To and Fro

Sometimes it is a hum. A quiet, constant droning hum - always there - always, unstoppable. It is a comfort and a hindrance depending on the message it echoes, depending on the unconscious voice being familiar or being that of a stranger. It is I and We all at once, just like the days of childhood spent with siblings, where there was no I but always we, no singular only plural. Sometimes I crave the We of times past when it did not occur to me that there would ever be days of I. The We of siblings is like no other We, love or hate the We. Sibling We is irreplaceable. It is tender and savage. Bitter and sweet. Hard and soft. Full of laughter and tears. Forever changing. My mind thinks mostly in the I now. It shifted with time and tragedy and let downs and disappointments. It gave up. Surrender came begrudgingly at first and then the I began to stand and bellowed for independence until I gave in. I wanted peace and goodwill. I sometimes feels alone even when surrounded by the most exceptional love of the creatures you have found and chosen and the ones you have given life to. I sometimes just wants the closeness that comes from late nights spent in the bed of your kin, talking about what you'll do 'when you grow up', 'where you'll live', 'whose house you'll spend the most time at'. It would be cruel, pessimistic and unfair to say that We lied and told untruths. It would be an even greater lie, if I said that they weren't dissatisfied with the reality of a grown up We. Growing up is a painful, succumbing, prickly affair. It is also full of shades of sunshine, sprinklings of gold dust and the cultivation and gathering of the sweetest memories. It is a mixed bag. Figuring out whether to ask We to leave forever is as hard as choosing only I which quite frankly would just be boring and tedious. What remains is a little of each, a little of everything which means a mix of the bitter and the sweet and everything in between and in constant oscillation. This is the to and fro, the swaying and the swayed, the to-ing and the fro-ing, the to-ing and the fro-ing ...

Unknowingly, I told a lie

God's plans are not my plans, no Sir, no Mam. I learn this more and more over time. Just a few days ago, I wrote a post titled: 'On having a dirty house and why I won't clean up the crumbs, no matter who is visiting.' So there, right there in the title, I lied. And yet, just a few days ago I sincerely meant each and every word I wrote. It's what's so temperamental about me and perhaps you, perhaps all of us? So much is about 'that' very moment, the present, the now. On Friday, I returned home from work to find two brothers (my sons) fighting. It was unclear if fists had been raised or if just words had been thrown like punches but the younger of the two was on the floor sobbing. I immediately set to work, like Columbo, trying to find the trail to solve the crime. I had my most serious 'mum voice' on when I heard the key opening the door and my husband tentatively shouting, 'Hi, I've got Harry with me.' My first thought 'Oh no, not again! The last time we saw Harry, the kids had to be told off!' Then my next thought was, 'But it's Friday!' - the house is at its dirtiest on Friday because I clean at the weekend. So, I swallowed my pride thinking how proud I was and am of the new me that refuses to get bogged down in futile, petty details. Our home is 'homely' I said to myself and continued on with life. Then, later that night, I got a message from my husband just before midnight saying that our friend (who he was out with) had missed his last train home and would be heading back home with him and would be sleeping over. Already tucked up in bed and slowly drifting off, I leapt out of bed and began 'the clean'. I cleaned the bathroom, made a makeshift bed on our not very recently vacuumed sitting room floor, changed pillow cases and found extra blankets and returned to bed, smelling of cleaning products and feeling ever so slightly like a fraud. Well, crumbs are annoying and no one wants to willingly revel in crumbs surely?

One thing that I did learn is this: Friendship and kinship and relationship does genuinely surpass the embarrassment of crumbs. Watching my sons engaging with Harry (a close friend of their fathers) a man full of rich experience, a gifted musician and educator, an actor and teller of great stories. The boys deeply entranced by his knowledge and his sharing of facts, by his charm and their not quite knowing what are truths or half truths, just about able to keep up with his quick wit and cleverness with words. The morning after brought more delight in the form of conversations over teas and coffees, the thirteen year old playing guitar for a seasoned pro and receiving feedback that I can only imagine, will stay with him forever. Later in the day, before lunch, we all piled into the car and drove Harry back home to Leamington. He entertained us the whole journey and even when traffic slowed us, his running commentary on the pedestrian carrying an umbrella and walking just ahead of our car, kept us giggling for a good while and again later on when we spoke of it once more. When we arrived at Harry's home, he nervously invited us in. I was delighted. I am not alone. Others worry about their crumbs too. Harry's home was perfect. Spectacular. Filled with all of the vibrancy and range and brilliance and precision and extrovertedness that is Harry. 'Your flat describes you, without you having to' I told him. It reminded me of one of my favourite books 'Paris Interiors' that featured the homes of many creatives. It the home I dream of for myself when I think of the self without a husband or children. I think I made my husband a little sad when I described this but it isn't meaning to be so. Just that idea of a place to be that inspires and nurtured, surrounded by books and music and plants and photographs and vinyl and candles and more books. A haven. A place to be. It is a wonderful thing to have friends to share with your children. It is a privilege for them to learn from the experience of others, others that are other than their parents too. It was a delight to watch Harry doing what Harry does, with all the flair and nuance and cleverness with just a dash of cheekiness, just like a musician. My youngest wants to play trumpet now, 'just like Harry'. Don't we all. Don't we all. 

