic in the pub – good on you, Rita, while the bride to be sat glum at the bar amid the raucous singing at her hen night in the Rovers. Ken, looked dashing in his open necked shirt at the stag night in the new night club and kept glancing anxiously at Nick while smiling nervously at his son Peter, the groom and former bigamist.

An ex-con railed around the street looking for a lost little blond boy and called her ex-con husband to help in the search. Meanwhile Molly, who moved into the street some time ago from Emmerdale, delivered Tyrone the killer blow that he was not baby Jack’s father. Oh my God. In one of the houses on the street, Fiz’s slimy husband ended up killing the deluded Glenn Close like character. Then there was chaos. I think there was an explosion in the nightclub and the pub emptied of women who ran running towards the club screaming about their men folk. It all happened so fast. The posse from the pub was led by dearest Deirdre with her big glasses and orange face. “Oh my god, Ken, do something,” she rasped in her smoky baritone voice. Just as Ken was about to save the day a passing train collapsed from the bridge, like they do. More screams and chaos. The camera, which was in the right place at the right time, caught the horror of the scene in Ken’s face. What on earth would Uncle Albert make of all of this he was probably thinking.

The title to the show read four funerals and a wedding. The woman on the radio was so right. Another typical night on the street it was not. I wonder will Google do a special on the day Corrie reaches 50.

The Party is well and truly over

Ireland has ended up with egg on its face. The responsibilities for it, it is said, are collective. As the Celtic Tiger slithered off to its natural home in the East, the hangovers set in and the revellers turned roundly on each other. Everyone blamed the developers, the banks, the government and the teachers. The public sector and the private sector were barely speaking to each other as they compared pension pots, conditions of service and what have you. The banks were at fault for dodgy practices. And Mary Harney still did not sort out the Health Service. Bertie and Bernie of course were at the helm, steering the whole caboosh into a stormy sea. Now it seems the state is becalmed. Ireland is forced to accept a handout and all the agony that goes with that. I was going to say that no-one died. But sadly, some did. Despair took some to the ultimate brink. Surely, there’s nowhere to go now but up again. Surely, this time, as situations improve people’s memories will encourage more use of the brake mechanism. It’s time for the Irish to reclaim their sense of humour and take pleasure in the things that mattered before. The talent, the music, the art and the poetry that was lost at the drunken party. Periods such as these can produce great creativity as people look to their inner resources to sustain them. It’s a great opportunity to bring back the sense of community that gave Ireland its soul. Perhaps history will look back on the Bertie and Bernie show as the lost years. Ireland will bounce back, we always do.

Act of rememberance

I woke up yesterday to the news that Claire Rayner had passed away. Yesterday was also the second anniversary of my mother’s passing and I was feeling the loss of her. I listened to Clarie’s son Jay, on the Today programme saying that his mother fought her illness right up to the end. Illness is hard to witness at close hand and the irony is that Claire and my mother, who had each dedicated their professional lives to improving the health provision of others, albeit in different ways, ended up as patients themselves. They had much in common. While Claire had national prominence, my mother had a local notoriety in her rural community as they both strived to improve both the quality and longevity of patients’ lives.

Alex and I sat in our front room in candlelight last night recalling my mother’s last few hours two years ago. We flicked through photos on the i-phone remembering her fighting spirit as she lay attached to oxygen and drips in her hospital bed. We talked and waited for the moment of her passing at 9.15pm. I felt lighter when the moment passed.

Afternoon Tea

Alex and I had spent Sunday morning painting and decorating after spending all day Saturday at it as well. The Leonard Cohen words from the Tower of Song, accurately summarised how I felt, "I ache in the places I used to play". Alex and me visited a Builders Depot and paid for some flooring to be picked up by our darling builder. Darling, my foot. But after weeks of stand-offish behaviour on both our parts, we decided it was in our best interests to sweeten him up so that he gets on and finishes the job.

In the midst of all this grout, paint brushes, white spirit and putty Jack rang about afternoon tea in his new apartment and to meet his beau, Nils. So rarely does one receive an invitation to the above than no sooner had we received we accepted it with an alacrity that could have been viewed by some as vulgar. On arrival we were taken on a guided tour. The late 30s block had several rooms and while none of them were too big, the picture rails and fireplace gave it a sense of period. We were impressed with his £2000 sofa specially ordered and imported directly from Italy. His dining table was imported from Vietnam, but not directly by him, you understand. I believe a certain John Lewis brokered the deal.

