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.

That was the summer that was.

So today, with the dust settled after the departure of one and all, there is no time to relax and little time to reflect. We have spent the day at the washing machine and packing.
The break kicked off with Leonard Cohen

and ended with a game of golf.

In between, we had Orla, Blue’s new BF,

my BF then Alex’s parents and her BF from London.

We braved the elements for a BBQ,

spent a rainy day traversing a lake in search of ancient monuments.
There was the annual dog show at the Village Festival and Hilary and Jeremy entered their Bojangles. And he won. As I congratulated her, Hilary said that Bojangles had not faired so well at the dog show in a neighbouring festival. Clearly a fix, she decided. Of course, I agreed, but did point out to her that had our Blue entered the dog show then her Bojangles would not have won his prize. Miaow. All good banter.

We have an early start in the morning as we drive across the country, sail over the Irish Sea and head down the M6 and back to the Piccadilly Line. Ouch. Back to earth with a bang.

Sorry seems to be the hardest word

Sorry, is, in many respects, a throwaway word, uttered countless times during the course of a day. You accidentally bump into someone, you sympathise with the bereaved, you hurt feelings unintentionally or you merely want to ask a question and utter the word in advance. Today, the word is so necessary. Tony Blair is giving the profits of his much talked of memoirs to injured veterans of Iraq. The reason for his generosity, it has been suggested, is to restore his tarnished reputation. While I do not wish to deny the vets this facility, I am disturbed that Tony Blair remains resolute about his cavalier decision to take the country to war. Restoring his reputation, in my eyes, would best be done by coming out now, or indeed at any time, putting his hands up and telling us he got it wrong about Iraq and that he’s sorry. As long as Tony fails to utter this word, then all the sports centres for wounded soldiers in the world, will do nothing to restore his reputation in my eyes. Sorry, Tony, but that’s the way it is.