A note for a lost friend

I think of you often, in particular when amused at the most of trivial things, things that others muster a half raised eyebrow at, that we would still be laughing at weeks, months and sometimes even years later. I think to send messages to you on most days but something stops me, it's hard to describe what and even harder to describe why. My guess is that I am pestering you, forcing you into a place that feels uncomfortable and not comforting. This idea pains me, the notion that I am causing you more harm than good and so I keep my distance. Of course then a little time passes and I'm back again suggesting meet-ups that never take place and my head spinning like a love forlorn teenager waiting for a call back from their chosen one. 

My heart aches for the grief that you endure, for the losses, all that you have had taken from you, for lost years and your broken dreams. Your strength and ability to remain in full control are both your greatest strength and your greatest weakness. I can't find you. I CAN'T FIND YOU! I cannot even get close. Every door is shut and firmly locked. And of course my heart burned with rage and sadness when you chose (it seemed to me) to let everyone and anyone but me to be along your side, even the folks who you spurned and told me you couldn't stand when I gently tried to help you see reason - to accept all the support that was being offered. Those gentle words I offered took much strength from me over the years, really. I never wanted to assign a cost for my emotional service to you but the months and years since, the time to reflect, the experiences that I have endured myself of loss and sadness, all of this has left me able to say - it's not all about you. There, I said it. I so desperately needed you when I too felt broken. I needed you and you were nowhere.

My love for you remains endless. Forever. I will take your heart and mine to my grave. But you broke my heart. Do you know that? Do you have a note folded in a drawer or in a corner of your mind that has similar words to these? Did I break your heart too? It was always different rules for me, I never got where that came from. Maybe because of my faith, perhaps your expectations were and are higher of me? It is definitely part of the complexity of it all.

So, how do we move forward? I wait. I wait. I wait. Is it too late? Is it ever too late? One thing I have learned since we have grown apart is this - I do not have the energy to be continually sad, now I stray from those who cause me pain. If attempts at resolve leave my mental health in jeopardy then it's simply time to move on, even if my heart muscle is torn irreparably. I leave you with these words from Walt Whitman, 'Happiness, not in another place but this place…not for another hour, but this hour.' My hope is that you find this happiness in every corner that you seek it, in every minute that you seek it. This is my hope for you, dear friend.

Because there's never a good time ...

Because there's never a good time. Because every day I think I'll get time to write, I mean properly write and then when I slip myself between my favourite, creased white sheets, I realise once more, 'I haven't written today, not really written'. Of course, there are the notes and ideas scribbled in pencil on school newsletters and junk mail that sits on top of my fridge forming a kind of paper pyramid art installation, but those words are not transferred from this place to a journal or even here. No. They gather dust and eventually join a new installation. The one on my desk. The desk that I haven't touched in months and months and months. The one that resembles some kind of shrine, the sort of shrine dedicated to someone who has died and their belongings are left, preserved, exactly as they left them. This is me right now. And that's ok. I started a teaching assistant course back in September, and life has been accumulating dust since then as the pace of life gathered momentum and then speed. My role has shifted, changed, morphed. I have dust gathered in the corners of the fitted carpet, particularly in the hallway upstairs. I have a morning schema of looking at the dust ball clusters each morning when I get up and out of bed to take my first pee in the morning. Once I arrive in the bathroom and sit on the toilet, I notice the dirty bathroom mirrors and the stray afro hairs of mine that decorate the light bathroom floor. My Artist self tries to convince my Mrs.Beeton self that there's beauty in the lines and patterns that my dead hair is making, like ripples in water, yeah, beautiful marks in sand. I glance down at my feet as I sit in silence, a few seconds after I've finished peeing. I look at the book mountain that every male in my family has contributed towards making. Comics, art magazines, books, encyclopaedias, fact books and then my contribution, the miscellany of Barack Obama. I wonder if the dust cover of my book is covered in pee since the collection of books are stacked on the floor, dangerously close to the bowel of the toilet and you know, I live with three males. I begin imagining tricks that you see on programmes like CSI and imagine powder and brushes and uv light identifying all the areas in my bathroom that have pee. I think about pee a lot. I realise too as I hear the delicious tap, tap, tap of the keyboard that I've done it. I'm finally here, I've shown up and what am I doing? I'm talking endlessly about pee. But that's ok. 