And so the afternoon tea. The Vietnamese table positively creaked with goodies. There were three varieties of sandwiches on offer. Beef, egg mayonnaise and ham was the choice, with not a cucumber in sight. Next there was a series of cakes. Fresh cream sponge, as light as the proverbial feather, then a walnut topped fruit cake, Scandanavian cinnamon buns, fresh cream eclairs, custard pies and Belgian chocolate biscuits.

Without doubt, the highlight of the afternoon was meeting Nils, who has put the spring into Jack's step along with the twinkle in his eye. He was absolutely lovely. Nils was warm and chuckled easily and we got the feeling that this was it for the two of them. They slipped into the "we" as if they had spent a lifetime together. It's wonderful to see Jack so happy. The conversation meandered to matters Swedish with ABBA coming up in the conversation. Jack mentioned a lesser known song of theirs, "The day before you came", which I think, he thought, summed up their coming together. What a romantic old soul.

Falling in Love the other side of 50

Jack is one of my longstanding friends and he and I both moved from the old country to London around the same time way back in the late 80s. And while I was happy to live in Zone 2, Jack wanted to be near all the action and moved to Zone 1 and remained resolutely there. The advantage for me in this, was that Jack was a mine of information on the best bars and eateries within the central zone. In fact, Jack introduced me to many a fine place in WC1, SW1 and nearby postcodes. Without him, the Blues Bar, Ramen, Swallow Street, the Dutch Bar, The French House, St Christopher's Place, Marylebone High Street, Charlotte Street, Lamb Conduit Street to name but a few, would have remained untried and undiscovered by myself. In the 25 years or so, that we have been larking around the Piccadilly Line, Jack has had three partners of significance as well as countless nights of love with temporary and transitory figures but none led to lasting commitment. In fact, he resigned himself to an uncommitted existence and declared that he cherished his freedom, just like a tom cat.

Back in May, Jack invited me to try a new Thai place he had discovered in Covent Garden. He told me that evening over dinner about the flat he had just bought out in Zone 3. It’s on the ground floor, he declared, thinking of the future. The French windows open out onto a communal garden and the block is small and well tended. It’s time I moved to a less frenetic zone and lifestyle he sighed, a touch wistfully, I thought. As we parted that night I wished him well in his new place and hoped that the move would go smoothly for him.

Jack rang me two weeks after that Thai dinner. How is the new place I asked him. It’s fine, he brushed me aside quite quickly. He then informed me breathlessly, I have met someone. Four little words, I have met someone. You know when you hear those words that someone, is much more, than just anyone. Someone, is absolutely significant. Someone, is life changing. Well, take my breath away. Resigned Jack, that I had dinner with a few weeks earlier had gone, and hello to excited, life-loving Jack, down the phone line. The transformation was simply executed. The very day that Jack’s flat purchase was completed he was having a quiet drink in his local gay bar, when in walked Nils: they have barely been apart since.

Last night was the first time I could prise Jack away from Nils and we met up in town for some Tapas and Rioja. I am glad to report that Jack’s as in love three months on as he was at the outset. The tom cat has been tamed and is purring with delight. It just goes to show, that when you least expect it, love can walk in the door and take you completely by surprise. What’s more, being the other side of 50 is no barrier either. On the home front, Jack has scarcely spent a night in his new flat in Zone 3. Nils, as it happens, has a great place. And, yes it is in Zone 1. So, here’s to Jack and Nils. Be happy, you two. Purrr...

Imagine

Home is an elusive concept at the moment. When we got back to the Piccadilly Line from the Village just over a week ago our new house was like a building site with a film of dust everywhere and in a completely uninhabitable state. Now, just over a week later we have one bedroom painted (rather tastefully) and the hope of the bathroom and toilet being finished and fully functional in the next day or two. When that happens we’ll be in a position to sleep there. We can see in friends’ eyes, immense relief that they are not in middle of what we are and thanking their lucky stars that their own house is perfectly fine. I must say, that while I am looking forward to the day when we don’t have to visit such places as Wickes and Homebase, situated as they in dismal enough locations near dual carriageways, cutting through outer urban wastelands, I realise we are more blessed than not. Despite our fleeting hardship it’s rewarding to see the creeping progress as one day gives way to the next. Each evening brings a new wonder – and sometimes horror. We are just holding on to the vision of 3-4 weeks hence and imagining where we’ll be then.