I'm thinking too about my friend Maggie and how I can't believe that a week has passed since I saw her, how time flies. Last friday, on my way home from the morning school drop off, I decided to pay my friend Maggie (who lives simply a road away) an impromptu visit. The art of 'the drop in' has been lost I fear. There are very, very few people now that I feel free to turn up unannounced on their doorstep. Maggie is one of the few and I love her even more for making me feel crazily spontaneous, when put simply, I am just popping over, dropping round, passing by. I met Maggie a few years back. It was around the time that I decided that I needed to shift the baby weight, the baby weight that was meant to be on a short stay that outstayed its welcome for over five years. Resigned to the fact that this burden was going nowhere, I decided for the first time to join a local slimming group, and this is where I met Marvellous Maggie. We hit it off immediately and sparks flew and then she said 'you have the most wonderful shaped head, I'd love to sculpt it!' Well, being half African that's just about the greatest compliment you can offer and I thought of how proud my Aunty Adelaide would be. So, I think of Maggie, my dear friend Maggie. I call her 'Mad Maggie' and sometimes in my head I give her a full title: 'Mad Maggie Cotton'. She is 79 years old now and was the first female percussionist to play with the City of Birmingham Orchestra. She's a fabulous Yorkshire lass and one of the most fascinating people I have ever met. Last friday, when I called round unannounced, we sat and drank tea and coffee and ate buttered scones next to the fire and put the world to right, just the way you should on a friday morning. We laughed and laughed, about what I can't especially remember but there is always laughter with her and I. I think too of my good head and just how Aunty Adelaide would say these words to me with her lilting voice and Ghanaian accent, 'you have a good head oh'. I ache for her, for her words, for her firm reassuring hand that she would place on my forearm to reassure me. I think of the friday mornings that I spent with her, watching and taking notes as she cooked our traditional food. I thought of this as I prepared jollof rice this week and I took my time as I prepared the food, I took my time, just like she told me I should. And when my family sat down to eat the jollof, we spoke about her and the homeland and celebrated a little and made plans for our return. 

I think about that youngest boy of mine, the one that I can see in the background as I type. The one who is swishing and turning and whacking his light saber around the sitting room. The one who knows he's not allowed to do this but is depending on me being immersed in what I'm doing enough to be able to get his own way. That's ok. I think of earlier in the week, Monday to be specific, when he asked to play on his pogo stick after school. I think of the horrific thud that I heard and the flat indentation on his forehead where it slammed against the concrete slab in the back garden. I think of me shouting minutes before 'stop making holes in the grass with that pogo stick'. I think of the next day, my free day, the day I was meant to be writing a module on how to safeguard children and young people and how instead I had a boy with a bad headache to take care of. I think of how I had to prod him a couple of times in the night and wake him to make sure he wasn't concussed. I think of the pale face of my eldest boy at the scene of the pogo stick injury, his body in more shock than the injured party and I accept there and then, he will not follow his maternal grandparents into the medical profession. Because there's never a good time, during a particularly busy week, we found the time to celebrate the good news of our eldest boy finding out that he had received his first choice of secondary school. We celebrated with curry at our local, served lovely food by people who have been serving us food since our boys were babies. Because there's never a good time, we avoided chores and headed out to Leamington for the day yesterday. We found a parking spot just far enough from the centre to be able to longingly admire the many town houses as we walked in, whilst that youngest boy of ours flung his new light saber around and we added just a pinch of melancholy, by missing the eldest boy and brother who is adventuring away for the week-end with our church youth group. Because there's never a good time to write, yet alone edit and there's definitely never a good time to get back to the drafts in the draft box. And so, warts and all and jumbled and out of sequence words it is today. Because it's always better to do an okay job than not get round to the job at all and today I got here and I wrote words, and they weren't scribbled on scrap paper around the house and then stuck surreptitiously to kitchen cabinets in the hope that in some stolen moment, they will jog my own memory. No. They are here, just where they should be, for now at least. Because sometimes, the greatest gift is time. Time to get round to doing the things that make you happy, time to move the scribbles and the blurry images into their proper place, in spite of the wobbly lines and in spite of the blurs. Because now is always better than later, always.

Overwhelm

I hear it, it is a little voice. One that tells me 'who do you think you are?' One that tells me 'you can't do that!' Sometimes I can walk away from those whispers and at other times they cling to me like cigarette smoke after a long night out. It is a little voice that likes to race me  and always wants to win, telling me ways it can out manoeuvre me. Sometimes it is tricksy and it teasingly, manipulatively convinces me to play. The game of tig begins and I play and give chase, she changes the rules this doppelgänger of mine. She hurts my feelings and I cannot believe I ever fell for her lies. Sometimes she is just mean, downright mean and I find myself collapsing into a heap, a puddle of messy emotions.

The grown up me rationalises that these are simple fluctuating emotions experienced more frequently by types like me. By that I mean, the wearers of not just hearts on their sleeves but the ones that give permission for full blown open heart surgery in full view of the general public. No closed, contained theatres here. 

I found a letter a few days ago, one that I wrote to my Grandma Peppermint (my English grandma) in 1982 when I was seven and living in Ghana. The contents of the letter weren't what held my attention, it was the drawing on the reverse of the letter. The drawing that outlined that at that tender age, I had watched the 1970's classic 'Jaws'. It is one of those happenings from childhood that I have often quizzed my mother about and she nervously laughs and shrugs her shoulders and says things like 'oh I don't know, you lot probably tricked me and watched it without asking'. It was one of those life changing events that I speak of regularly. My own children are aware of the irrational fear that I have of sharks emerging from random water. Just last week as we made our way through the crowds in the dark in a park, returning to the car after a fireworks display, we began walking past a small pond and I tentatively pulled my eldest away from the pond and steered us both onto the path. I believed I had done so in a cool and calm manner and then that eldest boy of mine, with hands in his coat pockets and with the face of someone beyond his years turned to his dad just behind him and said 'she thinks there's a shark in there'. And even in darkness I could see his nonchalance and the curl of his smile. 

I mention this letter and 'Jaws' and the park incident because I realise that the things that worried me when I was little, still worry me now. The inner battles of trying to conquer fear still exist. The doubt that I can do it, whatever 'it' is, is still there. I still hear her teasing, her words and whispers, the ones that start out playful and that build momentum and that sometimes spiral out of control. A couple of days ago, her whispers became piercing screams and I was struggling to quieten her however fast I ran. I was furious with myself for not calmly walking away from her and continuing to walk, walk, walk one step in front of the other away from her, distancing myself with each step. I was furious with myself for falling for her wolf like tricks and for not being the clever piggy one step ahead. I was furious in that way that is such a physical experience that you're not sure that you won't just spontaneously combust, another little fear from childhood, although I conquered that one. 

Then they came. Words from my dear friend Sarah.

You are glorious, repeat after me

'You are glorious, repeat after me'. I took those words and wore them like a cloak, like a super hero. And then something changed. She began to fade from the picture like that scene in 'Back to the Future' when Marty's head disappears. Just like that. Missing.

She's not gone but she is banished once more. She'll still linger like that stale cigarette smell but the windows are open and the fresh air is coming in and there's nothing quite like that fresh, fresh air. I have my mother to thank for that. She taught me that even if it means a few goose bumps on arms, there's nothing quite like a house that's been aired. 

You are glorious, repeat after me.

You are glorious, repeat after me.

You are glorious, repeat after me.

A Girl's Best Friend

'You lived in Africa. Did you live in a mud hut?'

"NO!"

These are the first words that she spoke to me. Our friendship didn't have the greatest of starts and I didn't do much to make her feel more at ease. I think the following sentence she uttered to me was 'what are you doing for father's day?' to which I bluntly replied "my dad's dead!". Yep, awkward! And yet these two eleven year old girls would go on to be the very best of friends. My friend 'Becci' (as she liked to spell it when we were kids) and I really have never had much in common. We're opposites. When she was into pop, I was into rock, when she was ordering her big mac, I was waiting for my fillet-o-fish, when she was out late thinking up tall tales to tell her folks, I was heading home early calling my mother along the way. Like chalk and cheese, always, but always completely drawn to one another. I think of us less as chalk and cheese and more like cheese and chutney, perfect accompaniments.

Our friendship is one of ebbs and flows, there are no fallings out but there are gaps and times when we're out of touch but somehow one of us gets that hankering for the other and gets back in touch again and it feels just like it always has. And then we laugh, really laugh, even at the sad stuff. She is the first person that taught me to laugh at myself. I think I was quite intense at times when I was growing up, I think the 'my dad's dead' comment testifies to that! But what I loved about this petite rocket of a friend of mine was that she just wasn't the type to sit around feeling sorry for herself, she was a do-er, a master planner, a daredevil and I needed that type of person in my life. I really see that now. 

On the occasions where bouncers on doors were racist to me and wouldn't let me into clubs, I would feel incredibly angry and frustrated and she would shrug it off and immediately come up with a new plan of where we were headed to. She never allowed the racism to even be an issue, it was just about us having a good night. At the time, I sometimes felt she wasn't taking the issue seriously enough but it really was the best cure for me, she essentially scooped me up and decided there would be no feeling sorry, there was too much fun to be had. She got me into scrapes I never would have got myself into, like the time she'd driven us into the city centre when she'd only just passed her test. She tried parking in a small space and got stuck and between tears and laughter, she convinced me to find someone off the street to get her out of the space. We were seventeen. 

She is the one who always made me sleep next to the wall where the radiator was, the many times I slept over at her house and as compensation for burning myself she would give me 'kanga's', cuddling up to me like she was the mama kangaroo. That was kinda cute and hilarious about us too since I am and always have been twice the height and width of her! Like I say, opposites! One of her parents favourite images of the two of us, was of my chocolate toes sticking out of the bottom of the bed that we shared and her milk bottle toes sticking out alongside mine. You can insert a soundtrack for us here and it could be 'Ebony and Ivory'.

When we were at secondary school, which is where we met as eleven year olds, she would often walk a short distance and go home for lunch. One day, she hadn't turned up for school and I suspected that she had executed her plan. Her plan being to convince her mother that she had left for school, whereby she would hide nearby, watch for her mother to leave for work and then sneak back into the house. So, on this special day, when lunchtime arrived I decided to go and investigate. Of course, I found her at home because her plan had worked! I was feeling blue since I'd found out that day that Jonathan Coleman, the boy that I liked at the time, would only go out with other christians (I wasn't a christian at the time!) and I was heartbroken. So, we decided that we were both 'unwell'. Being unwell meant raiding the pantry and getting as much junk food as possible and sitting and eating it whilst watching 'Neighbours' which was very popular at the time. What we didn't expect to happen, was to hear the key in the door! Becky immediately came up with a plan, 'lie on the sofa and look ill!' With chocolate around my mouth and food wrappers scattered across the room, it was quite evident we were just bunking off school. I'll never forget the car journey with Becky's mum dropping me back home. We got off lightly, she had threatened to march us back into school! The funny thing is, it was years before Becky's mum realised that it wasn't a one off, that Beck had been working her plan for a while. 

When we were at college and aged sixteen and seventeen, I had double philosophy on a friday afternoon and Becky had a single english lesson followed by free periods. Every week she would nag me to skip philosophy and sometimes she would convince me, because that's what friends do, especially when you're seventeen. Yesterday when we were catching up on the phone after a couple of years of being out of touch, all of these memories and experiences came flooding back. I feel so blessed to have had and to have again, this special relationship. She reminded me of so many events and people and places that I thought were long buried, long forgotten. She reminded me of a me that I couldn't find and one that I am happy to have unearthed once more. Whilst we were on the phone yesterday, out of nowhere, I suddenly heard her say 'hang on Kate, one of the chickens has escaped'! Followed by dramatic commands to said chicken to return. Right then, I pictured her, with her long manicured fingernails and her delicate frame, chasing a chicken with chicken poop on her fabulous shoes and it was just the perfect picture of my best friend. And just in case you didn't know, there's always time to miss double philosophy on a friday afternoon, you might just learn life's greater lesson or at the very least, how to get out of a tight spot!

  

When women gather together

During the christmas break, my neighbour popped round to invite me to a gathering. To be precise, she was inviting me to celebrate 'Nollaig na mBan', which translated means 'Women's Little Christmas'. On the 6th January myself and around fifteen other women came together in celebration. Some people knew each other but many of us were meeting for the first time. Words on our printed invitation given to us by our lovely host, gave us a wonderful incite into the history and sentiment behind our gathering, which pitched the evening beautifully. Here are some of the words:

Nollaig na mBan or Little Women's Christmas is an old custom that's still celebrated by women all over Ireland. It goes back to the days when large families were the norm. Men never lifted a finger in the house to help, and were never expected to.

But each year, after the christmas holiday, tired women finally got a break - for one day, at least. On January 6th (the same day as the Epiphany) men would take over of the housework, offering women a chance to go out to relax with each other.

The words that stayed in my mind both before turning up that night and through the duration of the evening were these, 'offering women a chance to go out and relax with each other'. It was an incredibly special evening, one where you find yourselves looking around the room and sensing that something out of the ordinary is taking place. The exchange of histories, the sharing of family traditions and stories, talking about hobbies and re-finding oneself through re-finding certain activities or events. One of the things that I found really interesting was that on many occasions, conversations came back to what our struggles were, what drew happiness from us and about how comfortable and strong we felt to be joined together for this celebration. Put quite simply, we listened to one another sharing our story, sharing our song. It felt both revealing and vulnerable, comfortable and comforting. One compadre in attendance at the end of the evening shared with us all, how meaningful it felt to be gathered together and how much she realised she had missed that kind of relationship with other women, and how important these relationships are. 

I was personally very moved when different women began to share songs that meant something to them. To sing aloud in a living room with all eyes focused on you whilst you sing words that truly mean something to you is very powerful. I was asked to sing and I was surprised at how much my heart pounded with nerves. 'Do you sing?' a few began to ask me. 'Yeah … yes, I do' I suddenly heard myself replying. I did sing, but my butterflies only let me remember a few lines of my song before the words escaped me and my friends smiled and allowed me to retreat! I still get goosebumps when I remember each song that was sung that night, even my own. And although I'd wished i'd nailed it and performed beautifully and precisely, somehow the message was clear. It was just fine. What I gave in that moment, in those few lines, was received and enjoyed and celebrated. That acceptance and those smiles flashing at me, like pretty paparazzi camera lights as I looked around the room, my eyes opening and closing trying to re-call lyrics. That acceptance I will cherish and store. That acceptance will nurture me through the year. That acceptance has given me a renewed hope about what it means to gather together, what is means to be united by gender and by a desire to grow and nurture relationships. It made me think of my word for the year 'Root' and how important it is to give time to relationships, a reminder to make sure that the roots of a relationship are tended to, that the relationship is then able to receive all the nutrients that it needs so that it can bear fruit and flourish and fulfil its purpose. This is my desire.   

Linking this post up to:

Mike Skipper, pecan pie & a whole lot more.

Thanksgiving reminds me of pecan pie and pecan pie reminds me of my friend Mike Skipper. I've tried writing about Mike a number of times but the words have ended up folded away and stashed in the inner pocket of my moleskine, the one that that I use for personal journalling - my secret diary. I may have found it easier to write about Mike if it had not been for Idiotic Hat who seemed to so effortlessly find the perfect words to describe Mike. I never got around to writing to tell Idiotic Hat so. I was too blown away and still too raw from mourning my loss. And possibly, years later, I still am. Both blown away and mourning that loss, that is. 

I met Mike in 1994. Like most people I was a little fascinated by him. I had observed him on occasion when visiting my then boyfriend (my hubby now) on campus. He was the much respected photography technician, the one with the American accent that everyone had decided was Canadian for some reason. The one who everyone eagerly had some add on information about that they couldn't wait to share. People were fascinated and also a little scared of Mike - you wouldn't mess. Despite this, he was extremely well mannered (the southern upbringing) extremely thorough, extremely good at teaching and extremely well liked. The year following our first encounter, I returned to campus to begin the same fine art degree as my now husband - who was the year ahead of me. Mike had me sold from day one when he called me Katy-Anne, as my name appeared on paper for the photo/video module he was teaching.  He never stopped calling me Katy-Anne and I never asked him to. It is actually my first name, named after both of my grandmothers. The only person that has continued to use this name to address me is my mother and that is normally in letter or card form only or if I have used a swear word in front of her. I liked the way Katy-Anne sounded when Mike said it, with that southern drawl. It made me think of cotton fields and the little house on the prairie and that episode of Dallas where it explained how Sue Ellen and JR met. I don't quite remember the build up to becoming friends. It just felt like we weren't and then we were. Mike and I never bonded over photography, despite our friendship days being spent in the lab or in his office, where he was based. It was just in the background, probably because I wasn't that interested in it because I was not a natural, never had that 'eye' for it. Not like Mike. Mike photographed me a number of times and being photographed by a pro, and a real artist at that, is like being part of a great performance. One where you get to be the subject and the audience all at once. Mike is one of few people who truly made me feel beautiful, like a bower bird somehow. He was on the surface, a gentle, intelligent, professional, quiet man and underneath a man with a wicked sense of humour, a man with a quick temper (you really didn't want to mess about with his chemicals in his lab!) a tender, beautifully paranoid man. The kind of man who would force me to play games like 'you gotta pick one' which involved selecting one of two choices of people you'd sleep with. My worst memory of this was when he presented me with the choice between Phil and Grant Mitchell! I said I wasn't playing but then he tricked me and we laughed so hard when we both picked 'Grant' and felt dirty all over. 

He was always trying to get one over me in that way that you do when you've come from big families and have being used to being the brunt of jokes and been used to teasing. He felt very much like an older brother to me in that way. We often shared with each other stories from our childhoods, from life generally, times of hardships and intimate details would fall from our lips so readily, so easily. And yet our relationship was so funny, confined to that little office or the space outside where the technicians would chat, where Mike would smoke his morning cigarettes and where I would often wave to him as I arrived on my bike in the morning, where he would greet me with 'Good Morning Katy-Anne'. 

I can't remember the first time that I made Mike pie. I just remember that thanksgiving was approaching and he was talking about what would be happening back home. He explained that he wasn't sure that he would miss any of it 'well except the pie of course. Do you know how hard it is to find a good pecan pie Katy-Anne?' I remember I went home and looked through the few cookbooks I had at the time and sure enough, I found a recipe for pecan pie. I wasn't much of a baker at the time but I made that pie and delivered it the next day. Mike was out of the office at the time and so I remember leaving a note and sticking it on top of the covered pie. I think it read something like 'I hope it tastes just like your mama made, happy thanks giving. With love from Katy-Anne'. Just like straight out of little house on the prairie, no? Anyway, later that day Mike came to find me to thank me for the pie which he said was really good and very authentic! He came holding the circular silver foil tray that I'd baked the pie in and only a quarter of the pie remained. I'd only dropped it off a short time before. 'Katy-Anne, you did a bad thing. I can't stop eating pie'. Till this day, I have no idea if that pie nor all the other pies I went on to bake him, tasted any good but as my mother has always said, it's the thought that counts! For a petite man, boy could Mike eat!

Mike and I, after three years (my whole time studying for my degree) had a little falling out. It was just before I was about to complete my degree and move away from Oxford. It was I realise now, over something very silly. It was I realise now, him being a bit of an insensitive male and me being a bit of a dramatic female. I think we were both utterly confused by each others reactions since they were not typical for either of us. Really, it was just our first fight. I wish I'd realised that then and not been so determined to prove a point, in that way that you do when you're in your early twenties. I would do things very differently now or perhaps just the same but with making up at the end. A substantial amount of time passed before we were in touch again post fall out. But time had changed us, circumstances had changed us. We e-mailed for a while and found friendship once more but life had shifted. Times weren't the same as those spent in that office, drinking coffee, with the familiar and comforting smell of processing chemicals and the hint of tobacco that lingered on Mike.

The last time that I saw Mike, we happened upon one another. He was chaperoning his niece visiting from the states and I was with hubby and a not quite two year old Zach taking a trip down memory lane, visiting Oxford for the day. I recognised his walk immediately. That sexy, majestic walk of his, the one that he promised he hadn't practiced even though he could never say the words without collapsing into laughter. You know you totally practiced that walk Mike, back in the seventies, once you got to New York huh! He looked so poorly that day and I knew immediately that the cancer was back. We said goodbye and I don't know if I knew that would be our last encounter face to face. We e-mailed and put dates in the diary to meet, he talked about his new place and how he wanted me to see it. He said Alison had done a great job of the floor. But then it went quiet, very quiet. I wrote and sent cards. And I wished and wished that I hadn't wasted so much time. I wished that my silly twenty something self had bitch slapped me  to make me see clearly. Then one day, an old friend from uni got in touch with my hubby. He said he thought that I should know, because Mike and I had been friends. And just like that you were gone. I really hoped that I wasn't just another admirer, another fan, of which there were many. I hoped that I was special. I still do hope that. Sometimes, I still get mad that you never gave me a print of that picture you took of Stuart and I where I look like a cotton pickin' black girl from the south with short pickaninny hair! I miss you Mike and I so enjoyed thinking of you this thanksgiving, and my thirty something self is ready to be thankful for ever knowing you, even if it was for too shorter time.

For my girl who loves to wear shorts but never her winter coat ...

I can pretty it up with birds and butterflies and splashes of colour but really ... I just want to spell it out in plain english: I LOVE YOU FIFI!

Love is ....

Today was the boys last day of term and so we are now all officially on holiday. Getting two children up, fed, dressed and out and walked to school/nursery is not rocket science but as the term progresses and each of us grows increasingly tired, antsy, irritable etc is becomes harder and harder to do. So, of course by default this weary time also happens to be the very time whereby an opportunity has presented itself and after all my weeks and months of coulda, woulda, shoulda tomorrow I will be making a short film of a new performance piece. I have a vague idea of what I will do and what I will use but nothing concrete. I am hoping this will bode well. I am trying to focus on this being the beginning of a process. More on this as it unfolds, although if you hear nothing, that will be my 'shame' speaking for me!

In the mean time I am soaking up every little bit of love and kindness showered over me today by a dear friend who sent me the most delightful package! I spilt open and shared some very private thoughts and feelings with her recently and she listened and really heard me .... This is love.

N.B Many of my loved one's buy me fake birds, stuffed, chirping, all sorts. I love fake birds! I have never announced to anyone that I love fake birds although birds have appeared with some frequency in my collage work and drawings. What amazes me is that my fake bird kind of a collection is hidden away in my bedroom where none of these people know that it exists, which is why it is even more lovely and charming that these lovely people keep adding to the collection!

My beautiful and shiny new Fake Bird

I love earrings as much as Fake Birds!

All singing Fake Bird from big sis last x'mas

Detail of jewellery box from hubby

My singing Fake Bird with cage

Savage Rocks!

Shelly a.k.a SAVAGE

This is my good friend Shelly (aka Savage as hubby always calls her) and today she did a beautiful, beautiful thing! I'd just got back home with the boys from a wonderful day out at Grandma's/Mum's when in I walked through the door to a parcel - which is always exciting in itself. Then I opened it and right before my eyes .... a book that I have picked up dozens of times and somehow never got round to buying, one that I adore!!!!!

Thank you Shelly for making my heart leap and for a perfect ending to my day!

A Day To Oneself

9.54 am

Sat in Waterstones, the one I used to frequent before children, during pregnancy and the one where I sat feeding both babies for hours. Today, I am here alone. Hot cup of tea. Chocolate twist. My book and paper and pen. Life is good.

10.41 am

Had a lovely catch up with my sister (Yay! Finally a window!) and she shared that time is so precious that she hasn't been able to get through the latest Jilly Cooper book since Christmas. This has NEVER happened before! I felt excited to share my latest obsession with her - Bethenny Ever After. This is the sister that got me through my hours and hours of breastfeeding with a regular flow (no pun intended) of trashy box sets that just delighted me so! Brothers & Sisters, Sex & The City (I came to it very late) Grey's Anatomy plus the ever so slightly higher brow of 24 and West Wing, although it never held my interest. So finally, I was able to tell her about one she didn't already know about!

I actually read about Bethenny Ever After here and as I always do - I make a judgement and think of myself as far too superior for this kind of thing, then I watch a little bit and BAM I'm hooked!!!! Bethenny is sarcastic and she makes me laugh out loud, all hail the new reality queen! (new for me but then I'm always behind on this stuff).

10.52 am

On the train. I have a dilemma. Do I window gaze or read my book? Beautiful dilemma ... I have time for dilemmas!

I wish I'd brought the camera but it's just so big to lug around. When I grow up and I have a job I'm going to buy an iphone, for now the camera-less £9.99 samsung will do. It's the one I've had since losing my decent one when I left my bag on a train when pregnant with Elliott (and no, I've never quite forgiven myself). The boy who sold it to me was horrified and kept saying 'but you can upgrade to .... because you have x amount in your phone fund and ...'. I simply replied 'It's too much of a burden and I'll probably lose it anyway ... and I don't even have a job so ... what's the point?' at which point he quietly walked away. Hubby's been taking some beautiful shots on his iphone and he's been using our new favourite app - the Instagram App. Check these out.

10.58 am

The book I'm presently reading is set in Nigeria, it's wonderful to dip in and out and experience the familiar flavours of Africa. It's got me thinking about loved one's far away and cherished memories of our last trip to Ghana. Excerpt taken from Chinua Achebe's Things Fall Apart:

'They then set about painting themselves with cam wood and drawing beautiful black patterns on their stomachs and on their backs. The children were also decorated, especially their hair, which was shaved in beautiful patterns.'

My beautiful Aunty Adelaide (Queen Mother) to the left of me

My man with our Uncle Andrew Arde Acquah

Aunty making fresh shitor for my banku

Akushia preparing my all time fave carbs - Banku*

17.02 pm

Back on the train after a delightful day with a great friend. Homemade soup and bread, served with a heapful of love, patience and tenderness. Luxury vegan chocolates in the prettiest cellophane and ribbon packaging and hot tea whilst sitting in the most beautiful old flower print chair - what else is there to satisfy the soul?

Sitting and talking in her wonderful home that echoes so beautifully her interests and concerns, her tastes. So inspiring - from the orange ribbon curtain tie-backs against white curtains to her Gran's antique floral chair and the minty green cabinet decorated with hand painted flowers to the the scent of tea tree oil soap that I can still smell on my fingers as I write. Her little boy's hand made paper lanterns adorning a corner of living space with charming patterns and bold colouring detail, all of it ... simply wonderful.

17.49pm

Thuggish looking guy yielding dangerous dog and expired bus pass gets on the number 50 bus on the tail end of my journey. The bus driver expresses concern about the dog and non valid pass and switches the engine off. Thuggish looking guy begins demonstrating threatening and violent behaviour as all passengers point their faces downwards.

This time I am alone on the bus but normally I would have my boys with me and I always dread them bearing witness to this kind of violence. I glance to my side where a young mum has asked thuggish guy to watch his language in front of her young child, he ignores her request. I feel my heart beat faster as thuggish guy begins thumping his fist against the bus drivers protective door and the young mother to my side whispers to her little boy 'Don't look, just look at mummy!'

It flashes through my mind that we are about to watch the bus driver take a beating and we are ALL going to let it happen but then suddenly out of my mouth comes 'Can you just stop that, there's a child on the bus!' (I assure you these words came from God and I was purely a vessel) Thuggish guy glances in my direction and then turns round and gets off the bus. Then there is silence. The driver switches on the engine again and pulls off, I stand up, it's my stop next. The bus stops I look at the driver and can't even speak, I simply smile and he smiles a grateful nervous smile and I get off the bus. This is city living.

I know this incident wasn't very pleasant but I still LOVE city life!

* Banku/Akple: Fermented corn/cassava dough mixed cooked in hot water into a smooth whitish consistent paste. Served with soup, stew or a pepper sauce with fish.

* Shitor: a traditional pepper paste/salsa made from fresh tomatoes, onions and small round chillies.